Chapter Ninety-One: The Old Light

Rufus had made sure he slept well. His mind was as clear as it was likely to become. He had talked with Percy quietly as they went to Courtroom Ten, not about what had happened the last time they were there, Unbreakable Vows and Unspeakables and the Ritual of Cincinnatus, but about the progress of his training. Percy, though inclined to squint at him at first as if he thought there must be something wrong for the Minister to take an interest in an Auror trainee, was describing it with enthusiasm now.

"And then they said that the trainees who had a difficult time lying down behind the walls and casting curses could get up, because it was their turn now—"

Gryffindor. Pure Gryffindor, every inch of him. It didn't surprise Rufus a bit that Percy preferred being in battle and casting curses to lying down behind a wall and doing so in safety. He might change his mind if he were ever in a real battle, since the walls would keep not only him but the comrades he would care about safe.

And then Rufus remembered that Percy had already been in a battle, the one in the Ministry two years ago where he had stepped in front of a curse to save Rufus's life.

Well, I was wrong, then. Pure Gryffindor, plain and simple.

The Aurors waiting as guards on Courtroom Ten opened the door for them. Rufus could see their slightly wary gazes. They were weighing him, trying to decide how much gravity he had this morning, how much force to pull the rest of the Wizengamot towards him. Since the mistake with Cupressus Apollonis, a few of the Aurors who had more political ambitions than the rest were beginning to distance themselves from him. Personal loyalty could not stand against loyalty to family for most purebloods and even halfbloods, as Rufus had reason to know.

He smiled at them. "Good morning, gentlemen," he said crisply. "A good day for the Light." And he strode past them, not even his bad leg troubling him much this morning. He'd soaked it last night in a long bath full of the potions that the Healer he'd seen sixteen years ago, just after he received the wound, recommended. He didn't usually do it because it took three hours to bring a little relief, and besides, the wound was a badge of honor. But for today, when he wanted to look as though he controlled the British wizarding world—as he still did, as they hadn't yet said he didn't—he'd bathed it to make sure he would have no trouble walking.

A tide of speculation was already rising behind him, then, and he added to it when he appeared in the gallery of Courtroom Ten and walked to his place beside Griselda Marchbanks. Usually, Rufus had waited in the bottom of the chamber, near the place where prisoners sat, to escort the werewolves who spoke to the Wizengamot in. Most of the Elders were only willing to hear them if they had a guarantee of their good behavior from the Minister himself.

Now there were no more petitioners to be heard from. The Wizengamot was going to put the werewolf crisis to a vote today, if Rufus had anything to say about it, or at least make sure that this did not continue for much longer. He needed either enough Elders to secure the vote or enough to make sure his coalition did not crumble between now and the next session.

So he took his place among them again, as an equal, and he could tell it affected them, to see his confident stride and set face. He took the seat next to Griselda, and nodded to her and a few other Elders who regularly followed her, but let his gaze skim coolly over everyone else. He could feel Percy, who'd followed him in to serve as an attendant and secretary if necessary, holding in exultant laughter.

"Good morning, Rufus," Griselda said, her voice so soft that even magnifying charms would have had a difficult time bringing it to anyone else's ears. "What has cheered you up so efficiently?"

"Good morning, Griselda," Rufus returned. "You'll see in a short while, when everyone else does."

She sat back in her chair and looked thoughtfully at him. Rufus knew she was wondering at his refusal to tell her ahead of time. Besides being the friend of the southern goblins, she was his friend in her own right. Why would he want to keep a secret from his closest allies?

Because nothing must be allowed to go wrong, old friend, Rufus thought, while he sat back and kept his gaze as smooth and assessing as a hawk's. You would probably be able to look surprised when I told you about Harry's letter, but I will not take the chance. The expression of surprise must be genuine, and if someone asks you later whether you knew what I was going to say, you must be able to say no.

Today, we begin on a new footing. And there might be a few even of my friends reluctant to follow me onto the ground I'll propose. Well. That is as it must be. But in that case, I will not give them special consideration.

He watched the last few Elders come into the room. Some of them were exchanging looks and mutters with each other that were probably the results of growing coalitions, or small, fragile alliances against Juniper. Rufus found himself more and more amused as moments passed, and Juniper still did not appear. It was unlikely that he would be late this day of all days. He would wait until the moment the meeting was supposed to begin, and then arrive, drawing all eyes to him.

And sure enough, that was what he did. He came in clad in a dark cloak that wrapped his robes so closely one would have thought it was December instead of June. Rufus had made a private bet with himself that Juniper would wear special robes for this special occasion. He wondered if he were right.

Juniper handed the cloak to one of the Aurors waiting next to the door, who didn't look as if he relished being made into a house elf, but could hardly protest a gesture like that from an Elder of the Wizengamot. Then he strode into the middle of the gallery towards his seat, which was just a bit left of center, his chin uplifted.

Rufus nodded slowly. Juniper's robes were red, with a golden bird imprinted on them in the colors of wavering flame. It was not a phoenix, as the stylized flames around it showed, but a firebird, a much older symbol. The firebird had longer legs, and its specialty was its dance, as the phoenix's was its song. Once, in the darker ages when there were no Ministries and records were uncertain, Light wizards bearing the firebird symbol had been the ones who preserved history, the ones who defended the defenseless, the ones who fought back Dark wizards who would have made slaves of both Muggles and their own kind.

It was really no surprise that Juniper was choosing to ally himself with that tradition. In his own eyes, he was the continuation of that tradition, one of the few wizards who cared about what happened to the world he'd grown up in, and which he still valued.

Rufus had studied some history of his own, though. He knew there had been Dark wizards in the ranks of the firebirds. He knew that one way the Light wizards had finally settled the slavery disputes was by binding magical creatures to do the work instead. It was suspected that that was the reason house elves had been bound, though details on their webs were sketchy.

The firebird stood for Light, for grace, for an old and proud set of customs that worked at making the wizarding world better. It also stood for exclusion, for cutting out, for oppression of others as long as those others weren't part of the group the firebird wizards had sworn to protect.

It stood for sacrifice.

Rufus had spent enough time cleaning up the mess that sacrificial ethics had made of the wizarding world. He wasn't about to let it start again.

He rose and extended his hands with a slight bow. Juniper, who had opened his mouth to make an announcement, turned to face him with a small blink.

Rufus caught his eyes, and let his own opposition and pride and merriment shine forth.

Juniper's head lowered slightly, and his face darkened. Rufus made his smile just this shade of mocking, and then turned to face the rest of the Wizengamot.

"Wizards and witches of the Wizengamot," he said, "gentlemen and ladies of the British wizarding world." He turned his gaze back and forth, regular as clockwork, making sure to encompass them all. "We have heard a great deal about tradition in the arguments set forth in the last few days. We have heard that it is tradition to make sure werewolves cannot harm others, instead of good sense. We have heard it is tradition to keep our world secret from the Muggles, while forgetting the historical pressures that led to the decision. And we have heard that the core of our world is humanity for a very good reason: because it is tradition. I see that Elder Juniper has come today wearing another nod to the old allegiances.

"I am here today to tell you that our traditions are fossilized, and have not dealt well enough with the vast changes our world has undergone in the last few years. Law, history, custom—all those are good things to keep in mind. But we must also be mindful of the new, and able to face challenges we have never met before. All laws, all incidents of history, all customs, were new at one point in time. And now it is our turn to make new ones that our descendants will follow."

He saw faces brighten across the gallery. They were willing to listen, if he could only convince them that he was worth listening to. And he would. He had promised himself he would, and his conviction throbbed in his voice. If he could sound convincing, then at least some of them would be more open to his proposal, whether or not they chose to follow it in the end.

He caught Juniper's eye, and thus saw the almighty scowl the man was throwing him. Rufus smiled sweetly back, and swept into the second phase of his speech.

SSSSSSSSSSSSSS

Narcissa appeared, and staggered. She had visualized the desolate heath properly, but not the exact section of slope where she had Apparated. She caught herself and turned, wand out, ready to defend herself against a series of wards or a guardian beast. She was almost sure that she would have to, given where she was.

But the bleak country around her remained silent, without even a trace of singing birds. The sun tried to catch on the withered grass and rough hill-slopes, but there was nothing to attract its reflection or make it want to shine. Narcissa shook her head and lowered her wand. She did not put it away. That would be foolish, considering where she was.

She turned again, and the house was behind her, looking remarkably similar to the old picture she'd found.

She moved a step forward, and then paused as conflicting emotions filled her. They could hardly help but be conflicting. Her husband was in that house, and the last time Narcissa had seen him, she would have lived perfectly well if his magic had been drained from him.

Now, though, nearly a month had passed, and he had not ventured out of the house or made any other stir. And Narcissa had discerned for herself where he must be, remembering the estate he'd once spoken of which his ancestors had warded so that only one of the oldest living generation of Malfoys could enter it.

And—well. Draco would have been horrified to hear this, but her relationship with Lucius was different, family pride or no family pride. He had disgraced the family. But while Draco looked on him as a disappointing Malfoy, Narcissa, who had not been born to the name she carried, looked on him as a disappointing husband. He was not the man she had married.

Not exactly. The final gesture he had made, leaving the Manor and most of the properties to Draco, showed that he had a trace of that man left in him. And Narcissa had fallen in love with Lucius over years, while Draco had known his father from the time he was born and come to accept and love him in a different way. Narcissa's bond with Lucius had more to do with choice and free will.

This was not another chance, she reassured herself as she walked towards the house. This was another look. If Lucius could not change, she would leave, and not look over her shoulder again, because there would be nothing there to salvage. But she had not had enough time to be sure he could not change.

Her mother's voice scolded her in the back of her head, telling her that marrying for love was a dangerous idea. Narcissa ignored it. Her mother had taken the same view of Andromeda's marriage, and her sister was happier with Ted Tonks than Narcissa had ever seen any pureblooded witch who'd done her duty by the family be. Their own rigorous training could not make up for a life lived almost without emotion.

Narcissa had been lucky in that her duty and her heart led her to the same place. Now, when they had apparently split apart, she thought she at least owed her heart a last glimpse.

She was about twenty feet away from the house when the door opened, and Lucius stood there, waiting for her with an unsurprised look on his face. Other than dark circles under his eyes that indicated a lack of sleep, he also seemed unchanged.

"Narcissa. My darling." He stepped away and made a deep bow, sweeping his arm past himself. "Do come in."

SSSSSSSSSSS

"I wish you to tell me, any of you," Rufus went on, his eyes burning over the wizards and witches who stared at him, "when we last confronted a Lord-level wizard the age of the vates. For that matter, when did we have a vates? When did we learn that our own past wrongs—the house elves, the centaurs, the goblins, the werewolves—could have voices and come back to haunt us? When did we last learn that a wizard many of us had trusted to be a Lord and leader was a child abuser? The best of us, committing the worst crime our world can imagine?"

He paused, and waited for an answer. This was the risk that he was taking, and which the other members of the Wizengamot might not follow him into. As they grew older, many wizards grew more conservative, prone to insisting that the way they knew was the only way. The training in pureblood dances that many of them underwent only made it worse. The pureblood dances made one strong—Rufus knew, having learned many of them himself—but they did not often make one flexible. Someone shaped by a certain set of rituals, Dark or Light, was shaped to fit only one world.

And perhaps, at one point in time, that world had been the only one that existed, the only one that a Wizengamot member needed to concern himself with. But that was not the case anymore. Rufus did not think it had been the case for the last hundred years. And he burned now, himself, at the thought of all that time lost. The Ministry could have been a beacon of progress and true Light. They might not have had to put up with idiots like Fudge.

But he could not change the past, and that included his own mistakes. He could only leap into the future.

"We have never learned anything like that," said Griselda, her voice strong. Usually, she relied on softness to make her point, causing others to lean forward to hear her, but this time her words carried through the courtroom.

Rufus smiled at her. She had chosen to trust him. And since she was over a hundred and sixty years old, many of the Elders would remember that she had lived through events that were only ancient history to them.

"That doesn't mean it's right to abandon tradition in our response," said Elizabeth Dawnborn, a fussy Elder, younger than most, but with a very metallic approach to the way the Wizengamot should do things. "We might not have had a Lord become a child abuser before, but we've had child abusers, and we've had Lords. Why not deal with them in that way, Minister Scrimgeour?" She frowned at him, and rearranged her robes around herself with a little jerk. "Why did you allow the vates to kill him and not be arrested for murder?"

"Ask anyone who was in the Ministry that day," said Rufus gently, which only made the bite of his next words worse. "Ask anyone, Elder Dawnborn, and he will tell you of the horrors of Capto Horrifer. The wizard who would use such a spell has passed the limit that most criminals, even child abusers, never cross. He cares only about hurting others. And Harry was the only one who could stop him."

"It seems," Juniper said, interposing himself with a quiet, casual grace that Rufus had to admire, "that you are determined to have exceptions for your pet vates, Rufus, whether or not they make good sense, whether or not he actually does anything to benefit the wizarding world."

Rufus felt his eyes kindle with delight. In Juniper's anxiety to make his point, he had not chosen his words carefully enough. "Why, Erasmus," he said, dropping the title, as Juniper had done to him. "I thought I was his pet, that he pulled my leash, and not the other way around. Or do we take turns kneeling and barking?"

That was a risk, in a way, reminding the Elders of Juniper's accusation. But it also pointed up the contradiction that lay in Juniper's words, and let none of them escape it.

And, a moment later, Griselda let out a shout of laughter, which led the common reaction.

Rufus held Juniper's eyes through the chuckles, and saw the pale skin flush. He had made a mistake, his most critical one in several days, but he might be able to regain his footing if Rufus would just let him.

Rufus did not let him.

"And that is the problem we need to solve," he said, swinging away from Juniper and letting his passion swell his voice. He was doubly glad he had taken the bath of potions for his leg last night. It enabled him to stride back and forth rapidly, an impressive figure, rather than limping and reminding everyone of what he had lost in the First War. "We are trying too hard to approach the vates, and the changes he brings along with him or inspires, through old metaphors. He must be a pet of the Minister. No, he must be a Dark wizard, even though he is undeclared, and even though we profess to value the allegiances of other wizards when they make them, including statements of bowing to neither Dark nor Light. No, he must be only an abused child, though the Wizengamot itself condemned his parents to Tullianum, and want to treat him like an adult otherwise. No, he must be an enemy of the state, though he has shown himself willing to negotiate when necessary.

"I propose a new set of metaphors, witches and wizards. I propose making a treaty with the vates as if he were the Minister of another country, recognizing him as an adult before he turns seventeen, and appointing him the liaison between the Ministry and groups such as the werewolf packs."

That made them erupt, as Rufus had known it would.

SSSSSSSSSSSSS

Narcissa lifted her head. "I am not stupid, Lucius," she said quietly. "I know the house will not permit anyone not of the elder Malfoy blood to enter it. I don't fancy being thrown on my knees for you to laugh at."

"My dear," Lucius said, and lounged against the doorway as if lounging were an art, "when was the last time I laughed while you were on your knees?"

That one, Narcissa had to admit, I stumbled right into. She kept her head up and watched her husband, noting the exact position of his wand hand. Nonverbally, she cast the incantation that would tell her where any wood on his body was. It couldn't catch all weapons, of course, since it would miss metal blades, but it would reveal the hiding place of a wand.

She blinked when she realized that he carried no wand at all, that it must still be inside the house, and stared at him.

"I don't need a wand to talk to you." Lucius studied her from behind a strand of blowing blond hair, and spoke the preposterous sentence with easy confidence.

"You could not know that," said Narcissa quietly. The silence around the heath and the house seemed to absorb any words she might have spoken anyway, even if she had shouted. She wondered if it was the effect of spells, or if perhaps the Malfoy ancestor who had built this house here had chosen the place for its quietude. "I might have come prepared to kill you, Lucius. You embarrassed your family, which is my family by right of marriage, and cost your son's partner and allies."

"My son's partner and allies are not my son," Lucius said. "And you are not my son, either, Narcissa. You are my wife. What we have between us is connected to what we have between us and Draco, but not the same. You know that."

"Need I remind you that I chose Draco the last time you gave me a choice?"

"I did not give you a choice," said Lucius. "I made the choice myself, and thought to inform you. That was my mistake, Narcissa."

Narcissa stiffened slightly. That had indeed been what offended her the most about the way Lucius handled Draco's disownment. He had not asked her advice, nor even listened to the few slight hints she tried to give him about the building conflict between him and Draco. He had simply signed the documents and assumed she would agree. She had thought, when she Apparated away from the Manor after their duel, that that was something Lucius would never realize.

But he had realized it, and that made him infinitely more dangerous.

As well as more attractive.

Narcissa felt suddenly as if she were back in the heady first days of their courtship, when every encounter with Lucius had the thick excitement of a lovers' meeting, and the tension of a battle. Neither of them backed down from the other. Show a weakness, and the other would bite in an instant. She had won some battles and lost others. But she had grown, almost, to think during the last year that Lucius would never win again.

I deserve to lose this one, then, for being that stupid. But the competition is not quite over yet, because he does not know everything.

"I gave Harry my permission to drain your magic." Narcissa made sure to empty her voice of emotion, and Lucius's leg twitched the tiniest bit. "Draco agreed to the same thing."

"You did not want me dead," said Lucius, "but alive and a Squib. Did you not think I would prefer to be dead, Narcissa?"

"Lucius, dear one," said Narcissa, with a faint sigh and a fainter smile, "you did not listen to me. Drained of magic. You would not be a Squib, but a Muggle, the way that Harry's mother became."

This time, it was Lucius's lips that twitched, giving the round to her.

"As for what you preferred," said Narcissa, "no, frankly, at that point in time, it never crossed my mind, Lucius. You had betrayed one of our allies and put your son and your leader in a horrible position. You had embarrassed the Malfoy family name. I was more concerned with the possible shame and degradation you had left behind you."

"Ah." Lucius tilted his head and let his eyelids slip to half-mast. "And you have come to find out why I did it, Narcissa, and to scold me for it if possible."

"I prefer the term show you your mistakes."

Lucius nodded. "You would. The simple reason I did it, Narcissa, was to maintain my life and my power in as good a state as I could leave them. Betraying Parkinson helped to provoke Harry into a course of action I hoped would be easier to control than his careen throughout September, and it removed the Unspeakables from blackmailing me—I imagined. And my son should be able to survive on his own, without my support, and without being judged by my shadow. If he is, then he has not yet achieved the independence and the political recognition that he needs to make a difference in the world, and he is still only 'Harry's lover,' not 'Draco Malfoy.' This served as a test of Draco, in the long run, to see how well he would adapt—a more controlled and less dangerous test than many I could have devised."

Narcissa thought for a long, fleeting, wild moment. She could accuse him of not wanting to test Draco at all, of getting caught up by events, but he had rewritten similar circumstances in his mind before. He could deny it and claim that he had intended this "exam" for Draco from the beginning. He might even believe it by now, the way he believed he had been the one to provoke Draco into challenging him for his confirmation as magical heir.

So she took his words instead. With Lucius, it was always better to do so. "So you maintained your life and your power, Lucius? Is that all?"

By the flare in her husband's eyes, he saw the trap then, but Narcissa was speaking too fast for him to forestall her by interruption.

"How pathetic." Narcissa gave him a steady gaze, raking him up and then down. "How pathetic that you wished simply to remain as you were, instead of pushing forward, Lucius. Did you not once tell me that you wanted to become more than you were, and that was the only reason worth risk-taking?"

He bared his teeth at her, mask cracked for the first time since the conversation had begun.

SSSSSSSSSSSSS

Rufus waited to see who would speak the first question. Really, he would be disappointed if it were not Juniper. He should recover quickly enough to head the pack.

"What is the meaning of this, Minister?" And sure enough, that was Elder Juniper, his voice calm and cold and utterly in contrast with the warm promise of the firebird on his robes. "Do you really think the vates, who has reminded us often enough that he is independent of the Ministry, will agree to become a liaison for us? When he is already pushing forward the campaign to give halfbreed children rights that their inhuman instincts should deny them? The vates is a child, a dangerous one, with a sense of impulse but no sense of pacing or the rights of others."

Erasmus, Erasmus, Erasmus. Rufus stifled the temptation to shake his head in sorrow at the Elder's fumbling. You have just said many things that you should not have.

"Owls fly faster than words, Elder," he said, and unfolded Harry's letter that he'd received yesterday evening, tapping it with his wand. A neutral voice began to read Harry's words out loud, confirming that he knew the fight for the rights of half-human wizards would take some time, and that he was willing to wait. Rufus kept his eyes on Juniper all the way through the recitation, and saw his face turning steadily whiter. By the time the words finished, Rufus thought it was all Juniper could do not to twitch.

Rufus lowered the letter, and said calmly, into that dazed silence, "Harry vates does not walk independently of the Ministry when he does not have to. He let a hunting season be proclaimed before he chose to oppose us with violence on behalf of the werewolves and shelter fugitives, despite the oath that said his blood would turn to silver if he did not openly help them. He refused the Order of Merlin at first because he felt he did not deserve it. When he did accept it, it was only reluctantly and with assurances that he did deserve it." Rufus felt a pang of regret at that. As much as that trait of Harry's was helping him right now, it was one he would rather Harry did not have. "Now he has agreed to step back and wait on a cause that's very important to him. Does that sound like someone who will refuse to work with us, to obey the laws? Does that sound like an impulsive, hotheaded child who cannot control himself? Does that sound like someone who would, in fact, refuse to be our liaison with the packs?"

Silence answered him, and then Griselda Marchbanks. "No. It does not."

"It really doesn't." That was Daisy Longchamps, an Elder who had followed Juniper, but whom Rufus often trusted to see good sense. It just had to be shoved in her face first. She spoke reluctantly now, but with a set determination to her jaw that said she wouldn't back down.

"No. It does not." Rufus cocked his head like a bird at Juniper, who was looking considerably paler now. "Nor does it sound like someone unworthy of the extra autonomy I propose to give him, especially when he will be seventeen at the end of July. What he sounds like is a unique person, the first vates anywhere in the world. I would have Britain honored by this distinction, Elders, not confounded by it. Right now, we are easy targets for international criticism. But the other Ministries, the other wizarding communities, do not have our problems. Very smug they can be, resting on their laurels and congratulating themselves on their belief that they would deal better with a vates in their care."

He spun away and lifted his hand, the one not holding Harry's letter but his wand, high. "But suppose we show them that not only do we have a vates—he was born in our country and no other, he is British, he is ours—but we can work with him, use his goals to make our community better, our laws more just, our people more forward-looking? They will have egg on their faces for laughing at us then. Instead of claiming they could do so much better, they will have to do that much better, and without the luxury of a vates who will work with them.

"We can gain our prominence back with this change, as we will gain so much else. I can see objections rising that treating with Harry as we would a Minister will weaken our position—" that was the next thing Juniper would have said, Rufus just knew it "—but I say that we can hardly be weaker than we are right now, when we flounder and scrabble madly in our indecision about the werewolf packs, and a sixteen-year-old wizard outdoes us in maturity." He waved Harry's letter again.

"I do not except myself from blame. I have made mistakes. I have had Light wizards believe that I am not their friend for accusing Cupressus Apollonis of child abuse, and, as Harry says, I am aware that I might be forced out, as much for making this suggestion as for anything else.

"But I say to you that I am ready and willing to make amends for my mistakes, and this declaration is the first step. It seals and strengthens our bonds with our vates. It grants a concession that is hardly a concession, given how close Harry is to wizarding maturity already. It gives the werewolves what they have asked for—a speaker who is sworn to the oaths of the Alliance of Sun and Shadow, who originated them, in fact—and demands they prove that they mean what they say about dealing with us. It determines our course, and gives our allies the potential to be strong, or falter because they are not strong enough, not because we made them falter." He paused, and flashed a smile around the room. "It makes us look damn good."

The laughter broke out again, led by Elizabeth Dawnborn this time, who stood up to clap. A few witches and wizards followed her, then more, until ten of them were standing. It was a start, Rufus thought, his heart pounding with excitement, especially since some of those standing had been Juniper's most noteworthy allies.

"Minister," Dawnborn said, her eyes flashing with that same contagious excitement, "what you say makes sense. And I would much rather have this move into the light of day. I am sick of debating about the packs and chasing the same words around again and again. I wish others to know what I am doing, where I stand. An official announcement will have that advantage as well as all the others you named. I support your proposal."

Ah, the honesty of the Light. Rufus was pleased. Dawnborn had an allergy to sneaking around and hiding and keeping one's affairs private which was common to many of the old Light families. She had been Light-sworn since she was nine, a Gryffindor in Hogwarts, and well-known as an advocate for wizards and witches whom the laws had hurt before she became a Wizengamot Elder. Moreover, she was younger than most of them, and more likely to be won heart and soul by a passionate speech.

Glancing around the room, Rufus could see that it wasn't that way with all of them. Some would hesitate, and not commit fully in heart and mind until they saw if this worked. But all of them could catch the mood of the room now. Opposing Rufus in public at this moment was political suicide.

I wonder if more of them will go along because they think they must, and everyone else believes in what I am doing, than will go along because they believe in what I am doing?

It was a most amusing thought. Of course, the biggest test was yet to come.

Rufus turned to face Elder Juniper. "Elder Dawnborn has been particularly eloquent in her appreciation of my efforts," he said. "Your thoughts, sir?"

SSSSSSSSSSS

"You do not have a right to call me pathetic," Lucius said, his voice drained of emotion, but full of clenching teeth. "Or what are you doing here, Narcissa, seeking a husband you claim has embarrassed the family?"

Narcissa cocked her head. Some of the funniest moments in her marriage—not necessarily the best, of course—came when Lucius insulted himself without realizing it. "Lucius," she said.

"What?" That was a hiss. If Lucius had been a cat, his ears would have been pinned straight back against his head.

"You do realize that you have just called yourself a pathetic quest object, don't you?" Narcissa kept her voice gentle.

Lucius opened his mouth slightly and raised a leg as if he would step forward. Narcissa tensed, the situation returning to her in a rush. If he came out on the heath, out from under the protection of the wards, she would be obligated to at least try to bind him and take him back to Hogwarts so Harry could drain his magic.

The thought that she wouldn't try very hard flashed through her mind, but she caught and slaughtered it. She would try. She might have come to visit Lucius, but that was a very far cry from letting him escape, or even duel her. She had made her choice. Draco and Harry had her loyalty and her love, Lucius only her love.

Luckily for both of them, Lucius halted where he was, his head lowering slightly so that his blond hair fell across his face. Narcissa waited, her fingers clasped along her wand like twigs.

"If I built it back up again?"

Lucius's voice was so soft that Narcissa almost could not hear him. "What did you say?"

He stared at her. "If I built it back up again?" he repeated, insistently. "If I built a reputation for myself? There are still Ministry contacts that answer to me, and not to Draco—personal favors I did for them, and which I am owed, that have nothing to do with the Malfoy line. And there is—there are compensations under the pureblood rituals for what I did to Parkinson. She is not compelled to accept them, but she is compelled to at least listen to me, or betray her own honor."

Narcissa controlled her breathing, but it was hard. Nothing Lucius ever did had so deeply shaken her. For him to adopt the position of petitioner was—unheard of. Even with Harry, he had always arranged matters so that he was not simply apologizing or making amends, but performing another step in the truce-dance, or doing something else that reminded the "wronged" party of their fundamental equality.

Narcissa knew the apology rituals. There was a reason they were rarely used. They simply required more humility than most Dark purebloods had.

"You didn't give Draco this house," she said. "You didn't give Draco the whole fortune. Some Galleons were missing, transferred to a separate account a few days before you signed those documents."

Lucius's eyes flared with triumph, and something more than that. Pride in her, Narcissa realized, pride that she had figured it out. "Yes."

"You intended to use this as more than a place to hide from us," she murmured. "You intended all the time to build your reputation back up, and to approach us on a more equal footing when you'd made yourself indispensable again."

Some strong emotion was moving in her, like a current of dark water. She would call part of it love, and part of it hatred, and part of it surprise at Lucius's sheer audacity. The rest was not safe to name.

"Always."

She watched the proud line of his throat, the flash of his eyes, and knew that part of her would always be in love with this man, no matter what he did, no matter what words or disloyalties passed between them. And she could not condemn that part. It was reality that it existed. No one ever got anywhere by fighting reality.

"I cannot answer your question," she said. "About what would happen if you built it up again. Because I do not know if that's possible. I do not know if you could cause Draco and Harry to forgive you, or make matters up to Hawthorn Parkinson for almost killing her and bringing up the memories of her daughter again as well as betraying her to the Unspeakables."

Lucius didn't flinch when she listed the wrongs done to Hawthorn. Of course he did not. Narcissa knew he did not regret them.

Selfish bastard. Malfoy. Lucius.

"And if I did?" he asked. "If I showed you that it is possible? Would you give me a fair hearing, Narcissa?"

A moment passed, of wind and silence and the desolation of the heath.

"I would," Narcissa said, and for a moment she let tears show in her eyes, vulnerability to complement the vulnerability that Lucius had shown her with his bowed head and soft voice. "You know I must, you bastard. No proper witch could ignore someone so strong and so beautiful."

She reveled in his self-satisfied smile. She had wanted to see it again. They were both yielding to each other: she promising to reconsider him, he admitting that he cared enough about her and Draco's opinion to try to do this.

The dance is not ended. I do not think it can be until one of us is dead.

He did not speak again as she stepped back and Apparated away, but he did kiss the back of his hand to her. Narcissa saw him, and carried the gesture with her into darkness, and then the bright, quiet beauty of Silver-Mirror.

SSSSSSSSSSSSSS

What else could he do?

He must say one thing, for all that it screamed and scraped against his instincts, for all that he had come into Courtroom Ten intending to say something entirely different.

The firebird was warm on his back. The ghosts of Light wizards past watched him, judging him under the eye of history, the only judge who was always correct, who was all-knowing.

And Erasmus Juniper had to raise his eyes to Minister Scrimgeour's and agree that, yes, his proposal sounded like one that would work, and would offer all the advantages he had promised.

Watching Scrimgeour's eyes kindle was like a punch to the stomach. But he had endured worse political defeats. What he had never done, he thought, was to lose a contest like this when there was so much at stake—possibly the very future of Light wizardry and the traditions it had preserved down all the centuries.

He waited in silence while the Minister made another speech, extolling the virtues of his proposal, and then called for a formal vote. Given what he had done beforehand, calling on them to make their opposition or agreement clear, it was self-evident that his proposal would pass, and it did, with only a few of the bravest abstaining.

Erasmus would have abstained, but he knew it would make him look like a sulky child. Therefore, he voted to tie that irresponsible child to the Ministry, and Scrimgeour thanked him with a smile too real to be sincere.

After that, there were only a few moments before he could escape from the chamber, retrieving his cloak from the Auror on the way. The robes he had intended to wear as a sign of triumph, emblazoned and blazing with the firebird, now seemed more like a sign of shame.

He Flooed back to his own home, and spent some time standing in front of the hearth, his head bowed, deep in thought, one hand braced on the flat stones of the wall. He had to calm himself down before his afternoon meeting with Aurora Whitestag and the other members of the budding alliance, when he would have to warn them about this setback and explain the effect it would have on their future actions. One thing was certain. A good portion of their support in the Wizengamot was gone.

Desperation wouldn't leave that easily, though. It bubbled and flowed and collected along his spine, clinging in large gobs to the walls of his stomach. Controlled breathing did no good. Counting to ten in all the languages he knew, the languages of other countries and the subject magical creatures, did no good.

And why should it? Didn't this situation deserve a reaction of panic, of desperation? And few people would give it one.

Of course, Erasmus thought, few people understood what was at stake.

Not even Aurora Whitestag and the allies she had helped to gather truly understood, though Erasmus thought Cupressus Apollonis might come close. They did not know that Light wizardry was dying, that too great a departure from their traditions could easily mean that they would never have those traditions back.

Erasmus spelled off his robe and set it to floating in front of him, where he could gaze at the dazzling firebird. Done in shades of gold that became red near its body, with a long red beak and legs and a dull scarlet eye, it danced above depictions of wizarding buildings throughout the ages. So those wizards who had borne the symbol had danced about something lovely and fragile, the flame of honor, of bravery, of true goodness, always guarding and tending it carefully lest it go out in the winds of wickedness.

They had had a point, Erasmus thought. Even when the Ministry was built, even when Light wizards came to dominate Dark in Britain's wizarding community through a series of Ministers who were all Light, with every Dark Wizengamot Elder or Lord falling into the traps of corruption and slavery in the end, the thing they guarded was still a shimmering and fragile flame. Not all the structures and strictures in the world would protect a living thing from dying if someone crept through the bindings and poisoned it.

And that had happened. The Ministry had become an institution. Wizards who should have known better had let their Declarations to the Light become routine. Dark wizards were allowed to go free and avoid paying for their crimes, including torture, rape, and murder, because they had money.

And now the very species that those ancient Light wizards had bound, in the sure and certain knowledge that someone must be at the bottom in any society, were breaking free, and threatening to smother the last gutters of the flame that were left. The Grand Unified Theory was the tool in their arsenal meant to turn wizard against wizard if the accusations of cruelty towards magical creatures didn't work, meant to make them doubt themselves and the blood and the heritage that had always singled them out and made them special.

Erasmus had built on perceptions like that as he rose, seeking out people who felt the same way he did, and could have the same passionate conviction to the cause of goodness and Light, the same desire to protect what was innocent and pure in their world.

But few people were used to that level of committed thinking. Few felt the eyes of their ancestors on them all the time. Indeed, the people who seemed to do so were most often Dark purebloods, and of course they would not hesitate to bribe and flatter and corrupt their opponents. That was in the best family tradition of Dark wizards, after all.

Erasmus snorted, and swung, his robe floating behind him, to eat lunch and dress for his meeting with Whitestag and her supporters.

Well, he would show others that level of thinking. Whitestag and the rest thought they were using him. He was educating them in the meanwhile, making them shed their small perceptions and rise higher, showing them that the real danger of the vates lay in the real, beautiful things he would kill in the rush to strive after some vague vision of "betterment."

This was only a small setback. Erasmus did not intend to allow that torch, passed from generation to generation and still ablaze with love, honor, and tradition, to go out.