1st February 2002 – Caer Tawel, Small Meeting Room
After having spent some time in the weird fortress of the Unspeakables Harry had thought he'd managed to at least vaguely know about all of the rooms within the poky little ancient castle. Of course, he hadn't accounted for the ridiculous use of wizardspace throughout the entire structure, and after being taken to the 'Small Meeting Room' (proclaimed in gleaming golden letters on its solid oak door) he had realised the Unspeakables had folded wizardpsaces inside of other wizardspaces.
He hadn't thought that was possible, but then, what did he really know about magic and how it worked?
The small room contained enough space for a small circular table with five chairs around it. Despite the apparent equality of the seating arrangement, neither Harry nor his friends occupied anything close to the power held by Unspeakable Morningstar.
"Tonight you are to defend the island," stated Morningstar. "At regularly defined intervals the island is subject to attacks from … well, we aren't entirely sure on the whats, whys, or hows. Tonight is one of those nights."
"They're the remnants of the sidhe," said Luna softly. "And I think some other things, old magic…"
"That's as much as we know, yes," continued Morningstar. "No doubt they are related to the sealing of the island and the disappearance of the sidhe, but—that is not what we're to discuss today."
"It really gets better and better, doesn't it?" Harry said. "Why did you choose this island to hide on? Nobody speaks English, they haven't interacted with the rest of the world in a thousand years, and Dark creatures attack it regularly! Then there's old magic you don't understand…"
Morningstar frowned.
"It is the least dangerous place, Potter, not the safest place in Britain. In any case, the attacks are not so severe. You will need to use powerful offensive magic to combat these creatures and entities, and they do not and cannot die by our spells. Our objective is to corral them to the designated areas, where an ancient rune trap will destroy them come morning."
"Why tonight?" asked Hermione curiously. "What I mean is, when do they come, and can these times be related to any important magical events in the calendar?"
"They keep to the old pagan calendars," said Morningstar. She shrugged. "We're not sure whether the appearance and timing of these creatures predates – and thus influenced – the creation of the calendars, or whether they came after. Tonight's what the Irish call Imbolc. The locals call it the Festival of Candles. Traditionally a spring festival, the timing of the attacks has meant celebrations of a rather different nature."
She paused.
"Nothing will enamour the locals to you more than participation in the night's festivities, but even so, we would appreciate the assistance. Records show the population of the island has dwindled from its peak, but the severity of the attacks has not changed. We must protect our Muggle and Muggleborn guests, and help the islanders."
"So you're willing to risk our lives for you and yours, but not for us and ours?" said Neville. "That sounds fair."
Harry rather agreed with him.
"You will not be in that kind of danger here," said Morningstar. "Some of the locals operate dangerously, taking many risks and incurring significant wounds. It is tradition. Others perform a largely ceremonial and ritualistic response. The Unspeakables do neither. Do you think us fools? We have prepared our ground sufficiently, and you four will be in no danger. As you have no doubt seen in the Reality Mirror you are the wardstone of all the prophecies. Without you, none can come to pass."
To the woman's credit Harry couldn't detect an ounce of frustration or anger towards him. He supposed the Unspeakables didn't need to be angry or frustrated because from their perspective, everything had gone according to plan. They'd probably accounted for this push-and-pull from him and the others.
It hadn't even been a fortnight yet, and what was it the Muggles said? Stockholm Syndrome hadn't set in yet.
"You don't have anything else to do," pointed out Morningstar. "Think of it as a learning experience."
Hermione and Luna might relish the opportunity, thought Harry glumly, but he wasn't sure that he would. Although… he did have rather a lot of pent up rage and aggression, didn't he? If he couldn't fling it at Death Eaters and Dark Lords he supposed that Dark and evil remnants of weird ancient magical beings were the next best thing.
"I'll do it," he said tersely. "If we need to learn new spells, show us and we'll learn them."
He hadn't met a combat or defence related spell he couldn't cast yet, after all.
1st February 2002 – Dinas Lleyn, Avalon (Outskirts)
Luna hadn't needed to be told that something large and magical would happen that night. Even aside from her upbringing, which had been at least somewhat traditional when considered against the backdrop of the Lovegood family,
she could hear the angered voices of the currently disembodied sidhe remnants.
They wanted blood, and chaos, and darkness. It would sate them for a time, and then they would return. They promised safety for an exchange of blood and chaos.
From what Luna had been told by the Unspeakables – and then again by her friend, Huw, in far more jubilant tones – the creatures would get blood and chaos tonight, but it wouldn't be that blood and chaos they wanted.
Despite centuries, literally centuries, of the same thing happening over and over again, the creatures bound to attack Avalon hadn't learnt. Luna thought them rather like people in that regard, which didn't entirely surprise her. Sidhe predated the classification system in use by the Ministry and so were not Beings, but Luna knew that didn't make them not people.
These remnants were shadows of what they were and could be again – the whispers told her that – but they retained vestiges of personhood still. A vile and hateful sort of personhood, but then, some people were vile and hateful people.
"This village is named after me," said Huw proudly.
Luna turned to look at him, and then smiled.
Hermione had frowned and turned away upon seeing Huw when he had arrived to greet them. Luna hadn't bothered, because a naked man covered in runic wards was nothing to get shy about. She'd read about how ancient Celtic wizards had fought like this. Surely Hermione would have, but the sight of Huw naked had embarrassed her enough she had to turn away, so Luna thought maybe she hadn't.
It was her own loss, of course, since Luna thought Huw looked rather dashing. He certainly had nothing to be ashamed of, and he wasn't even the only naked person around them.
"Dinas Lleyn," said Luna. "Your many-greats grandmother and her husband, the Lleyn man, built their home here when Queen Morgana died." Huw had told her the story already. He appeared pleased she remembered.
Luna looked idly back at the village, which was some distance away and tucked safely behind ancient and powerful wards. The village occupied a soft, gentle area of flatland nestled between two hills upon a river.
The gathered group of wizards and witches – Avalon locals and Unspeakables, as well as Luna herself and Hermione – occupied a small rocky meadow close to the edge of a delightful little woodland. Luna had felt the runewards woven into the area surrounding the village and the woods.
When the Dark creatures came they would be drawn to the runewards, and corralled towards the waiting wizards. Together they would ensnare the entities and keep them locked in combat until dawn, when the Festival of Candles would begin. Gwyl y Candhwylau, Huw had said.
"My family has never been very good at the kind of Dark magic we're supposed to use tonight," she said, confiding that small truth to her new friend. The Lovegoods had dabbled in the Dark Arts, of course – in magics of love and joy, and wildness, and chaos – but never in the kinds of Dark magic requiring harmful intent or desire to maim.
Huw shrugged.
"You'll either use the spells or you won't," he said. "Try, and if you can't, watch what I'm doing."
Luna nodded. Likely Huw knew some other Dark magic – and they had been warned that only Dark magic could harm these beings, that term encompassing the vastness of the Dark Arts – capable of helping her achieve her goals that night.
Huw was right, in any case. She either would cast the spells or she wouldn't. She couldn't know until she knew, so there was no sense worrying about it really.
1st February 2002 – Caer Tawel (Surrounds)
"Tempus," muttered Harry, checking how close it was to sunset. When the sun went down Dark creatures would drag themselves up through the ground, materialise from the air, and come lurching out of the waters all over and around the island.
He had ten minutes until that happened. Ten minutes until he had to unleash a torrent of Dark spells upon the creatures in order to help defend Avalon – and participate in some sort of ancient festival. He wasn't worried about casting Dark spells even though he knew the others were.
He could cast them. He'd proven time and time again that he could cast Dark spells – he had something of an affinity for them, even if he hated using them.
Harry worried where his head went when he did use them. That was the problem. The Court of Fools had forced him, in the completion of their challenges, to examine parts of his soul he hadn't ever wanted to see.
The only reason he had beaten Daphne Greengrass in the last rounds of the duelling tournament had been the inexplicable cascade of obscure and Dark spells he'd launched at the very last moment.
So Harry knew that he could perform Dark spells. He knew that there was a place inside of him, a part of his soul, a feeling he could slip into, where Dark spells would fly easily from his wand.
That was the problem.
"You all right, Harry?" asked Neville quizzically.
"Just nerves," he replied, although he knew it was a hollow excuse. He'd been proclaimed a Harlequin of the Court of Fools, he'd won the Triwizard Tournament and done a bunch of other crazy things besides.
It seemed Neville knew better than to probe deeper, however, because he changed the subject.
"Cadwal told me all the beasties we catch tonight will be used in fertility magic tomorrow morning."
Harry wrinkled his nose.
"What, we're going to fight all night to capture Dark creatures and tomorrow morning all the locals have an orgy?"
Neville shook his head but then frowned.
"Actually, I don't know… I thought he meant agricultural magic, you know, that kind of fertility? Who knows with the Welsh."
Harry grinned.
"In that case it's a pity Hannah's not here," said Neville, wiggling his eyebrows obscenely. Harry knew it was meant in a light-hearted way, but all it did was remind him of Ginny and how he wouldn't see her again for a decade. He grimaced.
He knew that Hannah would wait for Neville, and Neville would wait for Hannah – they had been about to get married, after all, but even if they hadn't been Harry thought she would wait. He knew that Neville would.
Neville always had been the most gentlemanly of all the Gryffindor boys, at least those in Harry's general awareness.
Hermione and Luna had been sent to a place called Dinas Lleyn, a place whose name Harry couldn't actually pronounce. He and Neville were back with the Unspeakables to protect Caer Tawel and its surrounding area.
Harry didn't think they really needed the help. Odd apparatuses and strange magical devices littered the area, and Harry thought he could see all sorts of runes etched into them. Even without those, and Harry assumed they provided some kind of vital function, almost all of the Unspeakables would participate in the night's activities. Some had brought their families behind the fortress ward (and Harry couldn't blame them exactly, but it made him angry all the same) and some of the adults in those families helped, too.
"It's weird being around Dark wizards who aren't slimy and evil like most of the Slytherins in our year," said Neville.
"I don't think it's really fair to call the people here Light or Dark," mused Harry. "They're just magic."
"It's right weird," continued Neville. "They've just been sat here for a thousand years doing their own thing, safe from Goblin Rebellions, wizard wars and Muggles."
"And a peaceful, happy life they've had," said Unspeakable Bonchance cheerily. "They're in wide agreement that sealing off the island is the best thing they've ever done as a community."
"Bit selfish," Harry said, and shrugged. He wasn't committed one way or another to whether the ancient wizards had been selfish when they did what they did. He could understand the motivation behind it.
"All of human history is a story of selfish people doing selfish things, at the core. Even altruism can be selfish," continued the young Englishman. "Besides, they've had nearly ten centuries of peace and happiness. Generations of witches and wizards have lived and died here, happy and safe. That's got to be worth something, right?"
"I suppose is it when you got to make the choice about it," Harry muttered.
"Do you remember the correct wand movements for the new spells we taught you?" said Bonchance, changing the topic.
Harry nodded. He'd known some of the spells already, having had to learn and cast them during his testing with the Court of Fools. Dumbledore hadn't been pleased, but then – the Court of Fools hadn't cared and didn't have to care.
"Good," he said. "It wouldn't do for you to forget them and become injured. The wards around the fortress keep the worst of the bunch away, but you never know what could happen."
Harry thought that if they were so worried about his safety they wouldn't have asked him to fight weird demonic apparitions from the Otherworld, but he wasn't about to give up doing something for the safety of an Unspeakable castle.
1st February 2002 – Caer Tawel (Surrounds)
Longbottoms had never been particularly good at most kinds of Dark magic. Fire spells came somewhat easily, as did spells requiring love or other positive emotions. Neville's gran had given him a really old Longbottom family book the summer after sixth year, the one he'd always wanted to read but had never been old enough, and it had confirmed that Longbottoms had generally always been Light wizards casting Light or neutral spells, with occasional forays into the more positive side of Dark magic.
But those were all general sorts of things. 'Longbottoms can' or 'Longbottoms do' didn't actually mean that all members of the family showed those behaviours. The book had suggested that Longbottoms possessed a particular affinity for potions, but Neville consistently melted through his cauldrons.
Maybe that was Snape's fault and he wasn't actually a dud Longbottom, but it wasn't like Neville had retained much of what his former teacher had failed to teach him, so he didn't feel comfortable practising.
It didn't help that he'd actually been able to cast the Dark spells required of him, he thought idly, moving his wand from one wandform to another, letting fly a ripping curse after the downwards arc of the bloodletting curse. He had an inkling that his sudden proficiency had something to do with the magic around Avalon, but as far as Neville could tell the half-incorporeal thing he was fighting wasn't harmed at all by the spells so he wasn't sure it really mattered in the end.
Every spell he cast seemed absorbed into its thick, fur-speckled scaly hide. He chanced a glance over at Harry, who hadn't stopped moving like a bloody spelldancer since the sun had gone down. He moved from one Dark spell to the next coldly and efficiently, one wandform blending into another. It was downright scary, actually, or would be if Neville didn't have some foul ghostly dog-like apparition bearing down on him.
"Lacero carnem! Eviscero!" cast Unspeakable Bonchance, beating the beast ever closer to one of the arcane runetraps dotted about the area.
Neville took the opportunity to let loose a flurry of ripping curses at the beast, unable to muster up the desire to maim required for some of the more effective spells. He stumbled out the way of a
retreating dog-bear-like burning apparition and only just managed to get up a Shield Charm to deflect some accidental friendly fire.
When the bloody fuck had Harry gotten so good at this sort of thing? Neville wondered that and half a dozen other things in the brief moment's respite. The creatures had stopped coming – for now. It wouldn't last, since Neville had already sat through two of these minor breaks.
"How can we fit so many inside one runetrap?" he asked to the group generally after watching yet another set of Otherworld apparitions get beaten back into the strange boxes.
"Wizardspace!" shouted a grinning Unspeakable. "Runic wizardspaces!"
"I invented them!" said Unspeakable Whitehall cheerily, leading a docile Otherworld hellhound by a thin, silver chain of magic attached to his wand. It walked with him directly into the box, and then the elderly Unspeakable cleaned off his robes with a quick spell.
"You all right, Harry?" dared Neville. Harry had been a bit distant since sundown, but he supposed people reacted differently to Dark magic. That was one of the reasons it was so dangerous – it was too individualised. You couldn't reasonable expect Dark magic to affect one person the same way as another.
"Er—yeah," said Harry after a brief pause. "It's just a bit intense."
Neville was about to agree but caught sight of a creeping materialisation from the corner of the eye. The first ones to come were the ones which materialised out of the air – a thin magic-steeped mist appeared in the air, and slowly but surely the creatures of the Otherworld formed.
Some of them could fly, although Neville would hesitate to call them birds. He shot off a blood-boiling hex at one of the scaled fliers, one of the few creatures which could be outright killed, before hitting another with a ripping curse.
The Unspeakables – and the locals – were right that tonight was … something close to fun, even if it was pretty dangerous.
If nothing else Neville had never felt quite so alive, so there was that, at least.
2nd February 2002 – Dinas Lleyn
Hermione had just witnessed possibly the most beautiful sunrise she had ever and would ever see, as night gave way to morning over the ancient and primeval land of Avalon. It was an abstract kind of thing, though, something that had happened around her rather than something she had experienced. Even the way the early morning fog clung to the feet of the trees, and the way that the grass glistened with dew and magic, failed to really move her.
There had been something much more interesting happening, after all.
She had spent the long stretch of time between sunset and sunrise forcing out a stream of Dark curses from her wand in order to fight foul creatures and magical entities which should never have existed in the first place. Hermione understood the theory behind many of the spells she had cast that night perfectly, but with much Dark magic that just didn't matter. Still, the spells had come from her wand in the end – she hadn't honestly thought they wouldn't, not really – and Hermione had been a full participant in the night's celebration. She had thought celebration the wrong word for what they had been doing, at first. It seemed rather a lot more like an existential battle for one's life and home to Hermione, but she supposed that was the interesting thing about unique cultural contexts.
The Festival of Candles had been a gruelling, bloody and altogether dangerous way to spend her night. She'd cast magic she'd never thought she'd cast – she was very much a fan of Light magic – whilst all around her naked Welshmen cavorted and danced in the chaos. She had never felt so utterly out of place anywhere (except maybe, under careful consideration, in the Muggle world).
It had been worth it for the morning.
As the sun rose over the island and the morning fog cleared, the arcane traps which had collected the sidhe creatures burst open, spilling out their bounty of eldritch entities. Hellhounds and creatures too impossible to name poured out of the folded wizardspaces.
A shiver ran up her spine – surely they could not mean to fight again, in the light of day?
A great cheer rose up through the gathered crowd – the entire population of the town – as every single creature burst into an intense pillar of luminous green fire.
A great cacophony roared out of the crowd, who had started singing something loud and fast in Welsh. They started to move again, this time in moves that were more predictable and practised – ritualised, she supposed. All the while the Dark creatures continued to burn, bright pillars of green fire against the pale morning sun.
The sense of magic was indescribable. An ancient magic, magic older than anything she had ever felt before, seemed to seep up from the ground below her. It permeated the air around her. She knew that if she were closer to the coast it would be in the sea. Her skin tingled and she knew, just knew, it was weaving itself all around her, seeping into her skin and bones and Merlin only knew what else.
Hermione joined in the song, and her feet took up the dance, and even though she didn't understand a word she said, she revelled in the wildness of it all. Soon enough the whirling dance around the pillars of flame grew less frenetic, less frenzied, and many of the revellers peeled away. Hermione allowed herself to be pulled away by Huw and Luna, watching as a much smaller group caroused around the captive and still-burning Otherworld creatures.
It was only when she stopped singing and dancing that Hermione realised she was out of breath. She sank down to the ground, suddenly a lot more tired than she had been. Luna – and Huw, still completely naked and covered in paint as well as other less savoury things – joined her on the wet grass.
"So how did you enjoy your first Dark magic celebration, Hermione?" asked Huw jovially.
She didn't quite know what to say.
"It was very wild."
"Aye, it is that," he agreed. "Tonight's was a good one," he continued. "Best I've seen in years, thinking of it."
"What made it good?" she asked, curious. A kind of restless energy infused her, causing her to experience small, subtle surges in energy at odd moments. "Or, better than others, I mean."
Huw leaned back on his palms and looked over at the Candles.
"Everything," he said, and shrugged. "You felt it, too."
"I did," she said, and began to compose the rest of her thought – but I have no prior experience to contrast it with – and then let it go. It had felt rather satisfying, she supposed. And the magic at the end – well, she would certainly need to find a book about that sort of thing.
Huw scratched at his beard.
"I'm supposed to get you two back to the Unspeakables now," he said. "Only, I think I'd rather sit in the sun a bit longer, if you ladies don't mind?"
Hermione supposed that she didn't really mind at all.
2nd February 2002 – Caer Tawel (Small Meeting Room)
Harry's leg twitched again, this time jumping high enough to make a loud noise against the bottom of the wooden table at which he was sat. Third time that had happened, he noted absently, trying with everything that he had to concentrate on what Unspeakable Morningstar was trying to say.
It had been the same ever since the end of that Dark celebration a few hours ago, the Festival of Candles, when a veritable typhoon of ancient and primeval magic had welled up and danced inside of him, released back to the land and its people. He'd been left filled with this frenetic, chaotic energy that made his legs jump and his fingers want to tap.
The celebration had been—something, all right. It had done everything he'd been told it would – he'd been deeply touched by the magic, he'd proven himself to the locals, he'd even managed to work out most of his deep-seated anger at the Unspeakables.
He wondered if that had been the point. Probably. The Unspeakables were too Slytherin for Harry to properly figure out what exactly they were doing and what they wanted from those actions. What they said was one thing.
What they meant was another.
"As I was saying before Potter interrupted us again," said Morningstar smoothly, "no doubt you have all recognised the opportunity for training provided by this island and the people who live here. Even with prophecy on our side none of you would provide any sort of match for a Dark wizard of Voldemort's power. We hope to remedy that somewhat in the intervening years. Last night was one such opportunity for training. The next decade shall be another."
"This was the point, wasn't it?" asked Hermione. "Not keeping us safe, not just because of prophecy, but because you wanted to shape us. Mould us into the people you need us to be."
"I wouldn't have put it quite like that," muttered Morningstar, "but that is one part of it, yes. But make no mistakes here: we don't intend to subsume you to our cause. We are, until the end of these troubles, fully and wholly behind your cause, Potter."
Harry knew which arguments he should use – if they were for his cause then why weren't they letting him fight it? Why didn't they capture his other friends, too? Those and many more would have been valid questions.
Harry didn't ask them because he knew what the answer would be. The Unspeakables were behind his cause their way. Probably even for their own goals too.
"We have just lost the most powerful wizard in three generations," said Morningstar. "There is but one man in all of Britain who could teach you what you need to know, Potter, and that man wants you dead."
Harry grimaced, then placed his left hand over his right to stop the incessant tapping of his fingers.
"With Dumbledore gone, and with Lord Voldemort your destined nemesis, it falls to the Unspeakables to train you. It is an honour, you know. We have rarely intervened in such a way throughout history, not since the Prime Unspeakable died."
"Do you think Dumbledore lacked goals and motives of his own? We have a dossier on Dumbledore. He was a great man." She paused, probably just for effect. "Great men have secrets."
"Dumbledore has the Elder Wand," said Luna. "My father told me."
"That is correct," confirmed Morningstar. "Now it belongs to Lady Valmira, and the Dark Lord lacks only one of the fabled Deathly Hallows."
"The Resurrection Stone as well?" said Luna, frowning. "That is bad news."
Deathly Hallows? Resurrection Stones? He'd heard about the Elder Wand before, of course. What wizard hadn't?
"Children's stories," said Hermione dismissively. "Deathly Hallows indeed! Powerful magical artefacts created by man, perhaps."
"Whatever their origin, Miss Granger, the Deathly Hallows are certainly real, and the Dark Lord possesses two of them. All is not lost, however, because we believe Potter is in possession of the third."
"My Cloak?" he asked, thinking of the only rare and possibly unique magical object he owned. He didn't think his motley would be it, since everyone in the Court had a set, so that left only his Invisibility Cloak. "What do these Hallows do?"
"They're supposed to make their owner the master of Death," said Hermione quietly.
"It is actually from a children's story," said Neville. "Three brothers were being chased by Death. In the end, they beat him, so he gave one of them his wand, one of them a stone binding the dead, and the final brother his cloak. The ones who took the stone and wand ended badly, but the brother who took the cloak hid from Death his entire life and took off the cloak as an old man, passing the cloak down to his son before Death finally found him."
"That man was your many-greats grandfather," said Morningstar. "A marvellous coincidence, as I am sure you can appreciate."
"What does this mean?" he asked, unable to get his head clear for long enough to form any real opinion on the matter. He was still too magically charged. Did nobody else feel it?
"At its most basic you should not let Voldemort get his hands on your Cloak," said Morningstar. "We intend to retrieve the remaining Hallows. Our mission for the next decade is you four," she said.
"When we're done you'll be able to fight Voldemort, I'd wager. We're going to make you into instruments of Fate."