In case you didn't know, ProfessorScrooge has written a one-shot based on this series. It's not how I'm going to handle that specific subplot, but I could see it working with a somewhat different Jen and Luna. Anyway, go check it out, especially if you're a fan of the short story "The Lady, or the Tiger?".
Disclaimer: Despite Voldemort trying to kill a toddler, and then repeating the attempt on an 11-, 14-, and 15-year-old, did Ron and Hermione really think Voldemort was concerned enough about age that he would not give Malfoy a job to do just because he was too young? If so, I don't own the Harry Potter franchise; it belongs to J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Press, Warner Bros., and whomever else she sold the rights to.
Chapter 7
The War Eternal
A bleary blink of her eyes preceded Jen awakening fully, and she swept the tangled curtain of hair out of her face and pulled herself out of bed before her sonar brought what was going on downstairs to her attention. "Is that…?" she wondered aloud before a wicked giggle slipped through her lips. She should not take quite so much enjoyment out of observing the pair downstairs drown in their task, she knew, but that did not stop her from being a little more thorough and deliberate as she went about her daily routine. All told, she probably spent an extra ten minutes procrastinating and feeling the members of her family grow more and more frazzled.
"Good morning," she chirped when she finally set foot in the kitchen. "I didn't realize we were starting an owl-order business. What are we selling?"
Hidden away behind the piles of mail covering most of the table, Sirius grumbled, "You, though I'm starting to think I might just give you away, instead. Be less work for me than— Hey!"
Cissy pulled her hand back from where she had playfully slapped him on the head and just rolled her eyes at Jen. "Happy birthday, dear. A little help, please?"
"I suppose, if you're getting that overwhelmed." Kreacher snapped his fingers and delivered another stack of letters onto the table while she sat down. A twirl of her hand ripped the envelope open. "'Miss Black, We of the Most Noble House of Kennewick would like to wish you a very happy birthday. As you are now sixteen … Most important duty to one's House …' Ah, here we go. '… Our nephew, Clive Kennewick, has recently been promoted to Junior Undersecretary for the Department of International Magical Cooperation …'" Jen tilted her head. "In comparison to the rest of the suitors you've heard about so far, how does a twenty-eight-year-old guy sound?"
"Better than some, worse than others," her godfather sighed. "What is his family's initial offer?"
With a shrug of her shoulders, she skimmed through the rest of the letter. "Thirty percent ownership of ten vineyards in France, as well as a seven percent interest in a couple of farms and ranches in Ireland."
"Eh…" He visibly mulled that offer over before waving to one of the four piles in front of him. "Put it here. The Kennewicks don't have a whole lot to offer, so we'll probably say no eventually, but we might be able to squeeze a few nice trinkets out of them before they drop their interest."
"Anyone mind cluing me in to the system we're using?"
Cissy tapped the stack closest to her, coincidentally the second-shortest of them. "This is for options we will definitely be entertaining because they are respectable suitors or their Houses are close allies of ours and so we at least have to look like we're giving them serious consideration or they are offering something of great value." The older witch made a face of great distaste. "It's the only reason Lady McElroy's offer of her great-grandson is here and not in the 'polite refusal' pile. The boy's an uncouth brute.
"That stack is, obviously, for offers we will eventually refuse but might be able to get a few gifts out of first. They know how this game is played, so it probably won't be much, but any value we can add to your dowry is worth it. And it's fully possible that you might genuinely like one of them, so we don't want to turn them down immediately."
"On the other hand," Sirius chimed in, "these two stacks are for those we are turning down." He tapped the shortest one, which held only a few sheets of parchment. "It's extraordinarily rude to simply ignore a betrothal offer, but some of them are extraordinarily rude letters to begin with. Sometimes it's a matter of not thinking before they put quill to parchment, sometimes it's because they saw this as an opportunity to kick up a fuss, but either way, the best way to reply to these people is just not to reply at all."
Waving to the tallest pile, he continued, "Over here, though, are all the offers we are going to politely decline. There's a form letter for that, so it won't take much effort. It's just going to be time-consuming."
"Potential allies we don't want to alienate but also aren't that important?" she guessed.
"Not as many as you might think; most of those are in the 'maybe' pile. No, some, like several we received from Death Eater Houses, there is just no way we are going to trust and I would like to send an ugly letter back to. But since you have to go to school with a few of their kids," he said with an unhappy shrug, "we'll go ahead and uphold our societal obligations. If a bit of common courtesy makes you safer, it's worth it."
She gave him a small, thankful smile. She could handle Death Eater spawn coming after her, but it was nice not to have to worry about dealing with that problem.
"Others are clearly sent due to societal obligations of their own. Most of the younger, single Lords sent you offers – Bradley, Callahan, Ainsley, that bunch – but none of them are serious. It's just expected for them to try to find a wife so they can continue their line. Though Bradley's offer was generous enough I'm tempted to put him in the potentials' pile."
"Everyone knows he has sired a number of bastard children," Cissy cut in. "A few of them have even been with daughters of wealthy Common Houses, and he will almost certainly settle down with one of them eventually. If Jen married him, she would immediately become a laughingstock. That family is nouveau riche, anyway," she concluded with a disdainful sniff, "not old enough to warrant serious consideration for the hand of the heiress of one of the three Ancient and Most Noble Houses."
The smirk on Sirius's face was smug, and he picked up a single envelope that was set aside from the rest. "New money, huh? I guess we better toss this one out, then, shouldn't we?"
Jen's eyes narrowed, and she summoned the letter out of Sirius's hand to her own. What was he picking on her for this time? Ripping the betrothal offer open, she only had to glance at the signature at the bottom before she forcibly set it on top of the stack that held the best offers. Sirius just laughed at her resolute expression.
"Ah, it must be that request," Cissy murmured, her own face lighting up in humor as she figured out the identity of the sender. Plucking the letter up again, she smiled and nodded. "Hmm. Sirius, do you know anyone named Anton Krum?"
"The name does sound vaguely familiar, but I can't place it," replied the family dog, grinning broadly as Jen huffed and crossed her arms. "He doesn't sound British, though. What's he offering for her?"
"Not much, surprisingly. He does, however, spend a short paragraph talking about how much his son enjoyed the time he spent with her and how he could make her happy. Why, it's almost like he isn't nobility at all!"
"Not nobility and not British? Why are we including his son in the group of socially acceptable suitors, then?"
"I am quite sure I have no idea."
"You do know that I am not some prize filly to be sold to the highest bidder, yes?" Jen asked in a biting voice, though much of its sting was lost in the face of her godfather and aunt's smiles. "And in case you've forgotten, Sirius, I'd like to remind you that I am next in line to control this House. It would be just terrible if something unfortunate happened to you and made me acting Head, don't you think?"
Sirius could not hold in his mirth any longer and barked out a long laugh. "Oh, Jen, we're just taking the mickey. If you really don't like these guys after going out on a couple of dates with them, they'll be out of consideration, and if you decide you like one of them much more than the others, we'll make the contract with his family regardless of whether they are the richest or most connected or whatever." He reached out to take hold of her hand. "You know your happiness is more important than how much money we can get from a marriage arrangement."
While that would normally be a comforting thought – should her independence be put at odds with members of her family, she knew which she would most likely choose, though the decision itself and the fallout from it would be heartbreaking – her mind was currently stuck on something else he had said. "What do you mean, dates?"
"How else are you supposed to decide which suitors you like and which you don't?" Cissy asked her. "Besides, this is standard protocol in high society. By going on dates with a variety of suitors, you encourage them to continue negotiating the potential contract between our House and theirs, and in doing so you push them to continue giving you gifts to keep your interest. It also works as an incentive to those Houses that are lower on our list of candidates to give bigger and more expensive presents to try to increase their standing in our eyes."
"I understand that. It's just…" It's just that Luna is already in a snit about this, she complained silently, and that was when it was just something going on in the background. Living with her and at the same time going on dates with random guys will be a tremendous pain.
Sirius shrugged, and for a moment she had hope that he was about to give her an out. "We know your marks in class are important, too," he told her instead, "especially if you want to keep that place with the Unspeakables. They'll understand if those dates have to be arranged on weekends and holidays."
Jen gave him a tight smile. They were completely missing what her concern was, but…
She sighed. This was what she had asked for. If the House of Black's prestige and power – and therefore her prestige and power – were to continue to rise, they needed to find new allies, new sources of profit and support. The shortest and easiest method to do so was to marry into it, and more than that, to play and win the game that lead to that union. It was, much like Tracey had said, a matter of doing what was best for the House as well as for herself personally, and if that required a sacrifice on her part now in exchange for greater rewards in the future, that sacrifice was one she had to make.
Luna would just have to learn to understand that line of reasoning if their relationship was to have a chance to survive.
Diagon Alley had changed a great deal since Jen had seen it a year previously. Where once it was full of excitement and light, people out to gossip and visit as much as they were there to shop, now a malignant fog of fear and distrust lingered over the marketplace. Shoppers scurried around in cloaks, many with their hoods pulled up to hide their faces, and did not leave the safety of their established groups. No one walked around alone, but neither did they seek out the company of those they did not already know were safe.
Sirius shivered, the atmosphere of despair lending the streets a chill that would ordinarily be banished by the bright sun overhead. "What do you think? Split up and do all our shopping in half the time?"
"Probably not a bad idea," Andi agreed. Cissy nodded from next to her. "Ted, Cissy, and I go to Flourish and Blotts and Scribbulus for her textbooks and her new rune tools while you two go to Madam Malkin's and the apothecary?"
"Putting the Head and heir together where we make a bigger target?" Sirius asked with a raised eyebrow.
At that question, Ted gave him a wry smile. "You're a big enough target all on your own. Dora couldn't come, so out of all of us, Jen is the one who can defend you the best."
"And I can defend myself just fine," she added when it looked like he would interrupt.
The mild indignation on Sirius's face died off at her statement. "The sad part is that I really can't argue with that. You have the list?"
Jen passed the sheet of parchment that had come with her most recent Hogwarts letter to Andi. The books she would need for her classes were all rather obvious: Advanced Potion-Making; The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 6; Advanced Rune Translation; Numerologic Transformations and Foundational Spell-Crafting; and even Advanced Transfiguration since she had decided to continue on with her study of transfiguration. She might not need a NEWT score in that subject because she was also moving on in Charms, but as Flitwick had told her, a good mark there could only help her in the future. Stranger than the textbooks were the tools the letter had indicated she would need for Ancient Runes. What exactly a size 3-5 dual-wedge stylus, goat-hair brushes, and a #2 inkstone were, she had no idea, but she knew what their necessity meant for her. They would finally, finally be studying serious runecraft.
The textbooks she needed for the Dark Arts exam she would take in two years she could not get locally, but Loki was currently en route to deliver her order form to the international supplier the ICW had recommended.
The group broke apart to head in different directions. As they walked, Jen could not help but notice how many people flicked glances their way. They did stand out, she supposed; unlike many others, they did not move quickly and furtively, their heads down and their eyes wide and wary as if they expected to be attacked at any moment. No, she and Sirius walked with their heads up and their eyes forward, looking for all the world like a father and daughter out for a peaceful stroll. The wizard's tight grip on the wand in his pocket belied that, but that was not something any ordinary person would notice.
They had barely made it halfway to Madam Malkin's when she felt it. There, on the very periphery of her sonar, someone walked by her. She was not paying attention to such details as body shape or clothing, much to her later displeasure. No, what caught her attention in that brief instant was that person's core.
The magical cores of most witches and wizards felt like balls of lightning, the energy held tight unless they were casting a spell. Her family, bar Ted who was only a member by marriage, had cores that were colder than the norm, an inherent darkness pervading their magic despite Sirius, Andi, and Dora's personal beliefs. Luna's core, on the other hand, held a warmth that on one memorable occasion had been legitimately painful to be around. And then there were Elsie's and Voldemort's cores, both of which were encased in ice, something she could only assume was due to them being black mages.
But this individual? His or her core was a ball of fire.
She spun on her heel and backed up, her eyes flicking over the crowd in the desperate hope of identifying this newcomer, this white mage. Everywhere she looked, though, all she saw were cloaks and hoods; already, the clumps of people had shifted around, leaving her with no hint of who had just walked past her.
"Jen?" Sirius asked softly from directly behind her, his side practically touching her back. "Are you all right?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine," she lied. "Just thought I saw something."
"The way everyone's acting, it's no surprise you're a little jumpy," he told her in conciliatory voice. "All the more reason for us to get your robes and ingredients and head back home."
The smile she gave him was decidedly weak. While they continued to their destination, her mind was elsewhere, specifically on the white mage. As a general rule, the only times white mages and black mages met were when they were trying to kill each other; it came part and parcel with being the foot soldiers in a war that had been ongoing since before the dawn of humanity. Even if avatars of the two sides of the pantheon did run into each other without violence immediately breaking out, the likelihood of them having a civil discussion was almost nonexistent. The Dark and Light Powers had different methodologies, and that was reflected in their choice of servants. She had never encountered one personally, but she could only imagine how they would act if they had all the self-righteousness and irritation of Dumbledore's followers but enough lethality that she could not just turn her back on them and walk away.
Jen shuddered at the thought. That was true horror, right there.
Regardless of her amusing imaginings, this was not a good sign. The chances of her just happening upon a white mage were small, and that worried her. Sure, this could be a new tool of the Light Powers, but there were few enough of them scattered across the world that the idea that a pair of black and white mages could both be contracted in the same country and less than ten years apart nearly beggared belief. If this was not a local white mage, however, why had he or she come to Britain in the first place?
She swallowed, but the action did nothing to dislodge the lump in her throat. Elsie's flight from Haiti was the best explanation for why white mages might enter another country. They would be hunting black mages, and as far as she knew, there were only two black mages in Britain: Voldemort and herself.
There's no need to worry, she told herself as she and Sirius entered Malkin's shop. I don't have any definitive information yet one way or another. For all I know, this white mage is just here on a supply run before he or she moves on to their next target, however unlikely that is. I can't just assume that they are after me. But if they are, she added, her eyes turning hard, I will make them regret it.
It did not surprise her to wake that night engulfed in a cloud of cigar smoke.
Jen bowed her head and was about to kneel when she noticed the cushion waiting on the ground just a couple of paces before her. Between that and the fact she had appeared already dressed in a silky black dress, a stark contrast from the lascivious garments she had been permitted during her previous meetings, she had a feeling this was not going to be a pleasant audience. Seating herself on the pillow, the mist immediately cleared enough for her to see the unnaturally tall and emaciated figure lurking in wait. A too-wide scowl adorned his grey head, the only patch of skin not as black as his magic, and in light of that she averted her eyes. "Your servant awaits your commands."
"Good." The high-pitched snarl in the voice of Baron Samedi, of Death himself, was no more pleased than his expression had led her to believe he was. "You know why I called you here."
It was not a question. "The white mage I encountered today."
"Indeed." The Baron chuckled, the nasal sound nonetheless taking a sinister edge. "And do you know why he is here?"
"I suspect I do." So it was a white wizard, then. That did not do much to help her, but it did eliminate half her possible enemies. "He is here to kill me, isn't he?"
She glanced up to catch him smirking. "I do not need to tell you what I wish for you to do in response, then, do I?"
No, no he did not. She still barely caught her sigh of frustration. Already the clock was ticking as the deadline to kill Voldemort crept closer and closer, and it was going to be hard enough to kill the Dark Lord by her seventeenth birthday. Now she had another target to eliminate at the same time?
"The abomination is an irritant," the Baron told her, plucking the answer right out of her unprotected mind, "but he no longer walks these shores. He has moved on to different lands for now." Wait, Voldemort wasn't in Britain any longer?! "Your enemy, on the other hand, is a greater and more pressing threat. Concentrate your efforts on him."
"And the deadline?" she asked as gently as she could.
He watched her for a moment, or at least she thought he did. The top hat he had pulled low over his eyes made it hard to know for certain. "Another year I grant you," he finally said.
That was good. Excellent, even, though she still had to deal with this interloper. Jen nibbled on her lip; she had only spotted him today, and if he was in the Alley, it might be that he was stocking up on the essentials he would need for his stay in Britain. There were only a few places in the Wizarding World that offered short-term accommodations, and he would almost definitely go to one of them first and then work on finding a base for the longer term. If she started with the Leaky Cauldron, she could then head to the hostel on Knockturn—
"Six weeks." She looked up at him in confusion. "He has been in this country hunting you for the last six weeks."
"You knew he was here?" she asked incredulously.
"I did, yes."
The answer was delivered in a perfectly neutral voice, and that more than anything else warned her she had best tread lightly. She had learned the previous year that, contrary to what she previously believed, the Baron was… not light-hearted, necessarily, but certainly in possession of a sense of humor, and he had tolerated questions that were in hindsight perhaps a little forward. That did not mean Death was someone to trifle with or disrespect, something her mentor had discovered in the most terrifying way possible. A moment passed while she decided on her phrasing. "May this one know why you thought it best not to reveal that information before tonight?"
Several seconds were occupied solely by oppressive silence as he considered her request. "I bestowed that right upon another," the Baron eventually replied.
Her face was the picture of confusion, and he continued without pause, "The balance created by our Pact is sacrosanct. When one of us reveals information to a servant, an imbalance is created that can and will be countered by one on the other side of the divide. That is particularly true when the information pertains to a servant of an enemy. This wizard's master gave him information on you, and that gave me the right to inform you in response." He smiled, the Glasgow grin stretching literally from one ear to the other and revealing far more teeth than any human would ever have in their mouth. "Or I could give it to a comrade so that she might tell one of her own mortals." He leaned back against the empty air and tilted his head in anticipation.
She. She. Jen racked her brain for which Dark Power he could be talking about. Three of the seven were described as female, and she could only assume he wanted her to figure out whom he had spoken to without his assistance. But why did she need to work out who it was?
Because that would tell her who was coming after her, she realized. It came down to the balance of information he had just told her about. The Baron knew who the white wizard was, probably knew everything about him, but he was not going to tell her because he had already given that information away. If it was revealed a second time, that would just create a further imbalance, this time one their enemies could use to their advantage. Her figuring the identities on her own, on the other hand, might not count against it because she was a mere human, so he could safely share the little hints he had been feeding her without straining the Powers' Pact. And since the Powers all had a counterpart on the other side with whom they naturally clashed, knowing who was coming to her aid would tell her who the patron of her enemy was.
So back to the question at hand. Who had joined forces with the Baron for this fight? The Leader of the Wild Hunt? Probably not. Perchta's magic also involved dealing with the dead, albeit in the form of summoning and controlling spirits rather than reincarnating corpses, so she and Death had an uneasy relationship to say the least, and he had not spoken about his current ally with distaste. The Unseelie Queen? That was a possibility, though Elsie had taught her that the two queens involved themselves only peripherally with the wider war between the Powers, preferring to waste their time on the campaign between their courts. If the Baron truly was calling on one of his colleagues because of those longstanding rivalries, it would make little sense for him to bring in the Unseelie Queen, for what could Jen have done to anger the queen of the Seelie fae? Which just left…
"Tiamat." The Baron smirked and brought his ever-present cigar to his lips for a self-congratulatory puff. She, on the other hand, grimaced as the reasoning behind that alliance followed that conclusion. Like in Babylonian myth, Tiamat's most hated foe was the storm-god Marduk.
Oh, this was going to be fun. She did not know much about the white magic Marduk gifted – to be honest, she probably needed to go through her books again and refamiliarize herself with all the Light Powers' gifts – but Elsie had told her that his avatars, the Stormriders, were said to have the white magic best-suited for straight combat. Voodoo, while powerful, was ritualistic and time-consuming; wonderful for preparing traps or creating contingencies, but it left her exceedingly vulnerable if she did not have time to prepare.
The Baron nodded his head. "You are to be hospitable when our guest arrives." So Tiamat was sending one of her avatars to help. Good, good. That should make dealing with the Stormrider easier. "And I advise you to use caution."
She looked at him with curiosity. For a Dark Power to show concern for his avatar like that was rather unusual.
"This enemy is… skilled. He once tried his hand at slaying the Philosopher, and despite the vast gulf in experience, he nearly succeeded. You, however, do not have centuries of practice to rely upon." A stream of smoke obscured Death's face for an instant. "I have yet to benefit from the investment I made in you. It would not be in your best interest to leave this world before I have done so, else I will have no recourse but to entertain myself with you."
A shiver ran down Jen's spine. Of all the things she did not want to be, the Baron's 'entertainment' following her death was one of them. In an effort to distract herself from just what that meant, she latched on to the last thing he said. "The Philosopher? Centuries of practice… Nicolas Flamel is a black wizard?!" she all but demanded. She had never given much thought to how the Flamels had achieved immortality, but if that was how he had achieved it, it would make a great deal of sense. But if that were the case, why had the Baron not moved against him in the same way he had against Voldemort?
To her consternation, the Baron shook his head. "No, he never contracted with any of us, not that you are the first to make that assumption. Such a disappointment," he added quietly, "what a waste. How many mortals can claim that all thirteen Powers would have willingly accepted his service?"
"Wait, all thirteen?" she repeated in surprise. "I thought there were fourteen Powers; seven Dark and seven Light."
The Baron hummed in thought for a moment. "The existence of one of the Light is… complicated. The best way to describe the situation is that he is as dead as one of us can be. It is a tale for another time.
"As for the Philosopher, his achievement was pure mortal imagination and will." He settled himself more comfortably on his own cushion, a hand brushing imaginary lint or ash off his purple waistcoat, and she curled up as well. The Baron had only ever told her one story, that being the true history of the brothers Peverell, but she could not deny the allure of learning these long-hidden secrets. "When he was still in his youth, only a few years older than yourself, a plague swept through his land and sent millions upon millions through my realm. He was, at the time, a disgustingly charitable and soft-hearted boy, and he made it his life's goal to create a panacea in case such a disease should visit the realm again. Working off decades of research he performed upon vampires, he eventually harvested the last drops of liquid life from those who had succumbed to sickness and injury so he might distill and crystalize those sparks of vitality, and just as he hoped, he was able to dissolve pieces of his creation to heal all manner of wounds and prolong life." Baron Samedi gave her a small but knowing smile. "In his search to aid his fellow man, he discovered a flawed but effective form of immortality."
"Flawed? And what did he dissolve the Stone in to create the Elixir of Life?" she could not help but ask. It was intriguing to hear that the Philosopher's Stone was created from heartblood, a theory she had heard before but that no one had ever been able to prove, but no one had ever been able to guess the base of the Elixir.
"What else could he use? Aqua vitae." Jen snickered at that perfect, ironic response, and the Baron chuckled as well. "But yes, his method was flawed. His magic could not create from nothingness or circumvent the laws of this plane of existence; he could only move and manipulate what already was. If he wished to live, others had to die, and he claimed what life-force their still-warm bodies had left for himself.
"In the beginning, he claimed to all who asked that he only planned to extend his life unnaturally until he had learned all there was to know about his creation, for he knew that not even he had uncovered the depths of its powers. His greatest goal, futile though it was, was to develop a method to create a Stone that did not require another's death to make and maintain. And yet, time passed. The Philosopher grew no closer to overcoming his greatest hurdle, and gradually he and his wife began to fear my ever-pursuing footsteps."
He laughed darkly. "That is not to say their lives were difficult. No, quite the opposite. Material wealth was no obstacle to them, and they watched as their land all but tore itself apart in war and revolution. Criminals were shot, patriots had their heads lopped off, and always were they there, waiting in the shadows. Like carrion crows, they glutted themselves on the fallen, and no matter how much they claimed to detest it, they thrived on strife."
"I can see why you want him as one of your avatars," she said with a smile.
"Yes, but that is unfortunately no longer possible." She tilted her head, so he explained, "In the end, not even the Philosopher could live forever. He was not struck down by wand or sword, however. No, what finally slew him was an attack by his own conscience. The Stone was taken out of his hands, and when he had the opportunity to reclaim it, he instead allowed it to be destroyed, and then he refused to create another in what little time he had left." The Baron snarled. "A pathetic waste of talent and skill."
Jen bowed her head. She could understand her patron Power's displeasure, and she agreed with his assessment of Flamel. All the things he could have done in the world if only he had the courage to go through with it. And then to allow himself to die? Oh, what she could do if she were the one to hold the Philosopher's Stone!
"Then perhaps you should direct your attentions to alchemy." She glanced up to see Death's sinister leer. "I can only imagine what could be accomplished should you work my magic upon another stone such as that one. But for now, that is of no importance. You have a different task with which to occupy your mind. I trust you can handle this?"
"I can," she told him after a moment to replay the earlier portion of their conversation through her head once again. His story had thoroughly distracted her. "The white wizard will die."
"Good. I have but two things to tell you, then. In six weeks, your assistance in this task will travel from the Black Forest to this country. They will be traveling in the manner of magicless mortals, and I want you to meet them. Once again, show them all due hospitality."
Germany to Britain via Muggle routes? An airport, then.
"And keep my focus with you," he continued, interrupting her train of thought. "You forged it with human sacrifice and the last scraps of your innocence. It is the best weapon you can carry, black magic solidified. Unless you take the time to create something more useful, it may be the only gift I can give you should circumstances turn dire.
"Now, it is time you return to the world of the living." The Baron grinned wickedly. "You need your sleep, after all. Try not to die."
"What?!" Argus Filch protested. "You're firing me?!"
"I'm sorry, but I'm afraid so." Pomona did not think Marchbanks sounded sorry, but the elderly witch just continued, "There just isn't a proper place for you here at Hogwarts, not when so much of the work is already handled by the house-elves we keep. If you find another place to work, I will be more than willing to give you a good recommendation, but there is no point to keep you on staff in the meantime. Please take the rest of the day to pack up your things and say your goodbyes."
The heartbroken man needed several seconds to process the awful news that had just been delivered, but eventually he rose to his feet and staggered to the door. Once it had closed behind him, Pomona looked over at her superior with a disdainful expression. "That was completely unnecessary. Hogwarts is Argus's home; he doesn't have anywhere else to go. It's the whole reason Albus—"
"Yes, I'm aware that Dumbledore employed him purely out of pity," Marchbanks interrupted. "That is not good enough for me, and it should not be good enough for Hogwarts. There is no point in keeping a caretaker who is an elderly Squib and therefore would have to clean everything by hand when we have over a hundred house-elves who do his job for him. There is especially no reason to keep someone on staff who has already pleaded several times if I would allow him to…" Frowning, the witch flipped through the short stack of parchment on one corner of her desk until finally pulling one out. "Yes, if I would allow him to supervise detentions that involved hanging students from their wrists in the dungeons or caning them for such grievous offenses as talking too loudly in the hallways or tracking mud in the Great Hall." Marchbanks laid the request back on her desk and raised an eyebrow almost mockingly. "This is a school, Pomona. Tell me why I should even consider keeping someone like him around children."
The head of Hufflepuff and now Deputy Headmistress glanced away. Yes, Argus had a history of suggesting thoroughly inappropriate punishments for minor or nonexistent crimes, but that was still no reason to just chuck him out of the castle. Surely taking his job away from him was enough, wasn't it?
That was the biggest issue she had with her new boss. Yes, the news that Albus might have used mind magics on some students was shocking and abhorrent, and some of his decisions as headmaster were suspicious in retrospect, but most of the time he did have a good reason for doing what he did. Argus was not the only person whose job at Hogwarts had been about giving them a safe place to stay first and filling a spot on the payroll second; Rubeus was the same before he had been promoted to professor, and then there was Irma Pince, and Patricia Trelawney was probably in that group, as well.
Marchbanks, however, did not care about the humanitarian basis of Albus's choices. It probably came as a result of working in the Wizarding Examination Authority before she took over as interim headmistress; she was focused entirely on exam scores and pass rates, and that singleminded drive meant she did not think about how she should use the power of her position to care for those who had nowhere else to turn. Unfortunately, the school board liked what she had done so far, and so when it was time to choose someone to take the spot permanently, her name had been on the top of the list.
The fireplace flared into life, and green flame swirled and twisted into a face Pomona was becoming more familiar with as time went on. "Headmistress," Amelia Bones called out, "are you busy at the moment?"
"Not at all, Minister. Would you like to step through?"
The Minister of Magic shook her head. "No, I'm afraid I can't. Too much to do. Thank you for the invitation, though. I was just calling to see how replacing your missing staff was going."
"Not as well as I hoped. Wilhelmina Grubbly-Plank has agreed to take over the Care of Magical Creatures class for the year to see if she wants the job on a long-term basis, but that's about it. No one has applied for the Defense position, and so few people study history after graduating that my choices for that post are incredibly slim." Marchbanks sighed. "Are you sure I can't keep Umbridge for this year? I don't like her personally, but the OWL scores her fifth-years received as a whole were good."
"I'd be more than happy to leave her with you, but she requested I assign her somewhere else. Last I heard, she was working out well in her new posting as Junior Ambassador to the Spanish Ministry."
"Bit of a step down from Undersecretary to the Minister," the old witch pointed out.
"In some ways, perhaps," Bones agreed, "but I wasn't going to give her her old job back. I already have an undersecretary, one I like and trust far more than Dolores Umbridge, and there was no way I was going to put her back with Fudge. Even if I weren't worried about what trouble those two could cook up if they put their heads together, he's my ambassador to the Muggle Ministry. I'm not going to put someone who can't stand Muggles in a position like that."
Marchbanks frowned. "And you think Spain will be a better match for her views?"
"Her opinions on Muggles won't find much in the way of disagreement there, no," the Minister admitted. "But enough about her. I think I have a solution for your issues with filling the Defense post. One of my Aurors, Andrew Williamson, was injured by those Muggle fireleg things during the fight in Hogsmeade, and the Healers say it will take a full year before they clear him to return to fieldwork. Scrimgeour was going to stick him behind a desk for the year, but I know he'll hate that. Teaching would at least give him a chance to do something."
"That would be one problem solved," Marchbanks agreed with no little relief.
And even if we didn't want him, you could just use Educational Decree 22 to force him on us, Pomona thought unhappily. The deference Marchbanks showed to the Ministry rankled a little, if she were honest with herself; Hogwarts had always been autonomous, but now it seemed like everything they did had to be approved by someone in the Ministry. "There's always Severus. He has been applying to be the Defense professor for years."
"Fourteen years, to be specific," said Marchbanks. "If I gave it to him, though, all I would have done would be creating a hole for the Potions class instead of Defense. Nobody has applied for the Potions job, and it's already August, so trying to find a replacement would be just as hard as finding someone for Defense. I'm also not fond of the message that would send considering the accusations he faced of being a Death Eater. Besides," she added, "you were the one who was just complaining that I wasn't following the precedents Dumbledore set. He never gave Snape the Defense post, did he?"
Twisting her words around to use them as weapons against her? That was not fair in the slightest. Still, there was not much she could do to argue against them, not without weakening any appeals she would assuredly make later. "Those were charges he faced going on fifteen years ago," she said instead. "Charges he was cleared of. It's not right to hold them against him now."
"Actually," Bones cut in, "he was never properly investigated. Dumbledore spoke in his defense at a hearing, and everything stopped there. With what we know now, I would not give those protestations of innocence as much weight as they had at the time."
Marchbanks cleared her throat to regain the two women's attention. "I think Auror Williamson would work just fine, thank you. Let me know if he agrees, and I will speak with him about lessons plans, schedules, and the like." Once the flames died down, she turned irritated eyes on Pomona. "Would you like to explain just what that was about?"
"We have already had this discussion. I doubt anything will change by going through it again."
At that, the headmistress sighed and rubbed the bridge of her nose. Pomona and Marchbanks had butted heads multiple times over the issue of how much Hogwarts should dance to the Ministry's tune, and the Herbology professor knew neither of them were willing to back down from their respective positions. Normally that was not a problem, but it did lend a certain tension to their working relationship. "I see. Moving on, then. The History post, what do you think about calling up Bathilda Bagshot? She did write the book on it, after all. Literally."
"It would solve that problem," she agreed. "And that is the last post we need to worry about. I'm just not sure about how well she will deal with the stress of teaching again…"
Rowling claims that Nicolas Flamel was born in 1327. The Black Plague swept through Europe between 1346 and 1353, and it first hit France in 1348. For a 21-year-old man, that would have been a traumatic and life-altering event, and regardless of what his real goal in producing the Elixir of Life was, it should be easy to see how it might very well stem from living through that calamity.
Silently Watches out.
