Chapter Forty-Five: Readmitted
Harry snuggled closer to Draco. He had been unwilling as well as unable to leave him for long yesterday, and though he knew the ritual had technically ended at midnight, there was no law against wanting to hold his boyfriend in their bed, too. Draco never woke. His breathing was deep and contented, and the biggest movement he made was to press his back to Harry's chest.
He was right, Harry thought, dropping his head so that his hair slid down the back of Draco's neck. After this joining ritual, I can't wait for the next one.
A flutter of wings broke his reverie, and he glanced up over the curve of Draco's shoulder. An owl sat in the window, patiently watching him. Harry frowned a bit. He didn't think the bird was a breed he'd seen before—ash-gray, with gleaming orange eyes. In fact, he saw as he slid gently backward from Draco and stood, it wasn't an owl at all. Someone had sent him a goshawk, and someone had convinced the bird to bear a letter. Harry didn't know what the context might be. From what he had read, goshawks were more likely to bite a wizard's thumb off than carry his messages, and spells made to tame other birds didn't work well on them.
Carefully, he approached the bird, a spell to block a sudden strike at his hand or face on his lips. But she simply stared at him, particularly at his throat, and let him take the letter. Harry stepped back, gaze still roaming her for a threat, and cast several detection spells on the letter before he was satisfied that he held a simple piece of parchment.
When he opened it, he had to squint and use Lumos, and not only because of the darkness in the room. The penmanship was incredibly shaky, as though the letter-writer had done this on the back of a flying horse.
Harry:
If you have received this letter, then you should know that my last hunt is done. The last of those who murdered my mate is dead, and the path I walk is growing narrower and swifter and steeper. With November's full moon, its end comes, and mine.
Because you have taken my place as alpha of the pack, the invitation I extend to them comes also to you. When the full moon rises in November, my pack will be taken to a forest, where I will be waiting. You may come with them. If you choose to resist the magic, it will not transport you, but I would prefer that you come. I would show you, if I can, why I chose the path that I did.
Loki.
Harry's mouth tightened, and he looked back at the goshawk. She continued to watch his throat—the place where the collar of white light had settled after Loki detailed him to lead the pack, Harry realized. He shook his head slightly.
"Why does he continue to do this?" he whispered. "Doesn't he realize I would hardly be kindly disposed to him after he killed Kieran in front of me?"
The goshawk gave a little preening flap on the windowsill, as much to say that this did not concern her, and then turned and launched herself strongly into the darkness. Harry stared down at the letter again. Behind him, Draco stirred and murmured a sleepy protest at the lack of warmth.
"Harry? Come here."
Harry had to smile at his tone, a combination of sulky whine and true longing. "I'm here, Draco," he said, and floated the letter to the table beside the bed, while he slid in behind his boyfriend and wrapped his arms around him again. Draco flipped over to hold him, and seemingly fell asleep again before he could make another request. Harry rubbed his back and stared at the place where the goshawk had been.
He could have done more good by offering himself up to the British or French authorities and standing trial for his crimes like any ordinary wizard. But I suppose the ritual he chose to invoke might not let him. Magic like the power that let him pass me and my wards and kill Kieran has a price.
Harry closed his eyes, and tried to distract himself from thoughts of what would happen in November by the warm and willing weight in his arms. Draco murmured into his ear, and that helped, too.
The dream of pine needles and the sharp smell of snow and wolves howling did anything but help.
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"And you can't be convinced otherwise." Camellia's face said that she knew it was a lost cause even as she pleaded it, but she made the request anyway, her eyes shining and her throat all worked into one tight lump.
"No. I'm sorry." Harry leaned forward and squeezed her hand. "Even if I didn't want to return to Hogwarts, I think I would need to, to show everyone that I'm doing my best to fit back into normal wizarding society. And the pack can't come with me there. Guarding me the way you would want to would segregate me too much from the average student."
"But you're not the average student," Camellia told him, wrinkling her nose, as if "average" were a dirty word. "I don't see why you should have to act like one, or why you should have to leave your pack behind you, Wild."
Harry smiled. He suspected that Camellia was too wound in the ways of the pack to consider any other course reasonable. From what Camellia had told him, there was little point in lying or concealing one's strength in a werewolf pack. The strongest was the one who became alpha. The thought of holding back on magical prowess or intelligence was foreign, as was the idea of pretending to more power than one had; what was the point? And so Camellia saw no reason for Harry to try and soothe other people who might have negative perceptions of him. He should have his pack to walk beside him, and his snakes to form a solid escort shutting him off from the rest of the school, if that was what he wanted.
"I will come visit you on weekends," he said. "You have my promise of that. Unless you would rather choose another alpha?"
Camellia shook her head. "None of us are discontent, Wild," she said. "If we are, you will be the first to know, and one of us will challenge you. Or simply ask you to appoint another alpha, of course."
"And if I chose someone not strong enough to control the pack?" Harry asked. He thought he knew the answer. He simply wanted to see if he was right.
Camellia shrugged. "Then we'd topple him or her, and the strongest one of us would take over. And the loser would be expected to take his or her place in the pack with no resentment," she added, correctly anticipating Harry's question. "People who resent the place their own talents earn for them are so—so human."
"Even if there was a cure for lycanthropy available, you wouldn't take it, would you?" Harry asked her.
"Of course not." Camellia looked at him with the kindly exasperation Harry had seen the pack use with one of the human guests who broke some unspoken rule, and occasionally for the werewolves transformed by Loki's bite when they resisted the obvious. George received it quite often. "I was bitten when I was less than a year old. I'm twenty now. This is what I am, Wild. I would never give it up." She was quiet for a moment, then added, "Having magic was wonderful. But if I were forced to choose between that and lycanthropy, I would choose to retain my lycanthropy."
Harry nodded. "I understand, Camellia. And I would never force such a choice on you. I'll be honest. I still hope that I can give you magic again someday, but I don't know if it will ever happen."
"I know that." Camellia leaned forward and rubbed her cheek against his. Harry sucked in a shocked breath, then forced himself to hold still. He knew the pack relied on such physical affection as a means of creating bonds among themselves. If it felt wrong for him to touch anyone other than Draco right now, that wasn't the pack's fault. It was the lingering effects of their joining ritual from yesterday. "If it hadn't been for such a fortunate chance, you would never have had the ability to give me that gift in the first place. I accept it."
She does, Harry thought, after a few moments more of studying her face. That must be part of the pack mentality that she talked about. Accept reality and get used to it. Yes, I wish more people around me thought that way.
"Do you know how long you'll have to spend at the school before you can come back and see us?" Camellia asked, picking up her cup of tea and taking a sip from it as if nothing had happened.
Harry glanced down at the official letter near his hand. McGonagall had signed it, and all the members of the board of governors. They consented to his returning to Hogwarts as a student, but the language was restrained rather than enthusiastic. That was the governors' fault, Harry knew, not the Headmistress's, but it did mean that he would have to act carefully, the focus of many eyes.
"A few weeks, at least," he said. "I want to establish myself as someone not interested in rebellion, and that will mean obeying the rules. Students aren't technically supposed to leave the school at all except for Hogsmeade weekends or holidays—or to go to St. Mungo's if they're too badly hurt for Madam Pomfrey to cure. I don't think that my Apparating to Woodhouse counts under any of those." He tried to smile, but Camellia didn't return the smile.
"It shouldn't need to," she said. "They should bend the rules for you."
"That's one thing we agree on, at least," said Draco, as he entered the room and pulled up a chair behind Harry. Harry Levitated the milk and a cup of tea over to him, performing a warming charm on the tea as it moved. Draco raised an eyebrow and tipped some of the milk into his cup. Then he flung an arm around Harry's shoulder and leaned in for a morning kiss. Harry gave it to him, aware of Camellia watching benevolently. He was just glad that the ritual magic, as Draco had explained to him yesterday, would have kept anyone from intruding to watch their coupling in the woods. The entire purpose of the Breaking of Boundaries was to lower the barriers of the joining couple, not to make them visible to everyone.
"You're different," Draco said, pulling Harry's attention away from memories of yesterday, for which Harry was duly grateful. "They should put up with that, instead of pretending that you aren't."
Harry shook his head, nearly knocking the teacup from Draco's hands. He leaned back a little so that wouldn't happen again, and explained, "That's the problem. I've broken so many rules. I've acted as though I was already an adult wizard, and an outlaw, and at a times a Lord. They get nervous, because someone sixteen years old shouldn't have that much freedom and power, in their eyes. What if other children took ideas from it? So I have to show them that I am willing to accept restraints and limits. The monitoring board is a good idea, but it's only the beginning. I have to show that I'm a student like any other, that I can receive detentions and attend classes and listen to my Head of House."
"And that's what I'm saying," said Draco, as patiently as if Harry had never responded. "They may want you to act like that, but you're different. And you're the one who's going to save them all when Voldemort comes hunting." If there was any trace of a flinch left in him when he said that name, then Harry could neither hear nor see it. "They should be falling over themselves to kiss your hands and feet, not saying that you can only do such and such a thing."
Harry rolled his eyes. This wasn't a part of the joining ritual, or a discussion of vates principles, or a point of etiquette. This was something on which he and Draco were not ever going to agree. When he'd peered into Draco's mind yesterday, what he'd seen was a young man who had a mindset remarkably similar to a werewolf's. He thought strength should take precedence. Unlike a member of the pack, he wasn't above using manipulation to make people think he had more strength than he really did, but someone who couldn't be ignored shouldn't be denied, either.
"I want them to demand that I act like an ordinary student and wizard," Harry said. "I want them not to be awed, and if the way to reassure them that is to act like a student, like someone younger mentally than I am, then I will."
"And you're still so afraid of command?" Draco caught his eyes in a gaze that was not fair, because it carried the knowledge of each other they'd attained during the Breaking of Boundaries out into the open light of day. "If their requests interfere with your conducting the war or being a vates, you'll still give in and work around them?"
Harry tried to look away, and found that he couldn't. Draco's eyes all but compelled an answer, and at least he heard himself saying, "No. I won't. In those cases, I would break the rules to get what I needed to do done. I've done it plenty of times before, after all."
Draco sat back with a satisfied smile and reached for his tea again. "Good. I think you should remember what you are, Harry. Other people can forget if they want to, but if you do, then I'll remind you."
"It might be useful for me to forget sometimes," Harry pointed out, picking up a slice of bread and biting into it. It would be one of the last meals he ate in Woodhouse, and he tried to stifle the sadness of the thought with rational arguments. "If I can act as I should in front of the monitoring board, for example, then they're less likely to suspect me of rebellion, and they'll loosen the restrictions a bit."
"I have plans for the monitoring board," said Draco, smiling dreamily into space.
Harry choked on his bread. "Draco," he said warningly, when he could speak.
Draco cocked his head at him. "Yes?"
Dear Merlin, he was beautiful, the sunlight through the window making his hair and his face gleam with the same level of intensity. Harry found his hand reaching out to touch him, regardless of the half-chewed piece of bread still in it. Draco reached out and caught the stump of his left wrist, his smile becoming something intensely private and self-satisfied. Harry was vaguely aware of Camellia standing and leaving them alone—the way that she might have left Loki and Gudrun alone, he thought.
"I'll do whatever I think needs to be done about the monitoring board," Draco said, his voice low enough that Harry wondered if Camellia could have heard anything, even if she had remained in the room. "And you won't stop me, Harry, because you don't trample on anyone's free will, do you?"
"No," Harry said, and frowned. His own voice was a breathless little huff, and he didn't think it ought to be. He tried to pull back, to stop his mind from dancing on the dizzying precipice it seemed to prefer when Draco was around, but he only managed to shift the focus of his stare, from Draco's face to his eyes. "I don't want you destroying the monitoring board, Draco," he said, and that sounded stronger. Good. "We worked too hard for it, and it's the necessary compromise for the end of the rebellion."
"I would never dream of destroying it." Draco's fingers stroked the end of his wrist, a light, absent gesture that Harry didn't think he would have felt if he hadn't been aware of every place the two of them were touching. "But I would dream of restraining it. I'm not vates, Harry, and at times like this, I'm very glad."
Harry closed his eyes. The sensation didn't end, though. He still sat in early morning sunlight with Draco, and his chest still felt tight and warm, and he was still remembering the ritual from yesterday.
"Excuse me," he said, and pushed his chair back from the table, standing rapidly. "I—I need to go finish my breakfast."
Draco chuckled, not sounding at all upset. "Yes," he said, as Harry shuffled out of the room. "I thought you might."
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Draco waited until he was sure Harry was out of the kitchen and not coming back. It would have pleasant if he had, of course, because then they could take care of Harry's little problem together. But this way, Draco could attend to his letters, the one he had received and the one he needed to write.
He took the piece of parchment out of his robe pocket. He'd received it the day before Halloween, and put it aside because he'd known, even if Harry didn't, that he wouldn't be in any shape to do complicated thinking on Halloween. Now he let himself read it one more time, to make absolutely sure that he hadn't misunderstood a single thing the writer said. It was from a young Auror who'd seen Harry and Draco defeat Dumbledore and taken up a loyalty to them, of sorts. Their communication had been interrupted for a long time, first by the Sanctuary and then by Harry's troubles with the Ministry, and Draco hadn't been sure she would respond when he wrote again. But her response had come so fast that Draco wondered if the poor owl had had any time to rest.
Dear Malfoy:
You have nothing to worry about. There are people in the Ministry who are loyal to your partner, even though the Minister could command their nominal faith. The Ritual of Cincinnatus startled us. We think that Minister Scrimgeour still has our best interests at heart, but there is nothing wrong with supporting Harry, especially since he and the Ministry are supposedly allies again.
And the laws you asked me to investigate are indeed the way you remembered them. It was a way for the Ministry to compromise with Lord-level wizards long ago, so that the Lords and Ladies would not be forever fighting the Ministers. Certain loopholes have never been closed, and certain laws on the books were never changed. No one questioned my copying of those books. Auror trainees are supposed to become intimately familiar with them as a part of their training, after all.
Below is a copy of the relevant law about restraining a witch or wizard with Lord-level power when they are working with the Ministry for the good of Britain.
Hugwood's Decree of 1793: Any wizard or witch of Lord-level power, whether Declared Dark, Light, or neither, who does not officially oppose the edicts and decrees of the Ministry of Magic, and acknowledges a rightfully elected Minister of Magic as his or her legal authority, is entitled to be free of supervision in his or her personal life. This applies but is not limited to cases of Auror raids, investigations by the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures and other Departments of the Ministry, and questioning by the Unspeakables. Suspicion of a crime must be proven to have some basis before any agent of the Ministry may arrest a Lord or Lady, and then they are to be treated with all due courtesy and respect, and are entitled to an interview with the sitting Minister of Magic as soon as possible.
Thus, your suspicions were correct: in absolute terms, the monitoring board watching Harry is illegal. I suspect they are relying on his age to excuse this, if they even know about Hugwood's Decree, but the law is clear. Age does not enter into it. Any wizard or witch of Lord-level power must be free to act as he or she will, and the moment Harry's rebellion ended and he acknowledged Minister Scrimgeour as his legal authority again, their justification for action against him also ended.
What you do with this knowledge is, of course, up to you. I do not intend to move myself until I know that the monitoring board is causing our vates discomfort, and it may be best to save this weapon until the very last moment, since you could turn the board to your own uses. But I wished to tell you that your memory of the law was not faulty.
Draco smirked and folded his letter, smoothing out the creases carefully and putting it into his pocket. He didn't intend to destroy the monitoring board any time soon. As his friend said, it might be useful, and it kept the parents of the Dozen Who Died content for right now and out of Harry's way. And it occupied Aurora Whitestag, whom Draco thought was the most dangerous of Harry's opponents. But if the interference ever became too much, he wanted the absolute confirmation that the Ministry had had no right to ask this as a compromise of Harry in return for ending the rebellion, and that Harry had violated his own rights in asking for it.
Now he had a letter to write.
It didn't have to be long, and so it wasn't. Draco also wrote it while people wandered in and out of Woodhouse's kitchen, fetching themselves breakfast. He felt glances darted at him. He ignored them. Why shouldn't he be able to? He was a pureblood wizard, and he was doing something perfectly legitimate, and most of the people watching him were halfblood or Mudblood idlers. And if they were his equals, they could never have matched his own confidence and poise.
He finished with the letter and studied it for a moment, then nodded and stood to seek out an owl. He imagined the expression on his father's face when he received it, and had to chuckle.
It let Lucius know that Draco was willing to take up the Malfoy name and legacy again if he agreed in public that his disownment of his son had been a mistake, and promised never to consider such a course again. It had no trace of crawling about it, although, legally and formally correct, Draco had signed his name as 'Draco Black.' It would force his father to bend his pride.
And if he couldn't, then Draco was still secure. He knew Harry had no compunctions against sharing his fortune with Draco and Narcissa; in fact, his mother would stay at Silver-Mirror until Lucius came to his senses. Neither of them was hurting. Both of them knew they had done the right thing.
Time for Lucius to bend his proud neck.
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Ginny bit her lip and waved her wand at her trunk. "Pack."
Her clothes began jumping into it in neat order. Ginny nodded as she watched the books arrange themselves under her clothes. Everything was folded so crisply she could have cut herself on the creases. Bill was arriving at Woodhouse to take her to Hogwarts—or perhaps the Burrow first.
And why am I nervous?
Ginny reminded herself sharply that she had done the right thing. She had come to Woodhouse because she thought she could be of use. And she had been. Even if it was only to cook food—Harry ordered plenty of food from the Squib-owned shops, but it usually arrived uncooked—and to use cleaning charms that didn't offend Woodhouse and to stop arguments between werewolves and other people by casting a spell that made people pay attention to her instead. She'd done those things. She'd smoothed over minor problems, and maybe stopped some of them from becoming major problems. She'd done things.
She didn't have anything to fear from her mother, or Ron, or anyone else who might yell at her.
She lifted her head proudly, then shrank the trunk and floated it behind her as she walked out of the house. Harry caught sight of her, and turned at once to offer her his hand. Ginny clasped it, looking into his face, and saw nothing there but honesty and calm and gratitude.
"Thank you for doing this," Harry said quietly. "Even if you don't think you changed the course of the rebellion, the fact that you were willing to do this shows everyone that this rebellion mattered to more people than just werewolves. And I hope that you do retain that courage, Howlers or not."
Ginny found it a lot easier to smile when he said that, though she knew that worse than Howlers awaited her at home. Surely it would be home that Bill took her to first, and not Hogwarts. For one thing, none of the returning students were expected to attend class today, and Ginny knew that her mother would want to see her.
"Thank you," she whispered, and hesitated, and then gave Harry a little bow of the kind that pureblood Light wizards were supposed to use. Her family was that, even though they didn't choose to emphasize the purity of their blood. Harry bowed back, and then looked up.
"Hullo, Bill," he said.
Ginny turned to face her eldest brother as he brushed casually through the crowded hallway, nodding to the few goblins there more cordially than he did to most of the humans. His gaze locked on hers, and Ginny braced herself. Bill had never sent a Howler himself, of course—that was more Mum's way—but he could still give scoldings with the best of them. Ginny had almost broken her arm sneaking a ride on Fred's broom once, and what he'd said to her hurt more than all the half-hysterical screaming from their mother.
Bill grinned at her.
Ginny blinked, sure that her eyes must have been playing tricks on her, and then Bill gripped her shoulders and gave her a little shake. Ginny blinked again, and then Bill said, "You have everything packed?"
"Yes," said Ginny, in a bit of daze, and then Bill's hand was on her shoulder, escorting her away from the crowd. She exchanged a few nods with people she passed, and did pause to say goodbye to Neville, but for the most part Bill kept her moving. And yet he wasn't angry. In fact, he started whistling as they came to the edge of the valley and the end of the anti-Apparition wards. She didn't understand.
Unless he's really looking forward to watching Mum scold me.
"Why are you so happy?" she finally demanded, turning to scowl up at him. "I think that what I did was the right thing. And I'd do it again, if I had to choose. And of course I couldn't tell Mum and Dad, because you know they would never have let me go. And—"
"I know that, Ginny." And Bill gave her that grin again. Ginny recognized it; Charlie got it when he won the Gryffindor-Slytherin match in his seventh year, and Fred and George when they came up with a trick that made their father laugh after a long, weary day in the Ministry of Magic. But she'd never received it before. "I think you did the right thing." He kissed the top of her head.
"You do?" Ginny felt a surge of warmth travel from the top of her head to the bottom of her toes. "You really do?"
"Of course." Bill caught her hand in a firm shake. "I work with goblins, Ginny. They're people, some of them better than any wizards, and they deserve as many rights as we have. And then I heard my little sister ran away to join the rebellion and help goblins get rights, even though she had to know that she would get a dozen Howlers. You're doing the right thing, Ginny, and you went to someone you knew would protect you, not right into the middle of battle." He winked. "And of course you didn't get permission. You don't ask for permission before you follow your conscience. You follow it."
Ginny knew she was grinning like an idiot, but if idiots grinned when their big brothers approved of them, she didn't mind being one. She took a firm hold on his hand in return, and said, "Does that mean that you're not going to join in Mum's scolding?"
"I'm going to ask her to listen to your side of the story, and support you," said Bill. "Because you listened to your conscience, Ginny, and if Mum wants to keep you from doing that, she can bloody well stop being my mum."
Ginny wondered if her grin lingered in the air behind her when they disappeared.
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Remus had a decision to make.
He had contented himself with watching during the rebellion, noting the decisions Harry made and the way he made them, observing the way that he interacted with the pack, listening to the words he used to justify himself to Peregrine and other alphas who had had their homes destroyed. Now that the rebellion was done with, he had to collect his observations of Harry and put them together.
And what he had learned was this: Harry made a competent alpha for Loki's pack. He still refused the bonds of the packmind, and that meant he ignored currents that Remus himself would have sensed, or Camellia, or anyone else who had spent some time in wolf form.
On the other hand, Remus was not sure that Harry could make a competent alpha for him. He simply had too much of an urge to correct Harry's behavior. He looked at him and saw Lily and James's baby boy, the quiet, bookish child who had hung back and seemed to be a transplanted Ravenclaw at times and a shadow at others. Remus had helped raise him, and he didn't know if he could bow his head and yield to him now.
But what did that mean, especially since Camellia and the other members of Loki's pack were content with Harry?
It meant that he should find a different pack. If the problem was with no one else, Remus thought, it had to be with him.
The words had hurt when he first said them aloud to himself, in the darkness of his own, solitary bedroom a week ago. But he had said them many times since, and the sting lessened each time. And now he had a friendship with one of the other alphas, Hawk, who had lost many of his older members to the strike on his safehouse—they had died protecting the children—and had hinted, in that tentative dancing-around-the-truth way that werewolves had when suggesting to another that he didn't truly belong in his pack, that Remus was welcome in his.
Remus knew almost no one in the pack would miss him. That he could oppose Harry at all indicated that his bonds with them weren't deep. And why should they be? Remus hadn't followed the path that any of the others had. Loki had courted him into his pack, not adopted him. Before that, he had formed a ragtag sort of alliance with Hawthorn, Delilah, and Claudia, but the thing they had most in common was the werewolf who'd bitten them, and Hawthorn hadn't been truly willing to learn the ways of an accepted werewolf, so that pack was doomed before it began.
No, Camellia and the others would close the hole he might leave and heal without him. Hawk would welcome him, and the young werewolves he led, still feeling their way with each other, would accept Remus more easily than older, established lycanthropes in a hierarchy would.
Maybe he would finally be able to act like the werewolf he wanted to be. And if he wasn't feeling the push to follow Harry's commands while remembering the child he'd been, Remus might have a chance at a more equal relationship with him.
"Remus?"
Startled, Remus turned his head. Harry stood in the doorway of his bedroom, staring at him quizzically.
"My neck started itching," he said. "And I could see your name when I closed my eyes. Camellia said that meant you wanted to speak to me. What about?" His voice was guarded, cool, but not outright hostile, and Remus could not blame him for that. It might be what he deserved.
He wanted to smile sadly, but he held it in. Those measures only took effect with an alpha when he and his subordinate weren't close. They shouldn't happen at all in a properly run pack. And they didn't need to happen with Camellia, or Trumpetflower, or any of the others. That was only one more sign that he didn't belong in Loki's pack any more.
"Yes, I do, Harry," he said, leaning forward. "I wanted you to know that I'm going to a different pack."
Harry blinked. "You are."
Remus nodded. "It's just—too hard, for both of us, if I stay here," he said, staring into Harry's eyes and ignoring the temptation to look down or off to the side. "I'll always remember you and resent having to obey someone part of me thinks of as a child and part of me thinks of as a pup. And I still haven't thought through everything Lily and James did, or come to terms with my part in it all." He gave a quick shake of his head. "Maybe, if the laws had let me testify at the trial last year, that wouldn't be the case. But it is, and I don't think you need me putting such pressure and strain on the pack. In the meantime, the rest of the pack hardly needs or likes me. I'd rather go somewhere I can do some good, and then approach you with an offer of reconciliation when we're both ready."
Harry studied him in thoughtful silence. Remus wondered what he would say as the pause stretched into minutes. Would he want Remus to remain where he was, so that they could rescue their connection after all?
But Harry held out his hand, nodded, and said, "I understand. I hadn't realized how much of this was still festering inside you, Remus. Go somewhere, and bleed it out, and then contact me again. I'd like to have you as a friend more than as a surrogate godparent or a packmate."
Remus winced a bit at that too-honest assessment, but caught Harry's wrist and looked him firmly in the eye. "Go with the scent of snow in your nostrils and pine needles under your feet, Harry," he said. "And try not to worry too much if that blessing becomes literal. You'll know what to do when the time comes."
"What?"
But Remus had already said too much. He wasn't supposed to betray the secrets of pack customs like that. He never had been a very good werewolf.
Well, it's time I learned how to be a better one, he thought, and nodded a goodbye to Harry, and went to find Hawk.
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Finally, there was nothing left to do but go to Hogwarts.
Harry took several deep breaths as he packed the last of his clothes into his trunk. This was the end of the rebellion, and from now on, he could act like a normal student—until the next crisis arose, but as long as he tried to think about what he did before he did it, and listened to the monitoring board, and tried to obey the school rules, then he should be able to avoid the next crisis.
The next moment, he groaned. This is never going to work. I'm doomed to land in the middle of crises all my life.
"Ready, Harry?"
The door had opened to reveal Snape. Harry nodded and shrank his trunk, then looked towards the loo with a frown. "Draco!"
Draco stepped back out, a preoccupied frown on his face. It was a look he'd worn all day. Harry wondered if he were more worried about going back to Hogwarts than he appeared. "Are you all right?" he asked.
A toss of his hair, and Draco was back to his normal self. "Yes," he said, and picked up his own trunk. "I want to say farewell to my mother, of course, but since she wants to say farewell to us, I hardly think that's a problem, is it, sir?" He darted a glance at Snape, who merely shook his head.
Joseph joined them as they made their way towards the kitchen, where the people who wanted to say goodbye awaited them. Harry watched in amusement as Snape's face tightened, but then had to look away as Joseph met his eyes and mouthed something about having a conversation soon. He wondered when the Seer would understand that while he was perfectly happy to talk about things that actually mattered, he'd dealt with Kieran's death, and that was in the past now.
Narcissa was the first to meet them when they entered the kitchen, but she was only the first; there were many more people than Harry had suspected. He felt his face flame, even though so far they were only staring, and Narcissa was stroking Draco's hair back from his forehead and murmuring something in his ear that was probably much more embarrassing than being stared at.
Draco nodded. "I've thought it through, Mum," he said. "This is what I want to do."
Harry believed he heard Narcissa utter a delicate sigh, but she turned to him then, and Harry had other things to say. "I hope you understand that you're always welcome in Silver-Mirror, Mrs. Malfoy," he said. "For as long as you like."
"Narcissa," she reminded him, and hugged him instead of merely clasping his outstretched hand the way Harry had thought she would. His face now hot enough to hurt, he hugged her carefully back, and she murmured into his ear, "Take care of him, Harry, and let him take care of you. And I'll see you soon, since I have a seat on the monitoring board."
"Yes, Narcissa," Harry said automatically, because he couldn't think of another thing to say, and turned away to face the others.
Hawthorn touched his shoulder with one hand, a soft push more intimate than an embrace. "Take care of yourself, Harry," she said. "And thank you for my life back, and my freedom, without which life is worth nothing."
Harry considered her warily as he reached up to touch her arm in return. Something had changed her from the woman who tore apart her bedding over Claudia's death, but he still couldn't tell what it was. He hoped it would stay constant, though, so that Hawthorn would not yield herself to bitterness and outrage again. "You deserve freedom," he said. "And so much more than that. I wish there had been some way to bring justice to the Aurors who hurt you, but—"
Hawthorn shrugged carelessly. "Sometimes there is not."
That made Harry look at her suspiciously, but Adalrico Bulstrode had come up and asked for his attention, so he had to let it go. And then, after a cordial wish for his continued good health, Adalrico actually said, "At first I longed for bloodshed, to show you why my name was feared when I walked among the Death Eaters. And then I decided that a war of words is better."
Harry blinked. "Really, sir?"
"Yes. This way, my enemies are much more likely to underestimate me." Adalrico chuckled. "Their memories of the time I was feared are nearly twenty years old. If I have to go to battle again, they will think me soft because I did not fight in this rebellion, and I can prove them wrong."
Harry smiled, though the logic was strange to him, and shook his hand.
Pierre Delacour was waiting behind Adalrico, his hand intertwined with Millicent's. And next to him was Adrienne, his Veela cousin, and she spoke first, before Pierre could say a word—or perhaps instead of him, Harry didn't know. "I will carry a good report back to the Veela Council, Harry vates," she said, eyes fastened to his. "You have what we seek."
"What is that?" Harry asked. It might be something as simple as "magical power," for all he knew. The most useful piece of information he possessed about the Veela Council was that their decisions needed to be unanimous, and with several hundred members, it took them years to get anything accomplished.
"You were outraged when you heard about the deaths of werewolves," said Adrienne. "Most wizards are not. They—" She said something in French, then shook her head. "They say they care about Veela," she said. "They think they care about Veela. But they care more about humans. We do not blame them. They cannot help it. But you can help it, and you do. You will have werewolves and centaurs and goblins and Veela with you, and they will matter as much to you as humans. Not as much as your mate, perhaps." She smiled at Draco, then smiled back at Harry. "But you will care if someone puts them in prison, or hurts them. That they are not human does not matter."
"Of course it doesn't," said Harry blankly, wondering why the Veela Council had needed an observer on him to figure that one out. "I could hardly be vates if I thought differently."
"There are many who have claimed to be vates, or claimed our allegiance, and do not care," said Adrienne placidly. She was the one who took and kissed his hand this time. "Good wishes go with you."
Harry nodded, still surprised, and turned around to say farewell to the werewolves. Some of the alphas had accepted his offer to shelter their packs in Woodhouse and work in a headquarters that would operate out of London, once Harry figured out which of several seemingly abandoned buildings near Diagon Alley actually belonged to the Blacks. Others would return to their safe houses, which could be cleaned up and repaired in some cases, and were formally giving up his protection, though, they hoped, not his friendship.
Harry answered as politely as he could, and worked his way through the packs until he arrived at the northern goblins, who were standing near the back of his room. Helcas had a crooked smile as he watched him. Harry wondered if he had sharpened his teeth into points for a good goblin clan reason, or to frighten the people around him.
"Take this, as a token of our friendship, and to summon our aid if you need it," said Helcas, pressing a chain into his hand. "Swing it, and we will hear your call, as our southern cousins will hear the call of their horn. We could hardly be your only allies without a way to hear you."
Harry knew of no way to refuse the gift gracefully, so he accepted it with a murmur of thanks, and coiled the chain around his wrist. "And you will contact me if you are having trouble with the Goblin Board in the Ministry, I hope?" he asked.
Helcas gave him a superior look. "We are not like wizards, Harry vates," he said. "We can admit when we need help."
Bone nodded when Harry caught his eye. "So can we," he said. "We will follow you back to Hogwarts. And we have an advantage over your other allies, vates. We are close beside you. Should you raise your flag in rebellion again, you have only to call on us." He looked wistful for a moment, and Harry realized that the centaurs had had little chance to fight directly, except when they had gone with him to the Ministry to break Hawthorn and the other werewolves out of Tullianum. Harry was torn between sympathy and hoping fervently that he never had the chance to rise in rebellion again. When he started hunting Voldemort, he hoped it would be a private thing, involving only him and those others who had some reason to hate the Dark Lord, rather than a great war that would rip the lives out of innocents.
"Thank you," he said instead, and went outside. He had one more person to say farewell to, one who wouldn't fit into the kitchen.
The karkadann trumpeted on seeing him. She stood on the other side of Woodhouse, but that hardly mattered. She sprinted towards him, her feet tearing divots out of the ground as usual, and skidded to a stop in front of him. Harry shivered. To be so suddenly close to such speed and power and heat was daunting. Her head dipped, and her black horn rubbed along his shoulder as she gave a low squeal.
"I know," Harry whispered, stroking her mane. It fell through his fingers like heavy sand. "I'm sorry. I wish there was something I could do, some way I could take you with me. But you couldn't live in the Forbidden Forest. The webs would try to bind you, and the other creatures would try to eat you."
The karkadann snorted, but it was a cheerful sound, instead of the pouting one that Harry had expected. She brushed her horn against him restlessly, and then breathed out, the stink of rotting meat rushing over and bathing his face.
Harry blinked, and then realized he had a vision in his mind, similar to the visions he used to receive when Fawkes sang. The karkadann was sprinting across sand in a place Harry supposed might be North Africa. She bugled, and webs splayed and spun around her as other karkadanns emerged. The one who had come to visit Harry stopped running and began telling them all about the vates. The others stamped their feet as they listened, and then one of them hit another with his horn, and then the whole gathering exploded into an orgy of violence that was also a dance.
He sighed as the vision faded, and looked at the karkadann sternly. She snorted at him, unrepentant. She was going to do it, and he could hardly control her.
"Try to be good, anyway, and don't let anyone glimpse you on the way out of England," Harry muttered, and then watched with his heart in his throat as she kneeled before him for a moment, her horn and her forelegs and her mane sweeping the ground, before she turned and exploded towards the east and the pine forest with a burst of pure power.
"Are we going home now?"
Harry started. It was Argutus, curled up in a pocket of his robe, who had asked the question. Harry smiled and stroked the Omen snake's head as it looked out of the pocket. Argutus had had little to do while the rebellion continued, except explore Woodhouse, and he had made it clear that he was tired of that. He would be glad to see Hogwarts again.
Hell, I will be, too.
"Yes, we are," Harry replied, and then turned to find Snape, calming his fears as best he could on the way. For once, he would think about everything working out for the best. The karkadann would get out of England without anyone seeing and shooting her. The Ministry would keep its promises. Those werewolves who didn't want to stay in Woodhouse would find homes and jobs of their own. His relationship with his pack would survive, and Loki's strange letter would mean something other than the death it seemed to promise. His bonds with Draco and Snape would grow deeper. Joseph would understand that there were some conversations they didn't need to have. Hogwarts would a calm place to spend the remainder of his sixth year.
I can dream, can't I?
