Six hundred years, and no one had cured a hangover. Oh there were myths repeated by every generation with teary-eyed wonder, of special remedies that could extract the regret from a fun night, but Harry suspected they were based more in wishful thinking than historical accuracy. No spell or health poultice would magically stop his brain stabbing his eyeballs on behest of his liver.

If there was a god, that sounded like a fucking statement.

He immediately muttered the same old lie about never again, thus completing the post-drinking ritual, and moved on with his miserable existence in with a vain hope that his haste would carry through and the pain would just leave already.

He decided to work from bed. His judgment had improved overnight.

There were several tasks to complete that required very little concentration, and some of them were even important, (not high enough on the scale to alleviate his guilt, but enough to prevent anyone dragging him into the harsh light of day for a few hours).

He finished messages to various parties, sent his research and more excuses to the Magisterium – well, he directed them to Leliana with forwarding instructions, so she wouldn't shoot his birds down to get at them. Perhaps she'd merely read them. Or at least, she wouldn't edit too much.

He was too exhausted to kid with himself for long: something would be sent to Tevinter, and it'd certainly be in his handwriting, so the stuffy politicians would be satisfied and fussing about it was an unacceptable expenditure of energy. He'd need all the liveliness he could muster to brave the world. He just had to get out there and maybe he'd absorb the ambiance from the cold dead mountain and bring life back into his bones.

…

A week later, Harry was distracted from a debate by the giant hart marching into camp. It was the sheer size that took his breath away. It towered over the people and the horses accompanying it; it was built like an elk but larger than a freaking moose.

He'd always held a certain bias towards deer –understandable given how he spent his time when he wasn't human– but there was enough deer in that one creature to give a man a complex.

It took an elbow in his gut from Anders before Harry granted the rider more than a passing glance, and he realised the small person on its back he'd been somewhat ignoring was the Herald.

Good start.

The party dismounted near the paddocks and Harry was happily swept along by the tide that went to greet her. She was older than he'd expected.

He was too far away to hear their business, but Cullen caught his eye and beckoned for the wizard to follow the entourage up to the Chantry.

They started without him. Harry decided that was a good thing.

"We cannot make this choice lightly."

"It is clearly the best option; we have built the connections to summon as many individuals as we need."

"The Templars–"

Cassandra cut Cullen off impatiently. "We've met the Lord Seeker and fought droves of fanatics. If they are any indication, the remnants of the Order may not work harmoniously with anybody."

Leaning against the door, as close to out of the room as he could politely be, Harry decided patience would be the better part of valour. Their views were valuable, certainly, but caring and sharing was gruelling.

"The Lord Seeker's leadership is disgraceful, but I cannot believe the Templars have lost so much discipline that they are beyond reason."

The Herald rolled her eyes; no one paid her any attention.

"Heard all this before?" Harry asked lightly.

"All too often. It's getting dull. This isn't even relevant anymore; they have already agreed your plan is prudent. I suspect they just like arguing." He expected her to put her foot down, but she turned to him instead. "Ellana of clan Lavellan. It is nice to officially meet you."

"Harry Potter, likewise," he replied with a bow. But he was curious, "What is your opinion on all this?"

"Uncensored?" she checked with a rueful grin, "The mages are idiotic and the Templars are mad, both are desperate and arrogant. I believe the polite phrasing is 'unreliable and antisocial'."

His lips twitched. "That sounds about right."

"If Potter's plan doesn't work, the Templars aren't going anywhere, we could still approach them if necessary," Leliana pointed out.

Cassandra scoffed unexpectedly, "I am more concerned about the mages; I don't like leaving a Magister anywhere, but especially not so close."

"Oh dear. A tangent," Harry chewed his lip.

"A relevant tangent, but still," Lavellan agreed.

"What can be done about it?" Josephine wondered. It was a fair question.

"I have scouts in the village. The fortress is untouchable by large forces, but we can get a small group inside if we must."

"They could become a big problem," Cullen agreed.

"We have a big problem," Lavellan muttered, unheard, "It's green and spitting demons at us."

Harry snorted. Alexius was reputably a toothless dog. Now, the sudden appeal of the South to several still-missing Magisters and the timing of it all – that was concerning.

Unfortunately, it would seem his duties were doomed to remove him from the comfortable background. "You won't be able to touch Alexius. Magisters develop a certain signature to their magic – a key, an automatic pass for familiar faces, if you will. You'd need a mage they are friendly with to shield your spies, anything less will be detected."

"What do you suggest?"

"Magic makes Tevinter politics a waiting game; opponents are untouchable on their own ground. Incidentally, travelling is exciting and the parties are a blast," he shrugged. Honestly with their resources he couldn't see success on the horizon.

"We can worry about the Magister later," the Herald asserted, "If he is planning something, if it is related to the Breach, then closing it will likely draw him out. If not, then he is not our highest concern."

"True enough," the Seeker nodded.

Josephine brightened, "Latest estimates are all pleasing. We have almost forty expressions of interest."

"I'll have them ready in two to four weeks," Harry predicted. They had a large pool – with luck there'd be two dozen strong, cooperative people who wouldn't require much training among them.

"Get the Chargers involved," Leliana suggested, "They will sort out the troublesome ones."

"We can begin right away with those already present," Lavellan looked prepared to do anything but waste more time.

"Right then," Harry addressed the advisors. "I can enchant some portkeys. If you send them to the rest of your candidates, when they say the password they will be immediately transported here. We won't have to wait for anyone to walk from Antiva, that's always nice."

…

Haven lacked basic facilities, like big and flat spaces, so they ended up beside the frozen lake. It was moderately free of forest, which was all they really needed.

The crowd stretch from the length of the bank. Vivienne had assured Harry he held some appeal to the morbidly curious. He hadn't believed it until half of Haven turned out.

"Inquisition!" Cullen started, "In three weeks' time we will march with the Herald to close the Breach. Some of you will be able to take part – we will now determine who that may be. For two of those weeks, you will receive personal training from Inquisition trainers. I suggest you listen closely."

The muttering started, as he'd expected.

Harry paced slowly. "Each mage and Templar here has the potential to interact with the Fade more effectively. Achieving this, in essence, gives you access to more power. This is not ritual magic, we will not be bargaining with spirits or learning new spells. The catch is that this is difficult in a way you will be unaccustomed to – it will require more persistence than you think you can give."

The recruits were a jumbled bunch. There was a clear divide between the mages and Templars, as members of each group sought security in their own sect and remained wary of the other. The curious soldiers and villagers hovered around the edges, uncertain what to think. But liberal minds had allowed friendship to cross that divide before, and it could be encouraged here.

"Let's get to work."

Harry started by blasting them with water. It wasn't a torrent, exactly, but there was enough pressure behind the stream to wear down the magical barriers quickly. It was prudent: he needed to gauge their level and they'd be there all day otherwise. He didn't do things just because they were fun.

The longest held out for a minute. It was a long, stubborn sixty seconds full of sweating and swearing, and a dramatic fall upon her knees and, finally, a great pop and a sudden soaking.

"Impressive," Harry was uncowed by her glare. He quickly dried the woman off.

They were not overly pleased, but they'd learn. The icy bath would seem like a refreshing wakeup call in hindsight.

He levitated a feather first, vertically, pointy end to the sky. "In my culture, mages spend seven years in an institution, learning how to perform magic."

Harry drew one of his daggers tossed it in the general direction of the feathery prop. The blade slowed, halted by the grasp of his magic.

"And that," he continued. "entails escaping logic, imagining every possibility, and applying basic principles to difficult problems."

By now the dagger floated above the feather, the metal tip rested on the base of the shaft. The dagger began listing, he moved the quill to compensate. The simple reaction task didn't require much of his attention. He turned to face them properly.

"This is the abridged course. We're running a tight schedule. So let's get to it; mages, your job is to balance a sword on a feather for ten minutes. Mind that the different weights don't throw you off. And try not to destroy too many feathers, please. Or swords, our Commander will have my head. Men and women of the Templar persuasion, you will be helping them; the key to this exercise is quite similar to one of your mental drills."

His pronouncement provoked a swathe of uncomfortable mumbling between the factions, as if to deny that they had something in common. It was amusing and saddening – so much could have been avoided, if that very same segregation had not been encouraged for centuries.

"You'll have to work together to close the Breach. That's bigger than anything that has happened in the past," he reminded them. Then he stood back and watched them test the waters.

The level of self-assuredness remained high until the mages tried to hold the feathers and the hitherto unobtrusive breeze made their lives difficult. The Templars lurked awkwardly as the mages grew more frustrated.

Poor sods.

It was immediately apparent who'd worked with other people before; they didn't suffer in silence.

"Do you think we should treat the feathersword as one object or two?" The Chargers' self-proclaimed archer, Dalish, asked the nearest human. She received an unfriendly shrug for her innovative move. Dalish moved on to find someone more amenable to succeeding.

The others who were ready to admit they'd hit a roadblock quickly followed her example. Teams formed, debates raged, they soaked up every word Harry would give them, the Templars were eagerly called in to chat.

It was weird for everybody.

The few loners that remained fit more neatly into Harry's expectations. They grew frustrated with every bit of progress the teams made, but obstinacy won out. Harry was unerringly fond of them.

But progress, well, it's all relative. Some feathers were almost levitating steadily.

"This is exhausting," a young man groaned. "It cannot be this difficult, there must be a trick."

"Full marks." It was the comment he'd been waiting for; Harry swooped in on it with a smile on his face. "Tell me what you're trying to do to that poor feather."

"Uh… compensate for the wind?" A woman fished. Oddly, Harry thought she might be one of Ferelden's ex-Templars.

He smiled. "And how would you describe my control?"

"Absolute. Constant."

"Firm. You don't let it do anything."

"Exactly not," he informed them. "You think that if you can force the feather to obey your every thought, you might respond quick enough to hold it steady, so you concentrate on each individual movement: it goes left, you say go right. That method might work. Eventually." He remained doubtful, but decided to be generous, after all; "I can't say, I've never bothered to train my reflexes that way. But even if you steady the feather, you certainly won't have enough concentration to spare for the sword."

Harry granted the young man a nod, "Think more generally – you know what the end result needs to be, let your magic turn that into action, without your constant interference."

He grinned, and watched their faces fall. "I'm afraid you're simply thinking too hard."

…

Even with the progress they were making, Harry was surprised by the common sense on display. His eyebrows climbed without his permission.

"Oh well done." Two sticks danced around one another above a fiercely concentrating woman. She neatly circumvented a multitude of difficulties: the different weights and sizes, the feather's flexibility and delicacy, the intimidating toe-amputating danger of the sword.

She spared a second to grin at him. "I've found it helps to simplify a problem and gain an understanding of the concepts involved, when there's too much going on."

Everyone else was fixated on the problem, they'd developed tunnel vision. It's a very natural thing to do, made worse because Chantry teaching encourages listening over thinking. "You were not raised in a Circle, I bet. What is your name?"

"Bethany. And you're right."

Harry smiled, but not for the confirmation of his guess. Beside them, the sticks were balancing. Bethany gaped and the sticks toppled.

"Multitasking," he explained simply. "Helps to stop you overthinking. Keep at it – you're almost there."

The thing about success – once one person starts making it, it spreads like a virus. They were doing well.

When the sun was as high in the sky as it would get, this time of year, Harry called their attention.

"You will have found, by now, that this task is unexpectedly difficult." One of Leliana's friends appeared to be planning his end. "Take a moment to congratulate yourselves. Our progress is unprecedented; break for lunch now, return in two hours."

There was grumbling. Stumbling. A great deal of tummies rumbling. Some stubborn souls didn't leave until hassled, and even then they hung back trying to catch Harry's eye. He made it clear he wouldn't be divulging any tips, and they accepted his silence with slumped shoulders.

Eventually, the area cleared. Harry picked his way through the piles of equipment, checking the swords for damage and fixing the inevitable wear on the feathers.

"You surprise me, dear, you are a decent teacher. It is just a shame none of your lessons hold value. What do you hope to accomplish?" Vivienne. Of course. It must've hurt her to rein in her derision around the trainees. She would be keen to reassert her opinion in the universe.

Harry rolled his eyes and nodded overly agreeably. "You would fail to see how this is helpful. It's a thought exercise. Requires a certain amount of open-mindedness."

"An amateur mistake; to preach progressiveness when you should learn the opposite. You bring customs from a world without demons, to a verse ripe with them. Here, they are untested by our trials and defenceless to our evils; have you considered how vulnerable you are making the mages by extension? Caution keeps us alive."

"The Circle is stifling. Some of those barriers are wise, I'm not arguing that, nor am I teaching mages to circumvent those few. But the Chantry imposes constraints on magic that have far more to do with scripture than either safety or practicality; most of the restraints holding these mages back are purely superstitions."

She looked down her nose, levelled him with a pitying look. "It is unwise to open a tap you cannot control into power you do not understand."

Dear Merlin the condescension was irritating. It was unlikely that he'd be able to actually faze her, but it was worth a shot. "My, my, you are rankled. Is it that infuriating that you cannot do it? That, despite the power you've gathered, nearly everyone is making progress while you are not?"

And just in case she happened to feel that, he made quick exit and resolved to make himself scarce. With so many people around, that took an invisibility cloak and a timely diversion.

…

"This task cannot be solved by power alone. It is, simultaneously, not difficult and nearly impossible – which camp you fall in depends on how you think. At the moment, it seems insurmountable because it requires thinking unlike any you've experienced before. We're going to address that now.

Do not think of magical power as strength. If magic was a muscle it would not be bulk that you want, but flexibility. Flexibility allows you to do whatever you please; push to the limit of how it is possible to move, past pain, work endlessly as long as you desire. Most importantly, flexible magic is adaptable magic.

Practicing ever harder spells will only get you so far. If you can learn to be adaptable, no matter your resources, your experience will count for something and every problem you encounter in life will fall into place.

Magic is entirely flexible by nature – your ability to make use of that is the issue. If you have found magic a struggle, now or in the past, I guarantee it is not in the magic that the problem lays, it is in you. The mind is more plastic, harder to persuade to adapt. But it can be done.

That is what I will teach you. Now that you've learnt the necessity of the technique, we can begin the lesson.

Step one: we must practice flexible thinking. Focus on something else – chant an incantation aloud and be fanatical about the pronunciation, or follow a precise movement; establishing patterns has power over your mind."

…

He let some of them succeed before ending the workout, but the sun had passed below the peaks and the clouds were turning pink.

"Good work everyone, you've begun the process of becoming adaptable. It's a downhill run from here." Harry barely heard their cheers; he straightened in anticipation, his tone brightened to an aggravating degree. "Before I let you enjoy the evening, however, we have one last exercise. A contest. Barriers up, boys and girls."

On top of the trials of the day, his cheer was too much for some. "Why? To entertain you? We've been performing magic all day! We are tired, we'll not perform at our best."

He raised a brow. "I'm not prolonging your torture, I'm making a point." Harry pointed a finger theatrically, the Wand appeared in his grip.

The speaker set up a blue barricade with haste, just barely in time.

In the end, the silence was tense, the mage look faintly murderous.

"Time?" Harry calmly requested.

The counter startled. Double checked his notes. Startled again. "A full minute. Twenty seconds longer than his first test," he said tentatively.

"That sounds about right," Harry said. A little below average, but not bad. "Who's next?"

Surprise made several of them take leave of their senses – they actually volunteered.

…

The group dispersed, tired, chilled and beaming with pride.

It was late. Harry had intended to speak with Anders and meet his friends, but as with other good plans and intentions, they could be postponed in favour of desperately needed sleep. He fully intended to be a well-rested antisocial wizard, but he was waylaid from his destined bed.

"Harry, if you have a moment?" Solas appeared from the shadows between the buildings. He looked insistent. Then again, didn't he always?

But bed. He was beginning to appreciate the unique combination of lumps and holes in the stuffing. Ugh. "Alright."

The elf smiled. "I will not keep you long. Today was enlightening. I wish to thank you. It is always a pleasure to widen my horizons."

Harry shrugged awkwardly. "It's the least I can do." Now, what did he actually want?

"I'm curious, though. Why the barrier test?"

Simple enough. "My people had a saying: magic is 10% talent, 20% memory, 70% belief. I needed to prove to them that they can improve. Now, they will. They believe in themselves, they believe in me."

It was a good day.

As for the night? Less so.

He explored the spirit interpretation of Little Whinging. It was unexpectedly amusing.

With no real world equivalent to inspire the little actors, it couldn't have come from anywhere but Harry's head. That explained the rather… abstract style. It had been many, many years since he'd set foot in the town, and the spirits seemed to pick up on the general feel of the place more than the vague images he recalled.

There were Dementors sipping tea with the couple from Number 8. The playground was a literal battleground. A giant mirror sat at the end of Private Drive. A squadron of Kneazles the size of lions patrolled the streets and demanded milk and petting. He was fairly sure events hadn't unfolded that way.

The spirits didn't know what to make of the lamp posts – some took them to be mood lighting. But Harry had to admit, they did a stellar job with the ambience. It was sinister and surreal and determined to be dull but not sure how to go about it. He felt like someone was watching him. It was pretty spot on. He'd never been left in peace, there was always someone breathing down his neck – his relatives, the bullies, the judging neighbours, his guards, Sirius. The heavy presence felt a bit like the Grim, come to think of it, inasmuch as it was huge and dangerous and stalking his footsteps for an indeterminable reason.

The more time he spent feeling like something was skirting his shadow, the more convinced he became it wasn't a manufactured feeling of the dreamscape and that something actually was.

It didn't seem malicious, exactly; wary, certainly, and curious, but Harry had developed a sense for things that were curious in a 'what's it taste like' kind of way. There was a definite flavour to their presence. This one was just powerful.

And he wasn't going to say Vivienne was right, but she might not be entirely wrong when she implied he'd catch the attention of something he couldn't comprehend and would rather be in the periphery of.

It wouldn't be the first time. Harry had a way of it.

…

The presence continued to bother him most nights. He surprised it once, by calling out to it. The feeling vanished, and it took a long time and a fair amount of concentration before Harry picked it up again. The presence probably hadn't left in the interim.

Maybe it was just shy?

Yeah, Harry doubted that.

The trainees took his mind off it; in a few days they'd progressed well.

No one questioned his technique after the first day; they didn't bitch about him setting homework and giving them lots of little annoying spells. It would seem they'd made the link between mentally taxing exercises and building willpower and that phenomenon they called mana reserve.

They were good students, and they respected him, which was nice of them, if somewhat unhelpful. Frankly, they were too reserved around Harry, and that left Cullen and Solas to put in the long hours and do the evaluating. They sought attitude over aptitude. There were no warnings about slurs and abuse or anything else written into the foundation of being a decent, cooperative being. One strike and the assholes were out.

It gave Harry more free time than he knew what to do with. There was only so much to be done; duels to practice, spells to demonstrate, tactics to plan, more meetings to attend, Magisters to investigate, Tevinter to reassure and visit, a niece to spoil, a cackling bow-wielding elf to dodge, friends to catch up with…

Perhaps the miraculous thing was that he found blocks of spare time scattered throughout his days at all.

He found himself drawn to the makeshift stables. The fences weren't nearly sturdy enough to keep anything that didn't want to be there. So the fact that the space was occupied was absurd.

"How in the world did they tame you?" he wondered aloud, cautiously approaching, but no one told him off and the creature didn't object. The hart was intimidating; the height it had over him was especially apparent when it trotted his way and ducked to sniff at his hair.

Harry hardly believed the noise it made could have come out of a deer. The trumpeting bark rumbled right through him, though.

It was pleased, he could tell that much. He tried not to move as it nuzzled him roughly. His health might regret upsetting it. Not that he was in much of a hurry; the initial trepidation was gone, it was humbling and thrilling to interest such a great creature.

"It isn't tame," and elven stable hand had stopped shovelling, eyes wide. "It'll take a chunk outta your arm if it doesn't like you. You're good with them."

Harry was doubtful, he'd never been an animal whisperer –with some chance scaly exceptions– he recalled something about giant exploding crabs and some sort of disaster with a hippogriff, it was a safe bet to assume; "I've had mixed results."

"Then you're a braver man than I, serrah."

Harry pet the hart's jaw and between his antlers. He knew from experience they usually needed a good scratch. In response, the hart planted his forehead in Harry's chest – it was no mean feat; the head was as long and thick as his torso – and the animal's sigh shook the fencing. Harry was suddenly surrounded by antlers. He'd never seen a bigger pair on an animal. He rubbed the hart's ears, ran his fingers through the thick mane. There were burs in it.

"Have you got a brush?"

The elf sagged in relief. "Aye, can you get to his neck? He won't let us touch it, an' Lady Herald hasn't been down today."

The hart purred. Dear Merlin, what was up with this things voice box?

Harry tried to school his stupid grin, and gave up just short of biting his cheeks. "You're not as scary as they say."

He almost ate his words when it came time to leave. He thought for a moment the hart was going to smash its way out and insist he take it home.

"Harry! There you are," Anders dropped an arm around the wizard's shoulders. The effect was similar to being shoved in an aviary.

"That time already?" The wizard asked mildly. Anders steered them toward the tavern. The Chargers had marched into camp earlier with the hide from some sort of monster – the celebration was expected to be memorable. "Who's buying the first round?"

"The Bull, but we may have missed it by now." That was a matter worth serious concern.

They were halfway through their cups. Anders shot Harry a betrayed look, and Some Words could have been expected, if they hadn't been dragged in opposite directions. Harry lost sight of him as he was somehow herded to the centre table.

"Potter, have a drink!"

A tankard of something was in his grip and there were hands slapping him on the back and the background noise turned into a daring chant. The mood was highly contagious.

Bull loomed like a proud parent, or maybe a rowdy uncle, and that didn't feel quite so threatening anymore.

The next time Harry saw Anders, the night was far from young and this friend was almost leaning on Blackwall. "You know, I thought of being a Grey Warden once."

"What stopped you?" Harry couldn't tell, under all that beard, how the Blackwall felt about the arrangement.

"Thinking about it," Anders answered, shaking his head. "And then my phylactery was crushed to tiny bits so the appeal of freedom was nullified." Their corner had cleared out some; Bethany sat next to two tattooed elves, all three a little pink around the ears. Harry recognised Dalish, the other he'd seen around Varric often.

"Perhaps for the best. Even good things aren't worth doing for the wrong reasons."

Anders mused on, undeterred by the grim injection of realism into the atmosphere. "Would've liked the community though. I'd never belonged somewhere before; the Circles should've been that place, but there's rules, you see, they don't let you settle. And you!"

"Me."

"Yes! M– you! You waste that, hiding in the soggy hills. Nathanial was like that; great friend, good brother, noble Warden, shitty socialite."

Harry met the younger Howe only once; he'd seemed like a dark character, not unlike his older brother had been, actually, so there was little wonder he and Anders got along.

The unknown Dalish elf turned, "Oh don't say that! Nathanial is lovely, some of the time. And very helpful; he got Hawke those maps."

"You were with this bunch in Kirkwall?" Harry was surprised; she didn't look the sort. Kirkwall tended to attract a certain kind of desolate or devious.

She smiled brightly. "With Hawke, yes. The older Hawke as well, that is, not just this one."

He followed her gesture with raised eyebrows. Bethany shrugged. "He's my brother."

"Huh." It was day for bewilderment, evidently.

"You know each other, that's lovely. But I didn't introduce myself, did I? Sorry! It's strange being in a new town. My name is Merrill."

Harry settled in to stay.

They were actually terrifying together. Anders soon released Blackwall to argue with Merrill, and at the point that made even Harry wary, Bethany got nostalgic instead of alarmed.

Harry supposed that after a Qunari invasion, the public execution of a Grand Cleric and a swift rebellion, a decade long debate would seem like a healthy way for two people to work out their differences.

…

And then the break was over.

Their hastily scrapped together group of mages and Templars had thinned out under pressure, and a suitable team had emerged. The ritual was prepared. Lavellan was resolute and ready to get it over with.

The tension was getting to all of them. Harry was unsurprised that the Seeker showed her frayed nerves by violently confronting any potential problem.

Her grip was bloody painful, though.

"Mind yourself when close the Breach, Potter. We do not want any accidents."

It was for the benefit of all, really, if she let off steam. Harry was fine with martyring himself; being the immortal one, he was equipped for the job. She had a way of making him feel otherwise.

"Alright, say your piece." He was resigned, not sarcastic. Judging by the way her eyes narrowed, she didn't appreciate his effort.

"Watch yourself," she repeated dangerously. "'Magic is meant to serve man', and however the political interpretations differ between Tevinter and the rest of the world, on a practical level it is clear to see your… relationship with magic is a tenuous one."

"It's not that simple," he began, and ran into her iron resolve.

"It is a tool, dangerous both to you and the people around you. I don't know what you've heard from the barbarians up north, but magic will rule you, if you let it."

"Power going to my head, yada yada." Been there, done that.

"That is besides my point entirely. I do not have many doubts about your head for power, my concerns are more literal. This… instinct? The way it catches things, shields you," she shook her head. "That is not control."

He bristled a little. He was proud of that skill; it was seven years in the making. It'd taken relentless practice every bloody day, until enchanting had become as easy and instinctive as breathing. If it occasionally did something he didn't expect, that was just part of the deal.

"It's not conventional, but that doesn't make it a problem."

Cassandra frowned heavily, until she almost looked more concerned for him than of him. "It is like a limb that moves without your explicit direction. How far is that from a demon moving it for you? If you do not choose when to act, what is to say it will allow you to choose when to stop?"