Chapter 6 — Ashes
0o0o0
The Past…
Ginny Weasley had dreamed of Harry Potter before she'd even known what dreams even were.
He was the future, for her.
She had dreamed of him in brightest summer, of darkest winter, in the warmth of spring and the briskness of autumn.
Beyond simply dreaming of Harry, Ginny had wondered, imagined, considered, pondered, fantasized and fancied.
Oh yes, had she fancied.
So, what does one do when their greatest dream, their fondest hope, their very future itself, has been turned to bittersweet ashes?
What should one do to those masked demons most responsible for turning those dreams of futures never to come into ashes of lost chances and regretful laments?
No more fun dates, happy flying. A house filled with green-eyed ginger darlings.
The future of hopes and dreams incinerated into a present of pain and nightmares.
A heaven of could-be becomes a hell of never-was.
How should one treat the fiendish ghouls who parade those ashes with mocking contempt?
Ginny didn't know.
Not yet.
But she would find out.
Ginny saw Romilda Vane, bleeding, broken, brutalized. Ginny looked down, with nothing but simple calculation in her eyes. Vane wouldn't last long, she knew.
They both did.
It has been a long year, after all.
Vane looked solemn, choking on her own blood, apologetic even. Ginny could see it in her eyes. So she nodded with a slight smile, message received.
Bygones.
Vane, no, Romilda's eyes shone with a bit of contentment through her gurgling tears. She smiled back at Ginny, nodded back at Ginny.
Then died, still smiling.
Ginny remembered how she once hated Romilda, with a passion as red as her hair, for what she tried to do to Her Harry.
She wanted to burn Romilda until she learned Harry was a Hero, not some Prize. One must endeavor to earn a Hero, not steal one, like he was a gaudy bauble left unattended.
To think her mother had once offered such an insult to Ginny, during the deepest throws of her Harry shyness, where butter dishes and unfinished words fear to tread.
Her mother had used it, she said, on father, as a bit of temporary courage in a bottle, a little push to help him be who he needed to be, when they both needed it most.
Ginny said no, that she would win Harry's honestly or not at all. She needed no courage in a cup, she was a true Gryffindor after all. She just needed time.
More time, and all her dreams would come true, see?
She knew, she knew, her future was waiting for her, to be her, not some squeaky mouse shy stalker twit who bullies butter dishes for kicks.
And she was right.
Until she wasn't.
But what does it matters now?
They are both dead.
And Romilda has earned her place in the hereafter. She can keep her Harry company until Ginny gets there.
Rommie deserved that, at least.
There was a murderous fiend just before her. Must have been the one who had cursed and killed Rommie.
Ginny snarled in contempt at the outrage, as if a fiendish cockroach like him was worthy of ending a Gryffindor.
He, seems like a he, strutted over, like he owned the place, like she should know her place.
Like this was his castle, and she was the intruder. Like she hadn't just spent an entire year in a stolen hell, pilfered away from what was good and right. Like she didn't just spend a whole year bleeding and crying and screaming and crawling to steal every inch of that good right back.
Yeah, how about no.
Ginny screamed, in blazing fury and incendiary grief, at the strutting, cocksure, lecherous, evil fiend. She screamed at his audacity, his contemptuous gall, even in response to her outrage. She stormed toward him, still screaming, somehow firing a hex in her outburst.
Now the fiendish strutter screamed, not in anger, but in agony. She could see flaming bats emerging from his face. Those eyes, once arrogant, prideful, cruelly lusting, now shone with terror, with supplication, craving any semblance of mercy that those once cruel eyes never offered to anyone else.
Especially her Dream, strewn in bloodied dirt and dust
Oh yes. Now the fiend was humbled.
Heh.
Ginny looked at her wand. Somehow, her magic had taken her trademark, and twisted it but good.
So she did it again.
She watched, as the blazing bats became less bat and more blaze with each casting.
She watched, thoughtfully.
Approvingly.
Somewhere, outside herself, she heard his screams, she heard groans, she heard wails, but nothing reached her.
Not anymore.
Once the fiend fell silent, she left his burned out body slowly flaking into a pile of ashes behind her.
Looking for her next dance partner, with a grin on her face and flames in her eyes.
Because Ginny had found her answer.
Her father had once told her all about the petrol that his pet flying car used. He had said far more than she had wanted to know at the time, considering it was a mere idle question on a boring summer day. But now, she was oh so thankful for the lesson.
Because Ginny now had plans, you see.
So, What does one do to those fiends who gleefully stomp and dance and twirl through the ashes of one's dream, one's very heart and soul, one's perfect life itself, as if they were the Twins playing in fresh snow?
Ginny rolled her eyes and slapped her forehead, it was so very obvious.
Why, one burns them to ashes, of course.
0o0o0
The familiar mural greeted Hermione as she entered the sanctuary proper, commanding her full attention, captivating her as always.
It was a wall sized painting, depicting a notable day of teaching the DA, now the PA, during 5th year.
It was Patronus day in the Room of Requirement.
Every time Hermione came to this safe house, she found her eyes drawn to the vivid artwork. So much emotion, so much care. She seen it countless times at this stage, but she cannot help but to still herself before it.
Hermione was especially drawn to Harry's beaming face, his laughing eyes breathing life into any lucky enough to see them, be in them. She let out a long slow breath.
It both warmed her and haunted her all the same. She welcomed the moment though; it was sometimes nice to feel something more than just a pervasive feeling of loss, mixed with anger, guilt and resignation.
Hermione smiled to herself, lost in the memory, as usual. Luna and Dean had so perfectly captured the moment when it clicked for so many.
And they casted.
And Harry just smiled.
It was such a genuine smile too.
Harry was so proud, just to be a part of something, not the sun, but just one of the stars in the sky. Brought him such joy, it did.
It was so visible, so palpable; she always saw it in him, after every session once they hit their stride.
A part of her held on to that beaming grin, basking in its light. It was like that shooting star he so resembled when on his broom, he was always aptly named bolt of fire and light soaring above, so beautiful.
And like a star, by the time you can appreciate its light, it's already long since gone away.
Like him.
She wished she knew then just how ephemeral anything, everything would be. But she didn't. And his starry smile had since flamed out, burned to a cinder for a world that scarcely deserved it.
Leaving her bereft in ashes.
She knew that. She hated it with every still burning ember of her being.
It changed nothing.
Hermione felt a lot like the irrevocably broken Room of Requirement nowadays.
Like the Room, she was once blessed with promise only to be reduced to just ashy husks, ruined shells of their former selves, cursed with just enough flickering embers to remember what it felt like to be quickened so vibrantly.
To live.
For something, for anything.
She must have there for longer than she thought, because she heard a noise, only to see Padma standing there. Padma nodded politely. "Hey there, Hermione."
Hermione was able to stifle her shocked reaction, but it was near thing. "Hey Padma, how're things?" Her tone was muted, as had become usual.
Emotion took effort.
To Hermione's mild surprise, Padma seemed to pause for a beat before responding."To be expected, I guess. Ups and downs."
Curious that.
Hermione maintained the casual vibe. "Know the feeling."
Padma ghosted a smirk. "Bet you do." She paused, again, her neck and shoulders tightened for a moment. "We did have a good job, the other day. Hit a gang of small timers, trying to move up, we think." Padme's sudden smile was cool but satisfied. "But we got to them first. Their little clubhouse at least."
Hermione mewed in appreciation. She quirked a brow at Padma. "Did the clubhouse survive?"
Padma laughed lightly. "You do know who I'm working with, right?"
Hermione's face flickered with the slightest of smiles. "Heh. How are Ronald and Seamus by the way?" She cocked her head. "Lavender too, for that matter."
Padma looked at Hermione knowingly for a moment, but humored her anyway. "Same as me, really. Oh, before I forget. Hermione, Lavender wanted me to pass along her thanks, for that potion modifier. Molly was able- able to make it for her so…"
Hermione was mildly taken aback, but she recovered instantly. "Oh. Oh. It's nothing. So it worked- worked for her, I mean."
Padme's eyes almost glistened before she willed any trace of tears away. "Yes, yes it did. She still has so much pain, despite not being- well- you know. But the potion- it- it takes the edge off, enough that she can work, yeah?"
Hermione quirked her brow before nodding knowingly. "Yeah. I get it."
Padma flushed for a beat. "Yeah- of course you- well- anyways. Thanks, from me as well."
Hermione's smile was small yet genuine. "Glad to be of service."
"I'm glad."
Padma looked back at the painting again, as did Hermione. She was drawn back in again, as if she was living the moment once more. The urge to reach out and touch his face, hug him close to her, was intense, almost overwhelming, yet surreal.
Padma cleared her throat, snapping Hermione out of her spiral. Hermione flushed lightly, but shook it off. Padma looked at her then, somewhat curious, but Hermione casually waved it off dismissively.
Padma reluctantly nodded in return. "Well, I'd almost forgotten. The others send their best regards to me. Especially Ron, by the by."
Hermione blinked, then looked mildly skeptical. "Really? Especially Ron, you said?"
Padma looked at Hermione's detached disbelief then sighed. "Look- Hermione- I'm sure Ron- look- he probably didn't mean-"
Hermione exhaled slowly, calmly waving both hands between races of them. "It's fine, Padma. Ronald and I, we both said some harsh things to one another. Both did." She glanced at Harry's countenance. "Ronald and I, we have done that to one another a lot over the years." She snorted. "This time, some of them were even true."
Padma shuffled, wringing her hands."Hey- Hermione- you have to know you're not- that he- that he-," she licked her lips anxiously, her eyes beseeching. "That Ron- that he-that we- we don't really think that you're a-"
Hermione held up a hand, cutting off Padme's awkward attempt at mediation. "As I said, it's fine. It is what it is." Hermione involuntarily turned toward Harry's painted visage again and suddenly felt emotionally destitute. She grimaced.
Sighing, she forced herself to turn back to Padma, whose eyes had widened for a bit before looking at Hermione, then nodding sympathetically. Hermione could only offer a sad smile in return.
Of course Padma would get it.
Hermione blew out a breath, tilted her head and considered. Then she nodded, to both herself and Padma. For once, Hermione decided to be a bit more forthright, at least regarding the state of her and Ronald.
Padma was his teammate now after all. She deserves more from Hermione than her habitual distancing banalities and benign platitudes reinforced by her default of surly frigidity these days.
Not for the first time, Hermione wished she could remember how to really, naturally feel again.
"It's just that- We, he and I- we were once a part of something. We had a connection, once upon a time, the 3 of us." She paused, rapidly blinking away a tear that had the audacity to form in her eye. "Thought we'd be forever, I did. Shows what the Know-it-all knows, huh."
Hermione swallowed, fighting the urge to seek out Harry again, refusing to be so weak as to clamor and yearn for strength and solace from a painted snapshot. She swallowed again, yet pushed on, determined to cope. "But we- we lost our bridge and just never realized, okay- We, Ronald and I, we've never built a bridge of our own, made for us. Now, it's too late."
Hermione could only shuck her shoulders, resigned but resolved. "We've had our chances. But now, I'm here and…" she gestured toward Padma. "Ronald, he's-he's there, with you all, and that's okay, really." She swallowed. "So we are where we are." She put her walls back up, detaching herself once more. "As I've said, it's fine."
Padma regarded her thoughtfully, a wistfully bittersweet look on her face . "Well, all right then. Okay." She started to put a hand out, to reach for Hermione's shoulder, but dropped it to her side awkwardly. "For what's it's worth, you should know-…" Padma looked away then turned back to Hermione. "He has said something remarkably similar once before, when he was sober enough to open up, I guess."
Hermione's slight eye rolling belied a rueful smile ghosting across her face. "Heh. great minds."
Padma's snort was loud, she sent a crooked grin at Hermione that so reminded her of her old dorm mate at her most playful. Before everything fell to ashes. "If that's what you want to call it."
Hermione's lips twitched then. "Heh, yeah." She took a breath. "Tell him, tell all of them I do wish them well."
Padme's nod was solemn. "I will, no worries."
Hermione's shoulders dropped, relaxed. "Thank you."
Padma smiled earnestly then. "Don't mention it."
At that, Neville walked into the meeting room from the opposite doorway, Susan next to him as expected. He glanced about, doing a silent headcount before nodding. "Okay, everyone's here who will be here, so let us begin, yes?"
Padma moved toward a seat at the center table. "Sure, Neville. Let's get started." Hermione picked a recliner in a back corner, tacitly enforcing her need for space.
As Hermione sat, she glanced about and saw Luna and Dean, slightly cuddled up in their usual corner. More precisely, Luna looked like a mischievous cat claiming their most favorite perch with a look of innocence that no one would ever believe while the 'perch' in question himself seemed to bask in it, enjoying every bit of the show.
Of course, Luna had also turned their neighboring pair of generic boardroom chairs into a trippy psychedelic love seat that looked like it had stolen from Willy Wonka's garage sale.
Yet, nobody minded. It was just Luna.
Hermione looked at her friend closely. She had worried about Luna some, after… just After. With whatever bit of herself she had left over, that had the capacity to care.
But Luna seemed to have found a safe harbor.
That was good.
Dean was good for her, it seemed. They were two of a kind, both creative souls who saw the world with a similar sense of wonder. But Dean helped ground her some while still letting her play in the clouds as well. From what she could tell, Luna helped him fly as well.
They were good together.
Hermione was glad.
As if she knew, Luna looked over at Hermione then, smiling her familiarly radiant grin, that disguised the sincere question in her eyes. Hermione couldn't help but flash a smile right back, before it crumbled away like a burnt leaves in a bonfire.
Still, She successfully mustered a semi-affectionate nod back to her friend.
Progress.
Baby steps.
Hermione felt Neville looking at them too, at her. He sighed, flashed a sympathetic smile of his own, which she appreciated.
These were her friends, she wallowed in the feeling as much as she felt able.
Baby steps.
Still, she kept her seat, watching as the rest of Potter's Army command settled around the table.
Hermione was unsurprised to see Kingsley, though with Padma here as well, she should expect some topics involving the Order to arise. She sighed; the logical part of her recognized this division, this schism, was just so counterproductive but actually truly reconciling?
Given all that's been said and done since the Battle?
Not likely. Logic be damned.
Her Other seemed to agree with what was left of her heart on that.
Neville stood, silencing all side conversation. "Thanks for coming today. As you can see, we've some visitors with us today. Would you like to present first, Kings, Padma?"
Padma cleared her throat. "I'll go first, if you don't mind." She shuffled some parchment in her hand.
Neville sat back down, he regarded her then beckoned her with a genteel yet subtly affectionate nod. "That's fine, Padma, please go ahead."
Padma quirked that crooked grin at him this time, while he flashed a returning one as well. From her seat in shadow, Hermione indulged in a bit of a eye roll at their play at professionalism. As if it were a secret. Not like she could smell it from a league away. Still, a part of her was glad some could find a spark of joy somewhere, somehow.
Padma cleared her throat again. "Appreciate it, Neville. So, well, us four hit a muncher wannabes clubhouse the other day. We found them running amuck, really. There were some random Muggle attacks, things like that. Drew our attention, it did. From what we could tell, seems like they were hoping to catch the attention of a recruiter maybe. Didn't look like they wanted to go legitimate. Hook up with the Snatchers or an Inner Circle type if they were really cocky. So. Anyway. There was a handful on site, but we were able to clear it without serious injury. Well, not much of one."
Neville's eyes narrowed. "What happened?"
Padma sighed in remembrance. "Well, um. Ron did get hit by a stray curse. Or 3. But he's fine. He's fine." She waved her arms placatingly. "Between Lavender and Molly, he's very much taken care of. Believe me."
Hermione smothered a grin behind her hand. Neville snorted, "I'll bet." He shifted in his seat, "well, that's good to hear, anyway. Was there anything else to add, from the Order?"
Padma shook her head primly. "That is the most recent."
Neville dipped his head. "Thanks for that." He shuffled some parchment. "On that note, there are some possibilities percolating, for a coming joint operation. We are still fine tuning some details, but we should have a more definitive update by the next meeting."
Dean spoke up then. "That operation, is that a full roster for both groups or is it more… selective?"
Neville rubbed his emerging beard. "Well, we're not sure yet, depends on the scale."
Dean scoffed. "The scale or the rules of engagement?" His glance toward Hermione's shadowed corner fooled no one.
Neville glanced at him then her as well. "Well, look. We do recognize that some level of-…" he looked at Harry's face for inspiration. "of friction exists between the two groups."
Hermione scoffed while Padma winced a bit. That was putting it mildly.
Neville huffed, hearing the unsaid. He looked directly at Hermione then at Padma. "Please rest assured, nobody in Potter's Army will be… disrespected. We won't have it. Especially not…" he resolutely refused to look toward her then, locking his eyes on Harry's mural instead. His magic flared up, drenching the room.
He exhaled, pulled back. He shrugged sheepishly. Good old Nev again.
Susan grinned at him proudly. "And that's that."
Everyone chuckled amicably.
Neville flushed, pulled at his collar then cleared his throat. "Well, to continue/let's start with last night's success, the Snatcher den debrief." Neville cocked his head toward Hermione then then turned back to the room.
He looked at Padma then. "The order might not have heard, but we cleared a Snatcher den yesterday, a major one. We were able to secure a lot of files and records but even more importantly, we successfully rescued a former classmate of ours, from a nightmare fate." Neville had a mildly mischievous smile on his face, before he pointed at Hermione's corner.
All thanks to our very good friend there."
Padma looked shocked then impressed, "wow, well done. Hermione. Very well done, indeed." She turned to the room at large, before grinning crookedly once again. "I will be sure to make the Order aware of such momentous news."
Hermione could see Padme's mind already visibly planning how to spread this gossip in the Order, again much like her twin would. How it might quiet some of the naysayers in their faction, not the diehards, but some of the others.
Neville grinned. "Please do, let them know that we, at least, will always greatly value her, and her contributions, unequivocally."
Susan, Luna and Dean all concurred emphatically. "Here here." Luna bolting up to give Hermione a personal standing ovation, which the rest of the room soon echoed in symphony.
Hermione's eyes widened a bit. She paled mildly at the swirling applause, feeling suddenly discombobulated, unmoored.
She wanted to recoil, to shy away from it, to run. Despite it all, seems that a bit of that girl who hid crying in the bathroom still lived in her to this day. Except, this time she didn't give in, she made herself stay.
Hermione waved at the room, with a princess smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. At times like this, she felt a bit like the Tin Man, except with a broken furnace for a heart instead.
Just there, without much fire and very little light left. Only flickers and flashes remain.
She knew what they needed from her, though, even if it was only a show.
As the applause settled and everyone returned to their seats, such as they were. Kingsley tapped the table for attention. "Now that we've settled that, there is another issue that must be addressed."
As all eyes locked on him, Kingsley seemed to survey the room carefully. "Something else happened last night. I've just come from the order briefing on it already but there was some more I just heard that warranted coming to you myself. I just got the intelligence confirmed before this meet but, firstly, Director Walden MacNair was killed last night."
The room collectively gasped in unison, Hermione among them. Collectively, every eye turned to her in question. Her clueless shrug was all the answer she needed to give, increasing the puzzlement in the room.
Hermione was a bit put off by the news. Not that MacNair would be missed in anyway. In fact, Hermione was only peeved that she'd missed her chance to do it first and she was surely not the only one.
For Grawp.
For Hagrid. Almost losing him right after losing Harry nearly broke her.
Hermione swallowed at the memories. How hard he fought, just how many got out because of him and his brother. The severe cost both paid for their collective escape.
And MacNair had the audacity to laugh. At them.
At him.
Laughing, as Hagrid was forced to leave his only brother behind to save as many innocents as he could, while almost dying on his feet himself.
Laughing at a hero.
She bit her lip, determined not to cry right then.
She was not sure when she'd ever see him again. At least he was safe for now, convalescing in France with his own special friend. She'd even heard Buckbeak had made his way there as well. Hermione snorted internally. Madam Maxine would really have her hands full if Norberta dropped by to help nursemaid Hagrid too.
All and all, she was glad that MacNair was dead.
Could not have happened to a more deserving person.
She hoped it hurt.
Hope MacNair died in agony, watching his killer laugh at his plight.
Hermione shook herself, settling down her Other just enough so she could tune back in, having missed some of what Kingsley had said. "…ministry is scrambling, of course. He's not just a director but a full Inner Circle member dating back to the 1st war. So there is a level of uncertainty; was he interrogated before being killed? Did he reveal anything? If so, what was compromised and how? From what my sources say, there is a series of powder kegs just waiting for the right matches."
Neville had a look of grim satisfaction. She'd seen it a lot over the last few months, for what few small victories they could attain. "Any word on… a response from on high?"
Kingsley shrugged. "All apart of the chaos. There are some rumors I've been trying to lock down. Whispers that he's been relatively incommunicado for some time. Others call rubbish on that, so I'm working that angle as well."
Neville leaned back, contemplative.
Kingsley tapped the table once more. "Also. There is something I've… omitted from the MacNair Attack intel briefing that i gave to the Order. I'm not sure what it means, yet. But I will help you get to the bottom of it, I assure you."
Neville straightened in his seat. "What is it?"
Kingsley pursed his lips"Well, there were other.. reports, rumors really." He leaned his jaw upon his hand, letting his fingers cradle his head thoughtfully. "The response team were initially stymied by some allegedly impossible wards. They spent hours just trying to even make a shadow of a dent, but with no luck at all."
Hermione's eyes widened, mind running through the calculations of such power requirements. In the corner of her eye, she could see Luna and Padma doing the same. "Kingsley?"
Kingsley turned toward her. "Yes, Hermione."
She marshaled her thoughts. "Do you know if these new wards surrounded the MacNair estate wards or just usurped them?"
"Excellent question, Hermione." Kingsley's professorial acknowledgment pleased her ever present inner swot. "From what I've gathered, the new wards just usurped them."
Hermione goggled. She wasn't the only one. The susurration about the room portrayed their collective shock.
She had scouted that spot before. When considering when and how she'd avenge Hagrid, either solo or with backup. She wasn't the only one with a score to settle after all.
Hermione had concluded that, even with help, taking him at home to be a nigh-impossible undertaking. Especially while also preventing him from calling for reinforcements as well.
Which he likely would, once he knew it was her at the tip of the spear.
Fame was a fickle mistress, indeed.
The wards alone were a profound challenge. She snorted a laugh, remembering an old myth that Death's Cloak could beat any Ward like it wasn't even there. But myths and legends weren't going to help her. Prophecies certainly never did.
Neville gaped. "That's well.."
Kingsley just puffed in amusement. "That was my reaction." He sobered. "There's… there's one more thing."
The room paused, waiting. "There were rumors, that when- when the Wards were dropped by their caster, there was-a titanic demon beast of sorts, that apparently spoke to the Ministry contingent, claiming to be the one who ended MacNair."
Kingsley scoffed playfully at the group's disbelief. "Yeah, I know."
Neville shook his head clear. "Okay, then." He turned to Luna and Dean. "Anything?"
Luna blinked her large eyes at Neville. "Not as of yet, need more data please."
Kingsley cleared his throat then. "Well, aside from mocking the ministry, there is a rumor that it proceeded to mule kick a provoked Yaxley in the chest. He survived, unfortunately. But he'll be sidelined in Mungos for a bit."
The room chuckled at the imagery.
Kingsley's face turned grim. "There is, one last thing…"
Both Hermione and Neville felt the mood shift. Neville pressed forward. "What is it?"
Kingsley looked around, surprisingly reluctant. "Look, it's not confirmed yet, but you deserved to hear it from me." He looked toward Hermione then. "Especially you."
Hermione gulped, then swallowed her worries. "Well, That sounded ominous, Kings."
"Perhaps." Kingsley nodded. "The Demon Beast, well, it was a giant Stag." He gestured toward the mural, Harry's Patronus on full display. "It looked a lot like that." He paused. "Except Manor sized, perhaps."
Hermione gaped in wonder, mind whirling at the sheer possibilities being implied. She look at Luna, her resident expert in all things extra. Luna's eyes were so wide, she looked more like lit ornamental headlights for an oncoming train than a witch. Hermione stifled a giggle, as she turned such impossible magic around in her head.
Wait.
Impossible magic.
Stag.
Ward command.
Like the Cloak of legend.
Which was missing since the battle.
"Wait, what…" it took her a moment to realize it was her that had spoken.
Everyone turned to look at Hermione, but she couldn't have cared less. Her mind busy, assembling the available facts to deduce the likeliest of scenarios.
One possibility rose above the rest.
Hermione looked again at Luna, whose wide-eyed wonder had returned to that grim pixie energy of the Battle. They stared at one another, before silently nodding in unspoken agreement.
They spoke as one. "There's a copycat."
The room stilled with a gasp, before the group expressed enough harmonic rage to magically power a entire block of ancestral estates.
At that moment, Hermione felt that crusty dead furnace in her chest come alive within her, only to go fully nuclear. Others turned toward her, some in fear, most in anticipation.
Hermione barely noticed. She and Her Other had a reached an accord. They were in full agreement, for once.
Whomever they were, who dared to do this… Hermione would use all of herself to hunt them down.
They would pay; they would burn.
0o0o0
It had taken more than a day to break down the wards on MacNair's place.
Not the originals of the ancestral owners nor their Lord's newer additions either.
Something different. Something primeval.
It was unnerving.
Jugson had been here before. Several times, out of duty to their Lord. Even now, he was primarily here as Yaxley's proxy, since Yax was laid out after having his chest almost kicked in by that accursed Demon Stag.
Saw all of his macabre 'trophies' all over the walls. Especially since the Battle. With all his new 'additions' since.
He thought that was bad.
This was worse.
The walls were barren, utterly clear. As if the place were being cleaned up by a realtor to resell, to avoid the ugly conversation about the true history of the place with any buyers. Merlin knows Jugson had handled a few of those himself.
But this was Walden's special place. The utter lack of trophies in the entry way leading toward that main lounge was so wrong.
Jugson entered the great room and paled. There wasn't a speck of dust or dirt or grime or evidence of a life lived here. It was so unlike Walden, what was here, it was disquieting.
Even the smell was gone. Somehow, the intruder has removed the ever present odor of Walden's imported cigars and spilled firewhiskey mixed with his taxidermy potions.
Instead, it smelled wrong. Not like Walden, or a Wizard, for that matter. It reminded Jugson of that scent of muggle healer places, with their odd concoctions.
Every wall, every space was absolutely pristine.
Except one.
Where the head of the Groundkeeper's runty giant of a brother was once displayed proudly. Jugson remembered helping Walden mount it properly, he was so proud of his kill. Jugson remembered working to maintain his polite smile before excusing himself at earliest opportunity. Such a filthy habit.
But, now, that runty giant's head is gone. Walden's prized trophy is missing.
In its place was worse.
Walden's head was stuck in the wall mount with his own axe holding it in place. The phrase "Just Desserts" was burned in bloody letters as if centering it within a frame.
Walden's wide open eyes seemed to follow Jugson, boring into him, accusingly, pleadingly.
Brokenly.
Jugson paled, quaked then greened. He raced outside as fast as he could. Finding a bush to empty his stomach of that cold, stilted meal.
Once he recovered, vanishing his sick and casting refreshing charms on his person, he looked up to find Crabbe staring at him, or looking like he was at least. It took Jugson a moment that Crabbe wasn't about to mock him or jape him. That Crabbe didn't see Jugson, that Crabbe wasn't seeing anything at all.
Instead, Crabbe was just standing there, ghost pale, with a bloodshot vacant eyes and trembling limbs, looking like an abandoned house in the middle of a horrid winter.
The poor guy was in shock, likely only here on Lucius's behalf, completely unaware and unprepared of just what he was about to encounter.
Jugson snorted at the thought, he could definitely relate.
Crabbe's inadvertent interruption did help Jugson partially clear his head a bit. Shaking himself further, he smacked his lips, mouth tasting like a dusty ashtray.
He fumbled to his feet, knowing both Yax and the Minister needed him. They were depending on his account, his performance of his duty, he knew this. It was why he was here. He knew this.
Jugson reached into an extended inner pocket to scare up his flask filled with his special brew. Some liquid courage, Slytherin style, he oft called it.
The embers of the firewhiskey burned up his throat, galvanizing him, he belched out a small flame that left behind smoke and vapors.
Jugson wanted nothing more than wanting to go home walk into his bedroom, put a lumpy simulacrum in the bed as bait, while he hides away safely in the depths of his closet, silent as shadows, bluebell flame lit, special brew flask set on ever-refill.
Finally stumbling upon the flask, Jugson took a long deep pull, the anxiety tasting like ash in his belly. So he took another drink. Let that settle in for a moment.
He took a third as he headed back into the scene, activating the refill rune as he recrossed the entry way, into the breach once more.
He knew he would need it.
0o0o0
Harry tossed aside his transfigured shovel, next to his collection of transfigured axe and tools, then closed his eyes, taking a deeper breath for an easy long count. This was the last step for the day, then he can rest.
Like he deserved a break.
He exhaled, reached out and took a long sip from the chilled glass of sweet lemonade Kreacher had provided. He savored every drop down his parched throat.
So refreshing. He really needed that. It has been a long day.
He looked toward both Kreacher and Hedwig, ever present as always. "Are we ready?l
Kreacher nodded solemnly, fitting the occasion. "Yes, Master Harry." Hedwig's affirmation echoed the sentiment. Harry bowed his head in return, before closing his eyes.
Harry reached out and drew in, gently and slowly. Closed his eyes, felt the magic stirring all around him and in him. He could feel Kreacher nearby, Hedwig on a tree branch, one eye always on him. Big sister energy as usual.
Beyond them, he could feel the castle, the forest. They were grieving, they were healing. He was glad of that.
He could feel his purpose here today as well.
First, he transfigured the wood he collected into a respectable pyre, placing into the bonfire pit he had dug without magic.
Raising both hands, he shaped his magic to gently caress Grawp's head, lifting it smoothly into the air as if it were on a pillow.
Harry lowered the head slowly onto the pyre he had made in the western shade of Hagrid's freshly restored house. He bowed his head, in gentle remembrance, before igniting the bonfire without a word.
The fire was warm, comforting. Much like Hagrid always was. When the pyre became ash, Harry would mark it for Hagrid, create a memorial for the lost or something.
That way, the two brothers won't have to be separated again. Or, Harry hoped for that, for them.
For him, his first friend.
Sighing, he moved the excavated dirt back over the head, before packing the soil. He conjured a marker, blank, for now at least.
He decided to let Hagrid pick one upon his eventual return.
Harry exhaled, panting a bit. He had done a lot of work, but it was worth it. He was somewhat surprised he had no tears. Maybe because it didn't feel real just yet.
Or maybe it's because he's so full on sardonic wrath at the moment to have any real space left in him for grief, or anguish, or anything but righteously vindictive rage, really.
He chuckled grimly to himself, took another swig, then turned to his elven friend, somewhat rueful smile flickering over his face. "Believe we're done here, Kreacher. Thanks so much for your help, my friend."
"It is always Kreacher's sincerest pleasure to be of service to Young Master." Kreacher paused, tilted his head. His mouth slightly open before he tightened his expression.
Harry sighed. "What's on your mind, Kreacher?"
Kreacher wrung his wrinkled hands. "Kreacher still doesn't know why Young Master insisted on doing it by hand and did not want help." The look on Kreacher's face was only just short of a pout.
Harry gave Kreacher a small somber smile. "It's not that I wouldn't or don't appreciate your help Kreacher. This-," Harry paused, grimacing. "This was something I felt I needed to do, all by myself." Harry turned to look at the marker, then the spot he knew that Grawp was taken down. "To make amends, pay down my debt, you see."
Kreacher cocked his head. "Debt, Master Harry?"
Harry pursed his lips. "I owe so many, so much, the living and the dead. I owe them all for not being here, not being enough. This-…" Harry gestures to the just rebuilt hut and the patchwork memorial site freshly formed next to it. "-this is just the start, small one, but a start nonetheless."
Kreacher glanced at him, eyes narrowed. "Master Harry?"
Harry tilted his head at his elven friend's concerned tone."Yes, Kreacher."
Kreacher peered closer. "When are you going to go to them, to mistress?"
Harry looked away, paling a bit. He licked his lips. "When the job's done. When things aren't left… When some can still … threaten her, endanger her, them, because I wasn't-…" he kept struggling with himself, choking on his words. "It was supposed to be my…"
Kreacher seemed taken aback. "Young master?"
Harry looked at the freshly dug grave with its brand new marker, still blank. Angry tears rolled down his face. "I- I can't- i just can't face them, not when I …my task. I just can't." He dropped to his knees.
Hedwig's gentle caw was soothing, Harry leaned into it. Kreacher held his hand, offered what he could.
For now, it was enough.
Harry sniffled. Guess he did have some space left after all.
0o0o0
Pius was in his office. Waiting. Seething.
It was already a bad day. Brutal murder of a colleague guaranteed that.
All he wanted was to get this last bit over, so he could spend the rest of his night with the bottle of Ogden's finest already chilled and waiting.
Not like there was anyone else. Not any more at least.
Still, He knew his duty. His task. He wasn't a shirker.
Didn't mean he liked doing these type of things.
He sighed, steeling himself. Then he reached forward and activated the ornamental mirror before him. "Castle Slytherin."
The Mirror fogged briefly, shifting from his reflection to an ephemeral fog before solidifying, indicating a connection has been established and his call was to be answered.
Pius bowed with depth and grace. "I thank you for granting me an audience My-"
"You should be thankful, given your recent performance."
Pius froze, still bowed. He cursed inwardly. That wasn't the Dark Lord who answered. It was worse.
Pius raised his head to confirm his dread. He gulped.
Bellatrix Lestrange glared down at him from her throne-like seat, backlit by an fiercely blazing glow from a decorative fire pit, creating a disquieting tableau eerily resembling medieval Muggle depictions of hell.
Pius didn't know why he was even shocked. Nobody but her had seen their Lord in ages anyway. This wasn't nearly the first time he'd briefed Lestrange in their lord's stead.
Certainly wasn't the first time her presence reminded Pius of the Devil either.
She was as advertised and more; beautiful, intimidating, foreboding even. She also never failed to make him feel as if his every moment was spent perpetually dancing for his survival on the head of a pin.
And that pin always belonged to her. Her and their Lord, don't forget. It was her favorite game, it seemed. Not like Pius, or anyone else had any choice in the matter.
That being said, Pius has found that Lady Lestrange is not quite what her reputation and prior behavior would imply her to be.
Not nearly as capriciously impulsive as their Lord could be at times.
Instead, she has been calculating, precise. Far more strategic and insightful.
Felt less like debating with a ranking ministry witch and more like supplicating a strikingly clever Horntail with a mean streak and a blank check budget.
At first, he had simply believed her to be simply following their Lord's previously detailed stratagems, but as he observed her responding in real time, he saw her own prowess first hand.
As well as the veritable absence of their Lord's hand in it.
Still, this was a major incident. The assassination of an Inner Circle Death Eater is a significant thing. Pius had expected their Lord to see to matters personally, but perhaps he was wrong to assume.
Pius assumed a respectful pose, regathered himself to continue as planned. "Humblest apologies, my lady. I had assumed that our Lord would wish to hear the initial findings regarding MacNair's murder first hand, so he could use his prolific intellect against such a miscreant personally, with extreme prejudice as it were."
Lestrange sniffed, raising her chin with an aristocratic bearing. "Our Lord believes his devout faithful can handle putting down a rabid dog, no matter what manner of trickery they use. But if you disagree…" she puckered her lips into a chillingly amused smile that promised mere death, if he were lucky.
Pius swallowed, reading between the lines. "That's fine, my lady. Would- would- you prefer me to keep you posted regarding proceedings, perhaps?"
Lestrange tapped her jaw coyly. "That will be acceptable." She glared at him. "Do try to call only at a respectable hour, if you would." Her smirk cut into him, bleeding him slowly. "That would be greatly appreciated."
Pius shivered. "I shall endeavor to do so."
She looked back at him. "See that you do." Her cold stare promised a painfully personal appointment in the near future for him, just because.
He felt fortunate she'd be likely occupied for awhile yet.
Then, Lestrange turned over her shoulder, suddenly distracted by a noise Pius could not quite hear.
Then, She sighed. She looked back at Pius, the dragon becoming a mere woman again. She was only half paying attention to him, mind already moving ahead to her next task. "For now, please forward the records to the Manor tomorrow. I'll review them and get back to you in time, understood?"
Pius bowed in acknowledgment. She quirked a slight smile that ghosted across her face. "Fine then, will that be all?"
Pius dipped his head again. "Yes, my lady. Expect the parchment work after morning tea."
Lestrange nodded back. "Farewell, Minister. And good hunting." Without letting him respond, she stood and left the vanity area before fully deactivating the mirror.
In the distance, Pius now heard what he could identify as a baby's shrill cry, seemingly desperate for its mother.
A call answered as he saw Lestrange's faraway silhouette, backlit by flames of the tableau, rocking the child while seeming to murmur a song that only they knew, before the signal finally faded to black.