A/N: This one might be revised in the near future, but I wanted to post it anyway.
Thank you to cdlowe8, Shiro Ryuu, Amy, Zelphie, Bex Drake, Madd Girl, Shadowed Seraph, Lucius Sikilmituile, gorgeousbowneyes, El, Kumak, lilylupin, angel, jazzysue, Xenia Marvolo, Purple Raveness, Novocain, spinnerofdark, Mirokuluver's Friend, ura hd, louey31, sottychan, Black Kymera, DragonMistress333, Dragonist, alliekatgal, Kittendragon, TanyaPotter, and Firedragon.
"Which one next?" asks Evan. Harry squints at a piece of parchment with instructions written in a hurried-looking script.
"The green and the purple. Half the green, then the purple, then the other half of the green," he reads as he hands Evan two vials.
"Harry?"
"H'm?" Harry doesn't look up, turning the paper sideways a bit to see if the legibility improves.
"This isn't purple; it's lilac." Harry swears, and looks through the stand of healing potions that Gabriel has set up at Lucius' bedside. He finds a purple one and passes it to Shadow, who smiles.
"How can you be so goddamned chipper at four in the morning?" Harry croaks, tiredness creeping into his voice the way the pale light of dawn is creeping into the corners of the bedroom.
"I told you, proper Rosiers do not need to sleep." Harry looks at Rosier with a mixture of disbelief and envy. "But since I happen to like sleep, I took a seven-hour nap this afternoon."
"Damn you. Why didn't I think of that?" Harry grumbles.
'You can nap now, if you'd like. I'll wake you up for the next dose."
"No, it's ok. I can hold out," Harry says, yawning and settling into one of the chairs that has been permanently stationed in Lucius' bedroom.
The next thing Harry remembers is Shadow shaking him awake a half-hour later. They repeat this cycle several times before Gabriel arrives a little after sunrise. Gabriel runs a quick series of diagnostic spells on Lucius. There are dark circles under his eyes and it looks like he hasn't slept since Lucius was poisoned, but he is humming under his breath.
"How long do we have to do this?" Harry asks him. Gabriel stops humming.
"Until he dies or gets strong enough that we can give him stronger healing potions," he answers seriously.
"How long?" Harry repeats. Gabriel runs a hand through his curly hair.
"Could be a couple of weeks. Could be a few months."
"And once he's stronger?"
"Then it could be a matter of days. It's difficult to say right now."
Gabriel eyes Harry. "How long have you been here?"
"Since midnight. Gave him his potions on the hour and on the half-hour, just like your instructions said what I could read of them, anyway," Harry says. Gabriel checks the stand of potions.
"Oh, good. I trusted that Evan would be able to distinguish lilac from purple. But can you distinguish lilac from lavender?" He asks. From his doctor's bag, he draws two vials that appear almost identical to Harry.
"Just label the damn vials," snaps Harry. Gabriel grins and taps the vials with his wand. Neatly printed labels appear on both of them. He places them in the stand and draws out more vials to replace the other empty ones.
"Take a break, Harry," he says over his shoulder.
"I'm alright," Harry insists, though his eyes are burning in the early morning light.
"You could have fooled me. I'm going to be here for a while, conducting more tests. Go take a break. Get breakfast, at least.."
Harry wanders to the dining room, where he finds Evan nibbling a piece of toast. Harry sinks into a chair and reaches for the teapot. "Allow me," Evan says. He flicks his wand and the teapot pours itself into Harry's cup. "Cream? Sugar?"
"No cream. Two sugars. Please," Harry adds as an afterthought. Two cubes of sugar land into Harry's cup and dissolve instantly. "Thank you."
"Don't mention it, please." Evan reaches for a grapefruit half. Harry swallows his tea. The warmth of it going down seems to ease some of the tension he has accumulated in the night.
"Shadow," Harry begins, "can I ask you something personal?"
"Of course, Harry. I consider you to be family." Rosier's tone is warm. Harry is surprised.
"Are you ever lonely?" he asks, thinking of Michael's comments from the previous day.
"No," Rosier replies quickly. "Before you went to Hogwarts, were you lonely?" Harry thinks back to those days before he knew he was a wizard—the days when he slept in a cupboard under the stairs.
"I didn't know any other way of life."
"Neither do I."
"Will you marry?"
"As heir, I'm obligated to."
"Who will you marry?"
"That is a very good question. There are a limited number of women meeting the Rosier criteria for marriage."
"There's a set criteria?" asks Harry, surprised.
"Of course. There tends to be for every family, doesn't there? Even if it's just 'witch highly preferred.' The Rosier criteria includes lineage, politics, yearly income, intelligence, and height."
"Height?"
"The Rosier line has always been described as 'tall and handsome.' We didn't get that way by accident."
"What does that leave you with?"
"Pureblood for at least 3 generations, not the kind of person to advocate Muggle hunting, but the kind of person who takes pride in our culture. Extraordinary wealth is not necessary; breeding is more important. Must be intelligent and has to be taller than average," Evan recites, seemingly from memory.
"Can you have children?" Harry asks. Rosier halts, his spoon frozen over his grapefruit.
"I beg your pardon?" he says. Harry, realizing that he may have just implied that Rosier is a eunuch, blushes.
"Er—I mean, when you take on the form of a woman, can you bear children?"
"Are you suggesting that I should go husband hunting?" The look on Rosier's face was one of pure amusement.
"And why not? You make quite the refined pureblood lady. I might even be tempted to marry you," James says, striding into the dining room.
"That is true. Even the Dark Lord was taken by your charms," Michael adds, following James. Michael carries a copy of Witch Weekly folded under his arm. Harry shakes his head over Lestrange's inexplicable taste in reading materials.
At the mention of Voldemort, Rosier wrinkles his nose in a small gesture of disdain. "What? You-know-who didn't know how to show a girl a good time?" James asks, grinning evilly. He doesn't sit, but busies himself with making a cup of coffee.
"I don't know about that. The rumor was that the Dark Lord was quite obsessed with producing an heir with his lovely consort," Lestrange says to Harry in a confidential stage-whisper.
"I hate you both," Evan says cordially, finishing off his grapefruit. He smiles a little.
"C'mon, don't you want to be known as Rosier, the Only One to have Bedded Lord Voldemort?" Lestrange teases, taking the cup of coffee James had prepared for himself. Rosier's smile disappears, replaced by the blank look that signals his refusal to argue.
"I'm not talking about this," he says, suddenly serious. Lestrange drops his magazine in shock. Harry is glad that Michael didn't drop the coffee.
"No! Evan, you didn't really!" James exclaims, grabbing another cup.
"How could you? He was half-snake and half-dead!" Lestrange says, his face screwed up in distaste.
"Ugh. Thank you, Michael, I needed that bit to help my stomach settle," James says, his face turning a delicate shade of green as he stirs his coffee.
"What did you look like?" Harry asks. He didn't think Voldemort was human enough to feel emotions like lust or attachment. He finds himself curious as to what kind of woman Rosier could have possibly created to appeal to Voldemort's taste.
"Did you ever see what my mother looked like in her glory days—before Azkaban?" Michael asks, magazine once again in hand.
"Yes," Harry replies, thinking of the trial he witnessed through Dumbledore's penseive.
"Imagine a woman within that same mold—except way better looking." Somehow, Harry is not surprised to hear that.
"Why imagine?" asks a woman's voice—dark, rich, velvety. Harry turns to look. She is, Harry thinks, the sort of witch Tom Riddle would have imagined to be his mother. She is remarkably beautiful. Her long hair was thick and such a deep shade of black that the highlights appeared to be purple in the sun. Her eyes were mesmerizing—an extremely rare shade of violet. Unlike Bellatrix, her bearing is not haughty, but regal. She smiles and Harry's heart quickens. Harry looks away and drains the rest of his tea.
"You are scary," Harry says under his breath, his voice filled with awe at Rosier's gifts. From the corner of his eye, he sees Evan give a slight bow and return to himself.
"I love it when you do that," Lestrange says with a smile. "Anyway, we're headed up to assist Gabriel. Sebastian says he'll be along after lunch."
Michael and James leave. Harry turns to Evan immediately.
"Did you really—" Evan nods. "How could you?"
"He performed a glamour—not dissimilar to the one you wore as Jonathan Scryer. He made himself look like Tom Riddle again."
"For you?" Harry asks incredulously. Rosier gives a derisive snort.
"For himself, more like. I imagine he wouldn't have enjoyed himself much if I shuddered at his touch."
"Did the glamour work?"
"It was convincing, if that's what you mean. I gave things a push with a moderate lust charm. Made it easier, less obvious than a bottle of Firewhiskey."
"Did you ever become—"
"Yes."
"What happened?"
"I arranged to have a miscarriage." Rosier's voice is flat, emotionless.
Harry contemplates this in silence. He finds it hard to take in. Voldemort's touch had always caused Harry excruciating amounts of pain. He can hardly imagine what it must have been like for Rosier to have sex with him. "Remind me to submit your name for Order of Merlin, First Class for Extraordinary Service in the Second War Against Voldemort," Harry says at length.
"You think I want an award to commemorate the deed?" Rosier snaps. He puts his head in his hands, his hair covering his face. It is the first time Harry has ever seen Rosier less than perfectly controlled. He gives a great sigh.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"
"No, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you."
"It's not a deed I'm proud of," Rosier says, by way of explanation.
"We all have done things we are not proud of," Harry replies quietly.
"Yes, but how many of us screwed Lord Voldemort to gain a place at his side?" Evan retorts bitterly.
"How did you do it? What did you say to him?" Harry asks, his voice barely above a whisper.
"I told him that I was Pureblood, that my parents were killed, that I was adopted by Muggles who were afraid of me and abused me, that I hated them, and that I killed the man in a rage after he abused me for the last time. I had false memories and a few trinkets to prove my story."
"I'll bet Voldemort loved it."
"He did."
Silence fell again.
"Harry?" Harry looks up to see Evan, pale and miserable. "Don't tell Sebastian."
"Why not?"
"He wouldn't understand. He would say that the baby was an innocent." There was a time when Harry would have agreed with Sebastian, but Harry has some idea of what it would have cost Evan to raise a child of Lord Voldemort. Part of him mourns the child, but a greater part of him aches for Evan .
"Surely no one could have expected you to keep a child like that—Lord Voldemort's child."
"I couldn't give him his perfect Pureblood heir. It would have been like letting him win."
"Harry? Evan? Oh, wonderful, food." With that, Gabriel wanders in, grabs a muffin and shoves it in his mouth.
"That was charming, Gabe," Rosier says.
"To hell with charming. I haven't eaten since I saw you lot last."
"Busy times at the hospital?"
"You're still practicing?" Harry asks, surprised. The same antiwerewolf legislation that had made it nearly impossible for Remus Lupin to find employment also banned werewolves from the medical profession. All of Gabriel's training as a healer and a field surgeon had become virtually meaningless after Gabriel was bitten by Greyback.
"I have private clients. Mostly family. I haven't been working at St. Mungo's, though. When I haven't been with you lot, I've been under observation by their staff. They're debating on whether or not to pronounce me 'cured' of my lycanthropy." Gabriel rolls his eyes at the word 'cured.' "Even if they don't pronounce me cured, your friend the Minister just pushed a bill through the Wizengamot to repeal the anti-werewolf laws. It was all over the Prophet this morning."
"That's wonderful."
"It is. Next time you see him, tell him that if he ever needs a personal physician, I'm his man—wolf—vampire—whatever," Gabriel says, grinning.
"Sure thing," Harry says, remembering that he is overdue for a letter to Ron anyway. Gabriel grabs another muffin.
"I'm going home; I need to sleep. Oh, letter came for you, Harry." Gabriel tosses a sealed letter at Harry, who catches it clumsily before it ends up in his breakfast.
Harry opens it and when the signature catches his eye, he breaks out into a grin.
Harry—
You haven't written, mate. Can't say that I'm surprised. I suppose you've heard about the news. Tell Gabriel that I'm sorry it took me so long to remember our old friends. The full bill of rights of werewolves and our half-human friends is on its way as soon as I can bully the Wizengamot into agreeing. My staff (and Hermione) are working on it as I write. We're calling it the Hagrid-Lupin Bill.
I hope your friend is recovering well. If there's something I can do to speed the process, let me know.
-- Ron
"Excellent," Harry says. He looks up at Rosier, who has gone back to nibbling toast. He has a far-away expression on his face. "Evan?" Rosier blinks and turns to look at Harry almost reluctantly. "I think I understand. Thanks for telling me."
"Thank you for listening. I know you didn't need one more wartime horror story"
"For you, I could handle one more," Harry says. Rosier smiles.
Lucius' fate will be decided in the next chapter, which will be posted sometime next month. Meanwhile, you know the drill: review!
Love,
J. Silver