(7/18/2019) Dun dun duuuuuuun! I actually got another chapter in! Yay!
Thank you BlewMew24, Bookworm-soul, Sailor Dragonball 87, ngregory763, Mystery Guest, and Noxvae for the reviews! And all you favoriters and followers get angel feathers!
Castiel was just being rolled away upon a gurney when the Winchesters arrived at the end of the corridor. Rather than the austere white found in standard, non-magic hospitals, healers at St. Mungo's wore robes in slight variations of lime green. Sam used his greater stride to catch up to the huddle of wizards and yanked on the arm of the most officious looking one. "He's an angel," he shouted over the din. "Make sure you use the right spells!"
The healer gave him a harrumph and sputtered, "Of -Of course we knew he was an angel! We here at St. Mungo's are quite observant, you know." Contrary to his statement, however, the healer immediately retracted much of the spellwork and potion brewing he'd asked for only a minute prior and gave his subordinates a completely new set of instructions.
Sam and Dean watched worriedly as their friend disappeared behind a set of curtains. It was a haunting callback to the last time they'd been in an emergency setting: Bobby bleeding from a hole in his head while Dick Roman taunted them from his limo. This time wouldn't have the same outcome. It couldn't.
The brothers became immersed in their maudlin musings, and therefore nearly leapt from their skin when a woman's voice came up behind them and asked, "Sam and Dean Winchester?"
They turned and found a slightly portly, red-haired woman smiling kindly at them. "I'm Molly Weasley."
"Oh!" Sam exclaimed. "Ron's mom. It's nice to meet you."
Handshakes were exchanged. "Likewise. Are… Are you here about Arthur?"
Sam and Dean exchanged puzzled glances. "Uh, no," the latter said apologetically. "Our friend got hurt."
"Oh, how terrible! It must be the night for such things."
"Is your husband okay?" gently asked Sam.
"He… He will be," Molly stated, her definitive tone only slightly marred by doubt.
"What happened?"
The Weasley matriarch peered about at the busy emergency ward before gesturing the pair to lean in closely. "Arthur was handling something for the Order," she whispered. "Harry was good enough to warn us of an attack."
"Wait," Sam said quietly, "how could Harry have known?"
"I'm not quite certain. But thank goodness he did! I can't imagine what might have happened if Arthur hadn't been found in time."
From behind the woman, a kindly young healer approached. "Mrs. Weasley?"
"Yes?"
"Could we speak for a moment?"
"Of course." Molly turned and gave both men pats on the cheek. "I'm quite certain your friend will be all right. Come see us later, won't you?"
"You got it," Sam replied.
Molly followed the healer, leaving the brothers to stand restlessly in the waiting room. "I wonder where Hagrid went," Sam finally speculated.
"To fetch me, of course," Dumbledore said from behind the pair.
Both men started slightly, but were relieved to see the Headmaster. A wizard so accomplished could be vital in seeing their friend survive whatever had happened. "Can you help?" Dean pleaded.
"Unfortunately, no," Dumbledore replied gently, "but we have long been associates with an organization with far greater resources. Their scope extends beyond the wizarding world, thankfully, and I believe they can help."
"Well, great. Where are they?"
The older gentleman gestured another man forward. He was stocky and tall, his eyes and hair both the same dark shade, and the posh English accent that fell from his lips only heightened the Winchesters' instantaneous dislike for the man. "I've brought with me the proper ingredients to keep an angel healthy, insofar as our research has been able to prove." Upon seeing Dean's scowl, the newcomer added, "Where are my manners? Arthur Ketch, British Men of Letters."
Dean glanced down at the proffered hand without changing his expression. Sam, however, engaged the gesture and introduced himself and his brother. "We've been, um, using the Lebanon Bunker."
"Because we got a right to it," Dean growled.
"Of course, of course," Ketch said amiably. "Although I'm a little surprised at the… well, the state of Henry Winchester's grandsons, it is nevertheless your legacy."
Dean immediately bristled at the insinuation, but before he could voice the profanity he'd brewed Dumbledore cleared his throat. "Arthur here has been our liaison for quite some time now. I think it's best he go to assist the healers with your friend."
"You're a wizard?" Sam asked curiously.
"A squib, actually," Ketch replied. The careful, flat way he stated the infamously debilitating condition did not go unnoticed. "While I cannot cast spells or brew potions, I can interact with the wizarding world without coming up against the barriers placed there for Muggles. Now, if you'll excuse me."
The brothers watched the Man of Letters enter the curtained off portion of the emergency area, a black satchel in hand. "You trust him?" Dean asked Dumbledore, his own distrust apparent.
"To accomplish this task, yes," the headmaster replied. "Perhaps I could offer somewhere nearby for the pair of you to get some rest? It would do your friend no favors if you were too exhausted to offer him aide."
Assuming that the wizard wished to set them up in a motel, the brothers agreed. But when he pulled a slip of parchment out and bade them to memorize the phrase on it ("The headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix may be found at number twelve, Grimmauld Place, London") their apprehension rose. Once Dumbledore was assured of their compliance, he asked, "Have you gotten the hang of apparition yet, Professor Winchester?"
The fact that both McGonagall and Flitwick had described "splinching" in excruciating detail had been deterrent enough for Sam to put off learning the teleportation technique until he was more knowledgeable about magic. "Uh, no, sorry."
"Ah, well, then I suppose some side-along apparition is in order. If you would, please, grasp my hand?"
Feeling rather foolish, the Winchesters each took ahold of one of Dumbledore's hands. Whatever embarrassment they might have harbored was immediately swept away as they became preoccupied with the incredibly unpleasant physical reaction to apparating. It was if they were being squeezed through a tube, their insides brought together forcefully and uncomfortably, while at the same time still able to wiggle and draw breath. As harrowing as it was, however, it was brief. Within seconds the brothers were stumbling onto a dark sidewalk that ran along a row of closely built homes.
Dean let go of Dumbledore's hand to bend over at the waist. "I'm gonna throw up."
"It wasn't too bad," Sam said thoughtfully.
Dumbledore nodded sagely. "It does take some getting used to. It might affect Mr. Winchester a bit more due to his Muggle status, I'm afraid."
"Fan-frigging-tastic," groaned the Muggle in question.
"Now! If you would, please, think about what I've just bade you to memorize…"
The Winchesters did so, and, much to their amazement, a house blossomed in between 11 and 13 Grimmauld Place. It shoved its neighbors aside in a manner that should have been startling for their inhabitants, but no clamor was raised. "Freaking magic," Dean muttered.
Number 12 Grimmauld Place was dark, worn, and generally appeared unkempt. In any other circumstances, the brothers would have assumed the place was abandoned. However, when they approached the door creaked open. A dark haired man gestured them forward, then placed a finger on his lips in a request for silence.
"Thanks for—what the…" Sam's graciousness went unheard; Dumbledore was gone. "Okay?"
"He does that," whispered the stranger. "Come in, quickly!"
Sam and Dean hurried in the door and watched the man carefully close it. Upon closer inspection they discovered haggard features that must have once been handsome, but were now sallow and creased. He led them down a hallway of age-blackened portraits (with heavy, moth-eaten curtains covering a particularly large one), up a narrow, gruesomely decorated staircase (Sam slapped Dean's hand down when the latter attempted to poke one of the severed heads), and into a dimly lit bedroom that contained two twin beds. "Apologies for all that."
"No worries," Sam replied.
"I'm Sirius Black," the wizard said stiffly. He paused expectantly, but when the brothers only reacted with bemusement Sirius continued speaking in a far more affable manner. "I'm… Harry's godfather."
"Oh! Well, nice to meet you." Sam shook his hand.
"Likewise," Dean added and repeated the greeting.
"Welcome to my family home." Sirius' tone was surprisingly bitter. "Harry and the Weasley family are in the dining room waiting for word on Arthur, but Dumbledore thought you two might want a bit of rest?"
After their ill-fated trek through the Forbidden Forest, an encounter with a pack of Hellhounds, and their worry over Castiel's collapse, the Winchesters were exhausted. However, hearing that there were students (nearly friends) downstairs worrying galvanized them. "We just saw Molly," Dean explained. "Is it okay we go tell them that there's no bad news?"
Sirius blinked at the request. "What's the old adage? 'No news is good news'? I suppose anything to bring their spirits up would be good at this point. Just be careful down the hallway."
Both brothers fully intended on following directions, but when Dean decided to stare down a portrait giving him a particularly venomous look he accidentally knocked over a dusty umbrella stand that was, oddly, shaped like a monster's lower leg. The container and its contents spilled noisily onto the floor, prompting all of the disgruntled pictures to begin shouting and the mysterious curtains to fly open.
Sirius gave a long-suffering sigh as the desiccated woman painted on the canvas began to screech directly at him. "BLOOD TRAITOR! ABOMINATION!" Her hands stiffened into claws, the sharpened nails at each end brandished towards the wizard. "HOW DARE YOU BRING MORE FILTH INTO THE HOME OF MY ANCESTORS?"
Over the continued clamor, Dean shouted, "Sorry!"
"It's not the first time," Sirius said loudly. "That's my mother. She was a tremendous bitch." He grabbed one curtain and began trying to push it closed. Chagrined, Dean did the same for the opposite side, becoming deeply surprised at how difficult the normally mundane task was, but when Sam moved forward to help all of the portraits fell suddenly silent.
"You," whispered the Black matriarch, her hands now placed on her breast. "The vessel. His vessel."
Anger and desperation, echoes of his horrifying destiny barely averted, twisted Sam's face. "No," he snarled. "Not anymore. Not ever."
His protestations went unheard. The entire Black pantheon began murmuring reverently at Sam, a few reaching forward as if they could break their two-dimensional prisons to touch him. Sirius peered at Sam, his suspicions slowly transforming into realization. "You're…"
"Not now," Dean growled.
The new voice had Sirius' mother whipping her head towards the elder Winchester. A sneer curled her wrinkled lips. "The Righteous Man. Pathetic! Dirty! FREAK! Unworthy to be in the Holy Vessel's presence! YOU DARE BRING YOUR ABOMINABLE PERSON INTO MY HOME?"
Depreciations and screaming followed, along with loud, worshipful shouts, directed at one or the other of the Winchesters. After shaking off their bewilderment, all three living men grabbed sections of the heavy curtains and, with great effort, finally managed to get them closed. Without their ringleader the remaining portraits quieted, though their eyes remained fixated with either loathing or awe, depending.
Disoriented by the exertion, none of them noticed the wide-eyed children staring from the top of the basement stairs. Dean straightened first and nearly leapt from his skin when he spotted their audience. "Uh, hey," he said quietly.
Before any of them could raise their inquiries, Sirius pushed both Sam and Dean towards the stairwell. It was the closest either had physically been to the man and the alcoholic fumes wafting from his breath and his clothes was noteworthy. The brothers lifted their eyebrows but deigned to comment.
Once at the bottom, Fred opened a heavy wooden door into a cavernous dining area lined with stone and lit by candles. Sirius sealed the entrance with his wand before demanding, "You two are the vessels? The vessels?"
"Were," Dean corrected scathingly.
"How do you know about that?" Sam demanded. Out do the corner of his eye he saw Harry and Ron exchange worried glances.
"It's an old wizarding legend," Sirius explained, "saying that the Morningstar's victory over the General of Light would herald the ascendency of pure-blooded wizard-kind. Really wasn't told much before Voldemort ascended the first time all those years ago, sort of one of those silly fables Death Eaters told their children to help them sleep."
"Oi, George," Fred said thoughtfully. "Remember a few years back?"
"Ickle Ronniekins' first time at Hogwarts," George replied dreamily. Worried as they all were about their father's health the humor behind the nickname fell flat, but the second youngest Weasley reddened nonetheless.
Fred turned towards Sirius. "We overheard mum and dad talking after… well, you know," he said as he turned towards Harry.
"After we found Voldement sticking out of Professor Quirrell's noggin," Harry said.
"After you found what?" Dean asked incredulously.
Before Dean could get clarification, however, George plowed on. "We overheard mum and dad talking about the last time You-Know-Who was out and about. Like maybe something else was going on at the time?"
"Over in the states," Fred added. "Plenty of news in the paper about the Magical Congress having to deal with a lot of wild magic."
"About four, five years ago," Sirius clarified.
Sam and Dean exchanged unhappy glances. The timeline fit, unfortunately. Voldemort had apparently risen around the same time that Dean had gone to Hell and had, subsequently, broken the first seal on Lucifer's Cage. If it had lasted the entire school year, it also coincided with the release of said archangel, with Sam having broken the last seal on the Cage.
Sam realized that Harry and Ron were both looking sympathetically at himself and his brother. While neither had the inherent smarts of the absent Hermione, they were both privy to the details of the averted Apocalypse. Thankfully, neither of the boys appeared to be willing to share. In fact, Sam caught Harry looking guiltily around the room at the Weasleys before casting his gaze downwards, a gesture that couldn't mean anything good.
Dean cleared his throat. "Well, yeah, okay. Not really important now. What happened to your dad?"
The change in subject was clearly unwelcome. Along with Harry's continued furtive glances, the four Weasley children began looking back and forth from the fireplace to Sirius. Sam cleared his throat. "Uh, so, our friend, Castiel? He had an… an accident. We met your mom at the hospital and she said your dad's going to be okay."
The statement stretched Molly's hopeful, uncertain declaration regarding Arthur's health, but it relieved the children nonetheless. Even Harry looked marginally better. "Say," Sam began to ask, "how did you—"
Sam's query went unanswered as Mrs. Weasley swept into the room. "He's going to be all right," she said tiredly. "He's sleeping. We can all go and see him later. Bill's sitting with him now, he's going to take the morning off work."
"Dude," Dean said to his brother as the children and Sirius celebrated the news, "what time is it?"
"Ten past five."
"Damnit." Dean turned towards Molly who was currently smothering Harry in a hug. He put a hand on her shoulder and asked, "Did you hear anything about our friend, Cass?"
"No, sorry, dear," she answered sympathetically. "But once the children's trunks have arrived they can get their clothes changed and we can go back to St. Mungo's for a visit."
"Any way you could tell us how to get there?"
"I wish I could." Molly sighed. "I wanted to get here as quick as possible and apparated. Not only that, but I've only seen it from broomstick. Moody's far better at that than me." She reached up and patted both brothers on the cheek. "Now you have some breakfast, a quick nap, and you'll be good as new. The two of you look like you've been through quite a night!"
Seeing as how both brothers were swaying on their feet and their clothing was liberally spattered with dirt and detritus they couldn't disagree. "Thanks, Molly," Sam said.
"You're welcome, dear. Now be careful going back through the hallway. Goodness knows what sort of nonsense that dreadful woman will begin spouting next."
Sam had learned the Scouring Charm around Thanksgiving, but with the house elves around he'd never really used it. It worked well enough to get the worse of the filth from their clothes at least enough to make them presentable. Or so they thought. If the look Arthur Ketch was giving them was anything to go by, they fell far short.
Immaculate in his tailored black suit, the British Man of Letters sat primly at the Black dining table with the same wry expression he'd had back at St. Mungo's. "I trust you got some rest," he stated.
They'd been lured downstairs (past the hall of admiring or disdainful portraits, depending on the brother) by the smell of bacon frying. Dean's stomach had the upper hand at this point, and no accented asshole was going to block him from that greasy goodness. He charged straight past the table into the kitchen without acknowledging Ketch.
Sam sighed. "Yes, a couple of hours," he replied. "How's Cass?"
"Your halo will live," Ketch said. "What on Earth could have possessed you to hunt a Hellhound?"
"None of your beeswax," Dean snapped through a mouthful of bacon and bread. He'd emerged from the kitchen with a platter stacked with sandwiches. Once close enough, he placed them reverently on the table.
Thumps from the staircase signaled the impending arrival of the house's teenaged inhabitants. When the group arrived they waited carefully for the door to shut before indulging in food and lively conversation. Ketch was an island of stillness amidst the bustle, his amusement rising every time one of the children called out to either Professor or Mr. Winchester.
Sirius was unable to leave the house (an anomaly the man promised to clarify upon their return), depriving them of an experienced wizard to serve as an escort, but when the Winchesters, the British Man of Letters, and the slew of Hogwarts students emerged from the Black home a young woman across the street gave them all a jaunty wave. The pinkness of her hair wasn't exactly subtle for a society that treasured privacy. Yet it was her companion who was drawing the most glances.
He was of Dean's height, stocky, wearing a thick overcoat against the weather and a bowler hat set low over his face. From what could be seen of his rather angular features, a good deal of scarring marred his skin. An elaborate walking stick completed the ensemble. Despite his frightening mien he reminded the brothers of Bobby; affable, protective, and dangerous. The difference was that Bobby Singer's paranoia was carefully crafted into his actions; this man's was laid bare. He glowered suspiciously at the adults accompanying the children, his hand tightening in his coat pocket around what was hopefully his wand.
"Um, Professor Winchester, Mr. Winchester," Harry said, uncomfortable with the staring contest that had developed. "This is Alastor Moody. He's a friend."
"Pleasure, I'm sure," Moody said. His gaze swiveled over to Ketch. "Arthur."
"Alastor."
"Is there anyone here you don't know?" Dean asked caustically.
"Certainly," Ketch replied. "For instance," he continued as he pointed to random pedestrians, "I don't know him, or him, or her."
"Can we get going now?" Moody growled. Without waiting for an answer, the man turned and began walking.
The pink-haired woman caught up to Sam as they traveled. "Wotcher!" she greeted cheerfully. "Nymphadora Tonks. Do me a favor and just refer to me as 'Tonks.'"
"Why?" Sam wondered.
"Because my parents thought Nymphadora was a brilliant idea for a name."
"Got me there. So what's your relationship to the kids?"
"Me and Moody there, we're Aurors." Quieter, she added, "And part of the Order, naturally."
Sam nodded. "Aurors… you guys are sort of the wizard police, right?"
Tonks nodded. "We mostly deal with the more serious stuff, dark wizards and the like. There are other departments that deal with the littler things. Arthur, for instance, is in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office."
"Misuse of Muggle Artifacts?"
"People charming public toilets and such. Muggle baiting, we call it. Mostly harmless stuff, but once in a while things get a bit dangerous. One time there was this cow—"
"Quiet back there!" barked Moody from the head of their little parade. "Be on alert. Never know what might be lurking." He gave a young man in a suit and tie an unwarranted glare, one vicious enough to make the stranger cross the street.
"Aye," Tonks called back. In a softer tone, she added, "Bloody paranoid that one."
Sam chuckled a bit, but followed orders. Other than the occasional comment or query about some uniquely British things ("Sam, dude, the pub's open now. It's freaking two in the afternoon!"), they remained silent until reaching the Underground. As the Winchesters' only train experience since reaching Great Britain had been the Platform 9 3/4 incident, the brothers expected to have to seek out another secret passageway. Instead, Moody handed out a blue card to each of them. "You lose it, you figure your own way home," he warned.
"You touch it there," Harry explained as they approached the gate. He pointed to a yellow circle on the automated barriers.
After eyeing about, Moody demonstrated the gesture with great aplomb, going so far as to flourish the card when he was finished. The rest of them followed, albeit in a far more normal manner.
They disembarked somewhere in the middle of London. Sam was surprised at the location; with the wizard's xenophobia regarding most things Muggle he would have figured St. Mungo's to be located in some isolated area. An abandoned warehouse, perhaps. Instead, they were forced to contend with the crush of holiday shoppers. If it hadn't been for Sam's height and the rather wide berth people were giving Moody the group would have been easily separated.
Their stopping point was a department store whose owners had apparently decided to begin refurbishment during the eighties (if the shoulder pads and clashing colors were anything to go by) and had never finished. Most of the group watched, bemused, as Tonks bent over to whisper at one of the mannequins. She then proceeded to take Molly and Ginny's arms and step directly into the glass.
The rest of the Weasleys followed, as well as Sam and Ketch. Harry and Dean, however, stared doubtfully at the glass. "C'mon," Moody growled as he rapped them both smartly on the back of their legs with his cane.
"Ow! What the—" Dean's profanity cut short as he inadvertently hopped forward. Instead of smashing into the window, however, he found himself back in the waiting room of the wizarding hospital.
"Nice of you to join us," Ketch said wryly. Dean gave him the finger. "Charming. Come along then. Both Mr. Weasley and your halo are on the first floor, Dai Llewelyn ward."
The Man of Letters took the lead and led them down a portrait-lined hallway, up one flight of stairs, and down the "Creature-Induced Injuries" corridor. He stopped at the second door on the right. "After you, gentlemen."
While the Weasley family, Harry, and the pair of Aurors had a short discussion, Sam and Dean entered the room. It was relatively small and dimly lit, only one tall, narrow window set on the far wall. Four patients took up the room, Castiel, Arthur (who waved cheerfully from his spot nearest the light), and another wizard and witch, leaving a good number of empty beds. The brothers headed immediately towards their friend.
"Cass?" Dean tentatively asked as they approached. The angel was lying on his side. He'd been dressed in what appeared to be scrubs and a bandage was wrapped around his neck. "It's us, Cass."
Castiel turned around and blinked tired eyes at the three men around his bed. "Hello."
"How you feeling?" Sam asked.
"Better. I think." The angel looked up at Ketch. "Thank you." At Dean's lifted eyebrows, Cass explained, "He brought some items that were instrumental in my recovery."
"You're welcome," Ketch said simply.
"So what happened?" Sam wondered.
Castiel sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. "I suppose I have undertaken the trials. It is causing damage to my vessel."
"What kind of damage?"
"Possibly catastrophic."
"Then you need to stop," Dean stated firmly. "We'll go find another Hellhound, figure something else out."
Castiel shook his head. "No. I will not allow you to put yourselves in danger for something that will most likely kill you."
"What about you, then?" Dean's voice began to rise. "We can't just be letting you die either!"
"I won't."
"Come again?"
"I won't die."
"Right away," added Ketch.
Dean turned towards the man. "And what the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"It means," Castiel sighed, "that in order to survive, my vessel is eating up my Grace. At the end of the trials there will be nothing left."
Sam's eyes widened. "But that means—"
"Yes." The angel looked down at his hands. "At the end of these trials I will be human."
Author's Note : I had to look up how the London Underground works. I still don't know if I got it right!