All For Lightspeed! III
…
The next day - one day closer to Hogwarts, Harry could not help but note - began brightly. Even the shadow cast by the surrounding forest couldn't veil the sun from Halt End. Shafts of white light cascaded through the loopholes, birdsong wafted through the corridors, and even Hercules seemed a little perkier than the day before.
Harry felt none of it. He knew he had to make a nuisance of himself today; the thought sent a heave of dread up from his stomach. He felt sick as soon as he woke up. Even Hercules' distraction - some strange derivation of marbles called gobstones - couldn't dissipate the heavy cloud of anxiety that hung over him.
That cloud became a thunderstorm when Amanda called them down for breakfast. They arrived to see Lady Cybeles already eating toast topped with an unusual glistening butter. That, Harry decided, you wouldn't find in Tescos. Nonetheless, when he sat down to eat himself, he braved the unknown topping fearlessly. After all, what sort of wizard wouldn't?
The butter buzzed pleasantly on his tongue but did not mollify his nerves. "Erm," he said. "Lady Cybeles?"
Her dark eyes, ringed with red, blinked owlishly at him. She'd been staring into space. "Yes, child?"
"I er- well, you see… I've been staying at the Leaky Cauldron, and because of the, er, escape from the shop, my- my trunk and owl are still there, and Tom the barman will be wondering where I am and-"
"Hush," she interrupted, breaking his babbling. "It is no worry. You may write a letter to him, instructing that he may keep the trunk safe, to let the owl come to you. Owls know the way to their owner. Indeed, I remember my first owl. Longshanks, he was called, because he was very tall. He had such handsome dark feathers…"
Lady Cybeles sighed, and trailed off, while Harry looked at her askance. That had come out of nowhere…
"Someone must be there while you write it," Amanda added. "Just a precaution, of course."
That knocked the lady of the house from her reverie. "Ah, yes, of course dear! You don't mind, do you?"
Harry struggled not to show, well, anything, while he struggled to think. Think! What could he do, if they saw him writing his name on the letter he'd be done for, and if he didn't then they'd ask why he didn't sign his name!
"Are you okay?" Amanda said, eyebrows raised.
Gulping, Harry reached for an answer from his panicked thoughts… "Ah, yes - I, erm, didn't give my real name to Tom."
He didn't dare look up, knowing Amanda Soothe would be watching him with new suspicion.
"Why ever not?" Lady Cybeles said airily.
Only one thing to do now, Harry thought, taking a steadying breath. "My mother, I- they said she died of natural causes… but… but I'm not sure, and my dad, when he was alive, he always said we had enemies, so I thought…"
Ashamed, Harry lowered his head, hoping they would mistake his guilt for grief. What was he doing, lying to these people who'd taken him in? He remained like that for a few long, long moments, while the unwanted, creeping thought crept into his mind. What if they didn't believe him? What would happen then? Did the castle have a dungeon? Surely it did, with big iron bars an-
"Oh, you poor thing!" Lady Cybeles cooed.
Harry let out a breath. Thank G- Merlin!
Amanda patted his shoulder, but what would comfort a normal child only made Harry tense.
"What did you call yourself?" She said lightly.
"Harry," Harry answered. "It's close to my own name, easy to remember."
Lady Cybeles lifted his chin with her finger until his eyes met her own. "And you feared, child, our suspicion if you signed a false name on this letter?"
"A-uh- yes."
She wrapped him in an awkward hug from across the table. Harry forced himself to relax, finally allowing his burdensome guilt release in the form of hot, wet tears which poured down his cheeks. He did not weep for the mother and father he never knew - those tears had long since dried in a cupboard under the stairs - but for a lie; not the lie he had weaved but the fact he'd weaved it. Shame swept through him like a searing tide, pulling at nerves, grasping at his heart. He almost wished he'd been called out.
...
...
Lady Cybeles had dried his tears with a strangely spongey handkerchief, then dried his face with a motherly wave of her wand. It had only made Harry feel guiltier, but he had no more tears to cry. He sat quietly at the table for a while Lady Cybeles fetched the key to the Owlery. "Mind yourself," she said, passing the key tentatively to Amanda Soothe. The warning was intended for them all: watch each other, it suggested. Don't allow anyone to sneak a letter away.
Hercules gave him a friendly bump of the shoulder as Amanda took them to the Owlery, which was barred by a complex door not dissimilar, if smaller, than that belonging to the library. Harry smiled back tremulously. All his energy seemed to have disappeared.
He felt better by the time they had climbed the final set of well-worn steps, as the sensation of cool, fresh air began to fill his lungs. Blue sky filled his vision; and suddenly he was in the open, perched atop the turret opposite their own. Timber scaffolding made an overhang, whence three peering owls stared down unblinkingly. It was not a difficult place for an owl to reach. Hedwig would have no trouble.
But how Harry had got there, he could only faintly remember. The interior of the castle remained, for the most part, a mystery to him. Not that he'd have a reason to return; he thought the place would be windswept on a cold night, an open, precarious perch atop a battlement.
In the summer sun it was beautiful. Lush greenery stretched out as far as the eye could see, and all the dark things that lurked in the forest seemed banished by the sun, and that same sun shone in a blue and cloudless sky, casting joyous light unto the world.
Something sparkled in the corner of his vision. A lake glistened by the rear of Halt End. How had he not seen that before?
"Our mere* is big enough for most galleons," Amanda said proudly.
Harry nodded as though that meant something. Big enough for a coin? Bored with the edge of the lake, he turned to a rotting desk and the parchment Hercules was waving about. "Here you go Harold!"
The letter gave Harry a headache. He struggled to word it true, but worse was the process of writing itself. Why did wizards still use stupid quills? But a true-born wizard wouldn't struggle to write a letter, and Amanda was watching closely over his shoulder.
Dear Tom,
I'm sorry if I've worried you. I'm sure you're wondering where I am. Don't worry, I've taken up with some friends of my family, but I found them in such a hurry I forgot my own trunk! Would you mind if you kept it safe for a few days, and let my owl out? I'm sure she'll find me in good time. I'll collect the trunk before I leave for Hogwarts - I have all the books I need here!
Kind Regards,
Harry, of Room Ten
Amanda took the letter, stuck it in an envelope, and gave it to a waiting owl. "Go on then Albatross, off to the Leaky Cauldron."
Albatross looked like he'd seen better days, but flew off cleanly, his patchy brown and white feathers spreading wide as he glided away. Harry had made a show of watching Amanda's every move - not that he suspected she'd really do anything to the letter. Could she be the traitor? Harry couldn't tell. He didn't know anything about her.
Harry pursed his lips, then ventured; "What brought you here, Amanda?"
The older girl blinked owlishly. "What do you mean?"
"I heard you last night in your room, doing Albert's Arithmancy puzzles in the Daily Prophet." To Harry's uneducated ears, connected to an uneducated mind, it seemed that she'd been doing brilliantly. "You could be anything, so why-"
He waved his hand awkwardly at the surrounding area, suddenly realising he was slighting Hercules' own home in front of him.
So did Amanda. Reddening slightly at the praise, she glanced over to him.
"It's not really my home," Hercules offered, smiling awkwardly. There was something strange in his voice… "I've only been here once before."
"Twice," Amanda amended softly, "I saw you here once as a baby. Lord Quirinus took you in his arms."
She sighed, far-sighted. It was the sort of sigh an old woman might make, recalling fondly the heady days of youth. "I'm here," Amanda eventually explained, "for my cousin Lady Cybeles. The Rosiers have always been good to us, so we'll always be good to them." Then her eyes hardened - and that embarrassed blush was long gone. "Why are you here, Harold Skarsgard?"
"Er-" Harry shrugged. "Chance," he finished lamely. It was a suspicious answer, he knew. What were the chances that someone would turn up at their doorstep just as Caudicus was arrested, and for said someone to have nothing to do with said arrest? Amanda was watching him; Harry watched her back.
Then Hercules broke the moment with all the subtlety of his namesake. "Amanda, Amanda! Can we pick mushrooms like you said?"
Amanda turned to him, serving him a smile she reserved only for the younger boy. "Of course young master. Follow me to the foundations, and mind your step on the way down."
Hercules winked companionably behind her back, while Harry shook his head. Sometimes it was impossible to tell just how much he did, or didn't, understand. Thanks , Harry mouthed, falling into step behind Amanda as he was bade.
After that, Harry felt like he was in one of those illusionary paintings where all the stairs loop forever. They went down and down and down and down. First they descended the lofty turret, the wind whistling faintly through the rafters, and then down the dim-lit corridors of the vast curtain wall. Harry thought they would stop somewhere around the courtyard - or 'ward'*, as the castle's denizens seemed to call it - but they were instead led to a tight set of stairs by the gatehouse.
The steps disappeared into a tenebrous darkness. Harry swallowed heavily. They weren't going down there, were they? Amanda hefted a lantern, clicked it to burn, hiked the edges of her robes as though they were a dress, and strode forward, totally matter-of-fact.
Then she cried, almost squeaking in terror. Harry jumped himself, reaching for his wand. A coarse light flickered, then a face appeared in the darkness.
"Boo," Lyle dead-panned.
"E-ric Lyle!" Amanda screeched girlishly, pointed her finger. It was only then that Harry saw how young she really was. She couldn't have been more than a year out of Hogwarts. "By Morgana's name, what on earth are you doing down there!"
"Checking the foundations," he replied blithely, not in the least bit ashamed. "Enjoy the mushrooms - and mind Deacon, he's floating about too. Maybe you could natter to him about your hair, or the new Weird Sisters' record."
Cackling, Lyle strode off with purpose, leaving Amanda pouting angrily in his week. "Pixie-brain," Harry heard her mutter. She cleared her breath, and spoke more properly: "Now he's done scaring me, let's carry on shall we?"
That was a rhetorical question. Amanda led them down the stairs without further adieu. The lantern-light revealed an undercroft, something like Harry had seen in Aunt Petunia's period murder mysteries. Net rows of brick-work arches reached into a vaulted ceiling, in whose cobwebbed grooves the golden lantern-light did not reach.
"Roman," Amanda said, gesturing to the nearest vault. "From Emperor Hadrian's time."
They passed further into the undercroft, journeying deep into the darkness. Here the world smelled of earth, dirt and rain. He almost expected the scent of sulphur, but it never came. Harry watched the edges of the light distrustfully, and stuck close to the older girl's shoulder. Meanwhile Amanda began to explain, over the echoing of their footsteps, that valuable fungi grew by the leyline, where the vast well of the Deep Earth and the enchantments of the castle crossed.
She stopped abruptly. Harry almost bumped into her back. The lantern-light was glinting against something rectangular, something bright, bold against the darkness. Harry recognised it as a picture frame, but what was a painting doing down here?
"My Lord," Amanda said reverently. She approached with tender steps, slowly casting light upon the canvas within. A man in tasteful blue robes posed on a black background, his chin proud, his brows furrowed and focused. In one hand he held a sword, and in the other a wand. To Harry, he looked like a man of adventure; his eyes shone with the light of distant lands, his wind-blown hair of glory. Most importantly, the painting was still. No essence was imbued in it. He had died young.
"Lord Quirinus," Amanda said, taking a long, long look at Hercules. The boy was his spitting image. "The undercroft was his favourite place. He could sense magic, you know, at the age of fourteen."
That explained the location of his painting then. Harry studied it further, recalling all he'd heard about the man. It wasn't much, but his shadow seemed to loom over all the occupants of the castle. Lyle had implied that Amanda had loved him. Lady Cybeles certainly had. He knew her melancholy was sustained by grief no less than Caudicus' recent arrest.
He'd died twelve years ago in the Blood War, yet still she mourned. The scar of their parting pained her still… ever since… Ever since he'd been killed by Aurors. Had he and Harry's parents ever duelled? By affiliation, they were on opposite sides, but Harry just couldn't imagine that dashing figure as his foe.
Another, spine-trembling thought struck him then, when he considered all those families that were definitely his enemies. Terrible things had happened to Voldemort's enemies… had Quirinus partook in that? Frankly, Harry struggled to believe it.
For what most drew his eye were Lord Quirinus' dimpled cheeks. The man was smiling.
...
...
Harry's thoughts could not linger on Lord Quirinus, for soon they met another light, this one pulsing dimly with a strange kaleidoscopic glow. At first Harry thought he was imagining it but, as they drew closer, and the oncoming light grew stronger, he beheld a bizarre sight. Hundreds of mushrooms were clinging onto a wall of what looked like bedrock. Each was glowing softly, reminding Harry vaguely of those neon signs he saw on American television shows.
"Be careful," Amanda advised. From a nearby chest she took out three pairs of gloves and passed them out. "Do not touch them without the dragonhide on. Promise me."
After they'd each promised in turn, Amanda continued; "Don't cast too much magic Harold, and don't touch the rubellos* either - the red fungi. Tell me if you do. Otherwise-" Here, she held out two rough-sacks, "-bag everything you see. Oh, and be wary of any… strangeness. Odd things happen close to the Deep Earth."
Harry thought all of this was strange, but followed an excited Hercules anyway.
He lit a Lumos and began to work, following the bedrock right as Amanda veered left. The fungi were bizarre; sometimes cool to the touch, other times warm, and almost always rubbery. He swore one farted as he picked it up. Occasionally they would buzz to some ethereal beat, as though singing in a language he didn't understand. Both boys were very careful to avoid the rubellos. What were the uses of these things anyway?
Soon they were uncovering the sheer bedrock behind the fungal growths. Up close it was strange - black and shiny,strangely sticky, and clean of any blemish - with one exception. A large graffiti in bold white letters: Recimir will Rise Again!
Neither Harry nor Hercules knew who Recimir was, so that seemed unlikely.
At first, they worked in silence - but Hercules could only contain himself for so long. He began to ask questions - sometimes easy questions, and sometimes awkward questions. Harry did his best to answer… and to keep his story straight. After the third fake anecdote about his 'uncle' (this one based on, of all things, a story his real Uncle Vernon often told about his own uncle), Harry decided to go on the offensive. He started with a thought that'd been bothering him ever since he - they - had first set eyes on Halt End.
"Hercules," he began, "you said you'd been here twice? But you're the heir, aren't you?"
The boy laughed nervously. "Er-Uncle Caudicus always keeps me busy. He says I can learn more about the world in the shop than stuck in a castle. Never been in the undercroft though! Aren't these mushrooms weird?" He said frantically. "So squishy, and they bounce, and the little humming they make and a think I heard one giggling onc-"
He stopped abruptly at Harry's deadpan. He knew exactly what the younger boy was doing - exactly what he'd do himself.
In the silence of the undercroft, Hercules' gulp was like a gavel on a block. "Well, um- that's…"
Harry watched him steadily, while Hercules struggled to hold his gaze.
The younger boy sighed. "I wasn't… welcome," he eventually admitted. "I'm from a distaff line - like you, I'm… Lord Quirinus Rosier wasn't really my uncle, even. I'm just… what's left of this family - aside from those traitorous coffee-drinkers at Rossecourt."
Coffee-drinkers? Harry briefly wondered. He put the thought out of his mind. The heart of Hercules' explanation was more important. Hercules, it seemed, was an interloper in his own way, and Lady Cybeles had welcomed him kindly as an aunt - which she really wasn't…
"So… Lady Cybeles…"
"Lady Cybeles loves me," Hercules said firmly. It was both the most mature, and most tenderly childish thing Harry had ever heard him say. "She's just… she loved Lord Quirinus. Everyone did, I-"
Hercules stopped all at once, freezing, looking over Harry's shoulder. Suddenly, it was very cold. Harry turned, jumping backwards as he met the faded form of the Deacon just feet away. It seemed to be staring at him.
"What the- gah!" he heard himself cry out. His heart roared in his chest; his breath boomed in his ears. The thing scared the life out of him!
And it was still looking at him now.
"Who is it?" Harry asked Hercules. He did not dare look away from the ghost, harmless or not. Ribbons of white aether floated in an unearthly wind. It seemed more solid in the pitch black.
"They say it was the Deacon of Canterbury once," Hercules said. "He was an emissary between warring churches. People say he was called Steven. Something terrible happened here - to him. He appeared a few years after, and has stayed ever since."
"Was he always…" Harry gestured toward, well, diffuse nothingness. It was still faceless, limbless.
"No. He was strong once, almost a poltergeist. Now he's dying again."
They watched the ghost until the Deacon floated off. Was there anything worse, Harry thought, than dying twice?
...
...
Harry's back was aching by the time their sacks were full of fungi and the wall cleared. Only then did he realise the strangeness of the sack itself; he must've put hundreds of mushrooms in the bag, enough to fill it five times over. They should've been spilling out the top - no, they wouldn't simply never fit . He looked at the roughspun suspiciously.
Hercules must've noticed, because he soon commented (with that childish expression, denoting knowledge of something his peer didn't). "Dagworth sacks," he said. "Don't you have them in Norway?"
"I've never seen one. What's a Dagworth sack?"
Hercules' superior aspect vanished as fast as if he'd run into the undercroft's darkness. He opened his mouth, then closed it like a fish far from water. "Um, well, I don't know. They're like expanded dimension-thingies, but for explosive magical ingredients."
Harry felt his own face drop. The bag suddenly weighed thrice its weight, and he felt the sudden urge to throw it into the distance. " Explosive!? "
"Amanda wouldn't make us do anything really dangerous," Hercules said, shrugging.
Strange things happen in the Deep Earth … Amanda's warning flashed through Harry's mind. He wasn't so sure.
But the mushrooms didn't explode them into a savoury splatter of gore, so they followed the wall back. Amanda was already done, waiting by the chest. They handed back their dragonhide gloves (they were incredibly supple, Harry had noted) and returned to the surface. Lord Quirinus' painting glimmered on the way out. Harry somehow felt his eyes on his back as he passed - more so than he'd felt from any other painting in Halt End… including those imbued with their subject's essence.
The day was long in the shadow when they emerged, blinking away the sun-spots in their vision.
"We'll take these to the sorting room," Amanda said, before pausing in her step. "Oh, hullo Edward!"
Harry followed her gaze, and saw… Eric Lyle? No, not Lyle. This man was older, broader, and smiling kindly. "Afternoon Amanda," he called back. "And to you two fine young gentlemen too. I don't believe we've met."
"This is Harold," Amanda said, gesturing to Harry. "And this is Hercules."
Edward's eyes widened - and it was nice, Harry thought wryly, that it wasn't at him for once. "Young master," he said, inclining his head, "Harold. Welcome to Halt End. I'm Edward Lyle - I'm sure you've met my toe-rag brother Eric."
Something flashed through Harry's mind… ' I live with my brother's family in the cottage' Eric had said. Their similarities made sense. They had the same dark eyes, the same brown hair, and the same sharp nose. But while Eric was cocky, sneering, Edward was plain-faced.
He also had a hoe in hand. A love of Herbology - the tending of magical plants - it seemed, they held in common.
"They have," Amanda said, before either boy could get a word in. "But now it's time to meet the boatmen."
"Right," Edward said, snapping his fingers. "I knew I'd forgotten something. This'll be… interesting." He made an exaggerated gesture with his hoe. In his ragged, dirt-stained tunic, he looked more like a prancing scarecrow than a gentleman. "After you, my lady."
Amanda giggled pleasantly, while Edward fell in beside her. They made off toward the castle, chatting amicably while Harry and Hercules brought up the rear.
"What's going on?" Said Harry. "Who're the boatmen?"
"No one told you?"
Harry sighed. Clearly, it was not only Hercules who had a love for misdirection at Halt End. "No," he said, "are you going to tell me?"
Hercules hummed mischievously, his eyes glimmering. "No," he eventually teased. "I think it'll make a nice surprise."
Harry didn't argue. He already knew it would be pointless. Rather, he bided his time, and followed the adults as they walked through the inner courtyard toward the rear gatehouse. When he'd first noticed the second gate that morning, it had struck him as odd. For a while he hadn't known why; it had eaten at him much of the day. That was until he had day-dreamed of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
The Hogwarts he imagined had one gatehouse , not two. Then he realised that every castle he'd ever imagined had one gatehouse - because every Muggle castle he'd ever seen had one gatehouse. The 'rear-house', as Eric had called it in passing at breakfast, could only be a feature unique to magical castles.
Its purpose was slowly revealed as the group passed under the gate, for Haltmere (as he'd been told the lake was called) spread out in front of them. The rays of the declining sun sparkled prettily on the crystalline waters, whose uniformity was broken only by the occasional swan… and a simple wooden pier, by which Lady Cybeles, Eric and two others were already waiting.
Something immediately struck Harry as strange. Why have a pier if there were no boats, and no way onto the lake? His eyes darted, looking for an entrance, some waterway by which a boat might approach. He was expecting a canal, so that barges might enter and exit, stopping to deliver goods as they went (why a society that had mastered mass teleportation required anything as slow and meandering as a boat did not strike him as odd at the time).
There was nothing.
Harry furrowed his brow. Everyone else was just standing around. Lady Cybeles and Amanda Soothe were chatting amicably to each other, though the former appeared worse and worse every time Harry saw her. Eric Lyle, a little further distant, was talking to the two newcomers. They were all facing the becalmed water, which was almost taunting with its lack of answers. "What are we wa-"
Something small broke the surface.
The something became a pole, ("oh,") then a sail, then mast, then a deck, (" oh! ") then a hull, all leaping merrily from the water like a vast, heavy salmon. Haltmere heaved at the displacement, splashing out violent ripples that scared the swans and threatened to flood both shore and pier - at least until great clods of dirt and sand curled up on themselves and fashioned a breakwall, which slowly disassembled as the waves receded.
Harry stared. The ship was tall, painted white and a tasteful light pink, and had arisen from the water . "I love magic," he muttered to himself.
Hercules sniggered. "Ha, your face!" he said childishly. "The Methýdrion * is awesome, isn't it?"
As the ship drew closer to the dock, it became clear that the hull would tower over the humble pier it was approaching. Upon its starboard, a complex crest was painted in bold colours of red and yellow, displaying prominently gold coins below a half-sheathed sword. The Laughing Lady was painted beside it.
On closer inspection, Harry did indeed see the carving of a svelte, attractive youth, barely clothed, holding a bag outstretched at the fore. He jumped when she winked at him.
"Watch yourself," Edward suddenly warned, turning to them. He appeared grave now, his pleasant features turned grim. "Or really, watch each other. We must barter with the guild - but whoever our traitor is, he might betray himself here."
That made sense. The Owlery was locked, the floo had long been disengaged (apparently it was quite expensive) and outer wards guarded the edge of the grounds. If not through the traders, how else would the traitor communicate with the outside world?
Harry watched as he was bade, briefly scrutinising the two new figures. The older - the mother, Harry judged, had copper-red hair and pale grey eyes, while the younger was perhaps sixteen at the most. She resembled her mother totally, as though she were a living Russian doll.
"My wife," Edward supplied knowingly, "and daughter. Sarah and Emily."
Harry nodded his head, unsure of how to reply. Wouldn't an adult know a compliment to give in this situation? Nothing came to his mind.
Instead, he watched. He watched as the captain shouted down to Lady Cybeles and doffed his cap. He watched as barrels of something were winched down on a hoist, along with the captain and his first-mate. The captain was a very fat, very ruddy man wearing cloth-of-gold robes and a wide-brimmed hat decorated with what Harry suspected was a gryphon feather. Harry thought he must've weighed more than the barrels, and feared for the winching mechanism.
But eventually the captain and his barrels touched the ground. He stepped onto the pier, bowed to Lady Cybeles, and they began to talk. Harry only caught a few words, but from the captain's body language understood that they were haggling. A few more traders made landfall soon after (along with half a dozen great chests this time) and all the other adults began to bargain too. Harry and Hercules watched as they were told.
Lady Cybeles was still discussing something with the captain, looking - as usual - rather strained, while Eric was exchanging laughter with a tall, thin sailor who resembled, to Harry's eyes, a human beanpole. Edward, his wife, and his daughter were deep in discussion too, though their conversation seemed less… ribald than his brother's. Nothing untoward seemed to be happening. What was he even looking for? A passed note, a signal? Would anyone dare with that many eyes on them?
Eventually, Lady Cybeles disengaged with the captain and made her way towards him.
"Harold," she said gently, "Hercules. Could you run along my child, I would like to speak with Harold alone."
Harry tensed. Alone? He'd almost settled in as 'Harold', but now the fear returned. Had he given himself away? His mind flew through the day. Had he said something, done something that betrayed his Muggle upbringing? Was his cover not enough, or had she somehow spoken to the Ethleredas?
"H-how can I help, my lady?" Harry said, cursing his stutter.
"I - we, that is - could not help but notice your… faux pas, at dinner last night," Cybeles said, smiling as reassuringly as she could. Up close, Harry saw that the dark circles under her eyes almost reached her cheekbones. "I know that you've lived an isolated life, so I thought it might be prudent to inform you now, so you don't make the same mistake in less understanding company."
It took Harry a moment to process what the Lady of Halt End was saying. "Oh," he said dumbly. Relief swept through him, and bemusement took his wits. That was it? "I'm sorry," he said. "What did I do?"
"Nothing unforgivable, don't worry." Lady Cybeles said. She almost patted him on the shoulder, but clearly changed her mind half-way through the action. "Before dining, it is the duty of the head of the household to lead prayers before taking the first bite."
Harry struggled not to frown, to keep the surprise off his face. Prayers? The Shape of Magic was silent on religion, and he'd never seen a church or chapel in Diagon Alley. Did wizards even believe in God? In a sense, they were close to gods, or at least the closest that man could get. Now he was thinking about it, images of pentagrams came to mind, and covens, and strange pagan rituals. Harry hoped that wasn't the kind of prayers Lady Cybeles was talking about.
"I'm sorry," Harry said. "I've only really eaten dinner with m-"
Perhaps it was embarrassment that made his eye wander, maybe it was just chance, but in that moment Harry's gaze settled on the sight of a small yellowed note, kept in a large, calloused hand. He saw it passed from that hand to another's, where it was quickly crumpled into a pocket.
He didn't dare look at the face of the man to whom the note had belonged, fearing he might meet his eyes, but knew that it was surely the deceitful hand of Eric Lyle.
...
...
The pillow beneath his head felt like a slab of granite, as though he'd dug up a flagstone from the castle ward and decided to try and sleep on it. Harry turned restlessly beneath the sheets, trying in vain to find a comfortable spot. It was the fourth time he'd made that same gambit. Nothing seemed to work. Merlin, he thought, stop thinking!
He was perfectly aware of the irony.
Thoughts were bouncing around his head like a Lightspeed (not that he'd even had time to use it). There was lingering embarrassment from the night before's dinner, creeping fears about the Deacon's fate… and Eric Lyle. Harry hadn't dared call him out at the time - he'd tried, but every time he opened his mouth his breath turned to dust. He told himself he'd talk to Lady Cybeles alone, but hadn't dared excuse himself from the Library. Then he'd told himself he'd bring it up at dinner (during which he let Lady Cybeles lead a prayer which, thankfully, involved no strange rites or blood sacrifices). But Lyle was sitting across from him, so he didn't say anything.
Before he knew it he was abed, burdened with tortuous knowledge, and the moment replayed in his mind again and again, and questions layered atop questions. What did the note say? Who did Lyle give it to? Why was it passed? Should he have said something at the time? And the more he questioned, the more he wondered: had he even seen it at all? No one else had, none of the adults. Why would he? Wasn't he looking for that sort of thing so, perhaps, could he have imagined it?
He didn't think he had… but a part of him wished he had. Then there would be nothing to think about and he could go to sleep, instead of weighing Eric Lyle's life against his courage. Who knew what the Rosiers would do if they thought they found the traitor? It wasn't like they could go to the Aurors. Nothing good, he knew, his stomach sinking, nothing good.
Worse, then: what if Lyle knew he knew . The man was dangerous. He'd known it from the moment he saw him, from the instant he locked eyes with that hawkish stare. If Lyle was the traitor, and he thought Harry knew, he'd kill him if he had the chance.
Harry's blood turned to ice as the door opened with a slow creak . Frozen, he peered into the darkness. What was that? Nothingness greeted him… but Lyle could already be in the room, watching. Harry laid very still, ears straining, mouth dry.
His heart was pounding in his ears. Still nothing. Slowly, Harry reached out of the comfort of his bed sheets toward his nightstand, his fingers wrapping around his holly wand. It was cool to the touch. " Lumos ," he whispered.
Light poured into the darkness, eradicating the night and birthing long, deep shadows. The room was empty… and the door wide open. His mind flickered through all he'd learned about magical castles and houses. Could it be a poltergeist? Hercules had said the Halt End poltergeist faded centuries ago.
Harry frowned. Hogwarts, A History had said that the castle was alive. It'd seemed a strange claim at the time, but with all he'd seen these last few days… Could Halt End be similarly sentient?
What if it was telling him something?
Gently, he lowered himself to the floor, finding his borrowed slippers waiting for him. He advanced slowly, then with advancing confidence, toward the corridor. The light of his Lumos betrayed an empty passageway. Harry's brow furrowed. He was in bed for a while, if the castle was telling him something…
He descended down the turret at pace, trying his best to dim the light of his wand. It was totally ignoring him. So distracted was Harry that he tripped on a well-worn step and, after a moment of weightlessness, made a heavy recovery on the landing. The sound seemed to boom around the room. Harry winced. Who could've heard that?
He extinguished his Lumos and stood very still, peering into the subsequent darkness. Just like in his room… nothing. He knew the landing. It was a long, narrow room set between the vast walls, segmented by timber frames and panels. As he scanned the darkness, he could almost imagine the placements of the tapestries, the sconces and the paintings… and then he saw it. Soft moonlight was filtering through a crack in the ward-side door. That wasn't open before.
Realising he was running out of time, Harry flung open the door, revealing a world of greyscale. A full moon peered down inscrutably on the castle ward, tracing clear outlines of moss-bitten walls, cyclopean in size, broken flagstones… and a dark-robed figure striding, lantern in hand, toward one of the disused doors.
Harry scampered after him, fresh night air cold against his brow, whipping against his hair. He almost lost sight of the figure at once, barely catching the slightest glimmer of lantern-light down a long, barren corridor. Cobwebs and dust layered this place like a parody of decoration. His pulse-pounding, Harry followed the light, quickly catching up to its bearer, who was navigating the maze of corridors with some skill. It could not be an intruder.
Nor did he seem overly worried he might be followed. Even so, Harry did his best to keep his distance, stepping as lightly as he could manage upon the freezing flagstones. He could feel the cold beneath his slippers. But he was most worried about his breath, which sounded like a hurricane in his ears.
Knowing it was an illusion, Harry tried his best to ignore it. Eventually, the figure came to a door. Harry heard the turning of a lock, and saw the lantern-light vanish. The figure stepped through and locked the door behind him. Damn, Harry thought. He could - perhaps - unlock the door, but who knew where it led? Whoever it was could be just on the other side.
Instead, he settled behind a wrecked cabinet and waited… and waited, and waited. Nothing was happening. He heard nothing. Even the gentle summer wind, blowing in from a break in the wall, seemed to calm. From behind his hiding place, the corridor looked like a painting of black, grey and silver: silent, unmoving and melancholy.
Slowly, doubts began to creep upon him. What if the figure wasn't coming back? What if his destination was further away? What if they were an intruder, just one that knew the castle? The silence soon took on a weight of its own, pressing against his will. Move , it said. First gently, then more and more forcefully.
Was he making the right choice? Is this what the castle wanted? If the castle wanted anything at all…
There was another click. Harry tensed. Was he coming back? The door creaked open, revealing that same familiar outline. Pressing himself as close to the cabinet as he could manage, Harry waited with bated breath.
The figure did not even look toward him… but once he'd gone by, Harry dared to steal a peak. He had to smother a gasp. He recognised that build, and those robes. It was not a man. Amanda, Harry thought, what are you doing?
It was at least a minute he dared approach the door. It was locked, but Tom the bartender had taught him an unlocking charm. " Alohomora ." As the door swung open he thanked the homely man for his forethought. He would've never bothered learning something so unrelated to duelling otherwise.
Excluding the broken pieces of furniture Harry had come to expect, the room appeared empty at first glance. And at second glance - and at a third. Faint light dappled in from two loop-holes. There was no obvious entrance to another room. What had Amanda been doing?
"Dammit," Harry muttered to himself. She'd definitely been doing something , but wha-
A muffled, creaking moan almost made him jump out of his skin. It was coming from a dresser. Harry approached cautiously, his wand pointed in minaciae. " Lumos ," he intoned. This time, his wand listened; the light was dim, revealing that the dresser was no dresser at all, but a sort of cot.
Harry almost didn't want to look inside.
Still, he crept forward until his gaze peered over the lip. He saw a shrivelled, ancient figure bundled in ragged cloth. Its limbs were wattled, nearly brown, with a large head and fraying bat-like ears. Harry met its eyes, which were cloudy with age.
"Mistresssss Amanda?" it croaked in a definitely feminine voice.
"I'm Harold," Harry said. The lie slipped easily from his tongue. In fact, he knew he could've peeled the Hideaway Patch off his forehead right then and there and continued to lie. This House Elf was blind.
"H-Harold? Yesss, Gander has spoken of you." The House Elf nodded her fragile head. Her voice sounded like the unravelling of thread, like the beginning of a great unwinding. Harry felt pity stir in his heart. "I am Mander," Mander said. "What h-has brought you to my deathbed?"
"Deathbed?" Harry cried, before he'd even formed the words in his mind. "You're ill, but deathbed ? I-I'm sure you could get better. Magic can cure almost anything!"
"Not this," Mander wheezed, smiling resignedly. She seemed faintly amused, despite the topic. Her blind eyes, milky and grey, stared up at him, penetrating without sight. "You are here to find the traitor my be-loved Gander has spoken of."
"I-I'm trying my best," Harry said. "I need to go to Hogwarts, and Lady Cybeles has locked the castle tight until the traitor is found."
Mander made a long, meandering noise of understanding. "Yessss, I see, I see. Mander sees without seeing. Mistress Amanda cares for me, yesss. Master Lyle talks to me, but all of us are fallen, fallen ."
There was something strange in her voice, some vast longing, some old malice, all pouring out at once… Morbidly curious, Harry did not try to stop her.
"Do you know our story, Harold Skarsgard? I do not think you do. I was born to serve the old Lord Rosier, Hercules the sixth. Three sons his wife bore: Armitage, Damian, and William. By the time I was old enough to do my duty," she continued slowly, as though recalling something so far, far distant that time itself had forgotten. "Armitage was lord. He was a wise, wise man, yessss. He saw the future as clearly as I see the past.
"But his brother, Damian. Ah, clever, witty Master Damian! He was no satis-fied second son. He built a fortune and founded Rossecourt, and took all his brother owned… Except Halt End and her forest. Master Damian, a man of the age - but Armitage, that unheralded heir, saw the future!
"The Dark Lord-" Mander continued breathily, and Harry felt a shiver slither down his spine. "Master Damian pro-nounced his loyalty, but Master Armitage remained aloof. Wise master, yes, wise! But Master Armitage could not re-strain his son, Master Quirinus. So he sacrificed his land instead, yes, sacrificed! A Royal Forest now, Halt End, yes. After the fall of the Dark Lord, the Ministry wanted to take it all. Take it all! … But the terms of the deal. Hah!" Mander coughed wetly. "The terms . The wealth of the forest, the potions - could not take it from us, but nor do they maintain it as they should. The forest slowly dies, and we are strangled too. The things, the things - they take our magic from our castle, and poor Lady Cybeles, mel-an-choly Lady Cybeles, she cannot sustain Gander and Mander both!
"Mander must die so Gander can live. Mander only wishes… only wishes she could spend more time with her be-loved Gander…"
Harry stared down at Mander, who had finally run out of breath. Wet tears were threatening to spill from his eyes. "And… and Hercules?" He eventually prodded shakely.
"Master Hercules," Mander said fondly. "Such a lovely babe he was, crawling everywhere… Master William's grandson, the last heir. Rossecort must never inherit Halt End. They are no- no true wizards, lovers of Muggles past!"
That Harry didn't understand. "And the traitor?"
Mander stilled. She opened her mouth, but the words seemed stuck. "Guilty!" she wailed angrily, her tiny fist lashing against the cradle. "Traitor. Guilty!" Mander's features contorted in rage. "Guilty- guilty- guilty!"
An old vase shattered just ten feet away. Harry retreated, wary. Mander's sanity seemed to be slowly slipping away…
Next it was a chair, sending shards of sharp timber flying across the room. Harry scampered off, sprinting out the door and through the greyscale corridor, with Mander's screams of 'guilty! ' and 'traitor! ' ringing in his ears.
A/N
*An archaic word for a lake.
*A mediaeval name for a courtyard, at least in the context of a quadrangular castle.
*The accusative plural of rubellus, meaning red
*The Ancient Greek for 'between waters'.
Alas poor Mander, strangled by the forest that had nourished the House of Rosier… but who is the traitor she cannot name?
Another day has passed, and Hogwarts draws ever closer…
Take care out there,
JoustingAlchemy