Chapter 132 – Misperceptions
Petunia was fussing nervously over dinner. Oh, the food was cooked just fine, and there was plenty of meat and potatoes, and a nice pudding for dessert, no problem there. But this was the first night in weeks, literally weeks, that her Vernon was coming home for dinner with her!
She wasn't sure if this was all just because he'd gotten so wrapped up in this anti-magic movement, or if he'd found someone else. She had heard some gossip that afternoon from Clarice, the woman three houses up the road, about Helen, Clarice's back-yard neighbor. Petunia didn't know Helen, but that wasn't the point. It seems that Helen's husband had been making himself scarce for a few months, and suddenly announced one evening after dinner that he'd met someone else and wanted a divorce.
Vernon did not appear to be the runaround type, but, really, how can you tell? He was making a good living nowadays at Grunnings, and his prospects seemed particularly bright right now at the firm. Would someone else have set her cap for Vernon? More to the point, would he consider such an overture?
She took some extra time with her nicest table settings, even giving Vernon's silverware a bit of polish, no easy task as she had to hold it with a thick towel. As she polished, she mused to herself that something very substantial must have happened to her system, as she still couldn't tolerate the touch of silverware. That had not eased one bit since she returned from Hogwarts. It nagged in the back of her mind that she was still able to wear her silver jewelry without this awful burning, but she finally concluded that there must be something different in the metal formulation used for necklaces as opposed to forks. At least she still had the little dagger, and had gotten quite proficient using it. Otherwise, she'd be doomed to a diet of finger foods.
Vernon waddled in at half past five, seeming in a jovial mood. She greeted him with a peck on the cheek, as usual, but watched him with unusual intensity.
"Ah, Pet, what a day, what a day!" he sighed. "The big contract with Sir Harold's firm closed today, and two other gentlemen I've recently met stopped by the office this afternoon to sign contracts on behalf of their businesses, as well. Grunnings hasn't seen a week like this in the firm's history, I tell you. I had a call from Mr. Atherton at the home office – the Chairman himself!"
Vernon preened and puffed, and Petunia could see him reliving that call in his head.
"How wonderful, Vernon," she enthused on cue. "I am so proud of you! And you were even able to come home for dinner this evening – isn't that wonderful, too!"
She put the serving plates on the table, and almost as an afterthought, found the etched wine glasses in the back of the breakfront and got out a stepstool to look for the bottle of expensive wine they'd been saving on the top shelf in the pantry. She dusted it off, and rummaged for a corkscrew, finally presenting it to Vernon to open, as she put the good glasses on the table. She was beginning to relax a bit; Vernon's coming home for dinner seemed to be a celebration, and not the opportunity to deliver bad news.
Over said dinner, and wine, Vernon did share some news from the anti-magic front.
"Sir Harold called me this morning, Pet. A bit of a conference call, actually. Difficult conversation, about the movement, you know," he said, with a jowly shake of his head.
She imagined it was all over the office within 30 seconds of his assistant putting the call through to Vernon, that Sir Harold Beckwith had called Mr. Dursley. Miss Enderlee would see to that. She smiled encouragingly
"He'd assembled some like-minded young men, and they planned to take action against that blasted castle. I thought that they were a bit hasty, and Charles Frost - you remember me mentioning him, don't you, Pet? - agreed with me. We felt we needed to be more cautious about this, but Sir Harold wanted to rush off and do something."
Vernon took a moment to pat his lips with his napkin, as he gathered his thoughts. "Charles seems to have been studying this magic nonsense for a while, and had some suspicion that they'd have defenses we didn't understand. Anyway, Sir Harold and his troops moved against the castle yesterday, and it was a total disaster. No one hurt, but absolutely no damage inflicted, either. Charles is of the opinion that the freaks have some mumbo-jumbo that acts like a barrier around the castle. I gather Sir Harold approached the castle with airships, and artillery and absolutely nothing got through, nothing at all. One of the airships even crashed into the magic shield, and was a total loss!"
Petunia listened in horror. That was a school, and Vernon knew it. How could they send troops and what sounded like big guns, for goodness sake, to attack a school? Had Vernon even told them it was a school, not really a castle fortress?
Vernon mistook the look on her face as concern for good, normal people who might have been the worse for wear after having tried to take on the scourge of magic, and he went on (and on, and on). About what he had said to Sir Harold, recommending caution. About what Charles Frost said about it, and other things. About what the Riddle cousins said about this, that, and the other. It was giving her a headache.
And that name – Riddle. She'd heard that before. It wasn't the most common of names, but she was sure it had come up someplace. Maybe the family was from around here, and maybe Dudder's played with one of their sons at some point? That must be it.
Eventually, Petunia's initial horror at the news of the attack eased into relief that apparently her marriage was not in jeopardy, and finally into boredom at the goings-on of "the movement." It sounded like no harm came to Hogwarts, or to the people who tried to attack it. All the rest was just so much nonsense.
That final sentiment was shared the next day by Lord Voldemort himself, when the "Riddle cousins" reported to him about Sir Harold's attack on Hogwarts.
"The old fool made sure nothing bad happened to his precious muggles?" he confirmed, when told about the strange-looking old man (who else but Dumbledore?) and a small group of others standing by the castle with their sticks (as the muggles reported) pointed at the troops massing outside the wards.
"Yes, my Lord. Sir Harold told me that the old man spoke to his troop leaders before they left the area. He told them they'd cast spells to prevent the muggle weapons from firing, and when they realized that the spells would also make the muggle flying machines fall from the sky, they also made those set down gently," one of the group reported. Voldemort sniggered at this display of maudlin sensitivity.
"One of Sir Harold's men has a broken wrist, we learned, and another is unconscious. He was carried out of the Dark Forest by someone who sounds like it must have been the gamekeeper, Hagrid, and he told the men that their colleague ran into a demon in the Forest," someone else volunteered. He thought it likely that a report of at least someone getting hurt in this venture would please his lord.
Voldemort's eyes lit up at the mention of Hagrid, his long-ago patsy. And there was a demon, right by Hogwarts Castle? This emboldened his minion to tell more of that part of the story. "We heard that Hagrid carried the man out of the forest, and Sir Harold's men were first not sure he was even human; they were shocked when he spoke English."
The Dark Lord honored that part of the story with a shrill, creepy laugh. Hagrid had been a big oaf all those years ago, but to now not even been recognized as human – how perfect! That kept the story focused on Hagrid.
"And when the men tried to surround him, arguably because they thought he'd injured their fellow, four centaurs came out of the forest to protect him. Damn near scared the troops to death, they did."
Lord Voldemort looked disgusted at the mention of the centaurs. Not just half-bloods – those things were half-breeds, and aligned with the Light, to boot. A dark shadow passed across his snake-like features. In response, the story arc immediately shifted back to the injured muggle.
"We hear the muggle was still unconscious when he was returned to Sir Harold's estate many hours later, and muggle doctors cannot rouse him. He didn't seem to have any injuries they could find, but they can't wake him up."
Voldemort considered that. "A demon near Hogwarts? What is the world coming to? If there is indeed a demon loose in the Dark Forest, that would be expected, wouldn't it?" he asked of no one in particular but in response got a roomful of nods. "If it's a small demon, the muggle might wake in a week or so, and if it was a stronger one, he will never wake. He might as well have been devoured, I suppose."
Voldemort cast a sharp look around the table, the better to keep everyone off kilter a bit.
"And this Charles Frost, and the other leaders of this nonsense? How did he interpret this situation?" he asked.
One of the Riddle cousins who'd not had a chance to speak took that one.
"My Lord, he had said early on that the wizards likely had spells and magic they could use to protect themselves, and that was why he advised against the attack that Sir Harold wanted to lead. He advised that further research should be completed," he began, watching the Dark Lord's face for any signs of areas of interest. A certain flexibility seemed to be in order, the way this meeting was going.
"We had a long conversation with him and Sir Harold yesterday," he finally proceeded, "on the muggle telephone. The other muggles defer to Charles, it seems, so he led the discussion. He asked Sir Harold many questions, and sought to clarify as much as he could about what had happened."
Another Riddle cousin interrupted. "Charles is clearly a very learned man, my Lord, with access to much muggle information about magic."
The original speaker reclaimed the floor, with the merest of nods to his compatriot. "I believe he will research this thoroughly. I suspect he might even be aware of the existence of wards, from some of his questions about the barrier. And his questions would certain suggest that he understands the inherent flaw in attempting to wage battle with mechanical devices that can be easily disabled with magic. I am sure he will conclude, in due time, that the optimal approach here will be with the traditional weapons, and we have ample stockpiles of those that we can make available, when the time comes."
He bowed at his Lord as he concluded his speech, momentarily making the others at the meeting wish that they had thought to do that too.
Voldemort looked pleased, both at the news and that final courtesy, and he nodded back. "Well done, my friends. This is proceeding nicely, yes, nicely. Watch the muggles closely, and offer your insights to guide them to the right conclusions."
Voldemort idly petted Nagini's head as he watched his Death Eaters take their leave, as he mulled the curious path events were taking. His original plan involved achieving the elimination of the muggles and the domination of the wizarding world through a spell, not a battle. Really, the spell was so much quicker, and tidier. That was not the path before him, however, so he continued to work to enlist more Dark magical beings and bring more Death Eaters to join his cause. In fact, he'd gotten an owl this morning from a group of rogue Goblins, introduced to him some time ago by that turncoat Malfoy. It had never occurred to Voldemort that Goblins had any political interests, but trust Lucius (which he would never do again, of course) to know of a group with some interesting talents and no scruples about using them.
It would be a battle then, just not of the sort he originally intended. And instead of a quick, global event, his eventual domination of the world would be achieved location by location. And this all would start, fittingly enough, at Hogwarts.
It amused him now that his evolving alternative plan to dominate the world involved pitting the ridiculously resilient muggles against wizards. Muggles were certainly numerous enough, and he didn't care a whit what happened to them. But the Light did care about their precious muggles. Their defense of the wizarding world would be compromised by their absurd notion that they should not harm muggles. He smiled, a rather repulsive smile, as he contemplated the carnage to come.
Then he sighed as his thoughts drifted to the fact that his first spell had apparently so altered something in the bodies of the wizarding population that his Dark Mark no longer took root on the arms of his adherents. If he still had the Mark, he could milk the power he needed from all those he had branded over the years, and recast that sleeping spell. That had been such a brilliant spell he'd come up with – building off an ancient spell but stripping out the stasis element. And that wasn't even the height of his brilliance.
The Dark Mark – now that represented the pinnacle of his brilliance. Really, it was fully worthy of the ancient Dark Magic it invoked! And worthy of Salazar Slytherin himself, whose research left behind in his Dark journals inspired it! That Mark enabled him to both summon his minions and milk their magical powers – such an achievement!
But soon after the Death Eaters were awoken by Potter, those marks faded off, and no matter how many times he'd tried to re-affix them to his willing devotees, they didn't last. He'd abandoned even trying to affix new ones months ago, as a waste of his energy. He was also loath to admit to anyone that he'd not been able to solve the problem of the Marks' repeated disappearance. It was easier and required no further explanations to simply abandon the practice.
X X X X X X X X X X
The men who'd attacked Hogwarts had returned to their comfortable tents on Sir Harold's estate in a sullen mood, indeed. There had been a long trek to the nearest roadway, and then a long wait for a caravan of busses to be organized to come and retrieve them. And then there had been no explanation at all as to why, really why, their attack had been so utterly futile.
Oh, the Brigadier and a few of the others had been overheard sharing what had transpired in their conversation with the old man, but it didn't add up. Putting magic, hocus-pocus aside, why were their bullets unable to penetrate the air around the castle? Why did their guns stop firing and their engines all stop working? And how could they get the Land Rovers and Apaches back?
And that forest! What on earth was that all about? There were things in there that just didn't exist. And what had happened to young Parker? The man with the broken wrist had obviously just fallen awkwardly when the helicopter crashed. If a large Apache could fall from the sky with badly bent propellers, and the worst injury was a broken wrist, they would take that any day. But Parker showed absolutely no sign of injury but he was out like light. No first aid they could provide in the field, or even the attention of actual doctors now that they were back at the estate, had roused him at all. What had happened to him, that the giant had to carry him out of the forest like that?
The agitation began to ebb a bit after everyone had a shower, a good dinner and a few strong drinks. What slowly emerged was a renewed enthusiasm and commitment that they wanted another crack at the magic castle, as soon as possible.
The leaders had gathered in a room in the manor as soon as everyone was back at the estate. The Brigadier was relieved to note that Sir Harold was not so much angry was very puzzled by the developments of the day, and anxious to "debrief," as he liked to say. There was the issue of the debacle of the attack, and then the vehicles and helicopters necessarily left back by the castle – how could those be retrieved?
His assistant was able to schedule a conference call with the movement leaders back in England the next morning, so the men at the estate in Scotland spent the hour before dinner, and most of their time over dinner, rehashing and discussing the calamitous events of the day.
The next morning's call went largely as the Brigadier expected. While he had participated in just a few calls with this particular group, he'd already formed pretty accurate assessments of the men, and everyone performed true to their colors here. It was clear that all the men looked to Charles Frost as their leader. Dursley was a blustering fool, and clearly relied on whatever Frost told him. Mason seemed relatively sharp, but at handling the details as an organizer, not as a leader. The two or three Riddle cousins were worthless, also led by the nose by Frost.
Frost did not seem to be very surprised by what happened, actually, and that got the Brigadier's attention. The Brigadier knew that Frost had cautioned against this action all along, but Sir Harold had been vague about why Frost thought it was a bad idea. From the way Frost was speaking now, he got a nagging feeling that Frost already knew about what sort of magical protections were in place. Assuming that was so, why did he not share this detail with them before hand?
Frost was making a big deal of getting at all the facts, asking many detailed questions and, it was clear even through the telephone, taking detailed notes. The story of what had happened was told, retold, and then several points clarified. Each of the troop leaders was asked to describe what it looked like when the bullets were shot at the castle. The story certainly did not vary much in the retelling, although the Brigadier thought some embellishment might have crept in from some of his colleagues. The leaders each relished their moment in the spotlight, and the Brigadier started to wonder if that might have been the point.
He was among the last to be questioned, and he was very careful to keep his observations as factual and un-embellished as possible. When there was a lull in the questions directed to him, he lobbed out one of his own.
"Mr. Frost, I can't help but think that you knew this would happen already. You said earlier that you were concerned all along that this attack would be futile. What, exactly, did you know about what we'd encounter?" he growled, trying with little success to maintain a civil tongue.
Sir Harold was a bit surprised at his employee's comments, but not embarrassed. He employed the Brigadier specifically because the man knew from experience how to look at things, especially military things, from an operational manner. Yesterday had been very disappointing, and it actually pleased him to see the Brigadier go on the offensive, even if it was against one of the Movement's leaders. He smiled slightly at the Brigadier and nodded sagely, approving of the question.
Back in Little Whinging, Cornelius Fudge was sitting with Reggie Mason and two Riddle cousins in a small conference room at Reggie's estate office. He was not completely versed in muggle technology, but was savvy enough to not gawk at the odd-looking box into which they were speaking, with Dursley at one office not far away, and with the others up in Scotland. Reggie had offered to host this "conference call" as he described this, and Cornelius was happy to allow him to do so, as he had no idea what this technology entailed.
Cornelius had not survived as a politician in the wizarding world for as long as he did without very good skills at deflecting awkward questions, and those skills served him well again today. He took a second to clear his throat and shake his head sadly at the three men sitting with him.
"Brigadier, I've been studying this scourge of magic for a long time," he began. "I don't profess to know everything about what they can do, and how they do things. But I have found references here and there to the kinds of magic that wizards can use for their nefarious purposes, and I've made it my business to learn as much about all this as I can. I don't have total recall, so I apologize if I might have been able to have foretold the events of yesterday had I been able to remember everything I've ever read."
Cornelius took a breath at that point to gauge the reaction of his audience, using the three in the room with him to gauge the likely reaction of those he could not see. He'd used that technique of apologizing for not being perfect before, with mixed success, but it seemed to be working here, so he forged ahead.
"I'd learned long ago about this strange ability of theirs to make places hard to see, and it even took me a long while to figure out how to see the damned castle at all. I was hoping that their main protection was in the fact that we couldn't see them, but I suspected they could do more. After all, over time, isn't it likely that someone would just bump into a building they couldn't see? I had no idea what they'd use, but have always harbored the thought that there was something else."
The Brigadier was sharper than the three men in the room with Cornelius, it appeared.
"But you've been grilling everyone about the shimmering air. You knew right away to ask about that," he challenged.
Cornelius was not going to take the bait, as he knew he'd been careful to react only to what Sir Harold's men told him first. "Well, now, Brigadier, that's a rather unusual occurrence, wouldn't you say? When the first gentleman who spoke today – Mr. Harris, wasn't it? – described the attack, he said you were shooting at the castle, and it did not appear that the shots were getting through. As I see it, something was blocking the shots, and it had to be in the air. Where else could it be, if you could see the castle, but shots fired didn't reach it? I did ask if there was anything visual about this because I'm one of those men who needs to see something to believe it, right?"
The Brigadier wasn't quite ready to end this discussion. "But what about the fact that the wizards disabled our guns and all our motors?" he probed.
Cornelius allowed another beat to go past, as he gathered his thoughts.
"I'd read once that they can use those sticks of theirs to make fire appear, and had wondered to myself if they could also use those sticks to douse fire, or prevent a spark from igniting. Possibly they have some odd affinity to fire in some way. I had wanted to see if I could research that further, because that would clearly make your choice of weapons an issue. Guns work by igniting a small bit of gunpowder, and if the wizards could stop the ignition, the guns can't fire."
Reggie helpfully chimed in, "And if they stopped the gunpowder from igniting, the magic they used probably killed the ignitions in all the spark plugs of all the engines. Didn't Merriweather say the old man said they didn't realize that would happen?" Cornelius smiled at Reggie in thanks. Actually, Cornelius wasn't entirely sure how all those muggle vehicles operated, and certainly would never have known what a spark plug was. He was relieved that the others immediately seemed to agree with what Reggie said.
The Brigadier quieted, although from the look on his face, which Cornelius couldn't see, it was clear he wasn't satisfied. He relied on his gut feelings, as they'd served him well in the past. He still had a funny feeling about this.
The conference call did not last too much longer, anyway. Charles Frost said that he would pursue some further research on weapons that would not be so easily affected by magic, and they agreed to speak again in a few days' time.
It was a very strange call, when the group reconvened those several days hence, this time with Vernon joining them in Reggie's even more crowded conference room. Cornelius was prepared to share some information about the old weapons, bows and arrows, trebuchets, things that did not rely on combustion and forces that magic can apparently easily disable. He also had prepared a few generic snippets about wards that could be thrown into the conversation, if necessary.
Sir Harold and the men joining him from his estate in Scotland seemed to have all but forgotten about their misadventure earlier in the week, however. The conversation took a most unexpected detour.
"The boys are getting a little restless," he reported. "Parker is up and about, just woke up as if from a long nap. A little groggy maybe, but none the worse for wear for being out for most of the week – the doctors still have no idea what happened to him, but the lad is fine. I've arranged for some paint guns to be brought in, and this afternoon, we'll have a big battle out in the forest near the camp. The boys have been looking forward to this all week."
Vernon, Reggie and the Riddles directed looks of great confusion toward Charles Frost, who seemed momentarily taken aback himself by Sir Harold's comments.
Cornelius was as shocked as anyone that the battle that had been such a massive thorn in the collective sides of all the men gathered at Sir Harold's estate could be forgotten so quickly. But it was clear that they had no recollection at all about their visit to Hogwarts. What , how, who – he didn't know where to start. A bit more clarification would buy him time to consider his options.
"All your regular weapons are in place?" he asked. He wasn't entirely sure what paint guns were, and how they differed from the regular guns. Maybe an oblique reference to the real purpose of the gathering in Scotland would rekindle a memory.
Sir Harold seemed a bit confused by that question. "Well, of course, old boy! The arsenal is full, the Land Rovers and trucks all in place. Although there is a problem with the Apaches." He looked to the Brigadier to take that thought further.
Cornelius flinched a bit when he heard the Brigadier's voice, after the man's antagonistic and suspicious attitude at the last call. But apparently, things had changed for him, too.
"We thought we'd arranged for all of the Apache's in Sir Harold's collection to be brought up to the estate this week, but we only have five of them here. I've been tracking back to see where the other one got provisioned. There were some records of one of Sir Harold's business interests requesting it be deployed to a mine in Africa, and we're trying to verify that they have it. But everything on the estate is in good order. The boys ran a small exercise yesterday on the estate, did a very creditable job, indeed. They will be ready, mark my words, when the time comes! They wanted something more akin to a real battle, so we're bringing in the paint guns. A bit messy, but they get to shoot and see what they've hit."
Cornelius processed that – paint guns must be just like it says on the tin. Guns that shoot out paint. If he lived to be 1,000, he'd never understand muggles.
And they'd gotten their vehicles back, too. He was pretty confident that Dumbledore would have moved them away from Hogwarts to be retrieved, rather than reinforce muggle awareness of the castle's location by allowing the muggles to return to see it. Maybe . . .
Cornelius' thoughts were interrupted when Vernon reached out and hit a button on the box into which they were speaking. "Let me mute the phone so they can't hear us," he said. "Charles, what on earth is going on here? What happened to them? They have no memory of the attack, just a few days ago?" Anger, indignity and fear were warring among themselves as the predominant emotion in Vernon's voice as he barked out his questions.
Cornelius carefully mirrored the concern on the Riddle cousins faces, which struck him as the most appropriate tone to take. Dursley was too quick to allow anger to take over, and Mason was probably scared of his shadow, with the look of abject horror on his face. No, concern, that was the attitude needed here. It was clear to him that some powerful memory charms had been applied to Sir Harold and the men with him at his estate; presumably they'd been applied by Dumbledore and/or others from Hogwarts, but he had no idea how or when. Perhaps the vehicles?
Assuming that they could not keep the others from listening in too long, he offered a hasty response. "I have to assume that magic was in play here," he said seriously. "What else would explain this? They were all fine, and they remembered completely what happened, the morning after the attack. I'd wager that the wizards did something to the vehicles, sort of like a Trojan Horse, don't you see? When Sir Harold and his men retrieved their vehicles and brought them back to Sir Harold's estate after the attack, the magic was released. It must have been some sort of magic to impair their memories, make them forget what they'd done. That's the only thing that makes sense."
Vernon pondered that for a second. Actually, none of this made much sense to him, but Charles seemed pretty confident, and he usually had a pretty good handle on things. He punched a button on the telephone to unmute it.
Cornelius nodded to his fellows before responding. "Well, we're glad to hear that all is ready, that's excellent news. I'm sure the chance to use the "paint balls" will keep the men sharp, keep them ready. When do the men all head back to their homes?" He completely redirected the conversation at that point, to bring it to an end so the others could develop a revised strategy.
When the call ended, there were looks of concern around the table, but Cornelius stepped in quickly. "All right, then, gentlemen. Some new plans are in order. We've learned some valuable insights to our enemy, and their nefarious resources, in this misadventure." Cornelius himself never used the word "nefarious" in his speech, but he'd noticed how the Dursley man always perked up when he said that, so he had begun making it a standard part of Charles' vocabulary. As if on cue, Vernon leaned in, all ears.
"I've been doing some research, going back to some source material I've been accumulating, to try to get specific insights into what might have happened here when Sir Harold's men fought the battle they cannot recall."
And with that, Cornelius led a discussion of spells that stop combustion and the use of wards. When the conversation got to the matter of what sort of weapons might be used in a battle with magical people, Cornelius was surprised that the Riddle cousins seemed quite willing to embrace the notion of using bows and arrows, let alone that they said they had access to a large cache of those very weapons. He didn't think muggles used those outside of certain sporting events, but he was happy to learn that wasn't necessarily the case. Good men – they were great allies here!
X X X X X X X X X X
Harry sat on the floor in the Gryffindor common room, basking in the warmth of the fire, leaning against one of the large sofas. He rubbed his shoulder, still a bit stiff from the very aggressive fencing lesson he'd had with Severus earlier that afternoon. He'd really thought this interest of Severus' in teaching him to duel would pass, but if anything, Severus had gotten even more committed, more intense about the whole thing. Harry could have objected – the lessons had already interfered with more than one Quidditch practice, and made him late for several study sessions – but he was drawn in by his bondmate's intensity. It was fun, surprisingly intimate even when they used the dueling space shared with others, and he figured it had to be improving his physical conditioning at the very least, with all that jumping and posturing. But today had maybe been a bit too much, as his shoulder was stiff and his neck felt strained. Maybe they should tone it down a bit.
Hermione, She-Who-Missed-Nothing, was sitting nearby and appeared to be absorbed in a grossly-oversized reference book, but she noticed Harry rubbing and flexing his neck and shoulder. When the group around Harry broke up, she took advantage of his momentary solitude to slip out of her chair and join him near the fire.
"Are you alright, Harry?" she whispered. "I've seen you rub your shoulder and flex your neck. Is something wrong?"
Harry smiled to himself, once again amazed at his friend's powers of observation. He was so sure no one could have noticed his discomfort. He also knew, again from long experience, that he would not get away with telling her "It's nothing."
"Just overdid it a bit dueling with Severus this afternoon," he replied, softly. "I should have thought to ask him for something to ease the soreness."
"You weren't hit, were you?" she asked sharply.
Harry mused at the image of his petite friend calling the feared (and significantly larger) Potions Master to task if she thought he'd struck him while dueling. "Oh, no, we were just a bit too energetic, maybe, in repeating some moves. He's really serious about this, you know. We work on things until he's sure I have them right."
"Well, I certainly would agree that if you are learning something, you practice until you get it right, but if you practice to the point that you hurt yourself, that is too much," was her terse reply.
Harry leaned in a bit. "Look, Severus is really, really serious about my learning this. More than I've seen him with anything else. It matters to him, you know? I just overdid it today. He showed me a new move, brilliant, but a bit more involved that what we've done so far. I probably should have broken it down more, eased into it. I'm fine, just sore. Nothing to worry about."
The look on her face indicated that she would, in fact, be worrying about this. He thought to change the subject.
"So, how's your article coming? That final bit of research working out?" He knew she was frustrated at the suggestion from the editor that she make an additional effort to bolster her conclusions. They had discussed it and agreed that if she had any chance of challenging the orthodox view of these events, she needed absolutely solid research. Even the tiniest opening would be exploited by her detractors. While she had tried to convince herself that the editor's request would make the article much stronger and persuasive, it still irritated her.
But the question did appear to distract her from Harry's sore neck. "Well, I did study the material that the Ministry gave me, about the man who attacked Professor Snape. Nothing really jumped out, but it was a curious package of information. I've read a number of aurors' reports, and this was nothing like them – almost chatty, it seemed. I asked about the source, since it didn't look like Ministry work. You'll find this interesting. I got an owl this afternoon from my contact in the Auror's Office. Lucius Malfoy provided this information."
Harry nearly brought the conversation back to himself when he jerked his head up at that last comment, and winced as his neck muscles protested. "Malfoy? What's his connection?" he demanded.
"Per Piers, my auror contact, the Minister herself asked him to look into it. He has contacts in all sorts of places, and knew someone who has some special skills, I gather. Apparently, he asked this person to look at what the aurors had, and do whatever she does, and this is what she came up with."
"What sort of "skills" are we talking about, if I may ask" Harry could not help but respond. The idea that the Ministry was assessing the level of threat to Severus' safety based on the work of a possible charlatan bothered him greatly.
Hermione looked thoughtful. "I don't know, for sure. I am pretty sure this isn't the work of a seer, or anything like that. The actual information in the packet is very straightforward, very factual. Commentary from people who knew him or knew of him in some detail. Even a picture of the assassin taken several years ago. But I get the sense in there that something isn't being put in writing, something almost assumed between the person who wrote it and the person to whom it was sent. I can't quite put my finger on it."
Harry was relieved as soon as Hermione described what she'd been given. Facts he could deal with, not that gibberish that seers bandied about. Although, he was curious as to what Hermione would do to eliminate the lingering questions she had about this. He raised his eyebrows, a gesture of questioning. She smiled, and continued.
"So, of course, I couldn't leave it at that."
Harry chuckled in response, and earned a smack to his arm (the one that wasn't sore, he noticed).
"I asked the Headmaster if I might either seek an appointment to visit with this source, or invite her here, or meet with her at the Ministry. He is setting up an appointment with her to come here, next week. Madam Bunswill, her name is."
X X X X X X X X X X
Severus was seated in his usual chair near the fire in his sitting room. Instead of brooding at the fire, or reading a potions journal, he was staring at a small photo in an inexpensive wooden frame.
The photo had been taken at the Weasley baby's christening this past weekend, and was a gift to the proud godfather from the baby's parents. Harry was holding the baby, looking more nervous than anything else, although he was trying to smile proudly for the camera. Severus had been asked to stand with Harry when this picture was taken, a very gracious offer he had not expected. Somehow, and he had no memory of this, the photo captured him looking at Harry, rather than the baby.
He studied himself critically, and was reminded, once again, of his less than pleasing countenance. The fullness of his hair, now that he'd stopped slicking it back in the old-time Slytherin style, helped a bit, he supposed. He'd worn plain robes, not his usual teaching robes, but not the brocades and velvets that would have been out of place at this gathering. His posture and bearing were a plus, overall.
The expression of pride in his posture, of all things, snapped Severus out of it. It was a lovely picture of Harry and Little Harry. His presence in the photo did not completely destroy it, although he looked again at the expression on his face. That confused him. He'd have to think on it further.
He replaced the picture in its place on the mantle and made one of his evening visits to the Slytherin common room to check that all was well. The Prefects were particularly strong this year, and kept his snakes in hand. Tonight was no different. There were a few games of chess going on at the tables, several clusters of students working on their assignments and a few hushed conversations under way. All was in order.
Severus had just returned from his patrol when Harry returned to their rooms. He looked up curiously, as it was no where near curfew and Harry usually visited with his Gryffindor friends until at least then. Something seemed to be bothering Harry.
"Are you unwell?" he asked, some concern playing on his face.
"Uh, no, not really," Harry began, awkwardly. "I'm really sore, though, from our fencing this afternoon. My neck and shoulder. It's cramping up now. Before it was just a dull ache, but it is getting worse."
Severus frowned in concern at that news. "You said you'd blocked or dodged all the spells I cast at you. Is it possible that something got through?" he asked, mentally running through the spells he'd cast in their practice to determine if any might cause this particular problem.
"No, none of the spells got to me. I think I might have thrown some blocks a bit too hard, and maybe I overdid practicing that spinning move you showed me," Harry admitted.
Severus nodded. He'd actually wondered about showing Harry the Adrikov Block, a very advanced spin that was once a signature move among the more accomplished Slytherin duelists. He decided to proceed because he suspected the young man's natural athleticism and flexibility would overcome the issues you'd expect someone to have in attempting that move for the first time. Harry had picked the move up very quickly and then enthusiastically repeated it, probably more times than was prudent. Likely just a muscle strain, then, and not a delayed reaction to an errant or unblocked spell.
"I suspect you strained your neck and shoulder, then. Likely you worked it too hard with those blocks we started out with, and then I noticed that you lead the Adrikov Block with the same side. When did it start cramping?" Severus had already slipped into his Potion Master mode, getting the details of the symptoms and considering which of his potions and salves would best ease them. He rummaged in a cabinet for a few seconds before extracting a small vial and a heavy jar. Harry accepted the vial when it was presented and drank it down quickly.
"Ugh. That was nasty," he complained, making a face after swallowing the foul-tasting liquid. Within seconds, though, he realized he could flex his shoulder without cramps or pain.
Severus marveled to himself how easy it was to read Harry just by watching his expressions. He knew the instant the potion kicked in and stopped the pain, by the way distress melted from Harry's face, and then saw the relief as he moved the sore shoulder and realized it did not hurt.
Severus hoisted the jar as if offering a toast. "I have something here that might help even more. Let me rub this into your shoulder."
Harry shrugged out of his robe and jumper and took a seat perched on the arm of the couch, feet on one of the cushions and his back to Severus, as he unbuttoned his shirt and took that off, too. Severus took a generous dollop of the royal blue cream from the jar, and began to work it into Harry's shoulder and neck. Harry closed his eyes with a blissful expression, reacting as much to the cooling and soothing cream as to the expert massage with which it was being worked into his sore spots.
"So, is all well in the lion's den? You returned quite early this evening," Severus asked after a bit. "Or did this bother you that much?" With Gryffindors, it was best not to assume that they'd take a sensible step to address being in pain.
Roused from his bliss, Harry answered, "Oh, no problems there. I worked with Seamus, and Draco was there, on a Charms project. Then I played chess for a bit with Ron, and then I had a chat with Hermione. I suppose my neck was a bit sore, but there wasn't much going on, anyway."
"Has Miss Granger finished her article?" Severus had noticed that this topic had not been part of Harry's usual patter about his friends for a while, and was curious.
Harry nodded distractedly, contentedly flexing into the firm fingers kneading his shoulder. "Not completely. The editor pointed out a few places where he thought she needed to push for more details, and she's working on that. Oh, here's something you might find interesting. Know where the Ministry got the latest package of information about the man who attacked you? Mr. Malfoy! The Minister asked him to see what he could find out, and he got some lady to help. Hermione is going to meet with the lady, Professor Dumbledore is inviting her to visit Hogwarts. I think Hermione said her name is Madam Bunswil."
The fingers stilled for a second as Severus processed that last bit.
"Do you know her?" Harry inquired, reacting himself to Severus' reaction.
"No, I've never met her, but I've heard of her. As I recall, Lucius' father employed her at times. I wouldn't rule out that she might have been engaged by my own father for some projects. A person with curious insight into magic and magical people, very highly regarded in certain circles. I would imagine she is nearly 200 years old; I'm surprised to hear she's still alive."
Harry's brows drew together at that news. "Um . . . what exactly did she do?" he asked nervously. What little Harry knew of Lucius' and Severus' fathers made him wary.
"She could read magic and magical intent; presumably she still can. I believe she made a very nice living advising the old families about prospective business partners, maybe even prospective spouses for their children. Reportedly a very benign person, actually, for the company she kept." Severus was surprised at himself for being able to recall even that bit of information, after all those years.
Harry had now pivoted to look at Severus. "What does that have to do with the man who attacked you, then?"
Severus arched his brows as he considered that. "I do not believe that the Aurors ever identified the man. It is possible that she could identify him herself from touching things associated with him, or maybe, if she read his magic, she knew where he was from. I don't know what was learned from her information, but presumably she aided in his identification."
"Well, Mione is going to meet with her, so maybe we'll learn more."
Harry resumed his position facing away from Severus so more attention could be paid to the sore shoulder.
"Oh, by the way, I have something to tell you. I had wanted this to be a surprise for you – your Christmas present, actually. But Neville insists that I need to speak to you now," Harry said a bit nervously.
While Severus managed to keep the cadence of his massage, his eyebrows shot up at that last comment. He could not imagine how Longbottom, of all people, could figure in whatever it was Harry was planning as a Christmas surprise. After a beat, he managed a murmur to invite an explanation.
Harry took a breath to brace himself. This was either going to be absolutely brilliant, or a complete disaster. "You know that I'm now a citizen of the Winter Lands. It doesn't mean anything in terms of having to give up my British citizenship, wizard or muggle, it just allows me, well, us, really, to live there. I'm getting us our own compound up there, a holiday house!" Harry paused there, and looked tentatively over his shoulder, to see how Severus took that news.
Severus' hands stilled, and he stared down at Harry blankly, not quite sure what to make of this. Harry took one of the hands from his shoulder and used it to guide Severus to a seat on the couch in front of him.
"Look, I know that you have a manor and all, and I suppose some day we'll live there. For now, we have Hogwarts." The continuing silence made Harry nervous, although Severus' expression remained unreadable. He took another breath and forged ahead, speaking perhaps a bit too quickly because of his nervousness. "Lord Brand told me that there were dozens of compounds that were abandoned as the dementors took over, and everyone clustered into compounds closer together. I asked Neville to scout out three of the remote ones that Lord Brand offered me. Neville was up there Monday, and he checked them out. He suggested one that's on the far side of the forest we visited where Tante lives. Lots of great plant material in that forest, and Tante agreed to help us design a greenhouse. I want to include a massive potions lab for you, and that's where Neville said this can't be a surprise. He said that you probably have very specific ideas about what the perfect lab would be like, and I shouldn't even pick the spot for the lab without your input."
Harry stopped abruptly and watched for Severus' reaction.
Severus himself didn't actually know how to react to this most unexpected turn of events. It was insane. It made no sense. It was very generous. It was potentially quite the romantic gesture. It was far too close to the dog-father. He actually went to start a response a couple of times, only to abandon his words before they could escape, leaving him opening and closing his mouth with no sounds escaping.
Harry quirked his eyebrows at the display of his bondmate's speechlessness, and finally smiled. "I take it that this was quite a surprise," he allowed. "Well, Christmas morning won't be much, so I'll have to remember this."
Severus finally found his voice. "This is indeed a surprise, one might even say a shock. Thank you, Harry. I'm flabbergasted."
Harry went on. "We'll go up there over the weekend, so we can look over the compound and agree on the potions lab. From then on, I think you need to stay out of the process, and that will be your surprise."
"Have you actually thought this through, Harry?" Severus could not stop himself from asking. "I have no idea what the cost of the land will be, but a compound up in the Winter Lands – one unlived in for years? It might be crumbling, for Merlin's sake! You might have to take what's there down and start from scratch. This could be a massive undertaking, a project that might take years, not a few weeks. And cost thousands of Galleons. All for a place in the Winter Lands." He sounded more puzzled than angry.
"As a citizen, the land is mine. Remember, from the issue of allowing people to become citizens up there? Lord Brand told me that the compounds he was offering me were in good repair. The walls of the compounds are solid, and the house is sturdy. They have wells, and the one I want you to see is near a thermal vent, so there's some interesting stuff there. I spoke to Bill Weasley before he left, and he said that Gringotts has a division that can put up wards and connect the floo, things like that. I don't think this will take too much time, and not a massive amount of money. It will be a nice, remote place where we can go on holiday. And even with the snows, as long as the buildings are solid, I can get all the work inside finished right away."
There was a slight hitch in Harry's voice at that point, causing Severus to look at him closely. Harry couldn't help but notice Severus' attention, so after a moment to compose himself, Harry went on.
"I was thinking that we might, at some point in the future, need a place where I can be apart from others. This would be remote enough, and with a great potions lab, you'd have something to do there."
While Harry was fighting his emotions as strongly as he could, his face telegraphed his emotions, and Severus' heart broke at the sight. In addition to being a spot to spend holidays, this was a nice, remote place for them to go if Harry lost control of his magic and was a danger to others. He was still worried about that, apparently, and as committed as ever to assuring that he did not harm anyone.
Severus opened his arms, and helped Harry slide off the arm of the sofa and onto his lap, where Severus held him tightly.
"I told you, Harry, that I do not think you are in danger of losing control like that. You've been diligent in working on your wandless magic, and we've been strengthening your magical pathways. While the prospect of a private hideaway, even in the Winter Lands, is quite enticing, I am confident that we will use it and enjoy it as a break from time spent in more public places."
Severus felt Harry's arms tighten their embrace, and he held ever more firmly to his young bondmate. After a while, as he stroked Harry's hair, he buried his face in the place where Harry's neck met his shoulder, and whispered "Harry, you will not be alone. If you need to go away, I will go with you. We will make this compound our haven, if necessary."
They sat like that for a long time. At some point, and Severus did not know when, Harry fell asleep. Severus sat staring into the flames of the fire, not able to stand without putting Harry down and not willing to release the young man from his grasp for even the moment he'd need to stand up. Finally, with a wandless spell, he turned the couch into a small chaise, changed their clothes into flannel pajamas to deal with the drafty parlor, and transfigured a handkerchief into a downy comforter. He was able to lever himself around to stretch out with Harry right by his side, and was finally able to join Harry in fitful sleep.
X X X X X X X X X X
A/N – First, I have to let you know that Kila9Nishika has created an absolutely beautiful picture to honor this continuation of The Marriage Stone. Please go to kila9nashika , under The Marriage Stone, to take a look. (Don't forget to take the spaces out of that address if you are cutting-and-pasting.)
Second, nanami made a comment about the whole christening thing and wizarding religious traditions. As I could not reply in a private message, I thought I'd share my thoughts on that with everyone here. I believe that faith is a part of the wizarding world, just like it's a part of ours; JK Rowling just didn't explicitly include it in her books. We saw the ghosts in Hogwart's Castle singing Christmas carols, and we saw the magical citizens of Hogsmead doing the same. There are trees, decorations, and wishes of Happy Christmas among the characters in the books. Harry and Hermione found Harry's parent's graves in a church-yard cemetery, and it sounded like a Christmas Eve service was under way in the church in the wizard community of Godrick's Hollow.
Josephine Darcy clearly connected the British wizarding world to the Druids (with her choice of Stonehenge as the site of the Calling for Harry's "coronation") for purposes of the TMS wizarding world. It's clear that the wizarding world would date back at least to the time of the Druids, but I think it is also very plausible to believe that the wizards have lived among muggles to varying degrees since then, and it would not be surprising that they have adopted similar religions or religious traditions. Finally, we have godparents in both wizarding worlds. To me, godparents mean that there is the rite of baptism involved. I admit – this issue did give me pause to stop and think, but I ended up believing it acceptable to the story that the Weasley baby would be christened.
A third observation of no particular relevance to anything: I went to see the Harry Potter Exhibition in New York City, and among the artifacts on display were Severus Snape's robes. The audio provided comments from the designer, who noted that she was often asked why Snape's wardrobe never changed. Her answer: the original robes were perfect for him, and when you have perfection, you don't mess with it. Amen.
And finally. I really love reviews, comments, random observations. Please? I promise to work harder to get the next chapter up faster, too!