Thanks for the reviews on the last chapter!
WARNINGS: Graphic gore. Cliffhanger.
And now, things go spang.
Chapter Twenty-Two: Terror Runs On Four LegsHarry heard Connor muffle a surprised squeak when he caught up with him and Parvati on their way to Care of Magical Creatures. "Can I walk with you?" he asked them, as politely as he could under the circumstances.
Connor just stared at him. Parvati leaned around Connor's shoulder and gave him a far more pointed stare. Harry bore it. She's concerned for Connor, he told himself. If Draco had a brother who ignored him most of the time, and that brother was dating a Dumbledore supporter, wouldn't I be concerned?
"You don't have Care of Magical Creatures," Parvati said.
Harry inclined his head, smiling. "No. But I have a free period, and I know Connor said Hagrid's lesson would be short today." The Magical Creatures classes had been abbreviated since Hagrid had taken a sting from a mysterious, and probably illegal, creature he was keeping in the Forbidden Forest. "So I thought I could speak with you after the lesson, if that's all right."
Parvati laid her hand on Connor's shoulder. Connor stopped walking and turned to look at her. Parvati whispered to him, suspicious eyes on Harry's face.
Harry waited some more. And waited. Parvati had a lot to say, but he would have had a lot to say, too, under similar circumstances. He plucked at some kind of flying bug who obviously thought his skin was a flower, and then they turned towards him, both faces gone equally resolute. Harry was glad that Connor had a girlfriend who could match him for determination.
"We've decided that you can talk to us after Hagrid's lesson," Connor allowed, voice and stance still wary. "But you have to be as open as you can, Harry. Don't start ranting the moment one of us says something you don't like."
"I promise," said Harry. He was glad that Draco wasn't present; trying to have all four of them together for this first extended conversation with Parvati just wouldn't have worked. Draco had free time as well, but he'd chosen to spend it working furiously on visualization of his Animagus form. Michael was with him, so Harry didn't have to worry about his safety. "Should I meet you at Hagrid's hut, or somewhere else?"
"On the way back to the school," said Parvati, her hand still on Connor's shoulder. Her eyes remained hard as flint. "As we approach the entrance hall."
Harry nodded. "That's fine." Parvati blinked, but Harry meant what he said; he wanted both of them to be comfortable, so that they would talk with him instead of shouting, and he didn't care where they met, so it meant nothing that he'd given up control of that aspect to Parvati. "I'll see you in a short while."
He nodded to Connor, but gave Parvati a sweeping bow that he knew she would recognize, since she came from a Light pureblood family. The bow ended with a sweep of his hand at the level of his throat. Once, it had granted a sibling's consort power to mercy-kill one if necessary. Now, it was meant as a formal welcome into the family, a sign that he didn't object to Parvati's presence.
Connor was already walking on. Parvati lingered, staring, then shook out her long dark hair and hurried after Connor. Harry watched the way she took his arm. He smiled. She loves him, at least. She's not just playing with him.
He turned away. He would go back near the entrance hall and wait. For once, he had nothing else to do. He'd written his letter to Snape, concentrated dutifully on his Animagus transformation, talked to Camellia, read some more on the place magic information that Hermione had obtained for him, and finished his homework. There were advantages to feeling uneasy with laziness.
The owl met him as he entered the section of the grounds just in front of the castle. Harry looked up curiously. From the direction it was coming from, it might have just flown from the Owlery, but it settled onto his shoulder with a weary hoot. Harry clucked to silence the hissing Many snake around his throat, and took the envelope from the bird, stroking her feathers. She buried her head against the side of his neck, trembling.
The envelope was actually the message itself, Harry saw, the parchment folded into the shape of a letter. The ink dashed across the paper, splattered with terror.
Dear Harry:
I was one of those who kept silent when your first offer of help arrived, because I didn't think I would need it. And now I do. September's full moon is rising, and I don't trust the Ministry to keep me safe anymore.
I am one of the three hunters who killed the werewolves in July. I know that you don't have any reason to like me, but the stories about you say you help even those whom you have a reason to dislike. So.
I want to come to you and shelter under your protection for the three nights of the full moon. I want to make sure Loki doesn't kill me. I saw what he did to Felicia. In return, I'll bring you information about the policies on werewolves that the Department plans to pursue next. You can demand other concessions of me if you like, but please, please help me.
Kieran Morologus.
Harry caught his breath. His hand crumpled the parchment, and a stir of magic rose around him that made the owl stir, as well, spreading her wings and hooting uneasily.
Harry had to work to catch his breath and calm down before he could think about the request, and even then, his first impulse was to refuse. Kieran had brought this on himself by hunting werewolves and scalping them. Harry thought he might even have been the hunter in the Daily Prophet photograph who had held Briar and Gudrun's scalps in the air, grinning. It would be a betrayal of the pack and a betrayal of the dead to help him.
But, Harry reminded himself reluctantly, as his ethics tugged at him, he had reached out to the Department for the Control and Suppression of Deadly Beasts after Loki's attack and informed them that he would try to heal the damage wrought. He hadn't warned them well enough, not if Loki could still take them so entirely by surprise. And he had managed to ignore the horrible things that his former Death Eater allies had done. And Loki's vengeance, if achieved, would only make things worse for his pack. It certainly had last month, as more and more people became in favor of restricting werewolves. If Loki hadn't sworn himself to revenge, then some of the hysteria might have died away, and they might be further along the path to a peaceful solution by now.
It didn't take Harry long to make up his mind. He could do nothing to bring back the dead, but he could try to spare the living. And if Kieran would give him information on the Department's policies, then he could protect his pack. There was still the chance that they would view it as a betrayal, of course. In that case, Harry would step aside as alpha and hope they appointed Camellia.
He cast the Summoning Charm to bring him ink, parchment, a quill, and owl treats from his room. The owl on his shoulder shivered again as the items zoomed past her, but ate the treats gratefully from his palm. Harry supposed she must have picked up on part of her owner's terror, and he was sorry for it. Whatever Kieran might have done or not done, she didn't deserve the fear.
"You're beautiful, aren't you?" he murmured, running his fingers through her feathers. And she was; a barn owl, but nearly as pale as Hedwig on the belly and under her wings, while her golden eyes had a hint of green. "You don't mind taking a reply back?"
She already sounded better as she gave a little hoot and traced a strand of his hair through her beak. Harry smiled and sat down to write the letter, telling Kieran that he would protect him, and giving him a detailed description of Wayhouse. They certainly could not face Loki at Hogwarts, Harry wouldn't ask the pack to leave Grimmauld Place or Cobley-by-the-Sea, and Silver-Mirror had too many treasures in it that he could see Kieran handling "accidentally," or Loki breaking when he attacked.
Harry handed the letter back to the owl, and spent some time coaxing and petting her before she would take off. Then he sat back and summoned a mental calendar into his head. He nodded. The first night of the full moon was the twenty-fifth, and it was the eighteenth now. That should leave him plenty of time to prepare, including strengthening Wayhouse's wards to meet the assault and contacting Gloriana Griffinsnest to see what she could tell him about werewolves on the vengeance-path.
"Harry!"
When he looked up, Connor and Parvati were approaching him. Harry stood to meet them, but Parvati shook her head, gesturing him back onto the steps. "You'll want to be sitting down for the vast majority of this," she said, grimacing. "You won't like what we have to tell you."
True, but probably not for the reasons you think, Harry decided, and sat down, giving her an expectant look. Parvati arranged herself in front of him. Connor stood beside her, clutching her hand. Parvati squeezed back, now and then running her palm over his.
"You may not know all the details of the crimes that Lucius Malfoy committed," Parvati announced. "My father fought in the First War. He knows. He testified at Malfoy's trial, trying to get him convicted. It didn't work, of course, because he managed to convince the Wizengamot he'd been under Imperius all along. But my father knows the details."
"So do I," said Harry, a bit surprised. Didn't Connor tell her I studied the history of the First War as part of my training? "I know that he was involved in the death of Edgar Bones, of the Prewett twins, of the Nascent children. There are other allegations that can't be proven, but I don't have much doubt they're true. He was at the Battle of Valerian, for example, according to the Ministry's reports." He grimaced, feeling a sour taste fill his mouth. Along with Lily, he really preferred the title "Slaughter of Valerian" to the official name. The inhabitants of the village had had no chance to fight back against Voldemort's flesh-eating rain.
"And you aren't at all worried that the father's tendencies have passed on to the son?" Parvati's eyes were sharp, her mouth very wide. "Particularly given that he has hexed Connor more than once, and he used Dark Arts in the battle?"
Harry gave her a hard look. "There's a difference between using Dark Arts, and using them maliciously."
"They're still Dark magic," Parvati insisted.
"I know," said Harry. "But I've used them myself. I've taught the members of the dueling club how to use them, including you and your sister. Did you really forget that?" Disappointment was welling up in him, no matter how much he tried to push it back down, tell himself it did no good. "Ardesco, which I demonstrated and which a lot of you picked up at once, is a Dark Arts spell."
"I found them hard to use," said Parvati quietly. "And so did Padma. But Malfoy uses them well enough. And he's frightfully vengeful and jealous over you." Harry only nodded; he couldn't really disagree there. "Aren't you worried that he might use Dark Arts on someone else, just because that person insulted you or—or was less than perfectly kind to you?"
Harry blinked as his estimation of Parvati turned a corner. "You're afraid of him, aren't you?" he whispered.
Parvati gave a violent shiver, then lifted her head. "I'm Gryffindor," she said. "So I won't run. But yes, I am afraid of him. Connor's told me that Malfoy almost physically attacked him a number of times, and that he's killed in battle. I won't stop defending Connor." She leaned her head against Connor's neck, never taking her eyes off Harry. "It's a small thing for him to decide that Connor's girlfriend is just as annoying as he is, and to decide to hurt me."
"And you think it would be simpler for both of you if I just stopped dating him," Harry said, voice flat.
"Not only simpler, but the right thing to do." Parvati was recovering now, as if her admission of fear had given her back her strength. "Family is important, Harry. And you have so little family left now. Your parents were horrible to you. Your guardian is acting like a madman. Connor is lonely."
"I am," Connor volunteered. "Who doesn't talk to their brother for two weeks because they're angry at him over a fight with their boyfriend?"
"I can think of two people like that," Harry said.
Connor flushed, but tried to persist. "We are brothers, Harry. We should spend more time together than we do. But I know Malfoy's going to object to that, because he wants you all to himself."
"If and when he objects, I'll call him on it," Harry said. "But I apologized to you yesterday for making mistakes, Connor, including not bringing this up sooner." He faced Parvati. "I can promise that I'll never let Draco hurt you. But that doesn't mean I'm going to give up dating him, or that I'm going to hold him accountable for what his father did. Lucius Malfoy is one person. Draco Malfoy is another."
"I don't see how you can think he's more important than your brother." Parvati looked fretful, and she nodded at the ring on Harry's hand that Draco had given him during their Walpurgis joining ritual. "Blood is more important than a circular piece of metal."
Harry cocked his head. "Does that mean that you would choose Padma over Connor in a heartbeat, if you had to choose between them?"
Parvati froze. Connor took a step forward. "It's not fair to ask her things like that," he hissed. "I thought you were trying to keep the peace between us, Harry, not start more arguments."
"I think everything should be out in the open, that's all," Harry told him, never taking his eyes off Parvati. "I want to understand what's going on. And I'm most interested in what she has to say. Come on, Parvati. What do you think? Would you choose your sister over your boyfriend?"
Parvati unfroze. "I'll never have to make that choice," she hissed. "Padma is part of the Light, and she would never hurt me. She approves of Connor. She gets along with him. But your Malfoy might curse anyone he thinks is taking up too much of your time and imagination. That's what Dark wizards do."
"A family gathering, Harry? And you didn't invite me? I'm feeling left out."
Fuck. Harry stood, not coincidentally placing himself between Draco and Parvati as he did so. "Draco." He reached back, looping an arm around his partner's waist and dragging him to his side. "I don't think you've been formally introduced, though you certainly know each other. This is Parvati Patil. Connor's girlfriend."
Draco resisted the pull of Harry's arm. Harry darted a glance at his face. It was flushed in a way it usually only got after sex, and Draco seemed on the verge of drawing his wand. He gave a tight little nod.
"My condolences on your lack of taste," he told Parvati.
Parvati let out a little squeaking hiss; Harry was suddenly and absurdly sure her Animagus form would be a mongoose, rearing up to attack the nasty snake. "How dare you, Malfoy," she said. "And to think that I assumed your parents would have taught you manners. I suppose any Malfoy prefers torture to courtesy."
Harry felt the shift against his side as Draco's hand plunged into his pocket after his wand.
Harry spun, putting himself between Draco and Parvati again, but this time facing Draco and holding his wand hand so that he couldn't draw it. "No," he hissed into his ear. "Don't move it to curses." He looked over his shoulder at Parvati, sparing a hiss to calm down the Many snake, who appeared to have decided that the nervous owl was a forerunner of the kind of day he was going to have. "I think you should apologize," he told her.
Parvati tossed her hair, and Harry felt a surge of frustration. Connor's found a partner who's his match in stubbornness, too. "No," she said. "What if I don't want to? What if I think that Malfoy going for his wand only proves that, in fact, he knows nothing of manners, and proves all the things I said about him? That he would as soon curse me as look at me, and he's going to hurt me someday, and he's going to hurt your brother?"
Draco struggled, nearly managing to haul his wand hand from Harry's hold; that Harry had only one hand didn't make it any easier. He leaned forward, bracing himself against Draco, hip to hip, chest to chest. He would use his magic to bind Draco if he absolutely had to, but he would prefer to get through this without it. "He did it because you insulted him," he said.
"And a normal person would have insulted me back, not reached for his wand," said Parvati. Her eyes shone. "Don't you agree, Connor?"
Harry looked at his brother, only to find Connor's face pale. He's probably thinking of Snape and Camellia, or what I talked to him about after his and Draco's fight. Harry did not blame him.
He is stubborn, he is stupid sometimes, but he can see what's in front of his face.
"Parvati," Connor began in a low, troubled voice.
Draco moved so fast that Harry had no time to react, stepping back and making Harry stagger. Then his hand was free, and he whipped it out of his pocket, his wand aimed directly at Parvati.
Harry said, even as his magic reared up around him in the form of vine-green snakes, "Stop it right fucking now, Draco."
Draco's mouth clamped shut after the first syllable of a spell; Harry wasn't sure which one it had been. He stared at Harry. Harry snarled at him, and the snakes writhed around his body, awaiting a command to attack.
Draco went on staring. Harry knew that he recognized the snakes as an extreme manifestation of anger. He must be wondering what in the world he could have done to make that fury be directed at him.
Harry turned, the snakes coiling around his arms and neck. Parvati had gone silent, eyes wide and face almost white. Connor was the only one there who seemed capable of looking at him and not cowering or flinching.
I don't want to make them afraid. I don't. I don't. Harry swallowed several times, and some of the magic drained away, the snakes losing form and lapsing into a bright green glow around his body. He shook his head. I should not have done that. I should not have frightened them. He dragged his hand through his hair, aware it was shaking. He thought of hiding it, then realized it might help the point he wanted to make. He held it out, and let them see his wrist tremble.
"I don't like getting angry," he said. "I'm not interested in keeping track from moment to moment of who's trying to pull whom apart, or what all the old wounds are." He sent a hard glance at Parvati, hoping she would understand his reference to Lucius Malfoy. "The same thing I said yesterday remains true. I'm going to keep talking to you both. I still love you, Connor, and I still want to welcome you into my company, Parvati, even if we can't be best friends. But I'll have to change my manner of dealing with you." He swallowed the other words he wanted to say: I thought I was dealing with adults. I see I was wrong. That would only escalate things unnecessarily. He had already gone too far by showing the snakes. Balance had to be maintained, if at all possible. "And both of you will have to get used to Draco."
"But he would have cursed me," Parvati pointed out.
Harry kept himself from yelling by a serious effort that made him feel as if he were choking. If he gave the reply he wanted, then Connor would only get upset with him again, and they would have another fight on their hands. Harry imagined his mind as the serene silver surface of an Occlumency pool, and made it be so. He had never been so grateful to Snape for teaching him self-control as he was now.
"Because of what you said," he replied, calmly, when he was sure that his voice would not shake or hint at unguessed-of depths of anger. "I won't go into who started this. But insulting words are just as dangerous as curses, in this kind of situation. And given that I know you're afraid of Dark Arts from him, I don't know why you would give him a reason to want to curse you."
"I was showing you his true colors," Parvati said.
Draco uttered a low, squalling sound of outrage. Harry stepped back until his back was pressed to Draco's chest, and silently promised himself that if Draco reached for his wand again, he would find his hand full of something disgusting.
"I know him," said Harry quietly. "You don't. The problem has been that you don't know him well enough, and neither does Connor, and neither of us know you. So. I'd like to propose having a few weekly conversations until we do know each other well enough."
Parvati shook her head, frowning. "You have to schedule Connor into your life, Harry? I find that disappointing."
"I find everything about you—" Draco started.
Harry squeezed his wrist, and he stopped. "No, I have to schedule both of you," he said, and that seemed to make Parvati stop and think. "This is the way I should handle it, I think. I'm vates. I won't abandon Draco, and I don't want to abandon either one of you. Yes, it's artificial, not spontaneous, but we've seen what spontaneous conversations between us are like now. I don't want anyone hurt."
"But you want to protect your boyfriend more than you want to protect us," Parvati probed.
Harry raised his eyebrows. "Don't you want to protect Connor more than you want to protect me?"
Parvati scowled and kept silent. Harry wondered how much of that had to do with the fact that Connor was curled around her shoulder, whispering into her ear.
"So." Harry gave a tight nod. "I know for a fact that all four of us are free on Thursday evenings. Would that be acceptable? Thursday evening at seven-o'clock, in the Room of Requirement?"
Parvati and Connor exchanged glances. Then Parvati nodded, and Connor said, "We could make that work, I think."
Harry let a little of the iron bands of his self-control fall away. "Good. We'll have one conversation, and try to get through it without insults, or curses, or screaming of any kind. Does that sound like an acceptable goal?"
Again, they both nodded. Parvati's face remained pale, and Harry hoped that he might have reached her with the comment about Connor, or the one about Padma, or the one about her and her twin learning the Dark Arts. She wasn't a complete hypocrite. He could coax her into reasonableness, he hoped.
"Good," said Harry, and held Draco back until both of them were inside Hogwarts and out of sight. Then he turned to face his boyfriend.
"That bloody hurt," Draco complained, wringing his wrist where Harry had gripped it.
"Good," said Harry, and then swallowed. No. His voice wanted to be low and savage with Draco, but that wouldn't do any good. My anger just isn't productive, not with this. "Draco, I want this to work. I agree that she was wrong to insult you. But what were you thinking, flinging a curse? You remember what McGonagall said about students hexing other students. She would consider them traitors."
"I considered," Draco said stiffly, "that she has no right to say that kind of thing. I was going to teach her a lesson, that's all."
Harry closed his eyes and pushed up his glasses. "She doesn't," he said. "But you didn't have the right to throw a curse either, Draco."
"You can't be on both our sides at the same time, Harry," Draco said, sounding hurt. "That's not possible."
"It is when I'm more interested in solving the problem than placing blame," said Harry, and again swallowed back more anger, like bile. "I want this to work, Draco. I'm willing to work my arse off so that it can. Please don't spoil it."
Draco just looked away from him.
Harry breathed out gently, and counted to three in Mermish. That ought to be enough. "I don't really care who started it, not any more," he said. "I don't really care about what might happen in the future. I only care about what will. And one of the best ways to alter that is to attack those problems at their roots." And to be patient. I might want to tell them off for being petulant children, but that would only cause more problems. And I would be excluding myself from blame, in that case. My silent treatment of Connor played an enormous part in this. "Conversations between us are the only way I can think of to get us talking, rather than flinging insults or hexes."
"She wants you and I to stop dating," said Draco. "I think she won't give up."
"Wait until Thursday, and see if she still says that," Harry said.
Draco turned to go back into the castle. Harry followed a few paces behind him, rubbing at his brow. He had a headache that had nothing to do with his scar, or the odd dreams he'd been having lately. He was angry at everyone, including himself, but anger that took the form of blame wouldn't help. So he would keep it to himself.
But he wasn't sure even that would help. Maybe expressing open anger with Connor would impress the seriousness of the situation on him. Maybe he was being remiss in not scolding Parvati, in not being more openly annoyed at Draco.
But he couldn't be sure, especially since every time he got angry, he made the situation worse So accepting the consequences of what he had done so far, and insisting on rationality rather than anger at all, from anyone, seemed like the best thing, the only way to allow the clash of free wills.
A particularly vicious bolt of pain shot up from his jaw. Carefully, Harry unclenched his teeth.
Harry eyed Wayhouse's wooden wall. "Be still," he said.
The wall grew a mouth, a pair of large lips blue as if with cold, that pouted at him. Then a tongue popped out, and the wall blew him a raspberry.
"Stupid house," Harry muttered. A pair of eyes grew above the mouth and the tongue and crossed at him, then vanished back into the wood. But when Harry listened, the wards held. So Wayhouse had decided to shelter both him and Kieran until morning. Harry nodded.
He turned to Kieran, who hovered anxiously behind him. "We'll do this each night of the full moon," he said. "I'm surprised that your last fellow hunter didn't want to shelter with you, however."
Kieran gave a quick, nervous smile. He was a tall man with fierce brown eyes whom Harry supposed might have been handsome once, before fear had charred him hollow. "He has family in France," Kieran responded. "He took refuge there. He doesn't trust you to protect him." He paused, hands twisting together. "Thank you for doing this," he whispered. "I know you don't like me."
Harry shrugged. "I don't like Loki's vengeance even more," he said. I'm in the same room with a murderer, but when has that ever been new? He wasn't betraying the pack, either, because Loki wasn't part of the pack. Both Camellia and Remus had tried to convince Harry that interfering in Loki's vengeance was a bad idea, but Camellia's arguments consisted only in warning him that Loki couldn't be stopped—which Harry thought was nonsense, as long as Wayhouse's wards held—and Remus's had escalated into a shouting match before long, because he said Harry was betraying all werewolves by associating with a hunter in the first place. He hadn't seemed interested in the argument that Loki's vengeance would make things worse for all the werewolves in Britain.
Between the shouting match and the two conversations with Draco, Connor, and Parvati between the eighteenth and now, Harry's head felt as if it were about to split open. He'd become an expert in burying his temper, and not just in Occlumency pools. He knew numbers in Mermish up to a hundred now; he'd had to learn them for the times when he and Draco went back to their bedroom and lay in rigid silence, Draco upset with him for conceding anything to Connor and Parvati, Harry upset with himself for being upset.
Protecting Kieran was almost a relief. Wayhouse's wards were incredibly strong, tied to both the house itself and the determination of the Black heir. Harry was not going to let Loki kill anybody tonight, so that was no problem.
He had not asked anyone to come with him, because they either had good reasons not to—asking other werewolves to side against Loki was madness, and most of his allies were busy watching the London packs or accomplishing the tasks Harry had asked them to do—or they could do nothing that Harry's magic and wards couldn't. Connor and Draco would both have been willing to accompany him. Harry didn't want them there. If it came down to a duel against Loki, which Harry didn't believe it would, they weren't strong enough to battle a werewolf who had been a pack leader, and would only make distractions for Harry's attention. And if it came down to sitting in Wayhouse behind wards all night, Harry would rather not share conversations with one of them about the other.
Having them together in the same place all night was not even to be considered.
But they had made some progress. Harry had to admit that. It might cost him headaches, but he had kept the paths of conversation between all four of them open and moving, and forced all of them to reconsider their assumptions, including Parvati's assumption that Harry didn't value Connor enough because he wouldn't spend every minute with him and Draco's assumption that Parvati's fear of him was based on nothing but hearsay. They would get there in the end. Harry reminded himself of that whenever he was sure that these conversations would last for years and do nothing. Two only so far. He could do more.
"Harry?"
Harry looked up in surprise; he'd almost forgotten about Kieran. He shook his head. "You promised me that you would tell me something about the Department's politics concerning werewolves if I protected you," he said. "So, tell me."
Kieran nodded and took a seat in one of the chairs Harry had provided. This room had once been a kitchen, and it was on the second floor of Wayhouse. Harry thought it was as good a place as any to wait out Loki's arrival and useless dashing of himself against the wards. "The Department plans to collar all werewolves soon," he said.
Harry snorted. "They already said that would happen."
Kieran shook his head. "No, they just said that all werewolves had to wear collars, by law. They're smart enough to know that most of the werewolves in Britain aren't registered, and there's no way they could make them register." Kieran paused, licking his lips. "Except now, they've found a way to make that not matter."
Harry narrowed his eyes. "Tell me."
Kieran shrank back in his chair, intimidated. Harry tried to make his face relax. Kieran stuttered, but got back on track. "Th—they plan to send out the werewolf tracking spell across Britain, in a pulse that will surround them and linger. So anyone who's a werewolf, whether or not they're registered, will be instantly identifiable. The ones who come in of their own free will have to wear collars and remain under the Ministry's eye. Those who have to be dragged in will take the collar, but be put into Tullianum."
"Fuck," Harry breathed.
"Most of the werewolves Loki turned in his attack on the Department are there already," Kieran added. "The Ministry declared that they wouldn't be able to keep themselves safe enough, and the walls and wards of Tullianum will do it for them."
Harry closed his eyes. "So that's why none of them have answered my letters."
Kieran swallowed, an audible click in his throat. "The Ministry had no idea what to do with forty new werewolves. They caged them up and hoped for the best."
"Do they have Wolfsbane?" Harry asked, opening his eyes.
Kieran shook his head. "A few do, but most of them couldn't afford it."
Harry winced, remembering Hawthorn's account of what had happened during her one transformation, the first after Fenrir Greyback's bite, when she went without Wolfsbane. And the first transformation's always the worst, and it always kills some of the newly-bitten. Fuck.
"If they hate them so much, why are they capturing and collaring them?" he asked. "Why not just kill them?"
"Because the Unspeakables want to use them," Kieran whispered, as if the walls had grown ears.
Harry felt his heart stop.
"Why?" he breathed. "For what?"
"I don't know." Kieran shook his head wildly, but the words spilled forth from him as if he were glad to give them up at last. "When I was a hunter, they told us to capture a few werewolves if we could in the attack on Loki's pack. We didn't manage it, though; we just killed those two. But there was a family whose son had just been turned. It was his first change, and they drugged him with some sort of incredibly strong potion. It didn't put him to sleep, or calm his mind, but it made him docile enough that the Unspeakables could handle him. I know they took him down into the Department of Mysteries. I don't know what happened after that. But if they have a lot of werewolves in Tullianum, they can take them conveniently, and no one will really notice or care."
Harry curled his fingers around the arm of his chair. Both Tullianum and the Department of Mysteries were far beneath the rest of the Ministry. He wondered how short a distance it was between them, really.
"And you swear that you have no idea what they're doing?" he demanded of Kieran.
Kieran shook his head again. "No. That I heard that much at all was the result of people gossiping who shouldn't have been. Felicia—" He swallowed, and Harry told himself to remember that he was talking to a man who had seen many of his comrades turned into werewolves and another ripped apart, and told that his fate on the next full moon would be Felicia's. "Felicia had a relative connected to the Department of Mysteries. He passed the rumors along to her, and she told me. And for all I know, they may be wrong."
Harry half-lidded his eyes and fought to control his breathing. The urge to do something to get the werewolves out of Tullianum, to brew the cure for lycanthropy, to find out what had happened to the young werewolf captured during July's full moon, was struggling in him. He wanted to push to his feet and go flying out through the door of Wayhouse. He felt as if he were useless if he weren't doing something. He had spent too much time in the last few weeks on his bonds with Draco, Connor, Parvati, and Snape. How could he have?
He put the emotions back under the serene surface of his mind again. He could do this. He could stay here and protect Kieran, his duty for the night. He opened his eyes, and asked, "Was there anything else you could tell me?"
"Well, some older Department policies, but they've changed now, with so much of our strength turned into werewolves," said Kieran fretfully. "They mostly concerned—"
Loki howled.
Harry knew in a moment who it must be. The howl rang through the wards, though they should have been able to hear nothing from outside—feel Loki's impact on them, perhaps—and echoed in his ears. His mind flashed with images of darkened nights around campfires, his ancestors crouching and shivering in fear while howling creatures prowled just beyond the flames and stared with red eyes and cried out their hunger.
He heard a strangled sob, and smelled piss, and knew Kieran had just wet himself. Harry turned to face the wards, ready to put his own strength behind them if it were needed. He had linked chains of Shield Charms up already. He had trusted to the combination to keep them safe.
Camellia's words echoed in his mind again. You can't stop him or turn him aside, Wild. Not a werewolf on the vengeance-path. Please, please don't try. You have no idea what will happen if you do.
And there was the fact that Loki had crashed into a Department of werewolf hunters, turned forty of them, torn apart one, and escaped.
But Harry told himself not to be ridiculous. None of the Department hunters had been Lord-level wizards, and they hadn't been expecting the attack; they had been getting ready to go hunt the London packs. He knew what was coming. He—
Wayhouse shook. Harry staggered. He felt as though he'd just met a score of charging knights. The howl came again, louder and closer and from every corner of the sky this time, like thunder.
Kieran was screaming mindlessly. Harry shook his head and called his magic, pouring it into the wards, weaving more chains of Shield Charms, slightly reassured as more and more moments passed, and nothing happened.
Then he felt Loki break the wards.
It should not have been possible. But Wayhouse was wailing in anguish, and Harry knew the feeling of magic failing to stop an assault; he knew it from countless hours of practice as a child, when pain curses would make it through his shields, and from the Quidditch pitch in his first year, when Bellatrix Lestrange had thrown curses so strong they cracked his wandless Protego. These wards parted, and slid in jagged edges like the broken glass of a window pane around Loki's body. He was within them, padding forward.
Kieran moaned. The sound couldn't cover the noise of great claws ripping through a wooden door.
"Stay here!" Harry yelled at Kieran, though he doubted he needed to give the warning, and stepped out of the kitchen, shutting and locking the door firmly behind him. Now he could hear the sound even more clearly, rending and tearing from downstairs. Harry took a deep breath and wrapped his magic around him in a tight ball.
Gloriana Griffinsnest hadn't been able to tell him that much about a werewolf hunting for vengeance because of his mate's murder. She had said that she'd heard tales about no one being able to stop such a werewolf, but she didn't believe them. Why should she? Kill a werewolf, and they were dead.
Harry touched the silver knife hanging from his belt. He hoped he wouldn't have to use it. He would kill Loki if he must, but he would prefer this night pass with no loss of life.
The next howl knocked knickknacks juddering from their shelves. Harry saw a frightened face form in the wall, and knew Wayhouse itself was on the verge of panic. He whispered soothing words, while he walked slowly down the stairs and faced the front door. The shimmer of wards and Shield Charms between him and it was almost a solid wall. He could see, blurred and dizzy as if moving underwater, the black, hooked nails and the edge of the paw, and then came a glimpse of a furred shoulder, shoving hard.
The door did not so much break as disintegrate. And then Loki stood there, staring at Harry.
Harry had never seen him in werewolf form. He understood now why Camellia had told him Loki's "surname," on the rare occasions he chose to use it, was Palefire. His coat was white, the hardly-gold color of his hair, and thick as a snowdrift. The light sent up a faint halo around it. His amber eyes glowed like suns from the middle of a head that came up to Harry's shoulder, bigger than any other werewolf he had ever seen.
Harry knew from the shine in those eyes that Loki had taken Wolfsbane, or had otherwise arranged to have his intelligence unfettered. He held up the silver knife in silent warning, and reared his own magic. Black snakes unfolded around him, hissing.
Loki opened his mouth. The howl that came from it shook the world.
Then he jumped at Harry.
He passed through the wards and Shield Charms like water; they melted and rippled around his body. Harry dropped to one knee so as not to meet the full weight of that leap and aimed the silver knife so that Loki should impale himself on it.
But a werewolf was not a wolf; Remus had told him that more than once. Loki snapped his body sideways in midair, bending his belly away from the knife; it carved through some of his fur, but did no worse damage. He landed with a thump that made Wayhouse tremble again, shook his fur as if shaking off water, and turned towards the stairs.
Harry shouted and threw the silver knife straight at him. Loki ducked, bowing his head to his paws, and it went over him and rang off the wall. He placed one paw on the bottom step.
Harry, frantic now, opened his absorbere gift. He would have to make sure that he didn't swallow Wayhouse's magic along with Loki's, but if spells and wards weren't going to stop him, draining his magic would have to.
What he swallowed made him gag. It wasn't like the foul, tainted magic of Voldemort and the Death Eaters; it was solid instead, so that Harry couldn't absorb it. He tried, and tried, and it was like choking on a stone each time. He saw Loki turn his head, glancing at him with amber eyes full of pity, and then he rose up the stairs like an avalanche in reverse, going for Kieran.
Harry lunged again, this time summoning magic to flood his muscles. He would grab Loki and wrestle him to the ground if he had to.
Jaws closed on his leg and spun him around. Harry fell, gasping. Looking up, he saw a shimmering, silvery shape hovering over him, a werewolf as pale as Loki.
Gudrun.
Gloriana hadn't mentioned that the ghosts of the murdered werewolves hunted beside their mates. Harry wondered bitterly if it happened all the time, or if it was just the magic's way of making sure he couldn't get in the way and interfere tonight.
Frantic, he tried to call on the rage that had once made him will Fenrir Greyback out of existence. But panic didn't provide the same kind of anger that fear for Draco's life had. The ghost of Gudrun simply looked at him, and then tucked her tail to her belly and flew towards the stairs.
Harry remembered where his real battle lay then, and called out, "Ardesco!"
Loki's fur smoked, and then stopped. Harry tried three more spells, casting them so fast he could hardly tell them apart. None of them worked. They melted and splashed against Loki, exactly as the wards and the Shield Charms had. Loki had reached the top of the staircase.
Camellia's words came back again, damning. You can't stop him or turn him aside, Wild.
Harry had never imagined that that meant he just wouldn't be able to.
Please, he thought, dropping Wayhouse's wards so that he could Apparate into the kitchen. Please, don't let him bite Kieran.
He appeared between Loki and Kieran, crouching on the floor, using his body as a shield. Loki padded forward a few steps and stopped, amber eyes filled with emotions Harry couldn't understand.
"Please," Harry whispered. Helplessness beat at his ribs like wings. The only time he had ever felt this bad was when he lay strapped on an altar stone in a graveyard, his wandless magic bound inside his body by the power of Midsummer, and watched Fenrir Greyback and his consort devour a child. "Please, please, do not. I know you can understand me, Loki. Please, give it up. Your people's future may depend on it. Every bite you give sends the wizarding world further into the depths of madness and terror. And if that doesn't convince you, I promised to protect Kieran. Please. Please."
A movement off to the side made Harry look up. The ghost of Gudrun hovered there, watching him. She had been beautiful, as pale as her mate, with large, intelligent eyes and long legs that made her body look more graceful than an ordinary wolf's, instead of monstrous.
"Please," Harry told her.
She looked down at him, amber bleeding into her eyes, taking over from the silver color of ghosts. She bowed her head, and Harry heard a cold, distant whine, a sound that could have come from the Thorn Bitch's briars rubbing together.
He felt wind pass over his head.
Loki leaped and came down precisely behind Harry, pinning Kieran to the floor and tearing him away. Kieran screamed in utter terror, and then Loki raked up with his front legs and down with his back ones, ripping open Kieran's chest and disemboweling him in the same movement.
Harry nearly vomited, not from the smell but from the powerlessness. He reached out with his magic and simply flung it at Loki, not bothering to shape it into spells, just wanting this to stop.
The magic parted around Loki. He moved his hind legs again, and blood sprayed Harry's face and glasses, blinding him and dripping into his mouth. He spat, pulling his glasses off, trying to see what was happening, cursing the lack of a left hand.
He blinked his eyelashes rapidly to free them of caked gore. When he could see, he knew he was too late. Loki had crushed Kieran's skull in his jaws and ripped his head free of his neck.
I promised to protect him. And I could not.
The pain of his failure scooped into Harry like his own Exsculpo spell, leaving him hollow. He found himself leaning forward, hand out, and did not even know what he was reaching for. He knew his body shook with sobs, though, sobs of unleashed mourning.
Loki bit down, and rent Kieran's body into two pieces. Harry wondered if he would ever be able to see a werewolf's strength as beautiful again, or only as horrific.
Loki stepped delicately away then, and turned to face him. Harry knelt there, staring at him. He knew Loki could tear him apart, or make him into a werewolf, and thanks to the protection Loki had gained by swearing himself to this vengeance-path, Harry wouldn't be able to stop him.
He cannot be stopped. He cannot be turned aside.
Gleaming amber eyes watched him from a field of blood and snow, and then Loki slipped past him and padded down the stairs. Harry felt him pass through the remains of Wayhouse's broken door, and then the broken wards. The ghost of Gudrun lingered for a moment, and Harry sensed the wet touch of a tongue to his cheek.
Then they were gone, and he was alone with his frightened, whimpering house and the broken body of the man he had promised to protect.
Harry folded his arms on his knees and bowed his head into them. Tears made slow progress against the blood on his cheeks. His shoulders shook with his sobbing. Blame boiled in his stomach until he felt as though he'd swallowed poison.
For a moment, he wanted, with a simplicity and clarity he hadn't felt since he'd mercy-killed the children outside Hogwarts, to die. There were some mistakes that could not be forgiven.
Then he took a few deep breaths and drove the emotions back into the places they belonged. If they acted as lashes on his soul, to drive him out of inactivity and into doing something about this, then he could use them. If not, then he had no time for them. This was battle, and he couldn't pause to attend to his own wounds.
He rose to his feet, and, waving his hand, gathered the broken bits of Kieran's body back together. Then he prepared to repair Wayhouse's wards. When that was done, he would make a firecall to the Ministry, trying any and all Departments until he found a Floo that was open—or he would wait until morning, if none of them were. He knew from Kieran's last name that he'd relatives at the Ministry at one point. If none worked there now, the Ministry would at least know how to contact them.
His balance wavered for a moment, when he saw how many scraps of flesh Loki had torn loose from Kieran's body, but he could not afford to fall, so he did not.
Harry returned to Hogwarts just after noon the next day. It had taken him that long to locate Kieran's relatives—he no longer had anyone working at the Ministry—and turn the body over to them. It had been a cousin who came to collect him, Jenna. Her shock and her slowly widening eyes and her vomiting had been no less than what Harry expected. He had asked if she wanted to know anything else about her cousin's death, but she only shook her head and turned away from him. He could not blame her for that.
A few Ministry officials had acted as if they would like to interrogate him, but they couldn't figure out what to do or who should do it. After all, Harry had been protecting Kieran, by his own story. And the Department for the Control and Suppression of Deadly Beasts was in limbo at the moment, due to the destruction of so many of its members. This was only a late casualty.
In the end, after a confused hour in which Harry was shuttled between Amelia Bones's office and one in the Department for the Control and Regulation of Magical Creatures, he was released to go home.
He Apparated to the edge of the Hogwarts wards, on the road to Hogsmeade, and used the walk to get used to the knife-wound that seemed to have taken over his soul. No, it felt more like a sword-cut, he decided. Horror was part of it, but so was guilt, and so was his half-panicked determination to make sure this never happened again.
He had learned his lesson after the mercy-killing; Vera had taught him better. He would not tumble into depression, not when other people were depending on him. He had wrought this situation, and while looking back on it and lamenting it would satisfy one part of him, it did nothing in the long run. Eventually, he would make the wound stop feeling like a sword-cut and make it into another whip in his soul, driving him forward so that he would not collapse.
Harry wasn't sure what he used to keep on his feet long enough to reach the entrance hall: the lessons learned in the Sanctuary, Lily's training, his own innate stubbornness. Whatever it was, it worked. He was breathing more easily by then, and felt ready to face others. He had used the communication spell to let Draco, Connor, Joseph, McGonagall, and others know he was well, and, briefly, what had happened. It helped that he'd had the chance to cleanse himself of gore. That helped a great deal.
He lifted his gaze as a shadow moved in front of him. It was McGonagall who came to meet him, her face ashen as he had never seen it before. She clutched the Daily Prophet in her hand.
"Mr. Pott—Harry," she said. "I told the others to stay where they were. I thought you should hear this from me."
"What is it?" Harry asked quietly. He hadn't had time to glance at the newspaper this morning. He wondered if they were reporting Kieran's murder and him as an accomplice in it. Willoughby might have the chance to see me on trial after all.
McGonagall took a deep breath and stood straight as a blade. It struck Harry, for no apparent reason, that this was the way she might have looked reporting to Dumbledore in the First War.
"They've declared open hunting season on werewolves," she said. "Any of them can be killed without penalty, provided that the killer can confirm they're werewolves afterwards. And they've arrested Hawthorn Parkinson."
