Chapter Twenty: Reasons

The Malfoy Manor's wards parted under the Morrigan's rage. The main door slammed open, the crack of it hitting the wall echoing up the staircase.

Lucius Malfoy and his son appeared in front of her. "What is this?" The older wizard had dark rings under his eyes. The young one was in no better condition. She ignored the man and turned to the son.

"Where is Harry?" She stepped across the threshold. "I have followed his scent to this place before, but I do not sense him in this house now. Where has he gone?"

"They have taken him," the boy – Draco – had chalk smeared across one pale cheek.

"Who?"

"The Blacks."

"Blacks…" She cocked her head to one side. "The dog and the werewolf, yes?"

"Yes."

"You allowed this to happen?"

"We could not stop them." A new voice spoke. She turned, finding the Potions Master in the entry to the den.

"You," she studied the thin form. "Severus Snape. I took you to him, I entrusted him to your care."

"Yes."

"You have failed me."

The thin face twisted. "It seems as though I have."

"Severus didn't fail anyone," Draco stepped forward. "The Blacks took him against our will. Scrimgeour betrayed us."

"Draco," Lucius silenced his son with a sharp glance.

"But…"

The Morrigan kept her eyes on the Potions Master. "What has happened here?"

"The boys found a teacher," the man was trembling, she noted. He had his hair tied back in a tail at the nape of his neck. Something had happened while she was away in the Dark. Too much had happened. Things were moving too fast and she did not like it one bit. Snape related to her all that had happened while she was gone; the family's betrayal by the Ministry hopeful made her blood boil. But it was not something she could dwell on. She wanted to see her dream child and she wanted to see him now.

"This Black family," she cut him off mid-sentence. "I want their scent."

"We do not have it."

"The Dark take you, mortal, that boy –,"

"He's not well," Draco moved forward. "We need to take him away from them."

"Do I look like a fool, child? It was apparent that boy was not well when he was rotting away in that house where his aunt lived. Mortals," her hand sliced through the air. "Give me your hand." She reached for Draco.

"What are you doing?" Lucius stepped forward.

"He cannot take you to Harry," Severus stepped into the hall. The scent of old death and dried blood reached her nose. It was not a physical scent; she closed her eyes and studied the form of the man in front of her. His aura was ripped in places, ragged at the edges.

She opened her eyes. "What was done to you?"

He rocked back on his heels, his nose going into the air. "Nothing was done to me."

"Liar."

"I beg your pardon?"

She advanced on him, one slow step at a time. "Something has been at your soul," she reached out and touched his chest with a singer finger. She felt the flinch under the pad of her skin. "Something has been tearing at your mind with lies and despair. It almost smells like the creature I am hunting," she sucked in her bottom lip through her teeth and frowned. "But it is too young to be what I am thinking," she said. She studied the lines of his face. "You are worried for the boy."

"Of course not. Black is a fool but he would never harm Harry. Potter."

"You doubt your own words."

"I do not."

She withdrew her hand. "I would," she told him.

He ducked his head. The two other mortals moved at her back, trapping her between them. It was a useless move; power burned through her veins, beating under her skin, keeping time with her heart.

"…Potter is strong," Severus said on a whisper. "He will survive."

"So will you," she touched the bowed head. It startled him into looking up. "Death does not come to creatures with such valiant hearts," she ignored the man's snort. "Do not sulk, so. It does not become you."

"Sulk?"

"Yes," she stepped back and turned. The boy – Draco – was in front of her. She bent her head close to his and breathed in. The scent of her boy, her dream child, filled her nose.

"What are you doing?"

"Hunting," she smiled into the dark behind her closed eyelids. The world expanded around her. The house glowed with the power of the wizards inside it. The lands around them were striped with faint ley lines. She sent her mind along the lines, sketching the contours of the mortal world into her bones.

"I must go." She opened her eyes and blinked. "You are almost there, child." She touched the chalk on the boy's cheek. A rush of feathers filled the air. One drifted down in the startled silence that she left, to land on Draco's palm. He curled his hand around it, bring it to his chest. Neither adult said a word as he turned and left the room.

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The Morrigan did not like the Black Manor. It sat on the convergence of several ley lines. Many of them were tainted red and a sickly yellow; the weight of blood and fear was on the bones of the house.

Her skin broke out into goose bumps at her entry. No alarms sounded. The silent foyer was doused with shadows. Fixed paintings lined the walls. The third step from the top of the landing squeaked under her foot. She froze, studying the distant doors that lined the hall. None opened.

She followed her nose to a room on the left hand side. The taste of fresh blood was in the air. The handle turned under her palm. She entered.

The boy was frozen on the floor. A lighted candle created a small circle of light around him. Blood marred the skin of his hands. He stared up at her, his mouth open in a silent gasp.

"Harry," she shut the door behind her. He had begun to tremble. "Child?"

Two stumbling steps found him in her arms. She drew him tight, tucking his head under her chin. There was a slim, blank book open on the floor, with a pen and ink well open next to it. Her dream child had fisted his hands in the material of her tattered shirt.

"Talk to me, child. What is wrong?"

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"Neville?"

The blond haired boy looked up from the row of plants in front of him. The scent of warm earth filled the air; the hothouse was almost overrun by blooming vines and hanging baskets. The long rows of medicinal plants took up most of the ground space. The next building over was his Gran's garden, but he never went there. His Gran took care of her own plants by herself, thank you very much.

Blaise stood in the door to the hothouse, one hand on the slick glass portal. The other young wizard had been growing like mad over the summer; Neville thought Blaise was taller every time he saw him. Which is quite a lot, a small voice informed him. He pushed the thought to the back of his mind and tried to quell his rising blush.

"There you are," Blaise let the door swing shut behind him. They were alone in the hothouse. Unbidden, a sense memory of the last time that had happened made Neville turn back to his plants with a burning face.

"Are you well?" Hands settled onto his shoulders.

"I'm fine, thank you." Neville's hands stayed rock-steady as he snipped the last of the dead leaves from his plant. "They're starting to droop," he continued hastily as the hands moved down his arms to his elbows. "I haven't seen anything like it."

Blaise stepped to his side, one hand lingering on Neville's waist. "Drooping?" He studied the plants. "Why is this bad?"

Neville frowned at the other boy. "Madam Sprout has covered this for the last five years, Blaise."

"Humor me. I'm not the gifted one, remember?"

Neville's snort surprised him more than Blaise. He ducked his head, letting his bangs hide his face. "Blaise…"

"Why's it important?"

"…It's a sign of fall," Neville allowed the conversation to continue.

"Well, it's half past August. Isn't it time?"

"No. Not for these plants." Neville turned away from the huddled circle of plants on his cutting table. "See? Over there – the herbs are starting to die off. This is a hothouse, Blaise. The herbs are not let to lie fallow until spring like outside gardens. Something is not right." He wrapped his arms around his middle. "It sounds funny to say that. Everything is fine, well…sort of. But…"

"Neville?" There was an odd note in Blaise's voice. He turned.

"Yes?"

The Slytherin was holding out a folded note. "I got this from Draco the other day." Dark eyes met blue. "What else do the plants tell you?"

Neville blinked at the boy and took the paper. "They don't tell me anything, Blaise. It's just how they react to things."

"So tell me what their reactions are telling you."

"…Winter's coming," Neville shook his head as he unfolded the note. "It's coming too fast for it to be normal. Something is affecting the seasons. As for what or who, I don't know." His eyes skimmed the note. His legs went out from under him. The sturdy milk crate made for a handy seat.

"Neville?"

"This…" The spidery script was Draco's. Neville caught Blaise's eye. "This has been happening all summer?" The bluntness of the note took Neville's breath away. His free hand clenched into a fist.

"Yes."

"And Harry…"

"Draco did not write me until now," Blaise crouched down next to him. "I swear to you, Neville, if I had known more about what was going on, I would have told you."

"…I believe you. I do." Neville felt a muscle move in his jaw. "We've missed a lot of things," he said.

"Yes."

Neville returned to the note. He read it again, picking out the places were Draco's quill had dug into the paper hard enough to tear it. "He is angry."

"Oh, yes."

Neville let the paper drop to his lap. His clenched fist went lax as he stared past Blaise, out over his beloved plants. "What are you going to do?" He finally asked.

Blaise reached out and touched his arm. "I came here to discuss this with you," the dark eyes were trained on him. "We're together in this, Neville."

"I'm hardly the person who can…"

"Neville," Blaise's sharp retort cut him off. "Don't. You are smart, you are brave and so help me Merlin, I will spend the rest of my life making up for the nonsense your family has filled your head with."

That caught Neville by surprise. He blinked the hot moisture that had gathered in his eyes. "R-right," he ducked his head and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Then…what can we do?" His voice came out stronger.

"…I was hoping you'd have some ideas," Blaise fell backwards with a soft grunt. He hooked his arms around his legs and stared up at Neville. "The family with the Slytherin first year has disappeared. None of our spies in the Ministry have come up with a name or a record. It is like they vanished."

"That's not possible."

Shadows gathered in Blaise's eyes. "It is possible, Neville, if one uses the Unspeakables."

Neville's breath caught. "They wouldn't."

"Who knows what they would and would not do?" A bitter laugh escaped Blaise. "But be that as it may, we can't find them. We'll search the House when we get back to school, but I have a feeling we won't find them."

Acid burned in the back of Neville's throat. "That is wrong."

"Yes, it is."

Neville drummed his fingers on his thigh. "The – the letter says that they were taken in for questioning."

"Yes."

"Have you asked to see the secretary's logs?"

Blaise's eyebrow rose. "The what?"

"Entry logs into places are kept at the front desks," Neville ran a thumb over the last few lines of the letter. "In – in questioning people, that is considered part of being on the job, right? They would have to be paid for those hours. To be able to be paid for those hours, a record of those hours have to be kept. The names of the prisoners are kept secret, but…" He shrugged and finally met Blaise's eyes. "The names of the…people doing the questioning are on some kind of pay sheet in the Ministry building."

He was taken by surprise at Blaise's sudden movement. Hands curled around his cheeks, holding him in place. The kiss was hot, fervent and placed Blaise between Neville's legs for better leverage.

It was not the position he would have wanted his Gran to walk in on.

The sound of a throat clearing behind them made both boys freeze. Neville's eyes opened to see the older witch standing with her arms folded across her chest.

"I see you're done with the trimming, Neville. Come along, it's far too late for you to be up. Young Blaise can visit tomorrow." The beady glint in her eyes was too much. Neville buried his face in Blaise's shoulder and laughed.

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The Morrigan curled a hand around Harry's head and held him close. The boy's tears had dried to a faint trail on his face. He stayed curled into her side, both of them tucked up on the couch with the fire dying to low embers in the hearth in front of them.

"I will take you from this place," she said into the silence.

The boy went tense in her arms. "I can't," he said after a moment.

"Nonsense. I will take you away. That is final."

"I can't, Morrigan." He pulled back from her arms. She did not want to let him go. His reddened eyes were puffy from the tears.

"Why not?"

He ran his hands across his cheeks. "It will just make things worse." He would not meet her gaze.

"Make what worse?"

"Sirius, the Ministry, Healer Fondorn, all of it."

"I will settle this, child. They have no right…"

"And they'll just say I'm lying again." The bitter note in the boy's tone made her heart ache.

She cupped the sharp chin with one hand and tilted his face to hers. "You are not lying, Harry." She brushed his bangs away with her free hand. "You are a brave, brave boy. You have seen things that would send others fleeing into the Dark, screaming, their minds shattered. You are not broken. You are not insane. You are dealing with things that have not been brought into the mortal realm for millennia. I think you are doing well, in spite of all that."

His blush reached the tip of his nose. "Thank you."

"I would still take you away from all this."

This time the boy did not tense in her hold. "I…can't," he said again, much to her irritation.

"They do not deserve you."

A wry smile touched the boy's lips. "I'm glad you think so." He shook his head. "If I leave, the Ministry will lose what little control over the people it has."

"This Ministry does little for your own welfare."

"They do what is best for everyone." Harry moved his chin from her hand and glanced over at the bed. "I've been reading the papers when they can't see. Scrimgeour is trying to convince everyone that the deaths are the work of rogue Death Eaters. Fudge is trying to convince everyone that I'm the rogue Dark Lord in training. Right now Scrimgeour has the upper hand in the presses."

"Mortal issues," she waved a hand. "They are blind."

"Not exactly," he shifted back to her side, the tense line of his shoulders fading as she wrapped her arm around him. "Fudge still has the Unspeakables behind him. They've been giving rumors to the press, which is what Scrimgeour's Aurors are saying. I know they have the Manor being watched." The boy swallowed hard. "I know they're watching Draco and his family."

"Your boy is quite angry."

"He's not…my boy."

"He is yours though, as you are his," she touched the dark hair with pale fingers. "He will fight to get back to your side no matter what."

"…I know."

"As you would, if you could."

"…Yes." It was said on a breath of a whisper.

"And yet you still say you cannot leave this new cage."

Harry flinched from her words. "No. I can't."

Another sigh. "Mortals."

"We are what we are."

"What good does it do if this Ministry keeps you cooped up here?" She snapped her fingers at the floor. "You are not safe here. These wards are like paper."

"It's not the wards they're worried about." He set his chin on his drawn up knees. "The Black family is an old, respected family. I heard Sirius talking to Ginny about it the other night. Before…before Sirius' parents got a hold of the lands, his family was like an old feudal family. They had the lands and the workers and they kept up their villages."

"They're really rich, you know?" He continued. "They did a lot of public works, threw a lot of society balls, all that. Sirius' parents dented the name, but a lot of people still remember the Black family as people who took care of the poor and the needy. The Malfoy's came from France, I guess and don't have the best reputation with the poor. They've been blackened so much by the press that if I stay there, people will believe that I'll become evil too."

"I say to you again, mortals."

"Yes," he huffed out a laugh. "The people feel safe if I'm here with Sirius, who's been out in the press declaring that he's my rightful godfather and that he's going to cleanse the family name and people are just eating it up." He shivered. "If I do anything to unbalance this, everything comes crashing down. The wizarding world with vote for Fudge. He'll have me thrown into Azkaban. And then we won't be able to find whatever it is that's doing all this."

"…Oh child," she hugged him close. "Would that I could take you from this place and never let you come back."

He turned his face into her neck. "That's a nice dream," he said. "But it'll never happen. They won't let me go, not now. There are debates in the press at whether I should have died in the fight with Voldemort. Some know the truth. Some say the gods should have never let me come back."

"I will rip out their throats and stomp their bodies into mud."

"Too late now," his sigh was weary. "The words are already out there. I just have to deal with it."

"…I will be here for you, dream child. I will not let you face this alone."

"You don't have to."

"Hush, child. Sleep. It is almost dawn."

"Morrigan…"

She tucked him closer to her side and drew the throw over them both. "Don't be silly," she crooned into his hair. "Sleep now, sleep and rest. I will stand guard over your dreams."

His eyes slipped closed at her words. Inch by inch, the body in her arms went lax. As the dawn tinted the sky, broken and angry by the storm clouds on the horizon, the Morrigan stayed awake, golden eyes wide in the gloom, watching over her boy. There was no place else she had rather be.

End Chapter Twenty