Chapter Sixty-Seven: Minds, Scarred and Unscarred

Draco closed his eyes, and held Harry, and said nothing. He could feel cloth sliding under his hands, and cold silver along his spine—cold enough to feel even through the robe, as though Harry had placed his hand in the dark spaces between the stars before he returned. He felt a beating heart.

And, because of who he was, he felt the pressure and the presence of the stone in the ring on his finger, still a bit of solidified magic he had not quite managed to use before Harry broke open the barriers between the dream-world and the room in the Department of Mysteries.

He might love Harry as much for sparing him from using that magic as he might for the power he'd just exuded, he thought.

Harry finally stepped away from Draco with a small shake of his head. "Later?" he murmured.

­He—ah. Draco had to hide his chuckle as he caught sight of a flush that wasn't embarrassment or dying worry or exultation on Harry's cheeks. He nodded and let his fingers rest against the side of Harry's neck before he moved to greet Snape. Snape did not touch him. That did not matter. Draco could see the air around him humming with his relief, his respect, his gratitude.

And Draco could add his own to it, as he leaned back and folded his arms and watched Harry move from person to person, soothing with words, sometimes the touch of a hand, and occasionally a flicker of magic, if it seemed that the wizard or witch in question needed to feel that. He also darted quick glances from the corner of his eye at Mr. Bulstrode, so that by the time Adalrico stirred and Harry dropped into a fluid kneel beside him, Draco had the feeling that Harry knew quite as much about his physical condition as if he had checked him over all the time.

"Mr. Bulstrode," Harry said, and then corrected himself, with a faint smile on his lips, at one of those jokes Draco hated because he hadn't shared. "Adalrico. What hurts the most?"

"My hand." Adalrico rolled on one side and held it out. Harry grasped and studied it. Draco, who had come up behind him—when had he done that?—scanned it narrowly. He could see dark, blue, fleshy bruises along the fingers, but he wasn't sure what might have happened.

Harry's free hand trembled, though, as he reached out and rested it on Adalrico's forehead. "Transfigured flesh," he said quietly. "You'll have the best care in the wizarding world, Adalrico. I mean it."

The man nodded and closed his eyes. Millicent was kneeling down beside him, and her hand clasped his arm as if it wouldn't move any time soon. Draco couldn't blame her. He knew how he would have felt if it were Narcissa in the clutch of the Unspeakables.

Harry stood, moving aside like a dancer when Elfrida came to watch her husband, and considered him for a moment more. Then he nodded, and turned, and seemed surprised to find himself chest-to-chest with Draco.

He smiled, though, instead of retreating as he would have once, and leaned in to whisper, "Still not quite private enough yet for what I want to do."

Draco raised his eyebrows, stifled his own flush, and nodded. He could wait. There was no reason to hurry.

Harry's heart was beating.

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

Millicent cast the spell lurking in her wand—at least, it felt as if it were lurking there and not on her lips, and had been since the moment she heard of her father's capture. The magic spread over Adalrico's body in a soft, sparking net, popping gold and red before it vanished into his joints and elbows. Millicent stroked his forearm above the Dark Mark and watched.

Wisps of blue rose to the surface of his fingers and chest and hair a moment later, like steam off food. Millicent studied them, while her parents had a quiet reunion in the middle of the floor.

Pain, the blue wisps spoke of, and by the depth of their color, she could guess how severe the pain had been.

This was the color of the bruises on Adalrico's fingers. It spoke of suffering that was never going to heal.

Millicent's hand spasmed open, but she tucked it beneath his shoulder, so that no one else could see, and heaved, to get him to his feet. Adalrico cocked his head to look at her, and curved one heavy brow in amusement.

"Everyone else is leaving," Millicent pointed out. Harry and Draco had moved over to another black wood door in the walls, guided by an arrow of Harry's magic that would—Millicent hoped—lead them to the correct portal. "Unless you really want to stay here and spend some more time with the Unspeakables, then I suggest—"

Her voice clipped itself off at the look on her father's face.

"Millicent," said Adalrico softly. "Do not joke about this. Promise me that you will never joke."

Millicent strove to swallow several times before she could. Then she whispered, "I promise it."

Adalrico inclined his head in a fragile nod, then stood. He leaned on Elfrida as she led him towards the door, and that was the first time Millicent had ever seen that happen. The Stone and the Unspeakables might have given Adalrico back with the damage undone, but that was not the same as healing it, and Merlin knew what he had seen and felt along with suffered.

And he had come through alive, and without a resentful glance towards Harry.

Could I have done as much?

Millicent did not know. She hadn't had time to feel resentment towards Harry. She had followed Harry's summons to the Ministry through the phoenix song communication spell when her father was taken, and then she had wanted him back, and then she had prepared to fight Unspeakables, and then she had fought birds instead, and then she had knelt beside her father. Emotions other than sheer determination had existed on the far side of when I have him back.

But now she had her father back, and he did not seem to blame Harry. He seemed to feel it was a reasonable price to pay for the alliance, and that because Harry had come and rescued him, that obliterated any blame that might arise from the fact that the Unspeakables had only taken him in the first place because he was Harry's ally.

Could I have done as much?

And the thought repeated in her head, and repeated, like the roar of surf, because someday her father would be dead, and she needed to stand at Harry's side, and she did not know whether she could maintain that kind of blameless trust in a powerful wizard—that kind of trust in the mechanics of power, for that matter, which accepted the risks of becoming strong enough to attract attention.

But she had the feeling that she would need to learn to do so, because neither the commitment nor the danger was going away.

Millicent slid the wand back into the holster on the side of her belt and followed her parents.

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

Rufus was waiting for them.

He hadn't gone with them, of course. What might happen in the Department of Mysteries was too strange to fathom, and on the off chance that it killed Harry, Rufus had needed to remain above in the Ministry and prepare for the worst. If he had gone down and been killed—

Rufus shook his head. He did not know who would have been Minister. Amelia Bones's run of power was done. Some members of the Wizengamot might jostle each other for the Minister's office, but Rufus personally thought Elder Juniper was the most likely to win. And given the delicate state of affairs between the Ministry and the werewolves, and Juniper's dislike of them, that might have been disastrous.

It was not the first time he had had to stay behind and think of life and the future while people he valued went to face death in the present. But perhaps he had never been so glad as he was now to see those people come back into the light, not unharmed, not safe, but alive.

He held out his hand on instinct when Harry stepped out of the lift into the Atrium. Harry gave him a quick glad glance, and clasped it back. Rufus narrowed his eyes at the thrum of power through his palm.

He has grown stronger again.

It would mean many dangerous things for the Ministry, but not as many dangerous things as an Unspeakable victory would have meant, or an illusion of the Stone advancing with slow majesty up the corridors. Rufus would have accepted the growth of Harry's magic for that reason alone.

And he could accept it for another reason, he thought, as he turned to welcome his Aurors back into the Ministry and congratulate them on their courage—disgruntled though some of them looked. The part of him that wanted to follow Harry was howling like a hound on the scent of blood. Harry had defied those who insisted that a powerful sixteen-year-old would destroy the wizarding world. He had done things that Rufus was not sure Albus Dumbledore in the height of his power could have done.

Rufus had felt the blast of magic that soared up through the Ministry. It could have meant so many things, including that Harry had simply grown tired of the way the wizarding world worked and decided to claim it.

And yet, he had not only not done so, he looked more interested in chivvying his allies out of the lifts than demanding a parade and concessions from Rufus.

Just as he thought that, Harry glanced over his shoulder and locked eyes with him. "I do trust that Pharos Starrise will be arrested and tried before the Wizengamot?" he asked, in the tone of a gentle suggestion.

"He freely admitted conspiracy with the Unspeakables," Rufus told him. "At the least there will be a trial."

Harry nodded, and turned away. Adalrico Bulstrode himself was coming out of the lift now, leaning on the arms of his wife and daughter. He stumbled. For a moment, Rufus caught a glimpse of the Dark Mark under his sleeve.

We have all changed.

Some of us more than others.

He sent the returned Aurors, quietly, to Pharos's cell, to inform him that he was under arrest. He paused, then also told them to tell him his victim had come back alive. The Auror he told that to, Emily Frogswallow, widened her eyes in delight that was almost unholy.

"And that doesn't fall under the definition of torture, sir?" she asked, as if hoping that it would, but also aware that Rufus wouldn't allow her to say anything if it did qualify.

"It falls under the definition of getting what he deserves," said Rufus.

Frogswallow practically curtsied and danced away up the hall, arguing with her partner about who would get to tell Starrise the truth.

Rufus smiled tightly, and faced Harry. "I need to speak with you about the political situation with the Stone and the Unspeakables," he murmured.

"Of course, sir." Harry took a few more moments to talk with Adalrico, evidently determining whether there was anything he needed, and then joined Rufus. They made the journey to his office in silence.

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

Harry smiled a bit and settled back in the chair Scrimgeour had given him. He was not sure which felt better: the push of the cloth against his shoulders, or the fact that Snape and Draco were back beside him, where they belonged. He had missed them more than he realized in the dream-world of Dark and Light and the paths. "Ah, but, sir, you don't quite understand. This isn't entirely a political situation. It's also a magical one. The Stone is fascinated with me. It saw the prophecies that surround me, and the way I contended with Falco. It wants to watch me."

Scrimgeour tapped his fingers on the desk. "Like a hybrid in a glass cage."

"Well, rather, sir." Harry shrugged and shifted position. He'd taken a hard knock on one shoulder from a falling piece of magic, or perhaps simply from the strain of channeling so much power through his body. Draco's hand descended and massaged it. Harry allowed himself to think for one longing moment about what he would like to have Draco do once they were back in bed, then hastily reminded himself that he was in front of the Minister, and certain reactions were inappropriate. "But for that very reason, I think it's actually more likely to keep its promises than a human in the same situation. It's a—a version of a research wizard who doesn't have a family or eating or sleeping or political enemies to distract him from his goals. It will watch me and be tempted to do almost nothing else, I think. It was enthralled with me. I wasn't just the passing entertainment of a moment. And as long as it maintains its interest, then I won't be in danger from it, nor my allies, nor the Ministry—and hopefully not the rest of the wizarding world."

"Must you be a sacrifice, again?"

Harry blinked for a long moment before he realized what the Minister was talking about. "I don't consider interesting the Stone in me a sacrifice, sir," he said, with a small smile. "It's passive, after all. And I did what I had to do in the Department of Mysteries. Anyone else in my place and with my power and with my mindset would have done as much."

Scrimgeour opened his mouth as if to ask a question, then shook his head and let the words die unborn. "And what will happen if the Unspeakables and the Stone do slip out of control again?"

"Summon me." Harry shrugged. "There are other things about me the Stone never mentioned knowing. I think I can raise a mystery that will make it interested again, and that makes it abandon its games for the game of watching."

Scrimgeour sighed. "So nothing is settled."

"Nothing directly, sir. It may still break its promises. But it may also be more faithful than any human. And even humans can break oaths, or act against common sense," Harry added, thinking of Lucius, thinking of Pharos. "We will have to wait and see what it does."

Scrimgeour nodded, as if he didn't like it but couldn't think of anything better. "You realize that some Light wizards may take the opportunity to act against you?" he asked, eyeing Harry. "For poisoning the mind of the scion of a noble and ancient family, or whatever other grievance they can dream up? Not because they believe it, but because they believe their political power may be lessened by this?"

Harry laughed. "I should be used to people creating accusations out of thin air about me, sir. This time, though, I mean to give the accusations weight. I will tell whoever asks that Pharos Starrise's means of taking vengeance were foul and ridiculous. The ritual his uncle used should have settled the debt between the two families, as it was meant to. At the least, Pharos could have challenged Adalrico to a formal duel, instead of giving him into the custody of men and women who are enemies of all sane in the wizarding world. The Light's honor has broken. They won't get far by pressing against me." He sat up a little straighter. "And I mean to break the monitoring board."

"Do you." Scrimgeour's voice was neutral.

Harry gave him a direct look. "Yes. They've given me what they can. I haven't turned on them and snapped at them. Anyone who wants to listen knows that our few meetings have been riven by factionalism on both sides, not my refusing to listen to their reasonable recommendations and running off on my own, like the child they pretend I am. And I don't really think the Wizengamot would end Gloriana Griffinsnest's trial now, would they?"

Scrimgeour slowly shook his head. "No. We've questioned her, and she's admitted to a few unsolved murders of werewolves as well as to Claudia's. So she must be tried, if not convicted."

"Good." Harry stretched his arms above his head and gave a little shake. "I'm going to do what I should have done in the first place: talk to my Light allies about making Light wizards trust me and giving them a voice in Dark-dominated politics. Not the monitoring board. Not anymore."

"You do realize—" And Scrimgeour flushed, and stopped.

"Sir?"

Scrimgeour appeared to hold a private argument with himself. Harry leaned forward, attentive.

"I wish," said Scrimgeour at last, his tone striving for dignified and not making it, "to be there when you talk to Aurora Whitestag and tell her about the dissolution of the monitoring board."

Grinning, Harry stood and extended his hand. He noticed only a moment later that it was his silver one, but he didn't take it back. He would make the cold metal flesh in the end. "Come with me then, sir. We don't have far to walk."

Scrimgeour's hand touched his. Harry knew that only by sight, since he couldn't feel anything through the silver yet. But that would change. He would make sure that would change.

And, really, seeing the expression on Aurora's face ought to be enough to make up for a disappointment in the matter of his metallic hand. If some things were not yet right in the world, a good many other things were.

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

Aurora had felt the shifting of magic, as though one foundation stone had just replaced another at the root of the world. She was wary, and she did not scurry home as the others had. Still she sat in the small room just inside the Atrium, hands clasped in her lap, and waited. Griselda Marchbanks sat with her.

She half-started when the door opened and Harry stepped inside. He had a windblown look about his features, as if he had run across the tops of a cliff and let the desert touch him. The look he turned on her was cool and remote. As Snape and young Malfoy and even the Minister crowded inside, Aurora couldn't take her eyes away, couldn't see who else he had brought to witness her humiliation. She knew the words he would speak before he spoke them.

"The monitoring board is dissolved," he said.

And she had to pull herself together, and fling into the teeth of that uncaring coolness: "Why?"

"I need it no longer," said Harry, with a slight shrug. "And it did me more harm than good, and next to nothing to secure political power for Light wizards." He paused, and, for some reason, stared over his shoulder at his Malfoy before he turned back to her. "And, technically, it was illegal in the first place. The Ministry doesn't deal that way with Lord-level wizards."

"Laws can be changed." Aurora did not look away, did not weep. "And you were the one who offered the compromise, Harry."

"Didn't know the laws then." He looked utterly unapologetic, despite the self-condemnation in his tone. "Should have. And since then, people who have always cared for me and protected me looked them up, and told me this was illegal. So. There's no reason to maintain it any more."

"You are still very young," Aurora said softly.

"And I've always survived with help from friends," said Harry. He leaned back against Draco Malfoy, a blatant gesture of disrespect, considering that Draco was so much younger than Aurora, and had no political standing of his own. His smirk widened when the Malfoy boy stroked his shoulder, as if he didn't know or could not see the implications of the gesture marking him as a pet. "I don't think I need an entire monitoring board half-composed of enemies helping me. It's a waste of your very valuable time and attention that could be better turned elsewhere."

Aurora lowered her eyes, and gave a slow nod. She had felt that burst of magic. She knew, from the exultation on Madam Marchbanks's face, that the rest of the wizarding world already on Harry's side was apt to think of this as part of his vates duties, and that others would swing towards him. Harry did command Light families who could stir the loyalties of others. Opalline might be despised for not participating in wars, but they could summon allies and pull strings that no one else could. Gloryflower had soared back into prominence with Laura Gloryflower's intention of protecting her werewolf niece. Marchbanks followed him now. There would be others who would be glad to take Aurora's place even if the monitoring board continued to exist, and Harry would welcome them as his friends.

That they would be his friends, and therefore less likely to criticize him and teach him that there were limitations even to magic, would seem irrelevant to both Harry and those who might replace her.

Aurora raised her eyes to Harry's face as slowly as she had lowered them. She had never found out what had changed his soul, but she knew now it had been the death knell for her ambitions. She could never hope to gain the advantage over him that she had wanted, never hope to put the leash around his neck that she had been convinced had to go there, for the good of the world. And that would remain true even if they patched up their differences and he accepted her as a friend someday. He was not in the mood to listen to advisers now. He would meet them, at best, on an equal footing.

And he was not interested in the words of a woman who had had two of her children destroyed by him. That much was plain. Aurora wondered if he remembered Heloise and Abelard's names.

She would retreat. She could not win, and so she would not destroy herself trying. She would retire gracefully from the field. She would help the Light achieve what prominence it could in Britain, because the Dark was either mad or intent on following a sixteen-year-old. She would dance as much as she could in the unoccupied areas, not engaging with Harry.

And if what she feared happened and all the great dream came tumbling down, she would attempt to fight and preserve what she could, instead of dooming it all to die with Harry because she had trusted him too much with its protection.

"Thank you for explaining, vates," she said. "I will leave now. You know my name, if you should decide that you wish to ask for my help."

She saw the Minister's face freeze from the corner of his eye. Aurora laughed, but only inside, and it was a tired and bitter laugh. Had he expected her to crumple? She saw no reason to do so. If her grief had been overwhelming, she would have, but she was tired of such a long and pointless struggle that would only end up raising another Lord. Britain had chosen to follow magical power instead of wisdom. Let them deal with it. It might even work out well for them.

She saw Draco Malfoy's eyes narrow as if studying her, and Severus Snape lean forward like a hound on the scent. Aurora avoided his gaze. She had begun studying Occlumency since that first disastrous meeting, but she did not think her barriers could stand up to his probing, yet.

Instead, she looked at Harry, interested, even now, to see how he took this.

She found his eyes peering back at her with bright, piercing confidence, the confidence of a hawk who would not believe he could not strike the target. Aurora concealed her pity behind a nod and a smile, and walked past him.

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

Lucius leaned back and closed his eyes.

Narcissa had written him a letter describing the events in the Ministry. It was a short letter, and listed only points of action, without telling what she felt about them, or what Draco felt. She probably assumed he could imagine what they thought.

There was one exception to that: the last sentence.

Do you not wish, now, that you had kept your loyalty to a man who would rescue you if the Unspeakables ever captured you?

"Ah, Narcissa," Lucius whispered to the fire, and stood. "If you understood that I have more to fear from Harry capturing me."

He accepted the truth, now. He was alone. He had hoped to work his way back into Harry's good graces by careful handling. He had hoped that with enough time and enough obedient behavior—and a commitment to that obedient behavior—Harry might want him as an ally again. And he had believed that such a thing might work. Slowly, slowly, the new path dropped into place exceeding fine.

His last hope had always been that, if Harry did discover what he had done, he might pause, hesitate, forgive—for Draco's sake if not Lucius's.

But now that hope had flashed into flames, too. The Harry who had come forth from the Department of Mysteries, who had killed without flinching, might, possibly, forgive, but Lucius would not trust his life to chance.

It was time to consider plans of self-preservation, plans of making sure that he could survive Harry's wrath when it appeared, not plans that were geared towards keeping him from ever discovering Lucius's secrets. Lucius was a master at these. They had served him well when the Dark Lord fell. Those like Bellatrix, who had believed he would never fall, had been caught alive in the trap of their own assumptions. Lucius did not intend to be.

It was time for plans of escape.

SSSSSSSSSSSSSS

Hawthorn scattered some more dust into the potion, then, with a curse, cast a stabilizing spell on the cauldron and stepped away with a deep half-cry. She could not concentrate on even a possible cure for lycanthropy right now, when so many thoughts were brewing around in her head.

She stalked to the window from which she could see her garden. The memorial of pansies, hawthorn, and dragonsbane usually calmed her.

Today, it only made her think of how Indigena Yaxley had come to her garden, summoned Connor Potter there—Hawthorn believed it was ultimately her summoning, and not Rosier's—and taunted her with her life. And she had not taunted Hawthorn with memories of Pansy's death, either. She barely seemed to remember what they were to each other. She had gone on living her life when Pansy died, in spite of the curses that had almost killed her.

And now there seemed to be next to no way of killing her, if all of Hawthorn's curses had bounced off.

She reached out and murmured a spell that grew her fingernails into spikes, sufficiently sharp and thin to be different from werewolf claws. She drew them down the glass of the window, carving long, parallel patterns that shrieked the air apart.

Hawthorn could not allow Pansy's killer to live. At the same time, she knew Harry would not take vengeance on her, and that seemed to be the one sure method of making her die. And an execution held no appeal for her. She wanted Indigena to die from vengeance, not justice.

Most of the time, she could give up vengeance. She had done so for Claudia, though that wound still pulled at her like the loss of a limb, sometimes. She had done so for Fergus Opalline, dead in battle. She had done so for Dragonsbane; he went to his death willingly, and she had known.

But for Pansy…

Let me have this. Let me have this one scarlet, blood-soaked, screaming thing.

And she would not rely on curses in battle again. Harry had accepted that because she had done it in hot blood. But that was no way of insuring Indigena Yaxley's death. Hawthorn had to do it slowly, in cold blood, had to stand over her enemy's body and make sure it no longer breathed or spoke or grew.

She wanted that.

And she was unsure if she could achieve that.

She stood there, silent now, save for the noise as she drew frost-patterns on the glass, over and over again.

SSSSSSSSSSSSSS

There was an old ritual that should have answered.

Adalrico thought of the ritual as he sat in front of the fire, his hand stretched out towards the heat. He was not trying to grip anything with it yet. Millicent and Elfrida had cast healing spells on it until he told them to stop. Marian was currently curled in his lap, asleep, the only company he could tolerate because she did not know or comprehend what had happened to her father.

There was an old ritual that would have been inflicted on anyone who tried to take vengeance when a feud was settled. It would have let Adalrico summon Augustus's ghost and confront him with Pharos's actions. He would have been horrified, and he would have turned his back on his nephew, condemning them to meet no more. Adalrico knew it. Starrise had been a stubborn old bastard, but he had been, every inch, a child of the Light pureblood rituals. Invoking revenge when it should have been done with was a violation of those rituals, and turning to help outside the family made it doubly vile.

He lifted his hand and flexed the fingers. As Harry had said, it was Transfigured flesh. He could use the hand again, someday, perhaps as soon as a month from now. He could do a great many things, actually. But he would still have the memory of the acid wringing the muscle and the magic from the bone.

There was an old ritual he should have been able to use on Pharos Starrise, instead of turning him over to the Ministry's justice.

Adalrico Bulstrode sat before the fire, and the desire for vengeance stirred in him with a bright and high and deadly song.