All For Lightspeed! II

...

Harry paused, holding his wand before him, careful not to point it in minaciae , as the DADA books had demonstrated. The light did not reach her face.

But Hercules drew closer. "Aunty Cybeles?" he said breathily.

"I'm here." Harry saw the outline of her arms, outstretched. "I'm here."

Hercules launched himself at her; and all the stresses of the day seemed to wash out of him in one, long wail. Cybeles embraced him eagerly by the lamp-light, bringing him close to her breast. Harry heard Hercules' weeping softly into her robes, and the faint echoes of Cybeles' soothing whispers.

He lowered his hand, and let the Lumos fade. Something uncomfortable twisted in his gut. His parents were gone, and he'd found no record of aunts, uncles or grandparents still living… He would never be where Hercules was now, never feel such love…

Turning away, Harry could only wait for the Rosiers to recompose themselves.

Eventually, Cybeles approached him, lamp in hand. The light revealed a small, delicate face - not unlike her nephews' - with tumbling dark hair. Dark circles marred her doe-like eyes. "Hello," she said graciously. "My nephew tells me you are Harold."

Harry restrained the urge to fidget. "I am," he said, before hastily adding; "-Lady Rosier."

Cybeles shook her head. "The Rosiers of Rossecourt took that title a generation ago. I am merely Cybeles."

"Ah, um-" red crept of Harry's cheeks at his faux paus. "I'm sorry, I didn't know."

"Hercules has told me you're from Norway."

"Only by birth," Harry said. He hoped they wouldn't get any ideas about him speaking Norwegian. "My mother raised me on Norwegian soil, but kept me isolated. I'm not really Norwegian."

Hopefully, he thought, that didn't sound too suspicious - after all, wizards, it seemed to him, were commonly isolated one family from another.

Cybeles smile was beatific in its understanding. It made Harry feel terrible for lying to her. "We all struggle in our own ways," she said lightly. "As you have struggled to keep my Hercules safe. He has told me about the… creature. Come, the Order directed you here; we could not refuse you, and would not want to."

So it was that Cybeles led them through the gatehouse, and through the grounds of a place she called Halt End. The grass was overgrown beneath their feet; Harry kept his eyes down, trying not to trip. They passed ruined dry stone walls, winding away into the darkness like rows of ghostly grey teeth. And slowly, as the darkness parted, small lights penetrated the gloom, seemingly floating in the low firmament. Then, all at once, the shadow of a great building - nay, castle! - arose from the night.

Harry stopped… and finally, predictably, tripped, scraping his trousers against the dewy grass. Still kneeling, he stared up into the absence against the stars, and saw that His eyes weren't playing tricks on him. There was the outline of a broad castle, whose quadrangular towers grasped toward the sky.

Outline became detail as Cybeles drew them closer, leading them across a dry moat and another gatehouse. The sharp, rusting points of the portcullis loomed above them like the sword of Damocles. Here the stone-work was in better shape than the outer towers, but not by much. New moss growth framed the castle mouth like young stubble.

Inside, a courtyard waited, half its flagstones cracked. They were led to a small door on the sinister side, which opened with what almost seemed like a groan of pain from long-disregarded hinges.

Harry was in a daze. He knew Hogwarts was a castle - Hogwarts, A History had made that clear - and he knew the wizarding world retained an aristocratic class, though their power was much reduced… but this… this ! He was not ready to see it.

Cybeles led them to a long hall. Sconces burned merrily there at least, illuminating moth-bitten rugs, fading tapestries (upon a few of which images yet danced) and wood-panelled walls, where moving paintings peered, curious. Hercules, Harry noted, was torn between looking awed and sick. Harry frowned. Was this not his home?

Someone tore his attention away from the younger boy. Or perhaps, something . It was floating aimlessly in the centre of the room. Harry had missed it at first, dismissing the apparition as a trick of the light. But then it moved - swayed, even, as though following a tune only it could hear. He already knew what it was. Even before he'd read about them, he would've known.

It was a ghost. A fading one, if he were any judge - little more than a translucent shadow against a world slowly rejecting it.

"Ah, Deacon," Cybeles said, pacing over to it (him?) as though it were just another man. "Would you care to take these young gentlemen to Eric? He should be in the greenhouse."

The ghost floated over to them. Hercules was looking at it in fascination. Harry did not know what to think… but a shiver shuddered down his spine when he stared at the space where the Deacon's eyes would once have been. Could it sense the truth about him? The Hideaway Patch on his forehead had never felt so obvious.

"Sorry children," Cybeles said. "The castle must be tended to. Eric will see you to your rooms. Run along now."

Then, they were alone with the ghost. What would it do now? Somehow, the idea that it obeyed any human orders seemed absurd. The Deacon watched them for a moment, then began to float away. Harry and Hercules hurried after him.

...

...

Eric, as it turned out, was indeed in the greenhouse. It appeared to be the best-kept room in the whole castle. Neat rows of plants, some almost Muggle, some docile but ridiculous, others utterly vicious, lined the floors, set in neat wooden boxes. Strange lights spun like disco balls on the ceiling, sending out heat and light at an unnatural consistency. The enchantments on Harry's robes were working overtime.

Eric himself was kneeling by a strange plant of many colours, whose rough leaves would wind themselves up and down in a strange dance. Just as they approached, those leaves pulsed, and leapt at the kneeling man. Harry started, Hercules gasped; but Eric merely caught the offending plant limb and squeezed. Blood poured down his wrist, but the plant whimpered and flopped to the ground, curling in on itself like a multi-coloured tortoise. Eric didn't so much as twitch.

The two boys glanced at each other…

"...Hello?" Harry ventured. Hercules was just a step beside him, and just a step behind.

Piercing eyes flicked up, and Harry felt himself begin to sweat. It wasn't only because of the heat.

"Hello," Eric returned lazily. He didn't look lazy. He had that sort of face, that eagle-like look, as though he were forever watching. "I expected Hercules. Who are you?"

If Harry weren't so wary, he might've bristled at his tone. "Harold," he replied. "I was in the shop when the Aurors attacked."

"What bad luck."

Harry got the feeling Eric didn't believe it was bad luck.

"Don't be silly Mr. Lyle." Hercules said weakly. It seemed that even he wasn't blind to Eric's hostility. "Harold helped me get out. And it doesn't matter anyway, they won't get Uncle Caudicus."

Eric Lyle stood, quick like a snake, and peeled his gloves off. "No, you're right," he agreed. "They won't. But we should always be careful; there is no such thing as coincidence."

"Maybe I'm here for another reason," Harry offered cautiously. Was he? It felt like dumb luck - or lack of it.

Lyle snorted. "I don't believe in Fate."

Harry hadn't thought he would. "I need a place to stay," he said. A change in topic would do them all well. "Now I know Hercules is safe, I'll be gone in the morning."

They both had very different reactions to that.

"So eager to leave?"

"Harrrrold!"

Between Lyle's sarcasm and Hercules' whining, Harry could only shrug. "I don't think you want another mouth to feed."

Then he closed his own mouth so quickly his teeth went click. Why had he said that to these proud people? He felt heat creep across his cheeks, which surely shone in the bright artificial light.

But Lyle only laughed. "You've got doxy kid." He smirked. "And no little spy would make that sort of mistake. You've got doxy."

Had that really eased his suspicion? Regardless, Harry wanted to disappear into the ground. "So I've been told." He muttered. He still didn't know what doxy meant.

Lyle rolled his eyes. "Come on," he said gamely. "Let's get you both some rooms. That's what Lady Cybeles sent you here for, right?"

They all turned toward the exit; the Deacon was long gone. Lyle led them further into the castle, up one of the towers. The stairs were extremely steep. "Most of us live in this turret," he explained. "It's cheaper - as you've so subtly inferred, we're not flush with galleons."

Harry was still climbing, trying not to fall down the second set of stairs. When he reached the top, he saw a long corridor, half stone - which must've been the thick outer wall - and half timber. Four doors were set into the inner wall.

"Pick any," Lyle said. "Amanda sleeps above you, and Lady Cybeles sleeps above her. I live with my brother's family in the cottage."

It wasn't, Harry suspected, the cottage of the Order of Life. But something else had been bugging him… "Excuse me sir, if you don't mind me asking… Cybeles - that is, Mrs- Lady, Lady Cybeles said she no longer held a title."

Lyle looked at him blankly. "She's a lady still in our hearts. Tea is late tonight, at eight. You're lucky. Pick a room."

Then he left. Eight? Harry thought. Was it still so early? It was still August. How was it so dark outside? Was that the forest, was it so evil? Why would anyone build their castle here?"

Still, Harry did as he was told. The beds were, thankfully, already made. He heard the springs of Hercules' mattress squeak in pain a room over. He could only be bouncing up and down, testing the springs. Harry smiled… then frowned. The room was decently furnished, if bare. A dresser sat in one corner. It reminded him of the Leaky Cauldron… where his clothes, his trunk, still waited. Where Hedwig would be waiting.

"Da-Merlin!"

Hedwig hadn't been very happy last time. Harry groaned, flopping onto the bed. Why hadn't he taken his chance?

...

...

Worse than Hedwigs' revenge was the thought of leaving Hercules alone. The boy was unsettled. Afraid of his own shadow sometimes - and he didn't seem the sort. The castle had unnerved him. Or was it his aunt (after that initial hug, he had stayed well away from her)? Perhaps both.

Or, Harry, grimaced, Eric Lyle. Hercules had stood up to him on Harry's behalf… but he was an odd one. Dangerous . The word appeared in his mind almost at once when he thought of the man, and it fit like an iron glove. This was no place for Harry Potter. But without Harold Skarsgard, how would Hercules fare?

Harry sighed. Could he just leave? It was Hercules' family home… But this was partially Harry's fault too. He was the one who listened to Montague, a criminal. He was the one who disguised himself and ventured where Kneen had specifically told him not to go. He was the one who was lying .

The Lightspeed in his pocket called to him. He took it out, and pushed it around his palm. Such a small thing, he thought, that has caused so much trouble… The slightly oblong sphere seemed to flicker with a golden inner light, and tiny runes danced around its secret centre. It was almost as though it were calling to him… What had Montague said, bounce it against a wall? Harry pulled back his arm.

And a knock interrupted his reverie.

A young woman waited on the other side of the door. She was pretty, in a plain way, and distracted. "Oh," she said lightly, then curtsied, her sandy blonde hair rippling. The movement revealed a delicate azure hairpin, keeping her fringe out of her wide grey eyes. "Harold. I'm Amanda Soothe. It's nice to meet such a brave boy, who brought our Hercules back to us. Lady Cybeles has organised a dinner to celebrate the young master's safe return."

Harry nodded jerkily, heading into a bow. Wasn't that what high society did? The Shape of Magic was spotty on upper-class wizarding customs.

He followed Amanda, and his rumbling stomach, back down the turret. Their descent was silent, giving Harry time to ponder. There was something familiar about this woman, and he couldn't quite put his finger on it… She was more attractive than his aunt (and wasn't that painful to think about), and younger than any of his school teachers. Who did she remind him of?

A stray thought slid across his mind. "Where's Hercules?"

Amanda jumped, nearly missing a step. "Oh," she said. "The young master has been talking with Cybeles."

"I see." Harry replied. He couldn't think of anything to say.

They reached the base of the turret in good time, and Amanda led him to an adjoining antechamber.

A dining room was laid out before them. Freshly-brushed tapestries lined the dressed-stone walls, displaying an encyclopaedia of magical creatures, vast wizarding battles (some of which, strangely, involved sword-wielding wizards quite prominently) and significant historical figures. Harry swore he saw at least a dozen depictions of Merlin.

Cybeles Rosier headed the table, garbed in an elegant black robe. The flames of the crackling hearth wreathed her in a flickering halo. Her dark hair tumbled down to her shoulders. To her right sat Hercules, looking very out-of-sorts. Harry was no maestro of wizarding fashion, but even he could tell the robes he'd been gifted for the occasion were dated. The place to Lady Cybeles' left was empty; Amanda guided him toward it, and took her own seat beside him, opposite Lyle. He was watching hawkishly.

"Harold," Lady Cybeles greeted him with a smile. "How glad we are you could join us."

Harry smiled back, hoping he didn't look strained. "I could not refuse such hospitality." That was what people said in these sorts of situations, right?

And hospitality it was, Harry had quickly realised, of a quietly rough kind. Odd patches of dust layered the table around the edges, and he suspected the legs had not been varnished for some time. The room had been recently cleaned, likely just for them to dine today.

"I hope you enjoy chicken and ale-root," Amanda added, grabbing his attention.

"And vegetables, of course," Lady Cybeles said, whipping Harry's head back to her. "Gander has worn his poor little bones out."

Harry didn't know who Gander was, but it was Amanda's turn to interject. "And hearth cider of course, grown from apples in our own gardens."

In the dark, Harry hadn't spotted any apples, and wasn't cider alcoholic for that matter? Not that he dared refuse anything.

"I'm sure it'll be lovely," he said weakly.

Lady Cybeles tittered. "We have endeavoured to match Norwegian expectations."

Norwegian expectations? Harry restrained the urge to fidget with his cuffs. Was their cooking renowned in the magical world? Nothing in his childhood told him Norwegian cuisine was anything special… but then again, did wizards even have the same kind of cooking as Muggles? After all, what was 'ale-root'?

Nothing horrible, he hoped.

"So where are your parents, lad?"

Okay, nothing could be as horrible as that. Lyle's voice cut through his hope like a knife through… whatever ale-root was.

"Dead," Harry said, meeting Lyle's ornithic gaze. Even at eleven, he knew the basics of lying. Lie basically. "My father was Norwegian, my mother was English."

"Oh,"

"Oh,"

That was when Harry realised why Amanda had sounded so familiar; her cadence was a copy of Cybeles'. Frankly, they all felt like copies at that moment; Lyle and Amanda and Lady Cybeles, all swirling around him, watching, waiting for any mistake…

"So that's why you're in England," Amanda said.

"Hercules told me as much," Lady Cybeles sniffed.

"I see… Who were your mother's family?"

Harry felt sweat break upon his brow. It was as though they were all pressing down on him, squeezing his throat until he couldn't bear it any more and spilled all his secrets…

"Ethle- Ethlereda," he eventually got out. It was an obscure name from The Shape of Magic . He only remembered it because of how cool it sounded.

"Oh! An Ethlereda, my aunt married one!"

Harry paled. Of course Lady Cybeles' aunt happened to be related to the family he'd happened to choose. Lyle's smirk was galling.

"Perhaps we could write to her, she might take you in if you can't locate your uncle."

A drop of sweat dripped down Harry's neck, defeating the cooling enchantments handily. Or really, handlessly. "Yes, er, perhaps. But I think my mother was from an unimportant line, it's why she was shoved out to Norway-"

"Nonsense," Lady Cybeles dismissed pleasantly. "They're an upright family. They'll take you in without question."

Not, Harry thought, without question. There would be a lot of questions. None of which he could answer.

Just then, the grand doors swung open by themselves, and everybody looked away. Harry breathed a sigh of relief. It no longer felt as though his own clothes were strangling him.

And in walked a… self-propelled dining trolley? Guilt with silver, shining like the morning sun, it glided into the room, skipping over the flagstones as though they were clouds. Harry blinked.

"Din-nar," said a strange voice, "is served."

A bat-eared creature appeared, ear first, from behind the trolley. It was, Harry recognised, a House Elf. What a House Elf was, he wasn't quite sure. His books had described them, but he'd never seen one. This one - Gander - was very old. Ancient, in fact, if the white, bristly hair pricking out his voluminous ears was anything to go by. Hogwarts, A History said the school kitchen had been manned by House Elves since 1735, and that they loved all things cooking, cleaning and maintaining. Harry didn't know what to think of that.

Gander approached dodderingly, floating a silver platter to Lady Cybeles' place. It landed without a sound. He repeated the same trick unerringly, if slowly, while the party watched in a sort of respectful, painful silence, as though expecting the ancient being to lose control at any moment, or simply kneel over and expire.

He bowed, then wheeled his trolley back out the doors, which closed behind him.

Harry looked at his platter. It was gilded silver, and made Aunt Petunia's crockery look like a savage's clay pot. Arithmantic patterns spun around the lid, which concealed… well, something. Something with ale-root. And chicken.

Harry grasped the rounded point of the lid… and nearly dropped it. Click click click ; the surface of the lid spun inwards in mesmerising spirals, clicking into some hidden dimension in the bell-like central point. It revealed a deep pot containing a stew, swimming with chunks of browned chicken and bright-coloured vegetables.

"Huh," he said, looking at the little bauble in his hand.

The stew itself turned out to be excellent, but not in the way he imagined. Wizarding food was different to muggle food - or at least, this dish was. Harry could not describe it; he knew little of food, having only ever eaten the Dursley's leftovers until recently, but even so he knew no muggle had ever cooked like this.

He ate ravenously, restraining his roaring taste buds as best he could.

Hercules mirrored him, while Lady Cybeles, Amanda and Lyle worked through the meal at a sedate but consistent pace, so that all that could be heard was the intermittent clink of knife and fork. It was almost as though they all wanted to avoid conversation…

Harry was more than half way through when he noticed it . He'd just glanced left, a flicker of a distant sconce catching his eye, when he realised that Amanda had stopped eating. She was looking - staring even, and Harry followed her gaze straight to Hercules, who remained blissfully unaware. His brow crinkling, Harry frowned. What was that about?

Deciding it was better not to involve himself, he looked back to his food, but could not help but catch Eric Lyle's eye. The strange man, looking younger in formal robes (he couldn't be more than twenty two) followed Harry's gaze and smiled meanly.

"Don't stop," he said, twirling his fork.

Amanda started, looking guilty. "Pardon?"

Lyle's smile was vile. "We all miss Lord Quirinus," he simpered, "but you can't keep reminiscing. Even if it seems like he's… right in front of you sometimes. We all get that feeling."

"Eric!" Lady Cybeles chided.

"I'm sorry my lady," Lyle said insincerely. "But old Gander has worked hard to cook for us. Amanda is daydreaming. We cannot let it waste."

Hercules was still eating, seemingly unaware of the drama unfolding around him. The question was, what drama? Harry felt as though they were speaking half a foreign language. Who was Quirinus? Why was he so important?

It seemed like a lifetime ago now, but Harry faintly recalled meeting a Quirinus with Hagrid at the Leaky Cauldron. The giant had called him Professor Quirrel. Only later - after a few not-so-discreet swigs of a drink that reeked like it would knock a normal man flat - did he call him Quirinus. Mostly to lament his timidity, a trait he'd implied was a recently acquired flaw. Surely they couldn't be one and the same? Lyle was speaking of this Lord Quirinus in this past tense.

Amanda looked ready to snap back, but the beating of wings beat her to it.

An owl was swooping down from the rafters; and for a moment Harry's heart leapt, expecting Hedwig… until it drew closer, and he saw the streaks of hazel brown in its feathers.

It flew straight to Lady Cybeles, dumped a thin white envelope in her hand, and flew away. She opened it with shaking hands. Harry watched her eyes slide disbelievingly across the pages. A shuddering gasp escaped her mouth, as though all the breath had left her body. "It's Caudicus." she said. "They found it - all of it. They're charging him."

The room seemed to drop into another dimension. Hercules was in tears. Amanda tensed like a scared rabbit. Lyle's eyes widened, then narrowed.

"A traitor," he snarled. "Somewhere in our midst."

For a moment, everyone looked at one another.

Harry himself was frozen. What was going on? What was it the Aurors had found?

"... Indeed," Cybeles eventually said quiveringly. " Indeed . No one- no one can leave Halt End, not until we've discovered who has betrayed this family."

Harry felt like he wanted to throw all that chicken and ale-root up. Merlin, he thought, unknowingly cursing in the proper wizarding manner. It was Tuesday, 27th August, and Hogwarts began on the 1st…

He had four days to get out of Halt End.

...

...

The rest of the dinner was a disaster. Hercules was quietly weeping into his stew, and Lady Cybeles looked a sneeze away from joining him. Lyle simmered like his food; Amanda lost her appetite. She just sat there silently, staring at her chicken. That silence filled the room like a poisonous gas, choking throats and inflaming tongues. Harry watched Lyle; Lyle watched Amanda; Amanda watched Hercules; and Hercules watched Cybeles, and they all watched each other.

Even when they'd all mutually - and again, silently - agreed to leave the meal where it was, no one said anything. And for the sake of politeness, no one said anything about that either. Harry thought it was like one of those Mexican stand-offs - reversed. Whoever fired the first word lost.

Hercules shifted angstily in his chair. His cheeks were messy with dried tears, his upper lip wet with snot. Lyle sighed. "Enough," he ground out, then stood abruptly. The legs of his chair scraped along the flagstones. "Hercules, Skarsgard, with me. I'll find something to take your minds off it."

Without further ado he paced away, forcing Harold and Hercules to scamper after him. They followed the older man through twists and turns, passing through tight corridors that were almost inhabitable, whose walls were thronged with gilt-edged paintings who posed and fought and danced. Here ever-burners lit the way.

But as they drew farther distant from their shared turret, the walls had been shorn of their paintings; faint imprints remained where magical marvels once reposed. Moss grew between the flagstones beneath their feet. The ever-burning sconces too had vanished, until Lyle was leading them by the light of Lumos .

"Here," he eventually said, stopping by a broad bronze door. Wand-light revealed the austere marks of Germanic runes carved deeply into the bright-polished metal… and pulsing, Harry somehow felt, with power. What lay behind this door? Whatever it was, he had no clue where it was. They had zig-zagged so many times that by the end Harry hadn't been sure if they were zigging or zagging.

Lyle took out a thick brass key and made to turn an invisible lock. When his hand was half a foot from the door there was one click to reveal a keyhole, another when the lock was turned, and then a cascade of louder clicks, clacks and clanks as something behind the door shifted. It reminded Harry of the vaults in Gringotts.

Eventually, the great doors swung open. Harry's breath caught in his chest. It was beautiful. Hundreds and hundreds of books were nestled on dozens of bookcases, all set around a central plinth raised above the floor. Three long tables awaited there, and a dozen scattered chairs, all arranged as though whichever party was studying there simply stood up and left… and never returned.

"C'mon," said Lyle. He led them past so many rows of bookcases it made Harry's head spin. How much duelling knowledge awaited discovery in this library? What incredible secrets were hidden away, unseen, unread for decades?

"I love magic," Harry muttered to himself.

But as it turned out, the magic of the library was imperfect - marred, even, as he was about to find out. "Once," Lyle said, gesturing to the plinth, "the bookcases would re-order themselves on command. I've been told it was very much like one of those Muggle ballet dancers… except made of wood, and more trustworthy.

"Never mind. The enchantment's broken. It's all yours to read, except -" Lyle's voice grew stern "- except the books on the white bookcase. They're too dangerous to even touch - don't think about it. Now, Hercules, come with me - I think I know a few books that'll interest you."

Hercules shuffled after Lyle… and new curiosity peaked in Harry's mind. He bit his lip, glancing after his new… friend. He shouldn't, but…

Harry tip-toed off after them, stopping on the other side of a bookcase.

"Now lad," he heard Lyle say, "first of all, I've got to ask. D'you trust Skarsgard?"

"That's mean!" Hercules whisper-shouted. "He just wanted a light thingy, and he helped me in the forest! Besides, he can't be much older than me."

Harry felt his heart flutter, a strange emotion overtaking him. Had he really made a friend?"

Lyle snorted. "You didn't ask, eh? Hmm. I'm not so sure - he's a queer lad, old eyes. Knows more than he says, for sure."

That, Harry had to admit, was true.

"-And wait," Lyle continued. His voice took on that familiar tone that adults tended to when talking to naughty children - scolding, Harry thought. "What do you mean by ' helped me in the forest '?

Hercules' gulp was audible. "I-I didn't stray off the path, I promise! But there was this thing, i-it got closer to the spell-path than Uncle Caudicus said was normal, and before I knew it I was walking toward it and its eyes told me to come closer an-and then Harry came and whoosh with a flame charm and it ran away!"

Lyle made a noise of interest. "A flame charm you say? Which one?"

" Incendio of course," Hercules said, as though the man were an idiot. All his excitement was replaced by incredulity. "What else could it be?"

" Incendio's for lighting candles, not warding off creatures. A miracle then - or perhaps the mark of a truly strong wizard. Why didn't you tell us about this creature?"

"I… I didn't want to worry you. I asked Aunty Cybeles not to tell."

Lady Cybeles, Harry suspected, had already told Amanda - but clearly not Eric Lyle. Suspicious. Harry heard him sigh. "It'll be our secret then, yours, mine, and Lady Cybeles' - we'll keep it on one of these shelves."

Hercules giggled.

"Now," the older man continued. "You want to know about your uncle, I'm sure. Ask and I'll answer."

Hercules' humour died swiftly. "Will… will he get out soon?"

His voice trembled with such vulnerability, such child-like fear, that Harry was swept up in a great tidal wave of emotion - one that came across him so suddenly that he struggled, for a brief moment, to breathe.

"It's hard to say," Lyle admitted frankly. "Your uncle's told you all about the law, I'm sure. He's a prudent man - and the law doesn't favour men like him. On the one hand, our enemies have set the deck to their advantage. But," Harry heard Lyle pause then. In his absence, Hercules could be heard sniffling. "But as I said, your uncle's a prudent man. He'll have planned for this. You'll see him again before long, I'm sure."

"On… on bail?"

"Told you," Lyle said. "Your uncle's taught you well."

For a moment there was silence. Were they coming back? Fearing his exposure, Harry tip-toed back to the plinth with the chairs.

...

...

Despite Lyle's efforts, neither Harry nor Hercules managed much studying. The younger boy was still too upset to think clearly, while Harry himself could not help but replay, again and again, Lyle and Hercules' conversation in his mind. Maybe he'd misjudged the man? Eric Lyle had every reason to be suspicious of him, and he'd been frank and fair with Hercules…

What studying he did manage could better be termed research. The encounter with the wild thing in the forest would not shift from his mind either. What had it been? How had it approached the spell-path? How had it seemingly hypnotised Hercules? He hoped the answer would lie in the library, but so far he was without luck.

All he had discovered was that it was unlikely that it would be discovered. Creatures of Land, Deep, and Sky barely scratched the surface of the vast cornucopia of creatures native to the magical world. It was a wonder the Muggles had not discovered any themselves. And among the many kinds there were subkinds, and subkinds of subkinds - he'd even learned the existence of a type of creature called a

wolpertinger* , a hybrid mix of a rabbit, a squirrel, and a pheasant. Apparently, a medieval Bavarian alchemist had created this chimeric species and somehow gotten them to mate. What even was the point of that!? None as far as Harry could see, but he'd still spent an hour reading about them.

It had been a baffling experience. The books on his desk had piled up, while the potential identities of the creature only expanded. Eventually he'd given in and resorted to perusing DADA books. Most he put down after a brief skim - they were too complex for him to understand. A few he'd practically thrown across the desk, as the spells they described could most succinctly be described as vile . What was the point of an entrail-expelling curse?

Late in the night, he'd discovered Tricks to Ensnare and Tips for Victory . It was a book of sayings, pointers, and insights scattered haphazardly throughout its pages. Unfortunately, the cover had disintegrated - and the author's name was thus lost - but the knowledge within remained valuable. In the short time he had left, Harry poured over it, absorbing every word he could, until Lyle returned to guide them back through the confusing corridors and put them to bed.

A/N

*Minaciae is the dative of the latin for menace - e.g pointing a wand at someone.

*Yes, that is a real… real mythical animal from German folklore. Chimeric forest creatures seem to be a common theme in central Germany, with similar animals said to exist in the Palatinate and Thuringia.

Something strange is afoot at Halt End. Harry meets our cast of unfortunates, chained by one method or another to the fate of the House of Rosier of Halt End. But one of them has sold them out to the Aurors; one of them is a traitor. And Harry, himself under suspicion, is stuck in their midst…

Take good care of yourselves out there,

Jousting Alchemy