Thanks for the reviews on the last chapter!

This chapter is mostly a reaction one, and its title is, pretty obviously, an allusion to Macbeth.

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Like a Hell-Broth Boil and Bubble

Rufus heard the Ennervate distantly, as if it were happening in another world. He felt it when someone grasped his arm and pulled him to his feet, though, all the while shouting into his face. "Minister! Minister! Are you all right? Are you awake?"

He opened his eyes then, blinking, and the first thing he saw was the glittering corridor that stretched through the tunnel beside him and, doubtless, up and on through the Ministry. He grimaced. Then he touched a hand to his face, turned to face the Auror shouting at him, and snapped, "Yes, yes, I'm awake."

The man backed down, abashed. Rufus turned an eye on the corridor again, and cast a Reducto at it. It bounced, and he barely had time to get out of the way as it did. Rufus shook his head. Harry, I don't doubt that you used this to rescue your people, but why did you have to leave it here? I'm going to have to turn to the Unspeakables to rid us of it. That will put me further in their debt.

"The damage?" he demanded of the Auror next to him.

The man had pulled himself together enough by then to make a useful report, at least. "Forty-two prisoners missing from Tullianum, sir," he said, "including the last capture, Hawthorn Parkinson. You and your guards stunned. Several Aurors with minor wounds from tripping on a staircase." His face flushed as Rufus stared at him. It sounds ridiculous said aloud, Rufus thought, no matter how legitimate the cause may have been. "Madam Bones was tied and left in a Body-Bind, while her face was painted to look like a clown's. We don't know what the purpose of that was, other than to humiliate her. And of course there were—some of us blinded in the Atrium when the attack began, but we're recovered, now." He smoothed a hand down the front of his robes and refused to meet Rufus's eyes, again. "There's a lot of damage on the fourth level, in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. Centaurs were there."

"Centaurs." Rufus's voice was flat.

The Auror nodded miserably. Rufus wondered if they'd drawn lots for which one had to approach him and tell him this. "Yes. They seem to have appeared in the Ce—Centaur Office, sir. They galloped up and down the halls and kicked in doors and windows and broke furniture, but they didn't kill anyone."

Rufus closed his eyes and shook his head. "Go to the entrance of the Department of Mysteries," he ordered. "Fetch me the first Unspeakable you see. We'll need to talk to someone about removing this corridor."

The Auror sketched a little half-bow and darted away. Rufus rubbed a hand across his face and stared at the tunnel again. Harry had achieved exactly what he came here for, he didn't doubt, getting his prisoners out and doing it with a minimum of casualties. That certain other humiliating things had happened, like his own Stunning and Amelia's embarrassment, were incidental, distractions or the fortunes of rebellion. They could be hushed up, Rufus hoped.

What could not and would not be hushed up was the extent to which Harry's invasion was a thumbing of his nose to the Ministry. That had to be stamped on quickly, or it would encourage others to think they could get away with flouting the law.

And it meant Harry would have to be declared an outlaw and a fugitive, along with all the werewolves he harbored.

Rufus felt a great weariness rising up in him. Things would have been so much easier if Harry had come to him and they had talked this out like rational wizards. He understood that Harry didn't like the hunting season, but in another month or two, Rufus would have gained some control in the Wizengamot and persuaded them to scrap that edict. Harry had just destabilized things so utterly that Rufus wondered if he would be able to gain control any time in the next half a year.

But he would not get things done by standing around in the tunnel to Tullianum and wondering. He turned and began crisply ordering the former guards on his office door to inspect the damage to the prison, and make sure that Harry hadn't broken the wards on those cells that hadn't opened.

He would control what he could. He might be skating on open water instead of ice now, but he could not allow the wizarding world to fall into chaos. He had seen the fringes of such chaos during the First War with Voldemort. It must never be allowed to happen again.


That had been enlightening.

Rita Skeeter wondered if anyone would notice the difference in her buzzing as she zipped down the corridor and up towards the lift shafts that would take her to the surface. Did beetles sound different when they were smug? She'd never had anyone to tell her that, since there were so few people she'd ever shown her Animagus form to.

She had wondered if it was a good idea, staying close to the Minister instead of trying to follow Harry and his companions when they freed the werewolves. She could have crept onto someone's neck and followed them in their Apparition. On the other hand, the chance was too great that Harry would have anti-Animagus wards up around his secret stronghold, and Rita really didn't want to have to explain herself to an angry vates who could swallow her magic.

But she had stayed close to the Minister, and so heard of Amelia Bones's denigration. It would make the perfect touch to the article that she intended to write for the Prophet and bring out—perhaps tomorrow, perhaps more quickly than that if the Evening Prophet would accept it.

How should I phrase it? Sweet concern? Shocked fear? A touch of malicious amusement? The malicious amusement would fit most readers' image of me, but then they might believe I was pulling it out of thin air. And shocked fear might turn more people against Harry than he, or I, wish.

Sweet concern it is, then.

Rita let her wings do her humming as she flew out of the Ministry and towards the small flat where she kept most of her writing materials. The wizarding world was boiling, and Rita intended to add to the boil, while striving to keep the cauldron from overflowing. No one thrived when civil war exploded in the streets, but reporters thrived when there were so many interesting stories to keep alive, and so many different sides to them.

She felt more alive than she had in years. She thanked whatever luck or chance or fate had said she was going to live in interesting times.


Harry swallowed the last bite of bread and honey, and then began the communication spell. He'd waited until late enough in the evening that he hoped Connor would be alone. If he was in the midst of a dueling practice session or Animagus training with Peter, well, Harry was sorry, but he needed to talk to his brother now.

The warble of phoenix song lasted only a moment before Connor's impatient voice said, "Harry?"

Harry smiled, then remembered that his brother couldn't see him and put the smile into his words. "Connor. Hello."

"We heard about the attack on the Ministry," said Connor. "It's in the Prophet already. Are you all right? Did you get everyone out? Are they all right? Did you know that Malfoy ran away somewhere?"

"We got everyone out we went there for," said Harry. "And some we didn't. There were a few wounded, none fatally." His broken rib had been the worst of those casualties, though, which humbled him. There were times that he felt he didn't deserve such good fortune. "And I don't know what you mean about Draco, Connor. He's right here with me." He glanced across the room, to where Draco was sitting on a bench and earnestly talking with his mother. He hadn't left her side for long since Narcissa had arrived. Harry suspected that he was just stunned and dazed that his mother had actually chosen him, and had to make sure of her with every press of her hand and every stare into her eyes.

He finally noticed Connor's silence. "Connor?" he asked, wondering if he shouldn't speak himself. Perhaps someone else had come into the room, and Connor had to hide that he was receiving a message from his brother.

"Harry, I—" Connor cleared his throat awkwardly. "I was so sure that he wasn't going to support you. He didn't say anything about Mrs. Parkinson's arrest or the hunting season for three days. Do you know why?"

"His father threatened to disown him if he supported me," said Harry. "So he kept his mouth shut. Then he made his choice, and then he came to me. That's the whole of it, Connor." His own, private emotions, those that had made him wonder how he would endure this without Draco at his side, were his to keep.

"Oh." Connor's voice was subdued. "I never thought of that. Parvati said he was probably disloyal to you, that he must be, if he couldn't even tell me why he was keeping silent."

Harry quelled a surge of irritation. It was unworthy of a vates, but one reason he was thankful this rebellion had happened was to remove him from an environment where Connor and Draco would do nothing but argue. "Well, now you know what's true," he said, and made his voice cheerful. "How is Peter? The others?"

"Still in shock, I think," said Connor. "Everyone at dinner was discussing the article, but no one knew what to make of it. I heard a few people say that you were a villain, and a few people say you were a hero, but someone always shouted them down. Then the shouting person didn't know what to say when someone asked them for their opinion. I think you just managed to shock a big portion of the wizarding population, Harry." His voice had a dryness on the end of the statement that Harry thought he'd picked up from Peter.

"Well, they can take a few more blows, then," Harry muttered. "I'm going to be sending letters out tomorrow."

"To who?" Connor asked.

"The Minister, for starters." Harry stretched his right arm out and shook it as it cramped. Even the kitchen in Woodhouse wasn't that large, and sitting as close as he was to Camellia, he didn't have much room. "Telling him what terms I'm offering to come back into the fold and act like a good little boy."

Connor made a choking noise. Then he said, "But, Harry, you were the one who started this rebellion."

Harry blinked. "And? Your point?"

"Aren't you supposed to be the one listening to terms?" Connor asked. "Not offering them?"

Harry laughed aloud. Camellia gave him an anxious glance and a sniff. She seemed to be under the impression that he needed someone keeping track of his scent and his emotional state at all times. Harry didn't know why. He let his hand rest on her shoulder while he spoke to Connor. "I'm sure the Minister will think the same thing, Connor. Quite frankly, though, everything about this rebellion is unusual. I don't think the Ministry has ever faced something like this. On the other hand, it didn't do anything this stupid, either. So I'll tell the Minister what I want, which includes the scrapping of the hunting season. If he can do that, I don't really have a reason not to surrender and come back and stop this. I don't want to tear the wizarding world apart. I'm not committed to civil war for its own sake, or rebellion because I think myself personally wronged. I'm committed to revolution, and mental revolution above all. The Minister managing to do what I ask of him would be sufficient to show that he's moving in that direction."

"I'm worried about you," said Connor, sounding subdued again.

"Why?" Harry could feel contentment rushing through his body. He didn't know why anyone should be worried about him. Other than the tenderness over his broken rib, everything since he arrived back in Woodhouse had gone according to plan. He'd talked to people, defused fights, showed the werewolves where they should go, and been happy as he only was when he was busy. The images of everyone squabbling were fading away. Most of the people in Woodhouse seemed to realize that endless arguments would only drain their energy, and were, at worst, talking to each other in cold voices.

"Because I don't know what's going to happen next," said Connor. "Will you get out of this alive? Will you have the chance to tell the Minister your terms? Everything's so uncertain, Harry. At least with the Midsummer battle, we had a plan. Here, I don't think you do."

"I'm doing what I can, such as protecting the werewolves," said Harry. "From what you described at Hogwarts, no one else is any more sure than I am. The trick is not to get panicked over it. We're in freefall right now, Connor, but I have wings."

Connor was quiet again. Then he said, "All right. I love you, Harry. I hope things work out."

"They will," said Harry. "And if anyone gives you grief because you're my brother, Connor, go to Peter or McGonagall. Both of them will protect you from curses or attacks."

"I know that!"

Harry laughed again at the indignant tone in his brother's voice. "Making sure you did. Good night, Connor. Sleep well." He ended the communication spell, and then leaned forward around the edge of the bench, slowly scanning the room until he spotted the person he wanted. He was speaking with Rose and Trumpetflower, snarling at something they'd said.

"Evergreen?" Harry called. "Could I talk to you for a moment?"


Connor rolled over on his bed, tucked his arm around his face, and lay there breathing.

He had never imagined, not once in a thousand years, that Malfoy had gone to Harry when he disappeared. He thought his father had pulled him out of school. It would fit the silence that Malfoy had maintained for the days before his vanishing. He was trying to distance himself from Harry, appear as neutral as possible, and then he would retreat to safety. Political power games were one thing, Connor had thought, but rebellion was another, and Lucius Malfoy must have commanded his son not to support Harry. And of course Draco had obeyed.

Except that he hadn't. Except that disownment, if Lucius Malfoy had done everything he could—and Connor was sure he could—meant that Draco had lost his father's support, his family's support, his money, and the sanctuary of Malfoy Manor and any other properties.

His reasons for keeping silent even made sense.

And it sounded as though Harry didn't have a single doubt of Draco's loyalty, so this wasn't some ploy to get close to him just to increase the power of his family in the Alliance of Sun and Shadow. Draco might be clever, but Connor thought Harry was cleverer. If there had been some hole in Draco's story, some lie, then he would have seen it.

Connor pushed his face into his pillow, and let out a sigh that, even to him, sounded huffy. He hated having to apologize. It made his mouth taste nasty.

Now, though, he thought he would feel worse if he didn't apologize. He had sworn the oaths of the Alliance of Sun and Shadow, just like Draco had. One of them was to think as rationally as possible, not to let one's thoughts be overtaken by fear. And what had he done? Reacted against Draco out of fear, influenced by Parvati's fear of him as a Dark wizard. Parvati wasn't afraid of Harry, except if he lost his temper, because she knew that he used Light magic too, but Draco was a different matter. Parvati had been raised on stories of how Malfoys, and Dark wizards in general, tortured their enemies. And Lucius Malfoy had been a Death Eater.

I suppose Draco might have it in him to torture someone, too, Connor thought. But if he did it, it would be for Harry's sake. And I don't think he would. Harry would throw him out of the Alliance if he found out about it.

So he had to eat crow.

Connor grimaced. He'd speak to Draco tomorrow, then. That would give him some time to swallow his pride. And tonight, he would go to Parvati and tell her that they'd been wrong.

He wasn't looking forward to that conversation, but hiding from it wasn't something a Gryffindor would do, so he swung himself off his bed and went to do his duty.


Harry closed the door behind them. He and Evergreen stood in a narrow room, one of the closets of Woodhouse, and wards already sparkled on the walls, shutting off anyone from hearing what they'd talk about. Harry turned to face the young werewolf squarely, and met his eyes.

Evergreen glanced away at once. Harry knew that was a good sign. A direct stare would be a challenge, and that would mean that Evergreen hadn't accepted him as alpha.

"I freed you because Rose asked," he said. "And because I assumed that you bit Elder Gillyflower because Loki asked you to, not because you want to run around biting people. If you do, then I'll have no problem confining you and assigning guards to watch you. I wouldn't leave a werewolf there for the Unspeakables to experiment on. That doesn't mean I'm willing to let a monster run free."

"Have no fear," said Evergreen. His voice was humble for the first time. Harry was reminded of the way that Camellia would put on a false face of snarling, snapping bravado in front of other people, and then show her worry when they were alone. "I did that because it was the best way, the only way, to get people to pay attention to us, and because Loki asked me to. You have a different way, and you're my alpha now, human or not. I'll follow you." He turned back to Harry. "Can I—approach and sniff you? The others saw Loki transfer his power. I only heard about it. It would help if I could smell it for myself."

Harry nodded, and Evergreen strode forward and bent his head to sniff carefully about Harry's neck. Harry watched him without fear. Evergreen was his own age, and besides, he'd been born Muggle. If he did try to bite, Harry could pin him to the wall with magic. There was no way he could fight back.

Evergreen stepped away from Harry at last, and dropped to one knee. Harry felt his face heat up. "There's no need to do that," he began, reaching his hand out.

"There is, for me," said Evergreen. "My devotion to Loki was always extreme, because he helped me. He helped all of us. He was the only alpha who moved on helping werewolves, rather than just hiding a pack and hoping the hunters or the curious would pass them by and they could live their lives in peace. But now you've come and freed us from prison, and you've insisted that your human allies treat us well." He clasped Harry's hand and pressed his cheek to it, his eyes staring up at him with no trace of mockery. "I owe you devotion as deep as that I gave to Loki."

Harry's happiness had vanished, and he felt a tingling ache begin in his scar. "Please," he said quietly. "I—I am glad that you won't do something like bite Elder Gillyflower again, and that the transfer of alphas has gone well for you, but please, please don't kneel to me."

"Why not?"

Harry had no notion how to explain the mixture of panic and disgust churning in his belly without making it sound as though he hated Evergreen, so he simply shrugged. "It makes me feel uncomfortable," he said, and Evergreen accepted that.

"Then I will not." He stood back up and stared into Harry's eyes for a moment more. "You should know, vates, that, whether I kneel to you or not, I do plan to fight to the death for you."

He left the room. Harry put his hand over his eyes and breathed shallowly for a few moments.

He thought about casting Extabesco plene on himself while he went to write his letter to Scrimgeour, but he knew that would make his allies panic when they couldn't find him. He couldn't just order them out of bowing and kneeling and making declarations of devotion and loyalty, either, since that would be contrary to their free will, and he didn't even have a solid reason for it.

But he did wish, violently, for a moment, that all of what they wanted to do could be accomplished with simple actions and words, and without gestures.

Harry shook his head, smoothed his discomfort back into determination, and went to work on his letter to the Minister. He planned to show it to several people before he sent it. He would want Narcissa's perspective, to see how well it used diplomatic language, and he would want Hawthorn's, to make sure he was not leaving out an injustice. He might have been tempted to consult with Hawthorn alone, but he feared she was too vengeance-obsessed to see straight.

Once he had the letter written, he would send copies to the Maenad Press and the Daily Prophet and Mr. Lovegood at the Quibbler. He had no idea if Scrimgeour would actually announce the contents of the letter, and he wanted to make sure the rest of the wizarding world knew what it would take to end his rebellion.


"It's insolent," said Percy firmly. "After everything you did to support him, and he sends you a letter like this?"

Rufus shook his head. He didn't have the words to describe the letter Harry had sent him, and, apparently, all three major newspapers. He read it again, in the hope that doing so might give him the words to answer.

Dear Minister Scrimgeour:

I do not claim to speak for all werewolves, or all magical creatures. The only ones I can speak for specifically are those who have joined me in this rebellion and given me leave to reveal their presence. For those, and for the wizards and witches who have tired of seeing injustice and chosen to join the Alliance of Sun and Shadow, I raise my voice now.

We do not demand changes so sweeping and immediate that they would provoke only opposition. The Ministry has changed its position towards magical creatures several times over the last century, and some of those changes have even been positive. We are willing to work with you, and with the other witches and wizards who have more traditional stances on the matter, to solve the problems.

But the hunting season must end. We cannot tell what rights the Ministry will take away next. If they hate magical creatures who are human for ninety percent of the year, what is to stop them from making similar, and worse, mistakes with centaurs, or goblins, or house elves? Why is the Ministry's first course to panic and imprison them, and the second to declare legalized murder, instead of attempting to supply them with Wolfsbane and search for a cure? Prejudice and hatred can be the only conclusions.

Likewise, there must be serious attempts at negotiation with magical creatures who are free of the webs. The northern goblins are free. They have little interest in the wizarding world, but if wizards do want to trade with them for work in metal or stone, they will demand equal terms to those given human craftsmen. There is no reason this should not be granted. A good faith effort by the Ministry would involve establishing a new committee to begin the negotiations, rather than assigning the goblins to deal with the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, the very name of which is insulting.

The centaurs who dwelt in the Forbidden Forest are free. They changed their nature so as not to rape when their web ended. However, they would still find themselves unwelcome in many cases. A good faith effort by the Ministry would involve sending representatives to the Forbidden Forest to speak with the centaurs, listen to their story, and decide how they should be integrated into the British wizarding world, or how they should live separately if they decide to do so.

We do not intend to simply campaign for the freedom of those Dark creatures who need to be negotiated with more carefully—for example, giants, sirens, and dragons. Voldemort loosing sirens and giants on Britain without a care only shows that he is no vates, and that our goals are far from his of causing chaos, misery, and despair. As for dragons, the case of each species, and even some individuals of each species, must be handled carefully, and the statutes that keep Muggles ignorant of their existence worked around.

For any bound reptilian species, including wyverns, Harry vates offers to serve as a translator from Parseltongue. For others, centaurs and goblins, who speak both the human tongues and have education in other ways of communicating, stand ready. Barriers of language cannot be allowed to lie in the way, either as obstruction or excuse.

If and when the Ministry can promise equal protection for werewolves under the law, and a fair trial for any accused of crimes beyond bearing the lycanthropy web, the wrongly-imprisoned from Tullianum will be pleased to return to the wizarding world.

The Ministry's rights over our lives ended when they declared murder legal. We require not only a reversal of that declaration, but a commitment to keeping it forbidden. We offer rational arguments. We do not desire to be met with irrationality.

Signed,

Harry vates and the Alliance of Sun and Shadow.

Rufus shook his head, a grim smile on his lips. This time, though, he didn't feel the weariness he had felt yesterday; he felt impatience instead, and skepticism mixed with sarcasm.

Does Harry really think this is going to force anyone to move? They'll react badly, and they'll insist that he come in for trial, where before they were afraid of his magic. Fear turned to stubbornness and mixed with anger is a volatile liquid that must be handled carefully, and Harry isn't here to stir the pot.

On that note, Rufus had visitors to deal with, people he wouldn't have had to give the time of day to yesterday. But twenty-four hours could change a great deal, and not always for the better. Rufus wished Harry had remembered that lesson, or that someone had taught it to him.

"Mr. Weasley." Percy looked up, practically hovering on his toes. He hadn't stopped reading his copy of the Prophet and muttering darkly under his breath; Rufus was glad to give him something different to do. "Please show Mrs. Whitestag and Mr. Willoughby into the office."

Percy nodded and strode across the room, flinging his door open. Rufus smoothed his face into the expression of polite interest that he wore for most visitors like this—the occasional pureblood with a mad idea who managed to win access to him because of money or influence.

This time, though, only one of them was a pureblood. The other was a Muggle backed by purebloods who found him a useful tool. And thanks to Harry's little stunt yesterday, Rufus would have to take their words far more seriously than he would have otherwise.

Aurora Whitestag entered first. Rufus regarded her warily. She concerned him more, and not just because she knew more about the wizarding world than Willoughby, and there was no sign that she was a tool like he was. She believed in what she was saying, enough to stand by it, and there was no sign that she was a fanatic. At worst, she would become another level-headed revolutionary like Harry. Rufus didn't want any more of them. One was enough for his people to deal with. The only thing he could be thankful for was that Whitestag was not a Lady.

Philip Willoughby followed her. He looked less steady than the first time Rufus had met him, but months of being a grieving father and not accomplishing what he set out to do would take their toll on anyone. His hazel eyes had deep marks of exhaustion under them, and he sat in his chair like a sack of potatoes. It didn't surprise Rufus when Whitestag spoke for both of them.

"Minister, you know that we've joined forces to propose a monitoring board for young Harry." She waited until he nodded, then leaned forward. "We have enough support to begin it now, we think. Several members of the Wizengamot have agreed to be part of the board, including Griselda Marchbanks."

Rufus blinked several times. That was a surprise. Marchbanks was a staunch ally of Harry's, as far as he knew. Perhaps she did think Harry needed restraint and supervision, or perhaps she was agreeing so that Harry could have one friend on the monitoring board.

"It's a little hard to see how it would be set up now, ma'am," he told her. "Given that Harry is in hiding and in rebellion against the Ministry."

Whitestag smiled. She had dark eyes and dark hair, and pale skin, and an air of certainty. She was the kind of woman Rufus might have been drawn to himself, twenty or so years ago. "Oh, we're talking about when he comes back," she said. "And he will come back, Minister. He knows he's too important to our world to stay in hiding forever. He's the Boy-Who-Lived. We need him. And say what you will about Harry, I think he has a very strong sense of duty."

Rufus reevaluated her again. Whitestag had clearly picked up more about Harry than had come through in her rare Prophet interviews. That only made her more dangerous, of course. Rufus did not want Harry caged. Part of that was personal fondness, but more of it was certainty that that would involve more mucking around in his Ministry when Harry saw the cages and chains and broke free of them.

"He does," Rufus said slowly. "But what makes you think he would agree to this monitoring board? He also has a very strong sense of independence, and it's only got stronger. I don't think a boy who would plan a battle at Hogwarts all by himself with the help of a few allies will take kindly to someone looking over his shoulder."

"He will if we make it part of the bargain for his coming back into the wizarding world in good standing," said Whitestag. Willoughby muttered something about the battle and how his daughter might have lived if someone had been there to rein Harry in. Whitestag ignored him. "That sense of duty, Minister. His followers won't stand for something as dramatic as a trial, or Harry being arrested and sent to Tullianum, and I don't think he will, either. But a monitoring board? A small sacrifice that will also insure he has adult counselors, ones who have good reason to fear his running wild?" She tilted her head and smiled. "I think he will."

"He does have a guardian," Rufus told her. "Professor Severus Snape. And I believe that Headmistress McGonagall take something of an affectionate interest in the boy as well."

"We saw that when we came to talk to her," said Willoughby darkly.

Whitestag put a calming hand on his arm and glanced at Rufus again. "But we've been listening to reports from Hogwarts, sir, in the form of children whose brothers and sisters died in the attack," she said. "They say that Professor Snape is barely able to teach his own classes now, and may soon retire or go into seclusion altogether. Emotional problems. And Headmistress McGonagall, admirable as she is, has a whole school to look after. If she had been willing to abandon her responsibilities, she would have gone into exile after the boy. We certainly cannot send Harry back to his parents, not when he renounced them, and not with the way they have treated him. Nor do those friends and allies he has surrounded himself with seem adequate to give him guidance. I believe custody of Harry should be taken away from Severus Snape and shared between the monitoring board, Headmistress McGonagall, and those of his friends and allies who are most trustworthy. We would have to interview them, of course."

Rufus hid his alarm. He had heard nothing of Snape's degradation. "It's an interesting idea, Mrs. Whitestag," he said, "but I'm afraid I'd have to think more about it before giving you a definite answer."

Her smile brightened her face. "Of course, sir." She stood, her head half-bowed. "If anyone has been patient in the face of enormous provocation from Harry, you have been. We lost our children, but I have come to see our losses more and more in the pattern of larger losses for the wizarding world if Harry does not receive the training he needs. He killed our children because he is still half a child himself, being asked to bear burdens we should not have piled onto a teenager's shoulders. I am doing this for his sake as much as for that of my dead daughter and son."

Rufus looked into her eyes. He believed her.

And it terrified him.

"I—I will speak with others, Mrs. Whitestag," he said. "In particular, I would like to confirm some of the information you gave me. And then I will talk to you again about what we should do."

She bowed to him, a full formal gesture of the kind that even most purebloods didn't bother with anymore, and then took Willoughby's arm and guided him gently out the door. Rufus wondered if she had brought him to make her case look stronger, or to offer him moral support. It could have been both.

Rufus did not want to see that monitoring board established, even now. It could interfere with Harry's work as vates, and he valued that as an ideal, though he didn't think Harry would go about it in a practical way.

He wondered, though, if Whitestag was right and it would be the only acceptable way to settle the rebellion in the eyes of the wizarding world.

He shook his head, and turned to making sure he got some information on Professor Snape. He doubted the Unspeakables would stop him, any more than they had stopped Whitestag and Willoughby from visiting. They would probably be pleased with the thought of restricting Harry, and they knew he was in their debt for their removal of Harry's tunnel.


Harry concentrated. His magic surged through him in pulsing waves, still touched by tenderness from his broken rib. He pictured them concentrating on the end of his left arm, and then let out a deep breath and the words of the countercurse at the same time.

"Supervenio ad integritas!" It had the force of a shout, though he kept his voice low.

His left wrist shivered, and when Harry opened his eyes, it was to see another curse dissolving from it, melting off in gray strips the color of rain. A slight numbness he'd never noticed existed was suddenly gone. Harry blinked, and felt phantom pain in his missing fingers. He carefully pulled his magic back from his left hand—the book he'd retrieved the countercurse from said it should be left alone, to recover from the effects of the Dark power—and sat down hard on his bed.

He closed his eyes and allowed himself to bathe in the exaltation for a moment. The third curse broken. Now I need to study before breaking the fourth one. If he could believe the mirrors at the Sanctuary, the next curse was the last preventing him from having a hand, but also the hardest to break. It would take time for him to recognize the pattern in Argutus's scales from any book; the ones he'd looked through so far all had nothing.

He used those moments of recovery time to search his mind for traces of his Animagus form. The only thing he saw, silhouette or not, Peter's lessons or not, was a lynx. Perhaps that meant his mind was still too full of Voldemort's visions, but Harry thought it was more likely to mean that his Animagus form was a lynx, especially because the one he envisioned had four paws instead of three.

He stood in the next moment, and strode outside. He should seek out and soothe the karkadann, who still only allowed him—and a few of the more violent werewolves—to get close to her. She patrolled the valley faithfully, and grazed, and attacked no one, but she had been rushing around Woodhouse yesterday, horn lowered and stabbing at the air. She needed someone to calm her.

He stepped out into sunlight. They had had three days of rain since they rescued the werewolves, but today had decided to be fair, with light sparking from wet needles in the forest and puddles on the ground and flashing spells where Adalrico drilled those werewolves who had wands in dueling. Harry made his way carefully between puddles towards the forest, where the karkadann stood with one foot scraping the ground, staring moodily up at the rock walls that surrounded Woodhouse.

She turned long before he reached her, and uttered a deafening bugle. Harry felt his cheeks flush as people turned to look at him, but at least most of them turned back to their tasks right away. Three days had been enough to dull all but the most fervent gratitude, and get people used to the myriad tasks of being rebels in Wales. Even the karkadann was no longer as much a point of interest as she had been.

She trotted up to him now, though, head lowered and horn sweeping the air in front of her, madly glad to see him. Her first breath nearly knocked him over, and Harry had to duck to avoid the enormous nose. He felt battle-readiness surge up in him, the result of her voice and breath.

He looked at the karkadann thoughtfully. She backed, her left hind foot stamping. Since she had multiple toes instead of a single hoof, Harry thought, it shouldn't have made that much noise, but it did. The sound reminded him of war-drums.

Harry's gaze went to the sides of the valley. He hadn't seen any Muggles in the area, and a quick touch to the sense of Woodhouse that hovered in the back of his mind confirmed there probably weren't any. Woodhouse's place magic defended it and kept it hidden from those who weren't magical themselves. It would have been settled and used long ago, otherwise.

Harry made up his mind. The karkadann badly needed to run. Without people, Woodhouse was just barely big enough for her. With them, she couldn't gallop without upsetting someone's pet project.

He gestured to the rocky walls, and the great unicorn understood him without a word spoken. She slid to one knee, though, and Harry hesitated for a long moment before he reached out, gripped that shaggy off-white fur, and hauled himself onto her back.

This close, the smell was utterly overwhelming. Harry could smell blood and death and dust and sand. They didn't disgust him. He found himself shouting instead, meaningless noise, just to make himself heard, and leaning down along the line of the karkadann's spine.

She took one step forward, then two, then kicked out and began to really run. Harry saw the valley's cliffs rushing closer and closer, and then she jumped. The hills became blurs of gray and brown and green. She landed with a jolt that reminded Harry of the blow he'd taken from Falco in their battle—and jostled his still-healing rib—and then turned to the east, surging towards the place where the hills flattened around the forest entrance to Woodhouse.

Harry couldn't remember the last time he'd been this uncaring of what might happen, except on his Firebolt. The karkadann's feet dug deep into the grass and soil, flinging up divots of them that sometimes came high enough to splatter against his robes. In the desert, Harry thought, it would be puffs of hot sand. Her muscles rolled and surged, and Harry reminded himself that karkadanns dueled with rhinos and elephants. The stink surrounded him and soaked into his skin, but it was wild, and, as such, no more repugnant than the musk that hung around werewolves. He bounced and shifted in place, but that was what the firm grip with his hand was for.

And he could feel the joy gathering in her, especially when she came down off the hills and saw the flat expanse of autumn grass in front of them.

She hesitated, prancing.

"Go," Harry whispered.

As if she actually obeyed his words instead of her own free will, she leaped forward, and Harry heard dirt wash around them and suspected her hind feet had carved a sinkhole this time. He crouched down further, because the wind of their passage was strong enough to become annoying, and stared ahead. The world split into two around the gleaming neck, the proud lifted head, the black corkscrew horn. Harry heard himself laughing, and didn't remember when he'd started doing it.

The karkadann made an odd sound as she galloped, half like a horse's snort and half like a bellow so wild that it made Harry's ears sting and smart. She wheeled around at the end of one charge, nearly sitting down on her hindquarters, and then plunged madly at right angles to her stop. Harry thought he'd slip off for a moment, but instincts honed in Quidditch saved him. He gripped with arms and legs and hand, and the next thing he knew, they were shooting north, the karkadann still safely underneath him.

She lowered her head and hunched her shoulders, and suddenly they were bounding, all her feet leaving the ground at once and coming down together again in one place. Harry's teeth rattled in his head, and he had to fight not to bite his tongue. The karkadann didn't look back at him, or neigh in concern, but kept on doing it. After all, Harry thought, she probably realized he could get off if he didn't like it.

He stayed on.

The karkadann slewed around in a half-turn, and then dug her front legs in and bucked, shooting her hind legs behind her, for no reason other than the fun and the wild pleasure of it. Harry slid to her neck and clung there, then slid backward as she reared on her hind legs and screamed her desire for death and conquering and wind and running to the sky.

Harry, with his heart in this throat and his glasses half-sliding off his face, recalled a snatch of something an ancient Muggle author had once written about karkadanns. "He is never caught alive; killed he may be, but taken he cannot be." The web put on them had proven that author wrong, perhaps, Harry had thought, the first time he read about them.

Now he knew it hadn't. The web might prevent karkadanns from coming in sight of Muggles or going where they wanted to, but the beast underneath Harry at that moment was tameless. She would only come to someone's hand because she wanted to. She screamed her freedom to the whole world and didn't care who knew it.

When she dropped from her rear, with a satisfied snort that shook the earth, she turned her head to the side and waited. Harry leaned out, reaching sideways far enough to touch her ear.

She smelled of ferocity and freedom. Harry met the black eyes and wondered how many times it had been the last sight some other person or creature ever saw.

"You're magnificent," he whispered. "You are."

The karkadann gave another snort, agreeing with him.

Harry carried on stroking her ear for a time, until she turned and trotted back towards Woodhouse. She jumped casually from the side of the hill into the valley, shaking several people from their feet and making some of the water in the puddles leap a dozen feet in the air. Harry shrugged when his people glared at him, but couldn't find it in his heart to be really sorry. He was alive again, his blood galloping around in his veins as if it had four feet and a horn as well.

He slipped off the karkadann's back. She went to graze, snapping her lion-like tail in a whipping half-caress around his shoulders on the way. Harry shook his head, grinning, and wondered what in the world he had done to deserve company like this.

An owl dipped down towards him, and he was temporarily distracted. He opened it, and blinked when he read the contents.

October 3rd, 1996

Dear Harry:

This letter is to inform you that Auror Edmund Wilmot is still working in the Ministry. He originally prepared to flee from his post when he believed that the Department of Magical Law Enforcement would use a spell to locate all werewolves, but they have not so far released the spell, perhaps for lack of people to capture the revealed lycanthropes. Therefore, he will remain as an Auror and pass information along. He knows that you could use a spy there. The main plot he has overheard talk of so far is of a monitoring board, controlled by the parents of the Dozen Who Died, to watch over you. Also, the Minister had to resort to calling on the Unspeakables to get rid of your corridor.

He believes he has a foolproof method to slip his owls out of the Ministry. He will give more information as it becomes available.

Peregrine.

Harry shook his head again, dazed. Peregrine was one of the alphas of the London packs, one who had agreed to bring her people to shelter under Harry and was making arrangements to do so, and, presumably, the alpha Wilmot would have gone to.

For Wilmot to remain in place, in the face of intense danger, to do this for the sake of the rebellion…

Harry felt another surge of awe and wonder and gratitude. Why are such people helping me? What have I done to deserve this?

With the feeling that life was, at the moment, wonderful, he went to take a shower to remove the sweat, and then write another letter to the Minister. Four days without a response was too long.