The only race missing from the meeting, other than the house-elves, was humanity.
-Sayern nar-Hazozh (History of the Treaty), translated circa 1952
Not long after the Gryffindor Task, the prophesied five found themselves busier than usual. The full moon that month corresponded with the distribution of the current issue of the VV.
"Don't worry about it," Sirius ordered. "I can get it."
Harry-as-Pollux shook his head. "No, it's our paper. Besides, we've got it down to a system, haven't we? It won't take very long at all."
Sirius, who had by now seen the aforementioned 'system' in action many times by then, had to agree. "But I'll still start before you guys get there," he decided. "Might as well make myself useful."
"But you have," Hermione-as-Pallas assured him. "You've built all those cottages on Founder's Isle. The dignitaries will love them just as much as the werewolves do."
"I helped," Dudley reminded them.
"You did," Harry-as-Pollux agreed. "You made one of them by yourself, right?"
"Right," his cousin replied, puffing out his chest in pride.
Harry stifled a laugh. By Merlin, Dudley had changed just as much as he had, perhaps more. If Vernon and Petunia got out of Azkaban with their sanity intact (quite unlikely), they wouldn't be able to recognize their son.
As if to confirm his disguised cousin's thoughts, Dudley blurted, "Can I help?"
Blaise-as-Apollo blinked. "What?"
"With the owls. I don't have school tomorrow. I can help Sirius."
Harry shook his head in amazement. Forget about Vernon and Petunia, he hardly recognized this boy. He really had made the right choice in getting Dudley out of Azkaban.
"I don't see why not," Neville-as-Alexander commented. "If it's all right with Sirius, of course."
"I'm fine with it if you are."
They would have to stay in their Fae forms, but that was hardly an imposition. Harry glanced around at his compatriots, who shrugged or nodded according to their temperaments. The general consensus seemed to be why not?
"Right," Harry declared, pushing himself from his seat, "then we'll meet the both of you in the Forbidden Forest in…" He glanced outside "…looks like an hour or so."
Dudley didn't quite smile at him, but his expression was better than the scowl he usually wore around Pollux Riddle.
If they had a system for tying issues of their newsletter to owls, they had an even better system for the Fae ritual. By now their archery skills were such that they could fire the three required arrows in record time (though only Neville and Blaise were anywhere near centaur level skills. No one was quite certain where Neville had gotten that ability, as his aim with spells was still mediocre). Soon five new raths were restored, and four of the five made their way back to the Forbidden Forest.
Hermione was the last to go. As per usual, the autumn-eyed knight had melted out of the mists as she finished. The rider gave her a moment to recover from the onslaught of Fae magic bursting from the rath, unusually kind of him, before he spoke. When shall you meet with the others?
"The others?"
You plan a great council of the races, of werewolf and merkin and all the others. When will this be?
"Oh. I thought that you knew already—you usually do." She hesitated. Was it really a good idea to sic the Fae on the unsuspecting rulers? After a moment's consideration, she decided that the benefits outweighed the cons. It wasn't like the others could declare war on the Fae, who lived in another dimension entirely. The reverse wasn't true, though, so she proclaimed an ultimatum: "I can't tell you without assurance that you won't declare war on any of the other attendees for some minor diplomatic slight. Your people have been banished for centuries, and the others have probably forgotten how to deal with you. I need your word that you will make allowances for them."
The knight tilted his head, orange eyes unblinking. You needed no such allowances.
"Not true," Hermione corrected. "Harry had Saysa, who has met with you before. The rest of us had Harry and Saysa, even Luna now. We did not know if your queen planned on attending, and I doubt that the dwarf king or anyone else would appreciate being told what to do anyways."
The knight bowled his head in acquiescence. They are a proud people, as strong and unbending as the stone whence they came. I shall relay your conditions to my queens.
Hermione noted the plural, filed it away for later. That answered one question by creating three more. How like the Fae, she thought with a quirk of her lips. Then another thought crossed her mind. "I told my friends that I would help them, so I must get going now. Could you…er… meet me in the Forbidden Forest. That is," she added, nervousness at making a request of a Fae tying her tongue, "if you intended to come back for the date and time tonight. If not, I suppose we could arrange a meeting of some sort. If that would work."
You could, was the dry response, tell me now, and I could inform my queens that they might have all relevant knowledge before making their decisions.
"I think not," was Hermione's equally dry answer. The knight's eyes crinkled; a chuckle sounded in Hermione's thoughts. The girl's eyes went wide as she realized that he had made a joke. Somehow, by some miracle, she had gotten on joking terms with a full-blooded Fae.
The silent laughter faded; pools of orange bored into Hermione's skull. You are ours, the knight proclaimed, so solemn and certain that Hermione shivered. Go to your forest. Let destiny ride, Maidem of Air.
"What?" Hermione stepped forward. "What are you—"
But the knight wheeled his steed around and was gone.
The Ravenclaw huffed in annoyance. How utterly typical. Bloody obnoxious Fae and their bothersome riddles. A nuisance, that's what it was.
But they'd arranged a meeting place, and he could arrive at any time, so she'd better get going. She didn't think her friends would appreciate it if the pumpkin-eyed knight just randomly appeared on them. They probably wouldn't appreciate it if he popped in on them not-so-randomly, either, but there was nothing she could do about that. Hopefully she could mitigate the potential disaster by giving them some warning.
Hermione shifted into her Fae form, Apparated to the Forbidden Forest.
"What took you so long?" Blaise-as-Apollo asked.
Hermione-as-Pallas grimaced. "The knight showed up," she explained.
Harry-as-Pollux paused his tying. The bird in his hand gave a soft hoot of annoyance. "Did he say anything interesting?"
"Yes. 'Let destiny ride, Maiden of Air." Hermione huffed.
"What do you think that means?"
The Ravenclaw didn't answer. The serpent sight welled up within her, repainting the world in viridian and neon, banishing the shadows of the night. Her friends shimmered with the remnants of Fae power, their forms transfigured into pure light. The Horcrux in Harry's brow stood out as a writhing mass of cankerous darkness, swallowing tiny sparks of light like a small black hole. Padfoot's shadow lurked at Sirius's heel. The other wizards' Animagus forms flickered around them: fox, ram, jaguar, raven, the raven more distinct than the other three, though nowhere near as defined as the dog. The owls glowed too, the magic in their lineages lighting them up from within. That was the magic which allowed them to find their quarries, to fly faster and longer than ordinary birds, to be so valuable to wizardkind. For the most part it was wholesome kind of light, not as bright as the humans' but not weak either.
But one owl glowed more brightly than the rest, its being filled with a twisted kind of not-light not-smell not-sound that looped away from it in a stinking cord of comecomecome. Hermione had never seen anything like it before, but she could guess what it must be.
Somehow, her voice remained steady as she whispered, "Do we have a spell on these owls that prevents Tracking Charms?"
"Of course." Pollux's brow knotted in confusion. "We did that way back when we started, remember?"
Pallas pointed a trembling finger at one of the owls, an innocuous gray bird with slightly neater feathers than the rest. "That one doesn't."
"What?" The others' heads snapped around.
"My Sight," Pallas explained, throat dry. "There's an owl with a Tracking Charm. We have to get out of—"
Too late. Wards flared, encircling them in two domes of slate-gray magic. Hermione had seen similar spells around Hogwarts: anti-Apparition and anti-Portkey wards.
They were trapped.
"What's going on?" Dudley wondered.
Again, Hermione didn't answer. She thought back to months ago, to the Ravenclaw Task and the words spoken that day. May the Messenger of Truth, Maiden of Air, beware those who carry her comrades' messages of truth. Fear them….And the knight with whom she had just spoken: Let destiny ride, Maiden of Air.
"Run!"
Magic swirled, coalesced into the tall, thin shape of a man. A shape that should have been bright but was instead corrupt, swallowing everything around it, a cocoon of bile. Hermione glimpsed poison green and peachy flesh tones before the figure raised a rod of darkness, something so foulwickedvile that Hermione's Sight evaporated like frost in the midsummer sun. She staggered backwards, pain shooting through her temples, spots dancing before her eyes.
That was why she didn't see the brilliant purple spell nor hear her friends' cries of horror nor sense the electric crackle in the air until the curse struck her in the chest.
The force of the blow knocked her off her feet, sent her flying backwards. Her head slammed against a tree root. The spots in her vision exploded in size, plunging her into darkness.
The last thing she noticed before the dark claimed her utterly was the copper-and-iron scent of her own blood.
This plan, Albus Dumbledore reflected, was much, much easier than his original plot to use the werewolves. Why bother going through such convolutions when he could break through the anti-Tracking Charm spells on his enemies' owls (admittedly, it had taken more effort than he'd expected, but it was still simpler by far than a political plot with too many variables to safely control)? True, this hadn't told him who the Maiden of Air was until the fool girl had let it slip herself, but he'd intended to kill both females.
He had arrived early on in the night, just in time to see Sirius Black and an unfamiliar boy (an illegitimate son, perhaps? Though if he were, he obviously took after his mother) be joined by the first of his original targets, Bianca Frost. He doubted that she was the Maid of Air, but her pseudonym might be intended to misguide killers who knew about the dementors' prophecy, and he didn't want to take that chance. So he had waited until Pallas Dhar arrived, at which point she had practically introduced herself to him, painting a virtual target onto her back.
And now the woman was dying, her lifeblood soaking the earth and into the dark hair that fanned out behind her limp, rolling head.
The Tom Riddle lookalike screamed, a high-pitched shriek that would not have been out of place in his supposed father's mouth. Spinning on his heel, he aimed a curse in Dumbledore's direction. "Show yourself!"
Dumbledore cast his own spell with a mere flick of the Elder Wand. His anti-Portkey wards collapsed in on themselves, the force of their disappearance rippling through the clearing. Riddle snarled, face still twisted in rage, and shot a spell as thick as his arm at his enemy. It burned like starlight made liquid, searing Dumbledore's retinas. He barely managed to dodge; its heat singed his hat, blackening several threads and leaving a tiny hole. Easy to fix, but still disturbing. Riddle must be powerful indeed if he could force his way through Dumbledore's armor-wards.
For a moment, the headmaster wondered if perhaps this man were too dangerous to leave alive. He discarded the idea almost immediately, though; Mark Potter needed all the training he could get, and without the air woman, Riddle's group was rendered harmless. Oh, they might mess up a few general schemes, but prophecy promised that Air held the key to Dumbledore's downfall.
Five together shall live, but broken must fall.
He activated his Portkey, the crack of his magic echoing around the clearing. The magic swept him to his office, where Fawkes noted his triumphant expression and gave a low, mournful cry before beginning to weep. Dumbledore ignored him. It was about time the bloody bird learned that he would never be free again. The threat to him had been eliminated, though four still lived.
Dhar was dead already, and the Five had been broken with her death. But they wouldn't have to mourn her too long. When Mark was ready, the five would reunite in the land of the dead.
Rage, coiling slithering rage, threatened to consume him. Part of him was aware that such fury wasn't entirely natural, wasn't entirely him, but he ignored the whisper of foreboding in the back of his brain. One of his had been hurt, one of his was maybe dying, and the smug rotten rat responsible was still here, doubtless smiling and twinkling away.
He wanted him dead.
Harry shot curses into the area he'd last seen his prey, but to no avail. No body (hopefully a corpse) thudded down into the undergrowth.
A warm form tackled him. "Calm down!" bellowed Alexander's voice in his ear. "He's gone."
"No!" Harry-as-Pollux squirmed beneath the other man's weight, too furious to remember that he could Apparate (or perhaps not, as he was fairly certain there were still anti-Apparition wards up). "I'm going to—"
"Heal her," Alexander snapped. "You're the only one who can. Now do it!"
Bianca squatted down, her own face tight with controlled fury, and slapped him across the face. "He's right," she snapped. "Dumbledore is gone. Now you have to heal her."
The slap felt more like a bucket of cold water being emptied on Harry's head. His mind cleared. He was still angry (of course he was still angry! That foul, loathsome son of a goat had just killed—tried to kill—his friend! It was right and natural and normal to want him to suffer, to die, to experience threefold what he'd done to Hermione), but sense had made some headway. They were right, his friends. He was the only one with enough magical experience to begin healing Hermione.
Except that Voldemort hadn't exactly studied healing magic. Neither had Harry. He'd been too busy trying to crack a way to destroy the Horcruxes without killing his brother. That was a form of healing, but not of the kind that would be useful now.
He darted towards Hermione's—Pallas's—prone form. Her hair pooled out behind her, darkness made even darker in places by blood. Her eyes were still half-open but had rolled back into her head, leaving only the whites visible. A trickle of blood ran from her nostrils, dripping into her slack mouth. Her skin, when Harry touched it, was cold and clammy and pale, almost as pale as her regular form. Her muscles had gone utterly limp.
In short, she looked like a corpse already. If not for the faltering pules in her wrist, Harry would have thought her dead already. But now that he'd felt her irregular heartbeat, his own pounding heart quieted enough that he could hear her breathing. It echoed around her throat, thick and dry and strained.
Fear threatened to make Harry collapse. He recognized that kind of breathing, had heard it many times in Voldemort's memories. It was the death rattle.
Hermione had only minutes to live.
Harry's throat clogged. "Where'd the spell hit?" he gasped.
"Didn't see."
"Nor I."
"Sorry."
Sirius was slightly more helpful: "Somewhere on her front."
Harry nodded, head jerking. He drew his wand, wiggled it in a complex pattern meant to seek out magical residue. There. Right at the base of her throat, the little dip in the collarbone. It flickered briefly before guttering out; the curse had dissipated. For a moment, Harry considered invoking the serpent sight, but he would have no idea how to utilize the information it would give him.
With no better ideas, he cast a spell that would slow down the body's metabolic processes, its heart and breath and digestion, all the works. That gave him another thought. "Saysa. Someone go get Saysa."
"I will," he heard Bianca say, and with a crack she was gone.
Harry's heart slowed, though only a little. If Saysa got back in time, she could Petrify Hermione, buy them even more time. She knew how to use the serpent sight in a useful way. She could fix things.
Hermione's breath hitched. Harry's throat went dry before she took another shuddering inhalation.
If Saysa got back in time.
Dudley cried out. Harry ignored him, ignored the sound of footbeats approaching. He cast the slowing-down spell again, augmented it with diagnostic charms. She had enough blood, but the oxygen levels therein were dangerously low. How could he add oxygen? He didn't think he'd ever learned how, either as himself or as Voldemort.
Stormson.
The voice-not-voice echoed in his head, carrying with it the impression of sorrow and regret and purpose, the shadows of something wild. Despite himself, Harry looked up into a pair of pumpkin-colored eyes.
"Out of the way. Saysa's coming, I just have to keep her stable until then—"
Ancient grief shone in those ancient eyes. Hermione's breath hitched again. This time, it did not come back for over two seconds. Harry choked back a sob, returned his attentions to the prone form.
Neither you nor the Lady can save her now.
"No!"
Harry was not the only one who cried out. They all did. Everyone but the knight with eyes like autumn leaves, who dismounted his steed in a single fluid motion. Then he was beside Harry, still frantically waving his wand, wondering if mouth-to-mouth could perhaps buy his friend more time, hoping and praying and wishing and yearning with all his heart that the Fae man was wrong, wrong, wrong!
Nothing in your world can save her from fuga spiriti. Not now.
Harry could have screamed, could have sobbed. Fuga spiriti, the flight of breath. Hermione couldn't inhale, couldn't metabolize the oxygen in her blood. It was a form of asphyxiation with no known countercurse, merely a few charms that could delay the inevitable—until the body in question built up immunity to them. Even if Harry had known those charms, Hermione would have only had a month to live.
Armored arms slid under the limp form. Harry's eyes widened with impossible hope.
Orange eyes burned into his gaze, into his soul. Somehow, despite his lack of prophetic ability, Harry knew exactly what the knight would say. And sure enough, he said it.
Fear not Fire's bargain.
Next update: in theory, August 2. However, I'm not entirely certain if I'll have internet then. If worst comes to worst, I'll have to give you guys an unbetaed double update on August 23 instead. Poor Tetsurga, all left out of the loop.
Any suggestions for the Hogwarts Task?
-Antares