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Chapter Twenty-Six: Against the Lord of Sea Eagles

Harry could feel his anger rising. The moment he saw Hawthorn crouched in the corner of her cell like some whipped dog, it had begun, and now it traced a glowing, warm path up from his belly to his throat, waiting to explode. The magic that danced around him and within him only urged it higher, because once his temper exploded, the magic knew he would use it more.

He concentrated on the warmth of Hawthorn's arm around his shoulders, on the way she leaned on him, and reminded himself again and again that he couldn't explode, that he needed to get her and the others out of here and insure they survived. He murmured reassurances, and took down the wards on the doors that Trumpetflower identified as having werewolves behind them, and tamed his anger again and again, shoving it back into determination. I'll let them survive. I'll get them out. I have to remember that our purpose here is to keep them all alive and insure they reach Woodhouse, not taking revenge.

He was sorry now that he hadn't managed to think of a tactic for handling the Unspeakables' time globes other than swallowing the magic. No one needed this much power, and it was already shoving at him with ideas of its own, since he held it so tightly in confinement. Harry didn't know what its personality would be like if he allowed it to finish growing, but he knew already it was mischievous.

Have to keep going, he thought, and reminded himself that anger hadn't saved Kieran, and anger at the Minister hadn't been the best way to handle that situation. Draco had been smug and chuckling when he possessed Scrimgeour. With that example of rage-handling in front of him, how could Harry justify losing his temper?

"Harry?"

Harry turned his head. Trumpetflower was standing in front of a door, her neck bent to one side and a puzzled expression on her face. "What is it?" he asked, wondering if she had smelled a werewolf imprisoned here whom they hadn't been told about.

"I—" Trumpetflower gave him a sharp look. "She isn't a lycanthrope, but there is someone in here who smells like you, Wild."

Harry knew at once who it must be, and he refused to allow himself to react. Lily wasn't part of his life any longer. Neither was James. Both were in Tullianum, behind locked doors, but there were plenty of locked doors they passed without releasing the prisoners. These would just be two more. He shrugged. "I know who it is, and she stays here," he said.

Trumpetflower's eyes widened. "Very well," she said, and stepped away from the door as if it were warded with blades.

Damn it. I frightened her. Harry turned to count the werewolves behind them, automatically adjusting his posture so that he could support Hawthorn. There were thirty-three, and a thirty-fourth was freed as he watched and had her wand pushed into her hand. Harry nodded. We're close to getting out of here. And I have to remember that our primary purpose is to keep them alive. Remember that.

"Wild?"

Harry turned. Rose was near the front of the line, her nostrils flaring as she stood near a door that wasn't as heavily warded as the others. She glanced at him and let her tongue loll out of her mouth in a grin. "Do we have room for one more werewolf to accompany us to the valley?" she asked.

Harry blinked. "Of course. Who is it?" He reached out and drained the magic from the wards, and Rose easily smashed the lock and opened the door.

The boy inside looked no older than Harry himself, though both taller and stronger. He was already sniffing, and his eyes were a brilliant enough amber that Harry knew he must have been bitten young. He stepped forward and touched his cheek to Rose's before he glanced at Harry.

"My name is Evergreen," he said. "I was part of Loki's pack. You must be our new alpha. You have the transferred smell about you."

Harry fought to keep from grimacing at the mention of Loki, and thought he was successful. "Yes," he said. "And I do remember you. You were the one who bit Elder Gillyflower and—" And started this mess, he wanted to say, but now was not the time or the place to sound accusing. "And went to Tullianum for it," he finished. "Even though you were born a Muggle."

Evergreen grinned. "That's me." He touched Rose's shoulder and moved around her into the corridor. "It's good to see you again, Rose." He glanced up and down the hallway. "This is a general jailbreak?"

"No," said Harry, as Trumpetflower yelped near another door and he reached out to remove the wards on that one. "Only for people unfairly accused of no other crime than being werewolves and tossed in here."

Evergreen's grin widened. "It's good to see that you're doing what Loki wanted you to do," he said. "Even if it is later than he wanted, and took more provocation than he thought it would."

Harry didn't respond to that. He watched as the newly released werewolf reclaimed his wand, and listened.

There was some strange sound under the reverberations of power all through the tunnel. Harry could feel it drawing nearer like a storm; it definitely came from outside the Ministry. If he concentrated, he thought it sounded like jangling bells. A delicate sound, not threatening, but he shouldn't have been able to hear it through this magic.

A Lord-level wizard was coming. And while the power was barely familiar, since they had met only once, Harry knew it must be Falco. He would have known Voldemort anywhere, he thought.

Harry suppressed the urge to scream. He probably wants to scold me for rebelling against the Ministry, or for not keeping his balance. And he will certainly fight me. He wouldn't approach like this, forsaking all caution, if he just wanted to watch.

He pushed the urge to scream into more determination, and flung out his hand. If the magic wanted to be used, then he had a use for it. He thought of the need to keep the werewolves alive, to spare as many people casualties in getting out of the Ministry as possible, and to reach Woodhouse safely, and pushed.

The magic poured out of him as if he were a hive and it were the honey, thick and viscous, but assuming the shape he wanted it to make. A shining corridor formed, bursting through the walls of Tullianum and running up through the Ministry, finding the lift chute and running up from there until it met the Atrium, then rising again until it hit the surface of the alley. Harry concentrated, building the walls up, making them as strong as wards backed by linked Shield Charms, so that neither Unspeakables attacking from the sides with flung artifacts nor Falco striking from above would get through.

He wanted them out of here alive, and he wanted them out of here safe. When they reached the end of the corridor, then people would have to Apparate; Harry couldn't extend the corridor from London to Woodhouse without breaking about fifty thousand laws centered around the International Statute of Secrecy. But they had always known that. It was fighting their way out of the Ministry, with the added complication of an angry Lord-level wizard arriving, that was the problem.

He pressed his hand against his throat, and cast Sonorus, so that when he spoke everyone could hear him. "You'll have to take the corridor," he said. "Follow it until it ends. As long as you stay in the path, then nothing can hurt you. When you reach the end, you'll be Apparating to a place called Woodhouse. If you don't know where it is, Side-Along Apparate with someone who came with me. They know. You should be safe there."

"What about not wanting to go?" demanded one of the werewolves who must have been a member of the Department for the Control and Suppression of Deadly Beasts. Harry didn't recognize her, at least. "If we escape with you, like this, then the Ministry is going to see us as rebels."

"Your only alternative is to stay here," said Harry. "And you should have seen how the Ministry treats werewolves in Tullianum by now."

The woman hesitated, as if for half a heartbeat she were thinking about Stunning him to gain credit with the Ministry, but then she glanced around at the people who had come with him and subsided. Most of her comrades were already hurrying up the glittering path that stretched ahead of them. Harry was glad to see Adalrico Bulstrode near the front of the line, visible by his limp, urging people along with both dignity and grace. Millicent wasn't far from his side. As long as those two were there, Harry thought, he could count on the line to keep in order.

He turned his head upward. Falco was very nearly level with the Ministry by now. Harry thought, and a whip of light coiled around his body and rose up through the stone, to gain form and substance when it entered the air. It ought to be as good a signal as any other to Falco of Here I am.

"Why aren't you coming?" Draco asked him.

Harry started. It seemed that people had obeyed orders for once in their lives, because when he glanced around, he was standing near the back of the line. Only Draco, Owen, Michael, and Syrinx stayed clustered close to him, staring at him anxiously; most people were at least twenty feet away down the corridor.

"Because Falco Parkinson is approaching," he said, and saw Draco's eyes widen. "Yes. Exactly. I need everyone else out of here. Now. With luck, he won't want our duel to destroy the Ministry, but if anyone associated with me remains here, he could attack them. Move."

To his credit, Draco started moving, but he reached back and caught Harry's left wrist as he did so, and Harry's three sworn companions stayed at his back. Harry growled under his breath—his being in the corridor would probably encourage Falco to attack it—but the thought of the arguments that would pop up later if he tried to badger Draco into leaving him alone kept him moving. His eyes remained on the ceiling, anxiously scanning. Falco's magic sill spoke from the air, not as if he were diving under the ground and trying to strike from beneath.

Then the side of the corridor split open, and Falco arrived from thin air, a wizard with long, flying silver hair, clad in dark green robes that shone with some symbol Harry thought might be a scale, his hand held out. Where that hand moved, reality rippled, and Harry saw the corridor drying up and flaking away.

He had no idea what might happen if that hand touched him, and no time to find out. He rolled, pushing Draco into Michael, Owen, and Syrinx, forcing them backwards and away from the immediate scope of the duel. Then he raised a shield that, he hoped, would keep them safe.

Falco had nearly reached him by the time the shield was done. He launched the reality-bubble at Harry's head.

Harry ate it. It cost him to do so. He could feel the same dragging pain in his gut and throat and magic that he had experienced when he was gathering in Voldemort's tainted power during the Midsummer battle. Sooner or later, the absorbere gift closed in on itself and tried to digest what it had swallowed. Harry was reaching the point of oversaturation. Not even creating the corridor so that his people could escape unmolested had used as much magic as he hoped.

"I wish it did not have to come to this," Falco said sadly, as he landed in front of Harry. He still looked more than half sea eagle, his hair gleaming like feathers, his feet having the shape edge of talons, as though he had not bothered to complete his Animagus transformation. "If you had Declared for Light, then I would have helped you as well as Tom. Britain needs a Dark and a Light Lord, to keep the balance between them both."

Harry didn't bother answering. He had no idea what Falco could do; the best he could do was gather in his own magic and release it in a form that he hoped Falco wouldn't fight that well, because he knew that Falco didn't share the same gifts that he and Voldemort did.

A dark green snake solidified in front of him, one that had Sylarana's eyes, and fangs, and Locusta venom. Harry hissed out a command in Parseltongue, and it slid forward, gaze fixed on Falco.

Falco waved a lazy hand. His power spluttered out and destroyed the snake. Harry rebuilt it, the scales piling on even faster this time around. The magic, happy to be of use and recognizing a familiar pattern, spun and dived and darted and wove the serpent back into being in moments.

Falco dodged the snake's first strike, but his gaze remained on Harry. Harry met it fearlessly. He was fairly sure Falco was a Legilimens, but he didn't think Falco had the power to compel him, any more than Voldemort or Dumbledore had. Perhaps it would do the irascible old man good, to realize that Harry had no intention of backing out of this rebellion.

In a moment, Harry realized something was wrong, something else that Falco knew and he had never studied. He couldn't remove his eyes from Falco's. His mind was tingling and going numb, and his will to command his magic was going to sleep. It wasn't compulsion, because Harry was sure he would have struggled instinctively against that by now. It just gave him—different thoughts.

Harry found his breath slowing, his head lolling back on his neck, the sharp, urgent ideas about getting the werewolves out alive deserting him. Falco carefully stripped back those emotions and dived deeper into his mind.

And he found the anger Harry had been suppressing.

Harry found himself awake again, alive, the rage bursting out of him like a golden fist out of his chest. It hit and crushed the snake, which was trying to bite Falco once more, but it also hit and dealt Falco a stunning blow. Harry saw him lose his feet and fly backwards, an expression of true surprise on his face before he slammed into the stone of a Tullianum corridor and lost all expression for a moment.

Harry snarled. His ears rang with the karkadann's cry, and he felt as if her breath were here, raking over him. He wanted to rend, to tear, to kill. He thought of the way he had killed Dumbledore, and wanted to do the same to Falco. He could strip him of all his magic, draining it into another vessel so that he wouldn't lose the ability to swallow, and then take even the magic that had kept him alive so long. Wouldn't the Dark and the Light be pleased that someone who had fooled them was dying? They must see that Falco wasn't going to grant his allegiance to either one of them any time soon.

And then he heard a voice cry out his name behind him, sharp and urgent, and Draco blazed like a phoenix in his mind.

What was he doing? He didn't have the time to drain Falco, assuming it was even possible; Falco didn't have Dumbledore's fear of the prophecy paralyzing him. His first goal was to get everyone out alive.

Harry tamed his rage, though now it felt like pulling on the reins of a cart to which the karkadann was attached. He turned it, and sent it plunging in another direction. He took a deep breath, and concentrated on a vision of the corridor intact, whole, with the shimmering colors that made up its walls spreading like oil slicks. Impenetrable oil slicks. He just didn't have time for this. None of his people had time for this.

He turned and checked on Draco, Owen, Michael, and Syrinx. The shield that had sheltered them was half-crumbled. Harry nodded sharply to them. "We're going to run," he said. "Up the corridor. Go in front of me. Don't look back. I need you at the end to help Apparate werewolves to Woodhouse. I don't think they can have moved all of them out yet."

Draco opened his mouth. It looked like it was forming a protest. For that matter, Owen looked as if he were going to join in the act.

Syrinx caught Harry's eye, bowed, and said, "Of course. They need us." Then she began to run. Owen hesitated, and then, as if he remembered that he bore the lightning bolt scar, too, and didn't want a Light witch to outdo him, he followed. Draco lingered, still staring hard at Harry. Michael was probably not going until Draco did, Harry knew.

Harry saw Falco stirring from the corner of his eye. They didn't have much time. "Please," he said. "Draco. Run."

Falco vanished.

Harry felt his magic as a pendulum swinging out, gathering momentum and weight on the way. When it hit, it would be massive. Harry poured all his magic into the strength of the corridor, all he had gathered and then some. He would have cut a hole in his own magical core and drained out his power like Voldemort's if he thought it would help.

"Not without you," said Draco.

When Falco's strike landed, it would either splinter the corridor, or it would bounce from Harry's shields. Harry didn't know what it would do to anyone who stood with him, unprotected.

"Go!" Harry screamed, and that seemed to convince Michael, if not Draco. He grabbed Draco's arm and practically yanked him off his feet as he started to run, feet drumming on blue light. Harry turned to face the cut of the pendulum. It came back at him as if it had a scythe on the end, like a pendulum he had seen once in the Room of Requirement, when he used it to heal from what his parents had done to him.

Harry had been willing to let that pendulum cut his palm and shed blood, so that he could renounce his family name. He would endure far more than that, to keep the corridor intact and the boy he loved, with everyone else, safe.

Falco's magic met his.

Harry felt the walls of Tullianum shake, and wards brace and buckle. He heard terrified screaming from those prisoners still in their cells, and probably from the upper floors, where the Ministry's people would be wondering what the hell had just happened. He heard a howl that might have come from the throat of a wounded werewolf, far ahead of him.

He felt it throughout his body.

The magic seemed to liquefy his bones and turn his viscera to jelly. Lightning bolts crept up his arms. Harry could hear a stronger pounding than his heart in his ears, and wondered madly if it was possible to hear one's brain sloshing against one's skull. He heard a single dull snap under the pounding, too, and grunted. Broken bone, don't know which one.

A gnawing, familiar pain low in his side told him. Broken rib. He had first felt one when Quirrell, acting for Voldemort, cast a Crucio on him in their first year. He breathed through the pain, as he had done then. He was fighting for higher stakes now than he had done even then—more lives, and as much peace as possible.

He lifted his head when he thought it was done.

The corridor had held.

Harry saw Falco hovering beyond it, staring at him, his face oddly rippled by the glass-like light. He had wings, and a sea eagle's face, but a human body, still flaring with the dark green robes.

Harry stared back at him, and wondered if he would try another strike. He knew he would resist it. It might break another rib, or his leg, but he would survive it.

Falco only shook his head, and then vanished. Harry concentrated. He could feel his magic, hear the jangling bell-music, but it was retreating. Falco had given up on harassing them, for now.

Harry let out a long breath, let the pain throb, and forced himself to his feet. He looked up the corridor ahead of him, and saw only tiny, distant figures, hurrying away. He permitted himself a grim smile, and then began to time his walking, around more and more throbs of pain from his wounded side.

His magic pulled feebly at the pain, but Harry had given all the swallowed power to the corridor, and he had never studied the kind of healing spells that would let him set broken bones; the ones to heal wounds inflicted by curses had seemed more valuable. He was afraid of setting the bone wrong if he tried to heal it on his own.

At least he could travel by Apparition, he thought. Traveling by Floo or Portkey with a broken rib hurt to contemplate.

Step and hurt, step and hurt. Yes, it ached, but Harry had had worse. His hand, which rested on the rib to cradle it, twitched, and Harry smiled grimly. He couldn't reach the stump of his left wrist from here.

And he could turn the pain into the same determination that had carried him forward so far, and made him resist the urge to turn tail and flee when Falco struck. Getting everyone out alive was what was important. He was climbing up the staircase the corridor had formed through the lift shafts right now, and hadn't seen a single dead body. That cheered him up immensely.


Falco was more frightened than he liked to admit.

He had believed that by bending time and curving away from the boy, he could keep his attack hidden. He should have been able to. It was one tactic which, dependent as it was on sheer strength, he had never been able to teach Albus; his innate preference for subtlety had sat in the way. And the boy was less powerful than Albus, especially with so much of his magic drained into protecting others. He should have crumbled before the blow.

Instead, the boy had sensed him coming and had time to prepare.

Falco's mind was not on what Harry might do to unseat the balance in the future, now, or what the international wizarding community would think of Britain. His mind was on a room in a house at Godric's Hollow that he had had to spend days analyzing before he came up with an answer.

Harry should not have been able to sense my attack.

But Tom could have.

Falco was wondering, again, what exactly had happened in that house. He had thought he understood. A series of coincidences that, timed and dancing to prophecy, were not coincidences. An equality of power that had allowed Harry to survive the Killing Curse; a touch too weak and the curse would have slain him, a touch too strong and the returning magic would have blown his body apart. A transfer of Darkness that was not yet complete, and had made Harry Voldemort's magical heir.

But that transfer had included only Parseltongue and the absorbere gift, Falco had thought. What he discovered in the room had certainly led him to think so.

He now had to consider that perhaps the transfer had sped more than just those two abilities along the path to Harry. And if so, what else had come down the link? What else could Harry do that his magical father could also do? What if he were wrong, and Harry should have Declared Dark, not Light, after all?

But what if he must Declare Light, to balance out the Darkness within his soul?

This had splintered his plans. Falco soared back into contemplation, sadder and wiser than he had been a few minutes ago. Harry continued to confound his expectations, but it was much better that this happen and come out into the open. If Falco had not known this and then prepared to destroy Harry, he could have perished because of his overconfidence.

Better to wait and study and see what comes.


Draco finally managed to resist the pull of Michael's arm when they were somewhere on the stairs to the ninth level. Jerking away, he drew his wand, pointed it at the wide-eyed boy, and said, "If you ever do that to me again, I'll make sure that people think you're a girl for the rest of your life."

"But you—" said Michael, and then clenched his jaw shut and turned away. Draco let out a shaky breath and faced back the way they had come, scanning the red-green-blue tunnel frantically for a sign of Harry.

He saw him, stumbling on the steps but always making his way higher. His right arm curled around his side, supporting what looked like a broken bone, and when he came closer, Draco could see the dark stain of blood on his robes. He bit back the impulse to hurt someone and reached out, touching the crook of Harry's elbow. Harry looked up and blinked, then frowned.

"Draco? You should have made your way to the end of the tunnel," he said. "It'll take longer to Apparate everyone out if we don't have people who know Woodhouse there."

"What were you thinking, telling me to hurry away like that?" Draco breathed. He had intended the words to come out in a shout. He found that he couldn't make them. Harry's face was pale, and he looked as though someone had hit him multiple times with a Bludger, never mind the broken bone.

"Trying to keep you safe," said Harry. "You couldn't have withstood that blow from Falco. I barely withstood that blow from Falco." He nodded up the staircase, beyond Michael. "And now I'm here, so can we hurry to the end of the tunnel? I think there are some people who will refuse to leave until they see I'm safe—" his voice said he didn't know why "—and the longer we linger here, the more danger we're in."

Michael was already climbing. Harry followed him, and Draco stayed at his side where the width of the stairs allowed him to do so. He wondered why Harry wasn't groaning, and then realized the groaning was probably masked by the huffing breaths he took every time his foot came down.

"I didn't want to leave you," Draco murmured. "And I could have stood beside you, you know. No need to toss me behind a shield."

Harry looked at him gently, though for a moment his jaw clashed as he ground his teeth together. "I know that, Draco," he said. "I know that you want to fight beside me. You did wonderfully with the Minister. But Falco was attacking with sheer strength, and he almost defeated me. I'm still not sure what sent him away. At that point, you couldn't stand against him, and if I had seen you die or get wounded, I would have gone mad. So I chose the best compromise I could."

Draco chewed his tongue for a moment as he thought about that. Didn't he still have the right to demand to stand beside Harry? Or would asking make him as childish as when he'd asked Harry to choose his side over Potter's and Patil's?

He didn't know. It bothered him that he didn't know.

They reached the end of that staircase, and then the corridor ran smooth and straight for a while through the Atrium. Draco could see Ministry employees gaping at them; a few were tapping with their wands on the side of the tunnel, but they drew back from that hastily when they saw Harry. Draco smirked at them, and put an arm around Harry's unwounded side to support him for a moment as his steps grew heavier and his breath huffier.

Figures moved near the gates, making Draco start, but it was Moody, along with several other people who kept their faces cloaked in glamours that shifted and changed, revealing too many features to keep track of. Moody grinned at Harry. "Mission done," he said. "Information obtained."

Harry nodded, and a doorway slid open in the side of the tunnel. Moody was the only one who entered. The others turned and faded back into the shadows.

"Contacts," Moody told Draco when he saw him staring. "They don't trust anyone except me." He tossed a wooden scrollcase in the air and caught it as it came down again, laughing. "We got what we came for."

Draco wanted to ask what that was, since the only role Moody's contacts had played in the original plan was to fetch the password for the room where the wands were stored and to act as a distraction, but he kept his tongue. Harry's huffing breaths were growing worse, and from the number of staring figures on the staircase ahead, where the tunnel rose up to the alley they'd come in by, most of their group had indeed waited for Harry. Draco heard them cheering at the sight of him.

He also felt a surge of magic from Harry. When he glanced at him, his face looked normal again, and the stain of dark blood on his robes was gone. Harry also lifted his head and walked as steadily as possible, nodding back to the cheerers in a reassuring fashion.

I suppose he has to, Draco thought. Otherwise, they'll worry too much about him to fix on Apparating. When we get to Woodhouse, then he has time to collapse and drink a healing potion.

They climbed the stairs, Draco reversing his position so that he could stand close to Harry's broken rib and keep anyone too enthusiastic from jostling the wound. Luckily, only a few people actually tried to hug Harry. Others kept their distance, talking in soft and excited voices. Harry made a point of nodding and replying to most of them, though Draco could see how eagerly his gaze sought the end of the tunnel and the point where they could leap into nothingness and continue on to Woodhouse.

They reached it without anyone from the Ministry stopping or slowing them down. Draco took a werewolf by the arm at Harry's insistence, glancing at him all the while. Harry was talking to the werewolf called Evergreen, though, and didn't look back at him. A moment later, they vanished.

Really, Draco thought, and did his best to think of the wide expanse of grass inside Woodhouse, near the pine forest, where the centaurs liked to stand. He hoped that no one else would be Apparating there just then. Actually, he wasn't sure if he could Apparate, and if not, then he would wait until someone else came back for him, but he wanted to try.

Then a phoenix's warble broke his concentration. Draco sighed. "Sorry," he said to the werewolf, a staring, shocked woman of about thirty, who just nodded. Draco bent over his left wrist. "Yes?"

"Draco?"

It was his mother's voice. Draco blinked, and swallowed, and suspected that sorrow would distract him too much to Apparate after all. "Mother?" he asked. "Didn't Father tell you about the disownment?" He wasn't going to let her contact him under false pretenses, and thus hide the choice he had made. He had expected Narcissa to be horribly disappointed with him and stay with Lucius, which had to meant that she didn't yet know.

"He did, Draco," his mother's voice said softly. "I've left your father for now. He didn't want me to leave. I'm at Grimmauld Place. I'll join you as soon as you tell me where you're going."

So it wasn't tears that were going to distract me, but joy. Draco choked back a whoop. He still considered himself a Malfoy, and it would be undignified to do that in front of a complete stranger. He didn't ask his mother if she was sure, either. That would be insulting to her as someone who was born a Black and had married into the Malfoy name.

"We're at Woodhouse," he said. "You know, the place that we fought Voldemort's forces last October?" The werewolf next to him gave him a sudden look. Draco ignored her. If she didn't know what she was getting into, then she should never have left Tullianum.

"I remember it well," said Narcissa. "I will see you in a few moments, my son."

"See you," said Draco, and let the communication spell end. He knew he was grinning like a fool, and that he didn't think he could hide. It didn't matter. His mother had chosen him over his father. He wasn't going to be the only person with the name of Malfoy in Harry's rebellion after all.

He didn't even care that Michael had to Apparate him, and Owen had to Apparate the werewolf. He still couldn't stop smiling, and it only grew worse when they landed in a puddle not far from the quadrangle of stone buildings and he saw his mother waiting, her blonde hair shifting behind her in the brisk breeze.


Harry concealed his gasp as they landed, but that apparently wasn't enough to fool Evergreen. The young werewolf sniffed once, then looked at him, and for the first time since he'd come out of his cell, some of his grin faded.

"I can smell blood," he said.

Harry nodded, and cursed himself for not remembering a glamour that would cover scent. Well, since he was about to take a healing potion and deal with the broken rib, it wouldn't be a problem for much longer. "I'm going to take care of that," he said. "You can wait here for me, or ask someone else what's going on." He glanced up and saw Camellia hurrying over from her sentry post under the pines. "Some of your packmates are here."

Evergreen glanced up and gave a joyous howl, hurtling several steps forward. Camellia met him in the middle of it, and they rolled on the ground together, mock-growling and tussling with each other. Camellia laid her head on the grass just long enough to give Harry a look of eloquent thanks.

Harry smiled, then turned away and walked as rapidly as he could towards the wooden house and the room where they'd placed the healing potions his allies had brought along. Tonks met him on the way there, studying him worriedly. Harry nodded to her. "Broken rib."

"It'll be tender even if you use Bone-Set," Tonks warned him.

"I know," said Harry. "But the point is to deal with the pain. I have too much to do to let it incapacitate me."

Tonks opened her mouth as if she would say something, then shut it, shaking her head. Her hair turned black, but she just shrugged when Harry questioned her. Harry decided it couldn't be of importance. Tonks was one to speak her mind when she had something to say.

He went to work on the pain instead. It was too sharp to ignore, the way that Lily had trained him to ignore most of the curses he cast on himself, but he could take the screaming urge to curl up around it and transform it into something else. So he did. By the time he did locate the narrow green bottle of Bone-Set that Elfrida had brought and swallow it, the pain and desperation had become more whips to urge him along the path towards what would come. They had freed the werewolves from Tullianum. Now he had to settle them into Woodhouse, and prepare for the Ministry's response.

Tonks went on watching him all the while. Harry asked her twice more what was wrong, once before he drank the Bone-Set and again while he waited for the sweep of honeyed fire through him to mend the bone and ease some of the pain, but she shrugged again the first time and said the second, "When I know how to phrase it, then I'll tell you."

Harry had to admit that was fair. He used the moments when he had to stand still and let the potion work to list tasks in his head. Contact the shops and increase the food deliveries, tighten the wards around the Black houses so that anyone trying to break in would bounce back—an impossible task when there were as many people living there as had been the case with the werewolves, since they had to be able to pass in and out, and breathe—let the people waiting for word back in Hogwarts know that he was all right, find places for everyone to sleep, check on the wounded, explain how the defenses in Woodhouse worked, arrange for regular patrols of the valley…

"Sir?"

Harry looked up. Syrinx Gloryflower was standing in the doorway, her face solemn. "There's an argument breaking out, sir," she said. "One of the werewolves attacking your good name, and another defending it. It hasn't come to teeth yet, but it might."

Harry nodded and moved a few steps away from the cupboard that had contained the potions, deliberately raising his arms. The skin was still tight and tender enough over his ribs to make him hiss, but he could move.

"There directly," he said, offered one more reassuring smile to Tonks, and then hurried after Syrinx.


Remus was fighting to control his rage, but it was hard to remember that he should do so, even with ordinary witches and wizards watching, when his opponent was as strong, with as much of a temper, as he was. Camellia had been bitten very young, just like Remus, and he didn't have to hold back if he attacked her. And right now, he was as close to attacking her as he had been since he first met her.

"He left me behind." He tried to speak softly, but to put a proper snarl behind the words, he needed to raise his voice. "He's my alpha, and he left me here. I'm a wizard, and I could have helped, but he left me here."

Camellia stood in front of him, lips wrinkled, amber eyes flashing, and seemed as oblivious to their audience as Remus was conscious of it. "Because he can't trust you," she said. "We all know why. You're still too much a wizard, Remus. You haven't let the packmind wash over you. You haven't adapted to considering him a leader in place of Loki; you still think of him as a temporary replacement. Or you think you should be leader." Camellia's jaws snapped shut, and she flicked her head to the side as if she were tearing out someone's throat. "And we all know why that began, and where that would end. We don't need someone as changeable as you are leading us."

Remus growled. He didn't move his eyes from Camellia's, keeping them locked straight in a challenging stare, and Camellia began to growl back. They moved closer to each other, or at least Remus did. He could feel his blood singing in his body, his shoulders tensing and hunching. Camellia would, too, the spiral of inevitability catching them up and turning them closer and closer to each other. One of them must spring first, but Remus didn't know which one it would be. He had little control right now; if the tension built up in him first, he would do it, but nothing said it had to be him.

"Enough."

Camellia's eyes snapped away from Remus's as if torn, and she dropped into a crouch, arching her neck to bare her throat. Remus felt the impulse to do the same thing, but he shook his head. This wasn't the alpha Wild speaking. This was the boy he had known from a child, his friend's son, Harry.

The person who had left him behind, when he could have come along, defended the captives, and been one more person to soothe them with his scent and Apparate them back to safety. He turned sharply on Harry.

He surprised himself by locking his eyes in the wrong place, on Harry's shoulder; somehow, he had forgotten this latest growth spurt. He shook his head and met Harry gaze to gaze. That wasn't much better, actually, and not only because of the pack instincts urging him to look away. He felt a creeping irritation at the deep calmness there. How could Harry be so calm? Granted, he had managed to survive and get everyone away from Tullianum without casualties, but he had to have heard the argument. The Harry Remus had known would have shown more empathy for his side.

"Why did you leave me?" Remus snarled at him.

"Simple," said Harry, as if they were discussing the weather. "I didn't trust you."

Remus braced himself to keep from trembling. Both the wizard and the werewolf in him hated that statement. "Why?" he whispered. And he had meant that statement to be proud, and it didn't come out that way.

Harry tilted his head. "Because of this," he said. "You alter like water with wind on it, Remus. You could have helped me, but perhaps you would have cast a curse at the Tullianum guards for treating werewolves the way they did. Perhaps you would have argued with me at a crucial moment. Perhaps you would have disobeyed an order I gave and got hurt as a result."

"I am firm in my devotion to the pack," said Remus.

"Which is why you're arguing with me." Harry took a step forward, staring at him deliberately.

Remus couldn't help it; he had to avert his gaze. "This is an unusual situation," he said. "Having a human alpha is—not done."

He could see Harry shrug from the corner of his eye. "Loki chose me. I wouldn't have asked for the responsibility if he didn't think me fit for it." Harry smiled. "Be happy, Remus. I'm fighting for the rights of werewolves the way you wanted me to, at last. And I'll welcome reconciliation any time you choose to reach out and start acting like a man—or wolf—who wants to discuss his problems, instead of an innocent wronged. For right now, that doesn't seem likely."

He turned and walked away. Remus stood where he was, shivering and wondering what in the world he should do next. The rebuke had hurt, like a cuff with tooth behind it.

He had been hurt when Harry left him behind, and the reason still seemed too simple. Why can't he trust me? Was changing my mind and joining the pack the only thing that convinced him I might be untrustworthy?

One thing was clear to Remus now, though. He would find little sympathy from his packmates for the problems of living with a human alpha, or having a boy he had helped to raise in a position of authority over him. Most of them had adapted to Harry's presence without a pause.

Perhaps the problem really wasn't with Harry or the pack, but with him.


"But he didn't have to say it in front of everyone," Michael said, for the fortieth time.

Owen restrained the very adult and mature urge to slap his twin upside the head. Then he wondered why he was restraining himself. His hand shot out, and caught Michael's temple a solid hit as he whipped around from pacing their room. Michael, utterly unprepared, staggered and sat down on his bed, then put a hand to the bruise, which was turning dark purple, and frowned at Owen.

"What was that for?" he asked. His fingers twitched, wanting his wand, Owen knew. He probably only kept himself from reaching for it under the sure and certain knowledge that Owen could out-duel him.

"I told you this was going to happen, that's what it was for," said Owen, sitting down on his own bed and leaning forward. "The moment you started pining for his boyfriend, I told you."

"Draco flirted with me," said Michael. "Or, at least, he was happy to take in my admiration and pretend it mattered to him." He paused, blinking. "Do you think he did that just to get me to admire him more?" he whispered.

Owen rolled his eyes. "And now the secret of why you're attracted to him comes out," he said. "You're both brats, and you're both blind as fuck."

Michael turned a sulky shoulder towards him.

"I don't care who you're attracted to," Owen told him plainly. "Even a little flirting isn't a problem; I know you never tried to put your hand in his pants." Michael stiffened at that, and Owen paused and stared at him. "Please tell me you're not that much of an idiot."

"Of course I'm—" Michael broke off, fuming at the lack of a good way to answer that statement. "I object to you referring to it in such a crude manner," he said at last.

"So, staring and flirting aren't problems," said Owen, deciding he wouldn't even touch this latest bit of ridiculousness. "But did you think that Malfoy would really fall in love with you, Michael? To get upset when he talks about fucking Harry is stupid."

"He just didn't have to do it in public," whined Michael.

Owen stood, shaking his head. He was glad that he wasn't vates, and didn't have to do the intricate little dance Harry did to spare his twin's feelings. That meant he could say exactly what Michael needed to hear.

"Frankly, I don't understand why they're in love with each other," he said. "It must be shared experiences. Harry could do better. Malfoy's so self-involved you'd think he'd rather marry his own mirror. But I don't need to know why it works for them. I just know that it does. And if you sulk and whine about it, and that impairs the oath you swore to Harry, I will take it out of your hide."

"As my two-minutes-older brother?" Michael objected.

"As head of the Rosier-Henlin family."

That at least got through to him. Michael lowered his eyes. "All right," he whispered. "I understand. It was a stupid mistake, and I would be even stupider if I let it hurt Harry. That doesn't mean it doesn't hurt, you know." He flopped down on the bed and pulled a pillow over his face.

Owen shook his head and strode for the door. He would contact their mother, to reassure Medusa that they were both all right, and then he would join Syrinx in settling as many werewolves as they could. He, at least, remembered what it meant to be a Lord's sworn companion, and that didn't include hiding one's face and sighing over love matches that were never meant to be.


"You'll never have to go without Wolfsbane again."

Hawthorn started and dropped her hands, which had been covering her face. She'd been shown to a narrow wooden room in the central building of the quadrangle, given a bed, and told to rest. She couldn't rest, though. Even with a window in the wall, this reminded her too much of her cell in Tullianum.

The sense of lightness and magic, and the fresh wild scent, that came with Harry were most welcome. Hawthorn looked at him in silence, not sure what to say. She was caught between intense gratitude for her rescue, intense humiliation at the way she'd been treated, and a growing rage and hated hot enough to melt iron.

"I promise you," Harry said, moving forward and sitting down on a stool at the end of the bed. That put his head lower than hers. Hawthorn didn't doubt that had been on purpose. "Never again." He clasped her hand. Hawthorn wondered if he was pouring magic into her, or if the surge of strength she experienced when he did that came from being close to the one she'd chosen to follow.

"How much of this rebellion did you start because of me?" She asked it quietly, but Harry heard.

"A good deal," said Harry. "The hunting season the Ministry announced would have pushed me into it, but when I read that you were arrested…" He shook his head. "It was the end." He looked directly into her eyes. "Do you know who betrayed you?"

The rage and hatred boiled over. Hawthorn bared her teeth. Harry didn't move. Hawthorn supposed that spending a good deal of his time in the last two months with a pack of accepted werewolves had taught him to ignore that. "No," she whispered. "They are dead when I find out."

"The number of people does seem to be limited," said Harry, and sighed. "But I don't think it can have been anyone in the Alliance, or they would know I'm set to drain them of their magic once I find them. Who would risk becoming a Squib?"

Hawthorn snarled again.

"Greyback bit you as revenge for not helping him raise Voldemort, though," Harry went on quietly. "Do you think that Walden Macnair was his only co-conspirator in that plan? Or could there have been others, people who would remember the bite, and have the ability to pass the knowledge that you were a werewolf along?"

That had been Hawthorn's first thought. She shook her head. "They never let me know all their names," she said. "I can tell you what former Death Eaters I suspect of likeliness to do something like that, but I don't think it's enough."

"We'll find them," said Harry, and his hand ground down on hers hard enough to crush bone. Hawthorn was a werewolf, though, which meant stronger than the normal run of witches. She squeezed back.

"And they are dead when we do," she said. "And the Ministry guards who treated me as they did are dead."

Harry's hesitation was infinitesimal, but she caught it; she smelled the surge of uncertainty in his scent. "What?" She held the growl back with an effort. To be a son of high principles was a fine thing, but surely Harry should understand how she felt, that she would want revenge for her mistreatment.

"They will be dealt with," said Harry quietly. "But if a murder returns you to Tullianum, is it the best course?"

Hawthorn couldn't face his eyes right now. She put her arm over her face and rolled away. It was her left arm, and there came the faintest tingling from her Dark Mark as she felt Harry's gaze linger on it. Yes, she thought at him. I am a vicious witch who took revenge for the killing of my daughter, and I was the Red Death, and I want revenge for this, not justice.

She suspected Harry would probably persuade her otherwise, in the end, but she wanted to enjoy these uninterrupted moments of rage.

"I wanted to kill something, when I saw you," Harry said softly.

That was new. Hawthorn peered out from beneath her arm. "Why didn't you?"

Harry smiled slightly. "Because we weren't there to kill." He deliberately let his hand glance across her Dark Mark. "Sleep well, and let me know if you need anything."

Hawthorn stared at his back as he left, and wondered if she should be comforted or confused. Then she decided to put it aside for now, and enjoy being in a room that had a tub off to one side spelled to fill with hot water.

For the first time in three days, she would be clean.


Harry paused outside Hawthorn's room to shake away the memories of her crouched, shaking and bewildered, in a corner, and the moment when he had nearly destroyed half the prison with his newly acquired magic. Reliving the memories brought the emotion back.

And his rage did no good, could do no good, unless he could use it to fuel other purposes.

He shoved it down again, transformed it into energy to complete the next few tasks on his list, rubbed his forehead as his scar ached, and then strode away to look for Draco and his mother. It was wonderful that Narcissa had come to their side, had personally chosen them over Lucius—Harry would never have thought she would do so—and he wanted to make sure she knew she was welcome.

And then there would be more things to do. There truly was no ending, no resting.

Harry shrugged his shoulders. He had told Draco once that life was those unending responsibilities one had. He couldn't complain about a lack of excitement or variety, at least.

Smothering a wry smile, he veered towards the sight of white-blond hair.