Chapter Twenty-Five : Family Affairs
The last time Aileen Landon (more commonly known as Aileen Alaren) set her eyes on her daughter, Rae was leaving Hogwarts. While some students received a new broom, or a set of art supplies, or a series of books as gifts from their proud parents, Aileen gave Rae a terrible headache.
But that was seven years ago, and is another story.
When Aileen observes her daughter in that hideous green bridesmaid gown, she smirks in playful amusement, tasting her daughter's embarrassment. But that smirk wanes into a malicious sneer when Aileen notices Adrian Pucey run his hand along Rae's arm, pulling her into a kiss. It's only after the tedious wedding ceremony that Aileen takes her daughter aside someplace private to talk with her.
"It was a lovely ceremony, was it not?" Aileen asks, making idle chitchat as they walk the through corridors, deeper into the cool dungeons of the castle. With Rae freshly changed into an old green robe, she removes the clip from her hair, shaking it loose. "Marie's a lucky woman to have Lucius; I hope she realises that."
Rae glances at her mum and carelessly shrugs, not really caring.
"And I hope you know how lucky you are, daughter," Aileen continues, regarding Rae in a self-aggrandizing way. "Marcus Flint is quite the young man. If you can handle his temper, that is. But"--she reaches out with a pale hand to tilt Rae's head to the side--"I see no bruises, so I'm sure you're able to manage." She fakes a warm smile and turns away.
Rae shudders inwardly at her mother's unnaturally cold hands, but she remains silent. They've played this game countless times. And although it may have taken a while, Rae has learnt not to invoke Aileen's anger. She casts her eyes down towards the black and red spiders scuttling across the dust-covered floors and into the cracks of the walls.
Aileen chuckles. "Oh come now, Rae. Surely you can speak with your mother?"
Rae glances up for the first time at the mother she's grown to despise. Aileen wore her dark hair in curls for the occasion, and they have now lost their verve, resting on thin shoulders. Her eyes change as often as her moods, and today they are a soft hazel colour. Her complexion is wan; it's rumoured that she's allergic to the sun, but that's all they are--rumours. Aileen's cheekbones are high and her frame slim; any man who set his eyes on her would think she's attractive, but there's always someone around the corner who is prettier than she. And it was usually Rae around the corner.
"I don't love Marcus, Mother."
"I know you don't, and though I should care, I don't," Aileen replies as a real smile creeps over her crimson lips. They pass a set of locked steel doors leading to the chambers that Penelope Clearwater hasn't set foot into for six months. "Remember, our families have an agreement. There are things in life you must take with your head held high, otherwise you will trip and fall. I may not be fond of quite a few things in life, but I am fond of you. You are my only daughter, after all."
"The only one that you admit to," Rae mutters beneath her breath.
"What was that? You shouldn't mumble, it's not very becoming."
Rae snorts and rolls her eyes. There weren't many instances in Rae's life where Aileen showed emotion or taught her life's lessons; her father was always the one to bathe her in love's soft glow and spend time with her without it seeming a chore. "What would daddy think if he knew about Flint? Do you disgrace his memory by not honouring him?"
Aileen raises her thin eyebrows in pleasant surprise and looks down at her daughter. "Who has been teaching you such strong words?" she asks in astonishment, resetting her gaze forward. "Your father would think what I told him to think, and that was the best thing about him. Jamie was such a spineless prat, though it did come in handy in a few cases."
They silently pass Blaise and Seamus Finnigan, a polite nod being the only exchange between them. Blaise holds in her arms a small child with crow-black hair, and they wait until the family's footfalls die till continuing their conversation.
"You never loved dad, did you?"
Aileen pauses before answering to place her hand on Rae's shoulders in an odd and false act of affection. "See, daughter? We do have something in common; we both hate the men in our lives. And--oh, I almost forgot--we both hurt the ones we truly love."
Rae furrows her eyebrows and halts immediately, stalling unknowingly near Marcus's chambers. "What do you mean? There is no one I love, and even if there were, I most certainly wouldn't hurt him. I'm not you." It sounds as though she is trying to convince herself the most.
An incredulous chuckle passes Aileen's lips, and Rae cringes. "You are with Pucey, are you not?" Rae opens her mouth to deny that fact, but Aileen quickly continues, dismissing Rae's unspoken testimony. "There's no need to contradict me, I saw him kissing you and--"
"We're just friends," Rae interjects.
"Oh, trust me. Friends don't kiss as he was kissing you. I'm surprised that Marcus hasn't caught you two yet; it is none of my business, though, so I will not ask. But you see it, don't you, daughter? You're hurting Adrian inadvertently; you should see the mooneyes he gives you when you're around. It's pathetic, and it reminds me of Jamie. You're right; I never loved your father. He was convenient, and then the inconvenience came along. That would be you, Rae. I have loved, however; I'm not a monster. A striking man by the name of Cayne Corbett. He was murdered by my wand." She speaks the last sentence with a careless air and a dismissive hand gesture.
To say Rae is appalled would be to say the least. Swallowing the sick feeling driving its way through her stomach to her throat, she visibly pales. "You loved him and killed him? How could you do such a thing!?" Rae demands, pressing her hand to her mother's forearm, searching her eyes for sensible reasons for this dreadful act.
Aileen brushes her daughter's hand from her arm and continues walking. Rae follows at her heels. "April Pucey loved him as well, and he returned her feelings. His best friend, Seth, fell in love with her twin Willow, and they were inseparable after their sixth year. You see, April and Willow were my dorm mates and also friends, but I never fit in with them after that. They disgraced themselves by associating with Ravenclaws. Love knows no bounds, it's said, but that's not true. Love does know one bound, and that is the house you are sorted into." Aileen tells her tale with a monotonous voice, as though she is merely the dormant storyteller of some other person's life.
A sphere of disgust settles inside of Rae's stomach, and refuses to move.
"Don't dwell on it, child, I wouldn't want you to hurt yourself. Times were different when I was younger. Back then, you knew who your enemies were, but more importantly, you knew who your friends were." Aileen sighs and slouches her shoulders, glancing around the empty corridors. "It's late, daughter. I bid you farewell this day; my servant waits to take me home. Hopefully, the next time I see you, you will be wedding Flint."
"I doubt it," Rae replies dryly, crossing her arms stubbornly.
"Don't doubt it, I'm sure it will happen. And you will see, it'll be for the best. The best for who, though, has yet to be determined," Aileen says, turning. Rae watches her mother leave before she ascends the staircase to retire to her bedchambers.
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The last time Aileen Alaren set her eyes on Marcus Flint, she was paying him off to marry her daughter. That was seven years ago, and the arrangement between Aileen and Marcus's father, Ares Flint, still stands.
It was during Marcus's eighth year at Hogwarts when he turned his fancy to his mate's bird. Naturally, Aileen was never fond of her daughter's feelings for Adrian Pucey, but only for the animosity that was created between Aileen, April, and Cayne so many years ago. She still felt the need to hurt Cayne, and she exacted her psychotic vengeance on his only heir.
Subsequently, Aileen was more than elated when she heard about Marcus's lust for her daughter, and decided to act upon it immediately. She sent an owl to Ares, and Marcus sent the screech owl back to Aileen. The families met at Yuletide of 1993, and Marcus jammed himself between Rae and Adrian's relationship. Marcus never wanted to marry Rae, but that was the agreement. Marcus would take Rae from Adrian, and Aileen offered a dowry for his trouble in return. Though Marcus doesn't understand love and never will, he grew to "love" her according to his own terms.
"Do you really hate your daughter this much?" Marcus asks Aileen as he offers her a mug of fire whisky he poured from a now-empty bottle. She had knocked on his chamber door minutes before, right when he was stepping from the showers, preparing to dress for honour guard duty. When guarding the Malfoys, one cannot be late if one favours keeping one's balls.
Aileen takes the copper mug with a thank you. "It's not her I hate, Marcus. It's not her I want to hurt. But in every war there are casualties, and I cannot mourn over her unhappiness." Her eyes skim the chamber, awed by the lack of warm decorations. Marcus's chambers are empty as though he doesn't live here, but that's the way he likes it. "You love her, do you not?"
Marcus takes a seat adjacent from Aileen. "Yes, but--"
"Then I see no reason for you to care. Remember the agreement, Marcus? Nothing has changed since '93, and I expect you to honour our bargain," Aileen interrupts, holding the mug with both hands and taking a sip.
Marcus glares. "I will honour the contract for as long as I want her," he grunts.
Aileen chuckles, and places her snifter to the dungeon floor, a safe distance from the smouldering coals in the fire pit. "Don't you know anything? You will always want her."
"Then I will always honour the contract," Marcus snaps.
A satisfied smile passes Aileen's lips. "That's nothing more than I expect."
Marcus's eyes blaze murderously, and he gruffly stands, kicking his chair out. "If this is all, Miss Alaren, I'm supposed to be on guard duty," he fumes, grabbing for his cloak. He wears new black robes, soft yet heavy with silver stitching, plus a new emblem across the left lapel. The emblem is of a green dragon with huge jaws, snapping at an invisible foe, and his surname is embroidered in cursive.
"I understand. I will only take a moment of your time. I didn't lie when I told my daughter my servant waits. Now, it is no secret among us that your grandfather was a troll, is it not?" Aileen starts, regarding Marcus with a condescending expression. She calmly takes another sip of her fire whisky. "Olaf, I believe. Head of his clan."
Marcus glances away, preoccupied with fastening his thick grey cloak to his robes, fumbling due to his missing index finger on his right hand. "Yes," he grudgingly replies, gritting his teeth and avoiding the desire to speak to Aileen with bitter antipathy.
"I understand you have one-fourth troll blood drifting through your veins. But do you really comprehend the significance of your heritage?" Aileen leans back, detaching herself from this conversation as she did earlier with her daughter. Detachment is what she does best, after all.
Marcus raises his thick eyebrows in a questioning slant. Grabbing for his mug of fire whisky, an aged mixture stronger than the one Aileen drinks, he downs it in half a swig. "Father never mentioned anything."
"Of course not. Your father would have been better as a dwarf. He's more loused than any drunkard I've had the pleasure of encountering. I will tell you this, Marcus: I don't expect any grandchildren," Aileen replies airily.
Marcus stops, his pupil dilating in confusion.
A frustrated sigh escapes Aileen's lips, and she shakes her head, mostly at Marcus's stupidity. "You are a quarter breed, Marcus. There can be no little Marcuses running around; no eighth-breeds. It's impossible."
Marcus continues his blank stare.
"You're sterile," Aileen explains bluntly. "You can never have an heir."
Disappointed that Aileen made such a case out of this, Marcus scoffs and rolls his black eyes. "You talk as if I want a fucking kid. You know as well as I do that I'm not father material. And, I doubt Rae's ready for motherhood. She'd probably forget the rank annoyance and let it die."
Aileen laughs pleasantly. "I should have expected as much."
"Do you wish me to tell Rae this?"
Aileen pauses, but only to finish her drink, blushing violently at the searing sensation running down her throat. "No. What she doesn't know won't kill her. Besides, it'll be in your best interests to leave her in the dark on this."
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"So . . . this is the Last Alliance?" Lucius Malfoy gapes at the folder passed to him by Tahirah Nefertari in a stunned, thunderstruck silence. Leaning forward in his seat, he studies the comments jotted with a lazy hand, while Tahirah indolently examines the world maps pinned to the off-white bulletin board of his office.
Sirius Leviticus Black: Age, forty-one. Ex-convict, convicted of murdering James and Lily Potter. Graduated in 1978 from the house of Gryffindor at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Escaped from Azkaban in 1993, and remained unseen until the summer of 1998 when he fought alongside Remus Lupin and Harry Potter. Excels in Transfiguration and Charms, and is an Animagi. Frailties lie in Muggle affairs.
Fleur Lavelle Delacour: Age, twenty-five. Witch with veela blood. Graduated from Beauxbatons Academy of Magic in 1995 and moved to Britain to be with lover Roger Davies. Was supposedly killed in the Last Battle. Also goes by Fleur Davies, or Flower. Abilities lie mostly in Charms and Herbology, but she nearly failed Transfiguration.
Igor Ivan Karkaroff: Age, forty-three. Ex-Death Eater. Graduated in 1976 from Durmstrang Institute of Magical Learning located in Northern Europe. Became the Headmaster at the institute, but disappeared shortly after Death Eaters were triumphant in Britain. Knowledgeable about the Dart Arts.
Remus Joshua Lupin: Age, forty-one. Werewolf. Graduated in 1978 from the house of Gryffindor at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Stationed for one school year at Hogwarts as Professor in Defence Against the Dark Arts. Escaped alongside Sirius Black after the Last Battle. Excels in defences against the Dark Arts, but is lacking with Potions.
Severus Thanatos Snape: Age, forty-one. Ex-Death Eater. Graduated in 1978 from the house of Slytherin at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Stationed at Hogwarts as Master of Potions for over ten years, departed during the fall of Harry Potter and Lord Voldemort. Specialises in Potions, the Dark Arts, and defences of the Dart Arts, but his weakness lies in Divination.
Lucius's eyes scan the paper, dubious of these unlikely allies and heroes. "Which one is the leader?" he asks Tahirah, who is moving a green marker in the North of Britain to the South, and a red from the West to North. "Don't touch my maps!"
Tahirah shrugs and turns to Lucius. "He never offered a name, and I never asked. I can tell you this though--he's a scrawny little boy. Too smug for his own good." She steps carefully onto the red Persian carpet, running her finger along the radiator, inspecting the dust on her fingers with displeasure.
Lucius closes the folder, and taking a brass key, he unlocks the bottom drawer on his desk. Placing the information inside, beneath some other parchments, he locks it, and conceals the key in one of the many pockets on his robes. "What about the Ministers? What do they know?"
"Only what I tell them. I trust they won't be acting without the International Ministry's authorization. Some did wish to help the Last Alliance, but even they realise that they are unfounded in their actions. I've managed to keep those countries under control. Never underestimate the power of lies, Lucius," Tahirah replies, winking.
Lucius nods, pleased with her report. "I want you to discover the identity of this alliance's leader, in addition to determining what they are planning. Is it just camps they wish to liberate, form an army? Or is this just the first small step up the golden staircase of their schemes?"
"I'm not one of your Death Eaters," Tahirah snaps testily. Her dark, Egyptian-painted eyes narrow. "Get someone else to do your grunt work." She flips her black hair over her shoulders, crossing her arms below her breasts.
Lucius's eyebrows shoot up in disbelief. With a deep breath, he stares at his new mother-in-law till she shifts uncomfortably as though being poked by pins and growls, her lip curling in annoyance.
Lucius leans back, and smiles as though to say, "we can stay here all day if you wish." His eyes burrow into her, and Tahirah's level of comfort falls drastically beneath his gaze. Her skin begins to crawl and itch, and she wonders if that's his doing. Where does he get off ordering her around?
"I'm royalty, lick my boot!" She grinds out the words between clenched teeth.
"I'm king, kiss my arse," Lucius levels, mildly amused with this exchange.
Tahirah glares, her eyes raking the room uncomfortably. "Fine." She caves after more uneasy flashes of the stare-game. "I will do as you ask, but I expect to be highly compensated for my trouble. Now, if you don't mind, I wish to take my leave to see my grandson."
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He walks alone; the sun beats down on him from the centre of the sky like a whip across the bloody back of a slave. Unexplained mountains appear across the horizon, and the ancient castle of Hogwarts in the distance. Below his sandaled feet is an ocean of endless sand that stretches to the five corners of the Earth. Surrounding him is a vast forest of tombstones. New, freshly dug graves, and undamaged monuments. He ambles slowly through the graveyard rooted in the centre of the desert, gazing at the engravings on the headstones. Names such as Severus Snape, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, Fleur Delacour, and Igor Karkaroff are carved deep into the granite.
He stops and falls heavily to his knees, sinking into the flowing sand. These people are his allies, his new friends. They are at home in Marseilles, safe. Unharmed from battle. Confusion sweeps over him as a cold breeze, and he reaches out to place his hand upon Karkaroff's grave. It melts beneath his warm hands, and he leaps to his feet in amazement, fear, and maybe a little bit of shock.
Drawing his eyes across the horizon, more tombstones blossom from the sand and into view. All new, none old. Red and white Lilies grow at their bases, choking the life from the headstones that they grow around. Stepping towards a small cluster of graves, the names strike lightning in his bleeding heart. Seamus Finnigan. Neville Longbottom. Hermione Granger. Ronald Weasley. Terry Boot. Blaise Zabini.
Those people were once his friends. Now they are either dead or imprisoned, or what he's fighting against. They are why he is fighting; they are why he hasn't yet fallen. Dropping to his knees before the gravestones, he watches with no surprise or emotion as blood haemorrhages from the etchings. Slowly at first as though a vein was sliced. But soon the blood is pouring in rivulets down the granite, soaking into the sun-bleached sand and disappearing. He stands after a few passing moments to leave, leaving behind those people, those memories. That life.
Walking from the graveyard, it dies behind him, joining the sand it once was.
The wizard bends down to remove his sandals and lets his feet worm into the sand, the grains sticking in between his toes. It feels nice, cool, and he falls to his knees, cupping handfuls of the sand and lifting it to his mouth. He drinks deeply, till his hands hold no more sand. He instantly takes another handful, and rolls his head back. He lets the sand fall through his sweat-matted hair, washing over him as though it was sparkling water. Sputtering bits of red pebble from his mouth, he begins to dig.
Above him, the orange sphere of fire hangs without a white cloud in the red-tinted sky, and black birds flutter. Pretty birds all in a row they are, with black beaks and black claws. Twenty-eight for total, their eyes gouged out by their own talons, they fly with white blindfolds.
Rearing his head up, he scrambles to his feet.
One crow a sorrow
Two crows a mirth
Three crows a wedding
Four crows a birth
Five crows silver
Six crows gold
Seven crows a secret
Which must never be told . . .
The song seems to come from the birds themselves, and they circle around the sun. Shielding his eyes from the light and running his tongue over his cracked bottom lip, the wizard begins to mouth the song, his words starting in a silent whisper. But it's not his voice that gets louder; rather, the world around him seems to become softer, until all he can hear is the eerie chant from the twenty-eight black crows.
He watches as the birds disappear, but it's not them who fly from the sky, it's the sky that seems to run from them. The sand dunes roll away, and the black-haired youth is taken back to the hole in the sand. Kneeling before it, he continues to brush the small pebbles in an attempt to make it larger, but he fails as the sand runs together again. Plunging his hand into the hole, the sand stitches together as a wound quickly healing, and he searches for something he neither sees nor recognises. He doesn't know what lies beneath the sand other than a sea of blood.
A shadow approaches from behind, or maybe he backs into the shadow. Growing over the grounded wizard, he can make out the curves of a woman, and a strong wind picks up, whipping his hair and robes to the right, towards the dunes that were once there.
"Who are you?" the wizard asks, turning and climbing to his feet. Her sudden appearance doesn't startle him; a part of him expected it, expected her.
The woman's eyes are black, and no reflection shines in them. They seem to laugh and cry at the same time, seem to know everything and yet nothing. She smiles and frowns, and her face is neither old nor young. She wears all colours, yet she stands naked before the blushing young man. Her hair is radiating white, flowing to her waist, and upon her head she wears a silver crown.
"Relax, my son. I am not here to hurt, but to impart wisdom.
"You have your army now, but where are the descendants? Two are in your possession, true, but your circle won't be complete until the other two have joined your battle. Do you know where to search? Do you even know where to start, my son? Gryffindor was your housemate, but you look too hard. He's right before your eyes, but you don't see him. No one ever saw him, and he's now alone in this world. Innocent still, war never tainted him. It never will. And that will be your advantage, for one of your heirs is tainted by death. He reeks of it, I can smell it from here, and it sickens me. But you, you are a human; you won't be able to smell it. He is ruled by the raven, by emotions. The heir of Gryffindor is ruled by the griffin, by purity." She speaks, but her mouth doesn't move. The words flow from her mind to his, singing and echoing across the abnormal land.
"Death walks with the heir of Ravenclaw? If that is true, how can he be of use to us?" the wizard asks, averting his eyes from the beautiful, nude woman. But no matter which way he turns, she's right before him.
The woman smiles and lifts the wizard's chin with her soft, gentle hand. "He will be more of an asset because of his experiences. Trust him. What he will do, he will do out of love of a woman, his goddess and lover. There is nothing stronger than the bond of love, my son. Never forget that," she whispers as a tear rolls down her cheek, from her eyes, which are now green. She cradles his head in her hands, an act that she wishes she couldn't only do in dreams.
He places his hand over hers, and lets his eyes drift shut. This woman is indescribable; she stirs so many emotions inside of him. Love, anger, pain, sorrow, fear, joy; and he cries. He lets the tears fall without knowing why, but as they soak into the sand of the desert, a strange warmth washes over him, and for the first time in so many years, everything just melts away. He's no longer the heir of the most powerful wizard to walk the earth; he's no longer the leader of an alliance. He's just a boy, standing before The Mother, being loved unconditionally.
"I'm scared," he whispers, his mouth sorely dry. "People expect so much of me, and I've failed in the past. I've let everyone down, and I still was thrust into this role of a leader before I even knew what a leader was. I was in battle before I learnt my first spell. I'm fighting a fight that will ultimately lead to my demise. And why? Because of a few friends who may have been better off without me? Because of a country that wouldn't thank me? How do I even know I'm making the best decisions if they all end in death?"
The woman embraces the young man, holding him tight and running her hands through his hair. She brushes his fringe from his eyes, pressing her lips to his forehead before pulling them away after several long moments. "The world has landed itself on your shoulder, my dear boy. And I cannot begin to express my sorrow, my hurt. When you leave this world, the Summerland awaits you, and all you have ever loved will be there, all lessons will become clear. You will leave this world with the world at your feet, instead of on your shoulders. And the only way to do that is to gather the last two heirs as quickly as you can, and jump into action. For, once you have the four heirs, the path you walk is still dark and twisted. It will take much preparation for the spell to be cast, and it will be up to you and your alliance, my son."
"But we don't even know where to begin!" he cries into her radiating hair.
The woman frowns, the world sheds powerful tears. "I can grant you one name, and one name only, for it is out of my power. Mystical forces I cannot penetrate surround the heir of Ravenclaw. I know his identity, but I know not his name. I do know, however, the name of the heir of Gryffindor. Longbottom, my son. And he is ready. The hidden power has been awakened, and he soared in the sky, a brilliant light cutting through darkness."
The commander of the Last Alliance wakes up in his bed in Romania, in Hagrid's hut, shaking hysterically. He has a handful of sand clenched in his fists, the warm feeling quickly dissipates. "Neville," he whispers through tears.
