(notes and individual comment responses at the end of the chapter)

Chapter 6

wild animals out there

Daphne

She felt suffocated.

It wasn't fair to Fallen—or herself, really—but she couldn't help it.

After growing up in a cage—an expansive, gilded cage filled with the forest, the gardens, and the manor—even with so many places to run and explore and just exist in, she'd always been trapped.

Her entire life, she'd been told about the horrors of the outside world, of what had happened "Out There" after The Fall. It was a place filled with all of the empty terrors of childhood, of the unnecessary risk and pain of young adulthood. Every fear she'd had and maintained over her lifetime resided in the Out There.

Growing up, her parents always told them, "don't you go out there, there's nothing out there that is good, everything out there wants something from you, something bad."

They'd say, "wild animals will eat you, mundanes will attack you, and the violence will scar you."

And she'd believed it and she never needed more than that to convince her. She trusted her parents like any dutiful child would. Her little world felt full. It was enough.

Then the dark lord arrived and she'd never wanted to escape more.

In the later years, people arrived at the manor all the time from Out There, mundanes and magicals both, drawn to Motineni's sickly powers. Whatever it was he promised, they all flocked to it.

So she knew it couldn't be all terror and horror Out There, beyond Vergram Manor's wards, but she still was afraid, the fear had been ingrained in her for far too long.

But now, she'd gone Out There, she'd strayed into the wilds with Fallen, beyond the safety of his home, she'd seen what it was. And it didn't seem so frightful.

Now, she felt more trapped than ever.

There was no hidden beast waiting outside the safety of her cage now. Just expansive freedom.

She couldn't help but resent the cage, just a bit. And then hated herself for her irrationality. It wasn't right to hold any animosity towards Fallen. He wasn't holding her here, he'd saved her, kept her from wandering bereft and homeless Out There with nowhere to go when she fled from Vergram Manor.

She sighed.

Managing her whirling emotions had never been simple, had never been something that came easy to her. She knew she lived in a state of denial… She'd been ignoring her feelings ever since she'd become obsessed with a frightening statue hidden in the Vergram woods.

It was hard for her to accept then, and even harder now that he was real, now that he was an actual human… creature… being? However, it felt inevitable: her obsession, her fixation, her desire. He drew her in, he was electric, intoxicating, thrilling. Everything about him was wild and heady, his power, his size, his beastliness.

But she was also confused by him, she didn't understand what he was doing, why he was helping her, what his plans were. What did he want? What was he searching for?

Her mind spun with everything as they retired that evening.

They'd taken to gathering in the small sitting room after dinner. Over the past week, while Fallen ventured out, he'd return to the house for dinner and then, after, the two of them would sit and read or talk or, in Daphne's case, examine him.

There was so much to think about, really.

"You didn't seem surprised that Astoria was there," Daphne said, squinting and nettlish. "Were you looking for her? Was that what you were doing?"

It wasn't that she meant to sound interrogative, it's just that the entire day kept running through her head and he'd acted so strange there in the valley. He'd been there, at her peripheral, stalking amongst the acolytes. She hadn't noticed at the time, but as she thought it over it seemed as if he was looking for something, or someone.

It was probably rude of her to be accusatory, but the raw bloody Deathly Hallows carved onto Astoria's chest burned deep in her mind and, like a flaming sigil, her head rung hot and smoky with it.

Her chest ached and her hands trembled with her impotence, and she hated that she had left Astoria, hated that she turned her back on poor sister, hated that she had to turn around and walk away and leave her pale and vulnerable amongst the repulsive congregation.

It all came bubbling out of her now, in the form of the vitriolic question. And she hated herself for it. And she hated him for it. And she hated the conflict between the two emotions.

And then she hated that he just nodded in response. Her scowl deepend.

"That's all? Just a nod? What were you doing there? How did you know to go there? Why couldn't we SAVE ASTORIA?"

She'd never raised her voice before, not once, her entire life. But here she was now, yelling at Fallen.

He stood from the huge wingback chair that he favoured by the fire and strode over to the daybed she perched upon. She shrunk back slightly, leaning against the low slung seat, back from her tense forward seat, away from his loom. The fire and the crackling gas lamps were the only lights in the sitting room and his bulk hid them as he hovered over her. He was cast in full silhouette against the orange glow, seeming full of menace, and she registered then (again) just how large he was.

But he was gentle as ever, reaching down to cup her face, tender as he said, "my dear little star," (her heart skipped and hammered at his touch, at his words, at his simple affection), "I apologise if I've led you to fear or distrust. I too wish we would have been able to save your sister. And I vow to be more open with you on my plans. On what is occurring around us."

She swayed as all of the emotions, conflicting and wild, fled her body. His hand hot upon her face, burned her with its fever.

She nodded against his touch. "Yes. Yes, that would be alright."

It didn't make sense, her response, and she almost felt silly, but then he crouched down in front of her still so large that she had to look up at him in his squat and he began talking again, and she forgot everything about embarrassment or anger.

Harry

A week ago, after they'd arrived at Harry's home, Hallowed Hall, he'd gone out searching.

Daphne, all sweet and full of a simple kind of purity of spirit, told him everything that had happened leading up to his awakening. As she outlined the ritual she'd barged into, as she cried over her sister's death, and then told him about her sprint into the woods, he'd known something was wrong.

The Ritual was wrong.

There were two basic forms of rituals: invocation and enhancement. He couldn't claim to be any sort of master at ritual magic, but over the centuries, he'd spent a fair amount of time learning about the way his enemies might seek to claim power for themselves.

Ever since the piddling Lord Voldemort had gone through his soul and resurrection rituals, Harry had begun his research. It felt ages ago (well… it was ages ago now), and his knowledge was rusty at best. So he'd taken to the library at Hallowed Hall.

The night after they arrived at his home, they'd sat in the sitting room after another sumptuous dinner from Kreacher and he'd asked Daphne many questions about the ritual.

What did the circle look like?

It was a cross? How many— seven points, are you positive?

Who was involved?

Was only the Dark Lord chanting?

What were the acolytes wearing? Were they arranged in any specific pattern?

Where was Astoria— I'm sorry, my star, I don't mean to cause you any distress…

She'd cried silently during her explanation of her sister's death. Anger stirred slow behind his ribs, stoked like glowing coals as she told of the Dark Lord's use of Astoria.

Blood. It had to be an important ingredient. But why Astoria's?

Daphne said that her parents and the Dark Lord had been planning The Ritual for years. It'd been discussed around the Vergram dinner table day in and day out for almost as long as she could remember. There had to be a reason they used Astoria, especially since her parents were involved. He couldn't imagine they'd give up their daughter for any simple reason. Or perhaps the Dark Lord was more evil than Harry expected, desiring a sacrifice from his most loyal followers?

Harry wasn't sure at this point.

He needed more information.

So, he sequestered himself in the library for a day or two, before heading out into the world.

The stairs leading from the ground floor to the first were wide and made from dark walnut. They were polished to a gleaming sheen in the low light. Scratches lined the base of the bannister from when his hands had first turned to claws. He hadn't grown used to them before he'd ruined the wood, leaving pale scars scraped along the rail. He never repaired it, instead left them there as a reminder of his inhumanity. In a reflexive habit, he ran his hand over the splintered blemishes as he stalked up to the library.

The collection of books had grown out from the Black and Potter libraries when he was younger, and, as he aged, he collected more and more tomes, scrolls, and parchments, and his library grew. It was a huge compilation of knowledge that had proven quite a useful resource many times in the past.

Now, he went to the catalogue to search for possibilities of what The Ritual might be. With his wand pressed to the parchment, he thought about what he should search for.

Daphne had told him how the acolytes chased her and how she'd fled the ritual hall. That was when he knew the ritual was wrong. They'd missed something. This wasn't a powering ritual, it was an invocation.

Pressing out the symbols for invocation, power ratios, and sacrifice, he then paused thinking it through, then added a blood rune as well, etching the search terms into fiery runes that lingered in the air, before disappearing with a flash into the catalogue

Invocations required blood—usually a lot of it. And it wasn't of the invoker's like in a powering ritual, but rather from a sacrifice. The sacrifice, however, needed to be an equivalent cost to the desired outcome. He doubted the Dark Lord would dither over such a ritual if it wasn't for a large invocation. And Astoria alone wouldn't be enough. Even if her parents were backing The Ritual along with the Dark Lord, which, he assumed now, was most likely.

By making the sacrifice of their daughter—something that he had to believe caused them some sort of pain or distress—the extremity of that cost would provide a significant balance to the return.

A large stack of parchments and a small stack of books came rushing out of the library's shelves towards the podium Harry stood at. He sighed at the sheer volume of them, but it was to be expected, he reasoned. Carrying them over to one of the tables, he spread the haul across them, and hunching his shoulders, got to work.

He hated Arithmancy.

Most of these dratted resources had to do with the arithmantic equations required for such a ritual, specifically, ratioed arithmancy. He fastidiously picked his way through brittle parchment after brittle parchment, careful with his claws against the fragile paper.

Seven and Its Integral Powers was interesting, and potentially useful; he set it aside.

The paper, Ratios for Ritual Power-Curve Derivatives, was close, but had to do with the wrong type of rituals. He pulled at the collared halo draped over his face. It was usually so weightless, but it felt heavy today, dense with a sort of simmering power. He frowned.

Echoic Based Invocation: Ritual and Ratios had useful information, finally something he was able to use.

Basic Summonings: From the Spirited to Invoked. He set the small tome in the short stack of helpful papers and books. He frowned again.

Rubbing his eyes, he resisted the urge to throw his halo across the room. He'd been foolish in the past, but he couldn't risk it now.

"I'm sorry, but what does this have to do with us leaving behind Astoria?" Daphne interrupted his story.

"I'm getting there, Daphne, patience."

She scowled.

The Arithmancy wasn't lining up.

He growled, maybe his maths was wrong… maybe he'd missed something.

The power ratio was fucked, all sorts of skewed. Even with her parents being involved in the ritual sacrifice itself, Astoria alone didn't provide enough power for the type of invocation that might require a seven point cross.

He kept on getting stuck on that number: seven. Why seven? Daphne had told him of the conversation her father and Motineni had the morning of The Ritual. What was the importance of Orelius's and Bruce's sects? Were they just the other attendees? Were they magical or mundane? It seemed clear that the Dark Lord was gathering followers from both sides of the theurgic-path. Which were they?

A seven-pointed cross also—traditionally, but not necessarily—used a duplicate or triplicate sacrifice. Pointed crosses (according to Cross and Crux: An Examination of Thaumasummoning) were also the basis of all invocations. The number of points usually were integrations of the scale, or (and he wasn't sure he grasped this concept fully) as the ritual approached the limits there was an acceptable gap of derived power meaning the number of points had to cap somewhere, or every cross would have infinite points.

And that was why Astoria wasn't matching up. There was a bit of guilt, thinking of Daphne's sister in such cold, calculating terms... but he couldn't ignore the fact everything was pointing to The Ritual needing another power unit.

He left the desk—he'd been hunched over it for almost two days now—and slumped into the great chair positioned by the fire. Kreacher came in as the sun had set that evening, building large fires in the two hearths, stoking them into a roaring glow. Harry appreciated the dead little elf. He'd been a loyal companion for a long, long time.

Staring into the flames, his mind spun with all the equations and calculations and arithmancy he'd been cramming in there. His senses were still ratched up too high. Being trapped as stone for who knows how long had left him reeling.

His overwrought faculties had dimmed down slightly from when he first awoke, dwindling into a tolerable level: the fire was bright, but didn't blind him; the soft wool chair felt rough but not like sandpaper beneath his skin; the whistle of wind against the shaky window panes didn't pierce his ears so much as become a dreadful nuisance, humming on in the background.

Then something clicked in his mind.

He needed to go talk to Daphne. Right away.

He found her asleep in her bedroom.

It was early now, he realised; he'd stayed up beyond nighttime and had gotten into the early hours of the morning. Dim grey light leaked in past the heavy curtains, warbling through the leaded glass into wavy reflection upon the wide staircase. She was roomed up on the second floor, a level above the library. He strode up the wide staircase to Daphne's bedroom and knocked gently, but no noise came from within.

Knocking again, he walked in, intent on waking her, this discussion was too important to put off, propriety be damned.

He halted suddenly, beside the bed. The curtains were pulled in arching drapes from each beam of the four-poster, and she lay in tangled repose amongst the sheets and thick duvet. One of her breasts was exposed, the dark silk wrap of her nightgown drifted open. The pink nipple was puckered tight in the cool air, pebbled goose flesh dotted up her chest.

She looked so graceful there, wrapped in his ancient silks, lying amongst the down of the duvet, a long pale leg extending from the cocooned blankets.

Her hair swept across the pillow in a raven cloud framing her face, so soft in sleep, all the stress and anxiety of the past days melted away. The pale skin of her breast was stark against the black of her nightgown, and contrasted with the pale pink of her nipple. It was so lovely—the mound of her breast smooth in her repose, just a slight curve from sternum and rib, the pebbled nipple pulling it up taut.

As he watched, a pale flush spread across her chest, pinking the skin between her breasts. He glanced up at her face. Her eyes were open and she watched him gaze upon her nudity. He waited for anger or disgust or upset to burn across her face, but instead she just held his gaze calmly, doing nothing to cover herself.

"Appreciating the view, Fallen?" she asked, her voice rough from sleep. He could listen to her talk to him like that all day long, full of serenity and warm comfort.

She stretched then, pulling the sleep from her limbs—as she arched her back her eyes never left his.

He felt ages younger as he couldn't stop himself from watching the way her stretching pushed her bare breast up into the air and the silk nightgown went taut over the small stiff peak of her still hidden nipple.

He licked his lips in an involuntary tic.

She grinned slowly and sat up, still doing nothing to pull the nightgown closed, letting the fabric slide down one shoulder to pool around her elbow.

"Good morning Harry, did you come in here for a reason or were you just looking for a view?"

He pushed away the thrill, the indecent thoughts, and said, "I have to ask you something, Daphne," his voice low and throaty from disuse.

The lazy grin hadn't left her face. "Yes?"

He turned away, towards the window, unable to allow himself to keep on enjoying her partial nudity, shame crawling like a spike through his gut.

He remembered, from his imprisonment, her frequent immodesties when she'd lounge upon his stoney body or underneath his form on the socle, and touch herself so eagerly until her gentle keens and moans filled the small hollow. She'd call out his name, and in those moments her soul lit so brightly he was pulled from any haze or fog his prison had set upon his mind.

He couldn't help but savour her pure manner of freedom around him, of her expression of lust and fire, of the absolute warmth of her soul upon his. But shame always soon followed, she didn't know he was there watching, she didn't know she was performing for an audience.

He watched, in the strange way his prison allowed, letting the heat of the moment take over, unable to avoid the captivation he took at her sinking her fingers into her cunt. He marvelled at her perversions: she took particular delight in tasting her own glistening fingers, pulling them out of her dampness and dipping them into her panting mouth. He'd wonder at her intense passion, as she writhed upon the socle, her exposed skin flush and feverish, spots of red upon her cheeks, her cunt wet and aroused. The ache that built as she'd drive herself to peak and shudder as she came, her arousal squirting across the pedestal, was fit to drive him insane.

He'd ached for her for too long. Watching her lay about underneath him in her clinging shift was an exquisite form of his torture—her slender body draped across the pedestal, her delicate hands running over his form, watching her come undone, watching her come over and over again.

He ached now at even the thought of it. A deep ache that filled from his chest down to his hardening length.

He needed to move from these thoughts.

She was shifting behind him, getting out of bed by the sound of shuffling sheets and feet hitting the floor. He stayed staring out the window, forcefully keeping himself there.

He wondered if he should apologise for his intrusion into her bedroom. He wondered if he should apologise for catching her in a predicament of undress. He wondered if she really cared.

Then the sound of her feet padding over to where he stood pulled him from his thoughts and he turned back towards her.

She approached Harry, her nightgown now affixed firmly around her shoulders. He wasn't sure if he was grateful or disgruntled by that fact. The morning light fell upon her face, the weak light casting her in a dim pallor. Now that she was awake and had thrown off the ethereal mystery of sleep, she looked tired and worn, her dark hair dull.

He supposed it had been hard on her, this transition, fleeing from her home, waking the monster that had been hidden in her woods.

That reminded him, he had to talk with her. It was urgent; Time was not on their side.

"Daphne," he began, "tell me exactly what happened before I awoke. You said you bled upon my statue?"

She nodded through a yawn, running a hand through her long hair and stretching once more. "Mhmm."

"And then you cast a cleansing charm?"

She nodded again. "I've already told you all this, Harry. Was this really what you needed to talk to me about? Or is it just an excuse for staring at my breasts?"

Heat spread across his face. "That—I have to make—"

Her giggling interrupted his poorly constructed stammer. Her laugh was light and infectious and he couldn't help the wry grin that pulled across his face. She flopped into the window seat, her hand covering her smile.

"I had one of these in my old bedroom as well, you know. I loved to sit on it and watch the rain. Not that there was ever anything but rain. I suppose some would find it gloomy, but I found it quite romantic, the constant drear. It always reminded me of a soft blanket, or an empty room."

He turned to sit down gently beside her, careful of his bulk. "Do you miss it?"

She stared out the window for a while longer before answering, "I miss parts of it, admittedly, but no, not as a whole. I do not miss it. It was not a warm place, the manor. It was not a good place for growing."

He wanted to reach out to her, to stroke her cheek or hair, to offer some sort of comfort, but the discomfort of his half-swollen cock still pressed tightly within his pants and he was all too aware of the lewd thoughts that had been running through his head just minutes before.

Instead, he stood again.

"I'm going out. There is something I have to look for. Will you be alright here, little star?"

Without turning from the window, she lifted one elegant shoulder in a disheartened shrug. "I suppose, if I must."

He wasn't pleased to be leaving her wrapped in her flat humour, but Time was running closer, he had to get on with it. In a self-conscious shuffle he jerked out a clumsy bow and left the room, abandoning Daphne to the gloom.

AN-

Hey all, we now have a Discord channel! come and join: discord . gg/ WRmhummZ
(just remove all the spaces from the link above!)

I hope this newest instalment encourages discussion! Please review and comment, they're the fuel to my writing fire.

Cheers all, and 'til next time,

-upstater-

(notes and individual comment responses below)

Raven097 - Thank you for your prompt review as always! Cheers.

Loveandpower - They definitely know something! I hope you enjoyed this newest chapter:) Thanks for commenting and reading!

Azentra - Wow, as I said in my PM, thank you for such a thorough review! It is always warming to see someone has understood plotlines I've been weaving and putting together. There will definitely be more about the effect Harry's centuries of imprisonment had on him. He wasn't fully conscious most of the time, it was more of a dreamlike state.

'The Fall' is going to be fun to get into as well, I wonder if anyone has any suppositions on what it might have been? I definitely got into some of Harry's abilities here in this chapter, more to come with that as well!

I too can't wait to see how others react to a live MoD Harry looking the way he does. There haven't been any external characters in a while, but there will be soon!

Daphne's feelings around Fallen are great, I love how confused and contradictory she's been about them as well, constantly in a whiplash of emotion.

Thanks again for such a great review, and I can only say that if any reader is confused or feels as if they've missed anything in the plot, take a look at Azentra's review on Chapter 5!

Drakena - Here you go! I'm trying to keep this updated every two week. I haven't been keeping to an exact day posting schedule, since I usually get impatient by the time I'm done with a chapter and just want to post it right away. But we all have aspirations, don't we?

Nauro Redcliff - So many threads! I can't wait for everyone to see how it all ties together. Cheers!