Thanks for the reviews on the last chapter!
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Sunrise In the West
Falco sat down against the ruined wall and closed his eyes. A wind skittered through his hair, and he shivered. It had been a long time since he'd been so vulnerable to such mortal sensations.
But what he had learned in the ruins of the house at Godric's Hollow left him feeling more vulnerable than he had for a century.
It is begun, and will not be ended, until—when? Until one or both of them are dead? But he did not think he could see even that far ahead. His investigation of the past in that house had given him only pictures of possible futures, and since he could never have predicted the initial occurrence that had begun this, he did not think he could predict the one that was going to end it.
He only knew that it stretched across the wizarding world, a tangled skein of prophecy and hatred and death and magic, and it was confusing all his certainty. He wondered if even a necromancer could have seen the truth of Harry's death, if she looked at him right now.
One thing it had confirmed for him, though. Harry needed training. Harry needed guidance. He needed to know more about the realities behind Light and Dark magic, the means of fooling them and the means of wielding them. He did not need to be distracted by this minor rebellion of ideas that would flourish and die within a few years at most. His very life was hostage to something larger than he was, and until he solved that problem, his attention belonged there, not anywhere else.
Falco's immediate course was clear, and so it had been worth coming back to Godric's Hollow after all. He must crush this rebellion. But he could not do so by direct action. He would be unable to teach Harry anything if the boy thought of him as an enemy, and responsible for the failure of his childish ideals. So he would do it from behind the scenes, deft little touches the boy could assign to any of a dozen people.
It would begin with a dream. The ones he had conjured for Harry might be failing against the boy's mental defenses, but most wizards had nothing like them. And there were many with a paranoid fear and hatred of werewolves at the moment, thanks to the Ministry's poisoned rhetoric.
A dream could fan that fear and hatred to burning flames.
Falco stepped into the paths of Light and Dark.
Indigena coughed, then blew air across the page she was studying. Part of the problem with reading a book as old as Odi et Amo was the musty smell; it had never quite disappeared even after Indigena performed three separate cleaning charms. The rose that curled about her wrist could shed a sweet scent, but it made her dizzy and dreaming if she sniffed it for too long.
She paused at the heading of a chapter named 'Brands and Scars' and tilted her head back. The thorns on her back slid out of their casings and twisted upright like the ears of some great beast. Indigena had already discovered they were sensitive to powerful magic, and, together with her own more normal senses, they helped her clarify what she was feeling.
A powerful wizard on the move. Falco Parkinson. Indigena grimaced. She hated that, for right now, there was so little she could do against him. Her wounded Lord needed her more, and the best plan to help him regain some dignity and pride involved long, slow research and Indigena sitting by his side every day so that she could whisper the words into his ear.
Then it would require months of working—though, if she had understood her Lord aright, he had begun that part already, with the only candidate he could find.
Indigena sighed again and consoled herself that this reading and research and whispering would eventually produce action. Not before next year, certainly, and not for months even then, but it would happen.
"May you destroy him, Harry," she murmured, and went back to reading.
"And what were the words that she spoke to you?"
Snape gritted his teeth. He did not want to say this. There were times he regretted ever giving in to Joseph. Awash in a sea of pain, and knowing there was more ahead if he swam deeper, his best instinct was to turn around and wade back to shore. Why should he care about healing? He had carried these wounds all his life long, and he could brew Dreamless Sleep to avoid the visions of his past. He could shut down that part of his mind and survive by going cold. He had done it before.
And during that time, he had made stupid mistakes that got him arrested by the Ministry, and very nearly destroyed Harry's bond with him forever.
Remember why you are doing this, he told himself again, and raised his eyes to Joseph's face. "That there were three truths in life," he said. His tone was flat. "One was sorrow. The second was ugliness. The third was death."
"And you believed her?" There was no contempt in Joseph's voice, as Snape knew there would have been if he told this story of his mother's truths to almost anyone else. There was only intense compassion, and he emphasized the word for the sake of making sure that Snape had really believed Eileen Prince.
"Yes." If he half-closed his eyes, Snape could see the boy he had been, so anxious to grow up and learn these adult truths that his mother had promised not even all the men and women in the world knew. He had already known that he did not fit with other children. Too ugly, too tall, too smart—and, as the years passed and the "accidents" around the house happened with increasing frequency, too magical. By then, his mother had taught him about blood status, too. He was nine, and she had taken him out beyond the edge of town to watch a cat die.
"Why?"
"I saw them happen," said Snape. The cat had been a young gray tom. Someone, someone Muggle, had staked its left hind leg to the ground and wrapped barbed wire around it, so that the cat tore more and more flesh loose the more he struggled. "I saw sorrow." Someone had put a leg trap on the right front leg, and the cat had pulled nearly hard enough to sever the limb, but not enough to escape. "I saw ugliness." The cat's eyes were crazed and rolling, and the sounds that emerged from his mouth were sick, disgusting squalls of the kind to make Severus hate weakness. "I saw death." His mother had murmured the spell that would stop the cat's heart, but after they had watched for long enough that he understood she was not doing it out of compassion. She was doing it because some things did not deserve to live, and because the cat had taught him all it could. The cat's head had dropped, its body had sagged and puffed out, and then it was dead. Severus remembered watching it and not thinking of death as a release from pain. It was the end of everything, and the body it left behind the reminder of a life full of hurt.
"Snape?"
Snape blinked and shut his eyes, coming back from the half-life he had lived at that age, when everything was a daze, a haze, of grayness, and the only light he had was sharp and cutting, primed to reveal the most unfortunate truths of the world. "Yes?"
"Do you still believe that now?"
Snape sneered. "Of course not. I learned there were at least two realities my mother had forgotten to mention. One of them was hatred; she planned for me to live my life in unflinching truth, and not hate so things so much I would try to change them. And another was revenge. She thought I would never be in a position to take it."
"And now?" Joseph repeated insistently. "Since you asked for help with the healing? Since Harry became your son?"
Snape wondered how to answer, what to say. If he said that he did not believe those things any longer, he would tell Joseph what he wanted to hear, but he would sound weak. If he said that he believed them, Joseph would press further and further, and try to find out why.
Snape did not want to give him the truth—that he didn't know. Certainty, of any kind, was better than uncertainty.
"Severus?"
"Do not call me that," Snape snarled. "I did not give you permission to call me that."
"So you didn't." Joseph refused to look apologetic. "But it was the only name that got your attention. I called you a few times before, and you didn't answer." He paused. "Do you still believe that now?"
Snape took a deep breath, and reminded himself that this was Slytherin courage: the courage to look at the world as it really was, instead of believing in a false ideal and dying stupidly for it, as the Gryffindors would.
"I don't know," he whispered.
Joseph smiled, a smile that was like all of his expressions, water wearing away at a stone. "Good," he said. "That's the first step."
"Admitting weakness?" Snape fixed him with a flat stare, and imagined that Joseph was one of the fifth-year Gryffindors who lived to torment him this term; they appeared to have forgotten all basic Potions competency over the summer. He did not need, quite, to use the scowl that he would have used on Neville Longbottom, not for this. "This will make me stronger?"
"When you're standing on quicksand, it's best to know it, not pretend it isn't there," said Joseph.
Snape restrained the impulse to say that it was much better never to step on quicksand in the first place. He inclined his head.
"Now." Joseph sat up. "I'd like you to tell me what it was you saw which convinced you that these things she told you were truths of the world, instead of truths only in her own shredded imagination."
Snape began to recall every detail of the gray tom. Telling Joseph about grotesqueries was the one part of his healing he actually enjoyed. If he caused the Seer to turn green, or go a bit gray about the lips, then it was worth any amount of pouring memories into his ear.
Harry grimaced as he came out of a dream that felt oddly like a nightmare. He opened his eyes, and then stopped when he recognized what sat on his chest, one talon hooked into his pyjama top, staring at him with its beak an inch from his face.
The bird laughed at him. This time, it said nothing, only raked its talons viciously down the center of his chest. Harry ground his teeth together and succeeded in not screaming by sheer force of will; Draco was curled up in his arms, face resting only a few inches from the new, freezing wounds, and Harry didn't want to wake him.
The bird gave another chuckle, and then rose into the air, three-clawed wings working with a leathery sound that made the hair on the back of Harry's neck stand up. Then it vanished. A moment later, Draco stirred, and then sat up so violently that Harry's arm hurt as it fell off his back.
"What is that?" he asked, staring at the wounds.
"The bird again," said Harry softly, and looked down. The slashes were parallel, as they always were, and covered with frost, as they always were, dark red gobs of frozen blood glinting here and there like rubies. This time, at least, the scratches were not as deep or long as they had been in the Sanctuary. He shook his head and smiled at Draco, who didn't look reassured. "It didn't say anything to me this time, only marked me and left."
"Marked you," Draco whispered.
Harry studied him, but said nothing. Sometimes, Draco could have the most remarkable ideas, but only if no one interrupted him. Harry had seen him use it to solve Arithmancy equations before, sitting still with his eyes half-shut and then delving into the midst of an answer it would have taken them hours to reach any ordinary way.
But Draco blinked, then sighed and shook his head. "I still don't know what it means," he admitted, "any more than we did back at the Sanctuary." His hand wandered into Harry's hair, tugging at the strands now and then as if he couldn't help himself. "I know that I don't like it, and want it to stop happening."
"Me, too," Harry muttered.
Draco tugged at his hair again, not hard enough to hurt but enough to cause small beads of feeling to race down Harry's scalp, and then pulled his head back to kiss him. Harry opened his mouth. He didn't know if it was the shock of seeing the bird again, or the need to reassure himself that Draco was there and unwounded, at least, even if he wasn't, that made him shift, wrapping his arms around Draco. He only knew that suddenly he was more eager for a snog than he'd been in weeks, and his rib was healed enough for him to go through with this.
Draco rumbled, a sound that Harry might have described as a moan if his mouth was free when he made it, and then rolled slightly to his back, bringing Harry up to elbow and arm. Harry deepened the kiss, but refused to hurry it, even when Draco's rumbles seemed to urge him to do so. He slid his own hand into Draco's hair, and shifted so that most of his body covered Draco's own ribs. He didn't feel much, and wondered if he was supposed to, or if perhaps the feelings in that moment consisted of Draco's skin under his hand, warmer than he had expected from his pyjamas and the blankets, and the taste of his mouth, which was fuzzy but not that bad. Is one sign of romance when you don't think your partner has morning breath? Or perhaps I have no sense of smell right now.
Someone pounded on the bedroom door.
Harry just barely kept himself from jumping so that he bit into Draco's lip or smacked into his forehead or did something else embarrassing and hurtful. Gently, he pulled away and licked the small cut in his tongue Draco couldn't help making. Draco looked mortified. Harry smiled and slid out of bed. The bird's wounds had gone numb, and otherwise he wore pyjama bottoms and top. There was no reason he wasn't fit to meet whatever message someone had brought now.
Except that, when he opened the door and saw Camellia's face, he had to lean a bit on the wall. Camellia must have been able to smell what they were doing, but she would make no mention of it.
"What is it?" he asked, and heard his voice flatten.
Camellia answered the same way. "Peregrine was leading her pack from their safe house to a place where they could Apparate out of sight of Muggles. Several young wizards attacked them." She let out a few quick breaths. "Twelve of them are dead. Peregrine's here, but wounded, and the two who defended her and arrived with her—they're afraid they won't survive."
"I'm coming," said Harry softly, and turned to look back at Draco, who was peering over the blankets. "Trouble," he said, and then he followed Camellia, leaving it up to Draco if he wanted to join in or not.
Remus wondered if anyone outside the packs would be able to understand all the nuances of what was happening here.
In the center of the room they had chosen—a study, Woodhouse's largest, to accommodate as many people as possible—sat Peregrine, the small black leader of the pack that had run north of Loki's, and lived the closest to Muggles. She sat with her head lolling to the left, her back against a chair, her breathing shallow. A cut ran down her side, from collarbone to groin, shallow but long, and shedding drop after drop of blood. It shredded her shirt, and that she could not curl up enough to shield her throat and belly from attack said much about how vulnerable she was. Of course, the cut had been made with silver. Remus could smell the poison settling into her.
On either side of Peregrine curled the pack's other two survivors, a woman on the left, a man on the right. Both were almost naked. Both were covered with bruises, and stank of internal bleeding and organs shutting down. Both obviously did not care. They had kept up a constant chorus of snarls since appearing. Remus, if he squinted, could see the faint white cords that ran from their necks to Peregrine's throat; he knew that, if any others of their pack had still been alive, those cords would have been as bright as stars to them. The two survivors were draining themselves of strength to give their alpha a chance to combat the silver's poison and survive. It was killing them. They did not care. Their snarls and their eyes and their bared teeth said that no one would touch Peregrine as long as they lived.
Hawthorn Parkinson crouched in front of them, about five feet away, coming no closer. She had one hand extended, though, and was talking constantly in a low, soft voice lost under the snarling. She seemed to be of the impression that Peregrine's packmates had to let her approach sooner or later. She did not know accepted werewolves, Remus thought. More was the pity.
Loki's pack—no, he must try to think of them as Harry's pack, he must—sprawled behind Hawthorn, in a loose half-circle. They knew that there was nothing they could do, other than pay these protectors the tribute of a good death-vigil. They had got their alpha out alive, in the middle of an attack that had to have been fierce; none of them had details yet, because the survivors had not spoken, and only knew the number of dead because they knew how many had been in Peregrine's pack. They would watch, and mourn their passing.
Then the door opened, and Harry stepped in.
Loki's pack lowered their heads at once, submitting in the presence of their alpha, watching him. Remus felt the impulse to do the same. He resisted it, half-rising to his feet instead. There were too many nuances here that Harry did not understand. Hawthorn at least had the instincts that came from carrying a wolf-web of her own, even though she did not know all the packs' customs, and could not. Harry had no sense of belonging to their world. What Loki had done in transferring the bond to him was not enough, especially when he refused the packmind that would have let him understand them all at the deepest level.
Harry turned towards the movement. So did Camellia. Remus wasn't sure if it was the frozen command in her eyes or the perfect lack of interest in Harry's that made him sit down again, and watch.
Harry stepped forward until he was level with Hawthorn. The guards' attention switched to him. Of course it would, Remus thought. Wizards had attacked them. They would smell the magic on him, without the counterbalancing smells of wild and wolf, and they would hate him.
Remus clenched his fists. Why did no one tell Harry these things?
Harry merely stood where he was, staring back at the two snarlers. Then he tilted his head back and began to sing.
The voice that emerged from his throat was no wolf's, but almost as pure—high and sweet and thrilling, a phoenix's. It was not louder than the snarls. It did not have to be. It swirled around them in complex, starry patterns. Remus could see flames darting around Harry's skin in faint outlines, as faint as the cords of Peregrine's pack, and it made him tremble and want to bow his head.
He continued watching, though, because he could not see what the song was meant to do, and if Harry moved forward now, he would get bitten.
The guardians trembled, and raised their voices. Harry went on singing. He didn't appear to take any notice of them; instead, he lost himself in his own voice. Remus heard a dirge there, the mourning song of sunset, as a great flame passed from the world and ceased to renew itself.
He shook his head sharply. This was a phoenix song. They were not phoenixes, whatever animals some packs might like to name themselves after. He did not think this would work.
Then he saw it was. The male werewolf trembled and laid his head on the floor, and ceased his weak snarl. The female kept on going, but she didn't lunge and snap when Harry stepped closer. Her eyelids fluttered, and her head dropped to the floor as well. A moment later, she was asleep.
The white cords binding them to Peregrine winked out of existence.
Harry was at Peregrine's side in the next moment, and Remus finally realized he carried a bottle of the white paste that they had smeared on Hawthorn's infected cut when they removed her from Tullianum. He set it to hover in the air beside him while he uncorked it and pulled out more and more, smoothing it over Peregrine's cut. Remus heard the pained undertone in her breathing ease.
Harry kept singing the while, though now it was a hum. It redefined the tension in the room, and made them seem more like comrades uniting against a common enemy. Remus saw other members of the pack relax from the corner of his eyes, felt the currents racing through the packmind soothe into a trouble-free sorrow.
A few moments later, and Peregrine was asleep to match her packmates. Harry stepped away from her and towards the sleeping werewolves.
He did—something. Remus wasn't sure what to call it. It seemed as if Harry unfolded a layer of himself, tucked it around his hand like cloth, and then held it out to the two survivors. One piece of the cloth wrapped the female werewolf, one the male. They both paused in their breathing, and Remus wondered if Harry had sent them on to the peace of death. They could at least die with a sense of accomplishment.
Then they breathed again more strongly, and the stink of their pain and dying eased, blowing slowly away like the remains of hunger when satisfied.
Remus blinked several times. He had known that Harry could absorb magic from artifacts and other wizards. He had not known, or he had forgotten if he had, that Harry could also give some of his own magic to others, and so restore those like these werewolves, who had given of their power to protect their alpha, to health.
Harry's face was pale when Remus looked at him, and his voice whispery when he finally ceased the song. "We need to have a council to discuss what happens next," he said. "Everyone who wishes to be a part of it, please meet me in the kitchen in five minutes." He glanced at Camellia. "Find a bed for them, first."
And he swept out of the room, and left Remus to consider that his actions had been efficient, and kind in some ways—and perhaps he couldn't have done that if he were caught up in the packmind, because he would have understood the sacrifice Peregrine's wolves were making and would have let it go forward.
The world shifted a little more around, and inside, Remus as he thought about that.
Harry could almost smell the emotions racing around the room as his people crowded into the kitchen, though he wasn't a werewolf. His song had eased some of their tension and anxiety, but only just. He could see it in their tightened jaws, feel it in the way their fingers tapped the table, hear it in the mutters that jumped from mouth to ear too quickly to become audible. He tilted his head to the side and called their attention with a simple flare of his magic.
"We don't know who attacked them yet, do we?" he asked. He wasn't sure how much information Camellia had got from Peregrine before the silver poisoning took her under. "Wizards" she had said, but perhaps there were names.
"No," said Camellia. "It almost seems to have been a random attack—but they hit them as they left their safe house, so it couldn't have been. Someone betrayed them, but I can't imagine who." She shook her head, a fast, helpless movement that slowed as she looked at him. Harry did his best to stand straight and project an air of confident pack alpha, because that was what was needed right now. "No member of the pack would have. And why would someone in the other packs? They have to know that the Ministry won't grant then immunity from the hunting season, not with the way they turn on their heels and break their promises."
Harry nodded. "And their location?"
"The street in front of their safe house," said Camellia.
Harry nodded again. "Did they Apparate in?"
"Peregrine couldn't tell me that, Wild."
That meant that Harry couldn't just go to the street and start draining magic, the way he might have tried if the wizards were locals. It would have been a swift and fitting punishment for the attackers. This way, though, Harry had no idea if wizards even lived in the area, or if he would be draining the right ones if they did. It was too easy to Apparate in and then Apparate away again, out of reach. And he wasn't about to wake Peregrine up right now to ask.
"Very well," he said. "We'll watch the newspapers just in case they report the werewolf kills, though I don't think they will." His mind felt like a narrow tunnel made of light, and he turned to Moody, who stood almost across from him on the other side of the table, hands braced as if he would bring them down in a massive slap at any moment. "Alastor." Moody fixed both eyes on him. "I think now is the proper time to use that information you and your people took from Madam Bones's office."
Moody grinned, and his magical eye rolled, making him look half-crazed. "With pleasure, boy." He and his contacts had been the ones to break into Amelia Bones's office and paint her face like a clown's. The sheer humiliation of it—and a Body-Bind to prevent her from looking in the wrong direction at the wrong time—had meant that the Ministry people didn't suspect the real purpose of their raid. Moody had located certain records that the Department of Magical Law Enforcement wouldn't want spread about. Some had gone to his contacts, for blackmail material and as payment for their help. Moody had kept the rest. As he limped out of the room, Harry thought he was looking forward to using it.
"We're going to hit them through the newspapers?" asked Bavaros, Rose's mate, his voice a disapproving growl. As a werewolf, he was the biggest and blackest Harry had ever seen. "What kind of retaliation is that? Killing must be paid back in justice, Wild."
"And it will," said Harry. "As soon as we know who did this. I refuse to attack and kill a dozen wizards because a dozen werewolves were killed. That's the kind of thing that won't make them sleep until they've eliminated us." He turned to Narcissa then. "You said that your sister might have some interesting things to offer us, Narcissa."
Narcissa nodded slowly. "And I think that she will help us without reservation now, as long as you will permit me to tell her the details of what happened today."
Harry inclined his head, and Narcissa hurried off. Harry faced the rest of them, and saw the narrow, intent expressions on their faces.
"This cannot go much further without shed blood," he said without preamble. "We saw that the day before yesterday, when the Aurors came. But I will fight a defensive war first, and that means that I will ask you to wait before attacking. Anyone who does will cause more fear, and will have to walk away from the Alliance of Sun and Shadow." He held the eyes of those few who seemed reluctant, like Bavaros, until they nodded their consent. Harry nodded once more. "Good. Now, I am going to make arrangements to keep the rest of the London packs safe."
His eyes went to Hawthorn. "Mrs. Parkinson," he said, "you are a hunted fugitive, but for the task I want you to do, speed is important, more than secrecy. Will you be willing to go to the London alphas in person and deliver a message?" He had not established the communication spell with most of the alphas, and many of them refused to receive owls from wizards—or from the alpha who had taken Loki's place, since some had had rivalries with him. A lone werewolf, not part of an accepted pack, stood more of a chance of being taken seriously.
"Gladly," said Hawthorn, her eyes full of life. The silver-infected cut on her shoulder had almost healed, Harry saw. "Give me a list of names and Apparition locations, and I will leave."
"Good," said Harry. "For the rest of you, defense is the most important thing we can concentrate on right now. If you are a wizard, I want you to practice dueling until you drop. If you're a werewolf born Muggle, you are now on permanent patrol of the valley, in alternating shifts. Camellia, you're in charge of arranging those. The Aurors know where we are. I expect another attack before long, from either them or the Unspeakables."
"And what will you be doing?" Bavaros asked. There was less venom in his voice than before, but he still sounded frustrated.
"Working on things to make them leave us alone, of course," Harry replied, and then turned away. He needed to find the list of names and Apparition locations for Hawthorn, and then a relatively isolated part of Woodhouse to make the statement he wanted to make. And, before that, he wanted to drain some of the Black artifacts that he had brought along. Giving his own magic to make sure that the werewolves with Peregrine didn't die had tired him, as had the phoenix song. He would need to rest.
An arm curled around his shoulder halfway down the hall. Harry turned, blinking, and met Draco's eyes. Draco looked as if he were made of fire, given how bright his gaze was.
"We're going to show them," he breathed. "Going to show them all, aren't we, Harry?" And he leaned forward and kissed him hard enough to hurt. Harry didn't care. He kissed back, single-mindedly. His mind was no longer a narrow corridor filled with light, but a galloping horse, speeding towards its destination.
"I hope so," he said.
Hawthorn appeared in the first Apparition location, on a Muggle street which shocked her with the brightness of its colors and its stink. Even without her current nose, she thought, the reek would have overwhelmed her; with her werewolf sense of smell, she almost fainted. She plugged up her nostrils and plunged across the street in quick steps, with only a glance to make sure no Muggle cars were approaching. Rubbish and petrol and dirt and other things she couldn't identify—they blared and yammered at her, and she would have given a great deal to be able to ignore them.
She reached a door in the house she'd been told to look for, and knocked impatiently. The house was a rather typical Muggle one, small and square and looking like its neighbors on either side. But a woman who smelled like snow and pine needles opened the door, and if she didn't have amber eyes, she was probably wearing green lenses, or green magic, to cover them.
"Welcome, sister," she said, when she saw Hawthorn. "What's the matter?"
Hawthorn told her in brief words about the attack, and the woman's mouth tightened as she listened. Then she nodded, and said, "I'll warn the others of my pack. But we'll want to know a few more details. Will you come in?"
Hawthorn was more than willing to step into the house. It did not look so drab inside, where the walls were bright with fairly good amateur paintings and strips of colored paper arranged in collages. She understood the reason for the latter when laughter rang down the entrance hall and two children chased each other into view, both wrestling on the floor. One had amber eyes, and easily pinned the other, who didn't and began to cry about it not being fair.
The woman she'd met at the door pulled the amber-eyed child off the other one and tossed him into the air. He squealed on the way down. The woman and the boy lying sprawled on the floor both laughed.
Hawthorn was the one who heard the cracks as Apparating wizards arrived, perhaps because she was so used to listening for it, perhaps because she had been half-expecting it since she heard about the attack on Peregrine.
She flicked her wand, and powerful wards surrounded the house. They wouldn't hold against a steady barrage of spells, but they were strong enough to deflect the first, which would have torn apart the lungs of the woman standing beside her if it had come through the window. In a moment, the children's laughter changed to shrieks, tinted with a howl in the case of the amber-eyed boy.
"Get them to safety!" Hawthorn snapped at the woman, whom she knew was a Muggle. She scurried to obey, thankfully, with no muttering about rank. The pack's wizards were already appearing, stumbling sometimes, caught up in their own pyjamas, frizzes of hair standing out from their heads, but with wands gripped in their hands.
Hawthorn fell to one knee as a Crucio came through her wards. It missed her, but caught another of the wizards, who dropped, writhing and screaming. The other closest one bent to tend to him.
She was a fugitive anyway, she told herself. And someone willing to use Cruciatus was an enemy who needed to be stopped.
She stood, and leaned out the window. She could see the witch she thought had fired the Crucio, golden-haired and yellow-eyed and disdainful. She was a daughter of some Light pureblood family or another, which didn't make what she'd done any better, but made Hawthorn all the more eager to fell her. Too many of the Aurors who had hurt her in Tullianum had had yellow eyes.
She spoke the words clearly, and felt the thunder of the magic pass up her wand. "Avada Kedavra."
The beam of green light went through the wards, of course; no barrier could stop the Killing Curse. The witch turned her back just before it hit, and fell sprawled on the lawn of the Muggle house next door. Hawthorn laughed, and heard it come out as a bark and then a howl.
She didn't know what her chances were of getting vengeance on the Aurors who had hurt her. There were so many of them, and Harry's obsession was justice.
But these were wizards trying to destroy a pack that had never done them harm, out of intense paranoia and fear. They were perfect targets to soothe some of the hatred in her soul. And she did not even need to worry about concealing her activities from the Muggles all around them. The Ministry was the one who must send in its Obliviators. Hawthorn was a revolutionary, and a fugitive, and beyond all their standards.
At peace in a way she hadn't been since her Death Eater days, she chose her next target.
"Andromeda." The voice was gentle, and wistful, and tinged with just a hint of an accent; unlike most of his family, Jean Delacour had learned to speak English at a very young age, when their parents had thought he and Andromeda would make a good match. That had soon ended, when the Delacour family made an alliance with the Veela Council instead, but they had known each other by then, and visited summers, and remained friends.
And, Andromeda knew as she stepped out of the Floo and let Jean brush the soot gently from her robes and kiss the tips of her fingers, a little bit in love with each other, at least on his side.
"Jean." She dipped her chin and switched to French; her mother had not been remiss in insisting that her daughter learn her betrothed's language as well. "I come to beg you to do a favor for an old, withered woman past the prime of her beauty."
"There shall be no ending of the prime, my dear one." Jean escorted her to a seat in front of the large table he used as a desk in his study, never letting his hand enfold more than her fingernails. It was courtesy that his wife insisted upon. Andromeda was just grateful, at that moment, that she had understood that they were friends, and permitted Andromeda to continue to visit at all. "What brings the fairest of the Blacks to me? Speak, and it shall be set in motion when the words are ended."
Andromeda sat, ruffling her robes out around her. She had no fair beauty to show off like Narcissa did, but dark hair and eyes set off by pale skin and dark green robes had always done the trick for Jean; they were doing it now, she saw, from the way his glance followed her. "A favor for a mother fond of her daughter," she said, with a little sigh. "A daughter who has run off to join rebels and werewolves and turn against the Ministry, but whom her mother cannot help loving anyway."
She saw Jean lift his head as if scenting a wind, and hid her smile in a simpering frown. He would have heard of this already, of course. The French Ministry of Magic might not have that much interest in making the British Ministry look bad, at the moment—the French Minister certainly didn't want Voldemort turning his sights across the Channel—but the French purebloods were a different matter. They were so carefully caught up in their own intricate dance of Light and Dark that a Lord-level wizard who could balance between both was of intense interest to them. Add in the Veela Council with their interest in the vates, and the fact that Beauxbatons had received an influx of students from Hogwarts this year talking about the Midsummer battle, and there were plenty of French wizards and witches who believed that Harry should be given all the help that his government could give him, not hindered. He should be breaking webs and defeating Voldemort, not forced to hide in a valley because the Minister was an incompetent idiot who couldn't control his own Department Heads.
"That is a rather large favor," Jean said, sitting back and watching her without blinking now. Andromeda had never known anyone who could go as long without blinking as he could. Perhaps he had taken lessons from cats, or his wife.
"It is a rather large love," said Andromeda, and drew out a lace handkerchief to hide a sniffle in.
Jean let out a long-suffering sigh. "My dear one," he said. "What am I to do with you?"
"I have already told you that," she replied, letting a bit of the sting through. She had never favored men who pretended that they were stupid. Genuinely stupid ones could be entertaining. But Andromeda had chosen her own Ted for intelligence, and if she had ended up marrying Jean after all, she would have insisted that he drop this act at once, especially around her. She suspected its continuation was his wife's fault.
Jean inclined his head. "You have hinted at it, my dear. But there are so many things I could do to help you. What shall it be? Easing the pressure on the rebellion? Distracting this vates's enemies? Contacting allies for him?"
"All those and more," said Andromeda, leaning forward. "As well as the demiguise hair that I know you have on hand." She savored his astonished look, but met it with a sad one of her own, and a headshake. "I know, Jean," she said. "I always know. When I realized that someone was buying up all the demiguise hair at the same time as the protests against its use began, I realized who that must be. You should make the names of your operations a bit less transparent to someone who knows your history. As well as your false protest groups."
Jean inclined his head. "You cannot expect me to give him one of the most important Wolfsbane ingredients for free, I hope?"
"Of course not," said Andromeda. "Charge him a fair price. And in return, send a few Veela to him to see how they are treated. I promise you, there is no one who will better protect them and insure their future." She had to admit that, even though she had been reluctant to get close to the boy when she saw how much he depended on Narcissa. She still would not willingly enter his valley and consort with her sister. But her daughter had made her choice, and that took away the option of standing aside and pretending nothing was happening.
"He is still in the midst of a British rebellion," Jean mused. "And you think he would welcome French ties?"
"He knows the rest of the world exists, but it has not yet reached out to him," said Andromeda, and again calculated her voice to sting. "Is that his fault, or the fault of wizards and witches who do not want the Dark Lord to notice them?"
Jean simply nodded, not having the grace to look ashamed. He would have been one of those who counseled his friends among the pureblood wizards and allies in the Veela Council to remain neutral, Andromeda knew. Jean was primarily a builder; he extended his business practices quickly on the surface, but in reality after years of planning, and he used allies and cats-paws for most of his more daring political moves. He was more interested in creating security for those who would follow him than in grabbing at glory and watching it fade. He was the opposite of her sister's husband in that way. "Then I have a few cousins I may send him. Tell me, is young Millicent Bulstrode in the valley with him?"
Andromeda could not hide her astonishment this time, and he laughed at her.
"We have ties that you do not yet suspect," he said. "We have reached out to this vates in our own way. Now is merely the hour to make ourselves known to him." He grasped and kissed her hand. "Go back to England, my dear. You shall have your distractions, and your allies. The release of pressure will take longer, but there are favors and those who owe me favors. Your daughter will be safe, and ourvates." His teeth flashed as he smiled. "If Britain does not want him, we might as well show him how courteous France can be."
Harry started to shut the door of the tiny contemplation room behind him, and then frowned as Draco ducked around it before he could. "You're sure?" he asked.
Draco simply nodded. He knew what Harry was planning, and he wanted to be close. Harry seemed to think he would find the sensations too overwhelming. Draco didn't believe so.
Besides, he wanted something to make up for the interrupted kiss that morning.
Harry eyed him, then shrugged and closed his eyes. For a few moments more, he breathed, and his magic, restored to normal strength after the draining of a few Black artifacts, drew in around him. Draco leaned against a wall and waited. This room was entirely made of wood, of course, and had no loose furniture, as was appropriate for a place where one was supposed to sit on the floor. That meant there would be nothing to fall into when Harry made his statement.
Harry opened his eyes and let his magic rise.
It started as the smell of roses, but it added so many more folds to itself in seconds that Draco could not think of it only that way. The air split open, and glittering diamond-edged blades of sunlight came forth. They rolled around Draco, flashing and spinning, and the illusion of a great cat bounded through them, silver-clawed and dark-furred. Draco was sure it was a lynx.
The taste of Chocolate Frogs filled his mouth, and the low hum of phoenix song his ears. Then there came a warm pressure on his skin. It was like the warmth Harry had called to face the Aurors in the pine wood the day before yesterday, but this didn't dry out his skin. It pressed close, soft and delicious, and he realized with a start that Harry had drawn inspiration for it from the heat shared beneath their blankets this morning.
He managed to look at Harry through all that, and, fascinating as the magic was, this was more than worth it. Harry's eyes were closed, but his hair shifted around him, and the light and the lynx began with him and extended from him, and the music and the smell of roses and the warmth belonged with him in ways Draco couldn't articulate. He had changed out of his pyjamas into normal robes and tended to the cuts on his chest, and he looked calm and confident and stubborn.
Of course he did, Draco thought. He wasn't doing anything all that extraordinary. Everything he did was an extension of things he had done before. This was only a message appended on to the end of a longer one, which the British public as a whole had been too stubborn to read.
The magic swirled, and rose. And it expanded up to the roof of Woodhouse, and then higher, and then higher.
Draco swore he could feel it pass through the edges of the place magic and the valley's wards, pacing upwards, shimmering as it did so, a second sunrise in the west. It continued flowing, continued rolling, sweetness on all levels. There was nothing frightening about it, unless you were one of Harry's enemies and hadn't realized the sheer strength that was his to command.
It unrolled, and it kept on unrolling. Draco felt the overwhelming urge to close his eyes.
He did, and now he could hear the phoenix song more clearly than ever. The song took him down into itself and showed him the truth in the midst of the fire.
Harry did not promise death to his enemies. He promised resistance, and the resistance would go on growing until his goals were accomplished and his enemies' fears dead. He would have rights for werewolves and freedom from webs for other magical creatures, reworking of Ministry laws and a change in the balance of things, and anything else he wanted. Blood would not stop him. Death would not stop him. Nothing would stop him.
It was a rational, calm, determined "Fuck you" to the rest of the wizarding world. Harry asked them to view his magic as hope and freedom if they could, but he was not overly worried about what would happen if they did not, because he was also asking them to view it as power. And it was a message of change, above all.
Draco basked in all the mingled sweetness, the greatest extent to which Harry had ever let his wings unfurl, and squinted through the maze of light at Harry. So strong, so stubborn, so beautiful. And he's mine.
That thought inspired an emotion too possessive to be called lust. Draco stepped forward and curled his arms around Harry, dragging him against his chest. Harry stepped backward in the same moment, tilting his head so that he could kiss Draco at a less awkward angle than would otherwise have been required.
Draco cradled Harry's face and let the dawn take him away.
Rufus closed his eyes.
Yesterday had come the shine of Harry's magic, and immediate reactions of panic and fear and wonder, and the first open attacks on werewolf packs, most of which had resulted in the packs escaping with few losses and fleeing deeper into hiding. Rufus had had to listen to people bragging about relatives who had managed to kill werewolves, or congratulations for those who had. They were dealing with the "monstrous menace" that threatened to overtake Britain.
Three days ago, Priscilla had returned empty-handed, with the news that Rufus's last hope for peace, the appeal to Harry for the greater good and greater number of lives in Britain, had failed. Not only had it failed, it had resulted in two dead Aurors. The others were baying for Harry's blood and the blood of his karkadann—a karkadann, of all creatures—now. And she had told Rufus, in confidence, about how disgustingly at least one werewolf prisoner had been treated. Rufus knew the name of that werewolf prisoner. She was one of Harry's closest allies, just to make things better.
Today brought headlines blazing across the papers. The Quibbler carried photographs of the dead werewolves that they'd obtained Merlin knew how, the bodies obviously unmarked in the way that meant the use of the Killing Curse, and asked loudly whether the Ministry had granted permission to use the Unforgivables along with their hunting season. The Vox Populi trumpeted support for Harry from every page, and demanded to know how the Minister felt concerning the deaths of his people and the retreat of the "real heroes" into one valley in Wales.
The Daily Prophet, and his own Floo connections, carried the worst news.
Rufus opened his eyes and read the headline again.
NEPOTISM IN THE MINISTRY:
Amelia Bones's Niece, Other Relatives of Ministry Officials Committed Crimes
By: Rita Skeeter
The article contained extremely sensitive information concerning the arrests of various Ministry officials' children, siblings, parents, and other family members, for everything from fraudulent sale of protective charms to use of the Imperius Curse. All that information had been contained in files in Amelia's office; it could not be destroyed thanks to the fact that the arresting Aurors would be alerted by ward-alarm if that happened, but it could be hidden and hushed up and forgotten about. And it had been. No one was supposed to know it was there, and since the purpose of invading Amelia's office had seemed to be to mock her and paint her face like a clown's, no one had checked on the files.
Someone had stolen them, and then given the knowledge to the Daily Prophet.
Rufus knew what it would mean. Embarrassment, of course, but also demands for full-scale investigations into the Ministry, re-arrest of some of the worst offenders, and resignation of those who had done the most contortions to protect a loved one.
And then, this morning, he had received a firecall from one of his agents in the French Ministry, to warn him that the pureblood community in France was stirring like a beehive, and all the action was Harry-oriented. Spain would not be long in following suit. Rufus had barely finished speaking to that agent when another contacted him from the Portuguese Ministry. Minister Faria Santa Rita was preparing to issue a declaration condemning the British Ministry's actions against the vates, the agent had said; obviously the British Minister could not see that the war against You-Know-Who was more important to every country of Europe than the war against werewolves.
Rufus's Ministry was shaking to pieces around his ears.
It seemed that they were to have an earthquake, and a revolution, whether or not they wanted one.
Rufus considered the photograph that Skeeter had chosen to illustrate her story. It showed a scurrying Amelia Bones trying to get out of sight before the camera could capture her; each time she passed across the picture, she wrapped a fold of her robes around her head. It made her look remarkably guilty, which of course was part of Skeeter's point.
Rufus didn't feel far different, himself.
