Winter's gentle embrace was waiting for Violet. The dampness of her clothes froze and flaked away. A storm was up, the eerie howl of wind curving through channels of carved snow, a constant. The washed-out sun shone without warmth, unable to touch the ground though the whirling blizzard.
There was a quiet intensity to Winter that outshone even the more obvious display of power. It was riled, angry, shifting constantly like a duelist finding their balance. Violet took a moment, arms outstretched to catch the wind, just to marvel at the sheer sensation. Not even Summer's great offensive had provoked such a dramatic reaction. It was terrible; it was marvelous.
She set a swift course for Satria's court, gliding over snowdrifts and carried by wind. Progress was swift, but as she was about to pass into a pine forest, her attention caught as a fluke of the storm parted white curtains for a spell. Through the gap, she could see, circling, hundreds of black vultures, dipping and circling in perfect grace with the whims of the gusts. Such a sight was not uncommon in Winter. For mundane creatures and even the Lesser Sidhe, life was short and survival paramount. Predation was the norm, but there was a wisdom to the scavenger that warranted respect.
But there really were a lot of them, so many that patterns were apparent within the flock as if it were itself alive. Violet had usually only seen such large gatherings in the aftermath of battle. Even the fae, for all their immortality, knew that to fall in Winter was to have your bones picked white and left to lie frozen and preserved, buried within the snow for aeons more. Summer or Winter, Queen or soldier—the cold showed mercy to none.
So, presently, her curiosity overtook her and she diverted from her path in the direction of the vultures. Drawing nearer revealed dozens of them diving-bombing the ground, swarming over dead flesh she couldn't make out through the mass of black feathers as the birds pecked and clawed at each other, fighting for their prize. They scattered at her approach but only for a moment, then descended toward her in a whirling sphere of buffeting winds and dry hisses.
Whether they thought her competition for morsels of frostbitten meat or perhaps a supplemental meal—in Winter, even scavengers were known to occasionally hasten along a lone traveler's passing—didn't really matter. A flash of gray magic killed half a dozen almost instantly, slamming into the snow as their muscles jerked spasmodically and their feathers loosened and fell to the snow.
The dome of birds burst outward as they fled, filling the air with the sound of beating wings. With the distraction dealt with, Violet approached the still bodies they had been feasting on. Already mostly blanketed in white, the identities of the corpses were not immediately clear, but they were clad in black hoarfrost-coated armor and heavy furs. The furs had frozen along with their wearers' flesh, stiff and spiky.
She flicked a finger, and a circular wave of snow blew outward, uncovering the degenerate, inelegant features of the Reviled. Unsurprising, perhaps. They had been a great nuisance of late, Violet knew. But on closer inspection, it became clear that these were not the same low beings that had plagued the Courts since time immemorial.
Their skin was gray, yes, but smooth and taut instead of wrinkled, and burned transparent blue-black in places by frost. In the place of stooped statures and overdeveloped muscle, they were grotesquely elongated, skinny, stretched in a mockery of the willowy beauty of the fae. Bulbous, dead eyes stared out of completely hairless faces. An assortment of concerningly passable weapons lay around them, useless in the end.
Curious.
She pried a rifle from stiff fingers and turned it over in her hands. Though no work of a master craftsman, it was a far cry from the crude hand cannon that had scarred her face so long ago. It was bolt action and mostly wood in the style of the muggles a century or so ago. Curious, she worked the bolt and ejected a round, holding it up between two fingers to see how the light shone off its gray tip. Iron. The narrow, triangular bayonet was the same.
The particularly inclement weather was starting to make ominous sense. She'd assumed it was merely a span of mercurial discontent, but this made her think otherwise. Satria had mentioned frequent clashes with Reviled but never this new… variety. If they really were a novel threat, she could only imagine this storm was some sort of reaction, a fever meant to burn away infection. It was, in a word, disturbing. If Summer's incursions didn't provoke this response, but the Reviled did…
And Voldemort had struck some sort of bargain with Esrid. Merlin, what a disaster. She could all but feel her plans for a relaxing few days away from the mortal world going up in smoke.
Well, in any case, it hadn't done much for this pack of vermin. They must have been lost. Not even an animal would be so foolish as to wander the open lands of Winter during a storm. She dropped the rifle onto one of the bodies, kicked snow over it, and set off once more.
~#~
The last time Violet had seen it, Satria's court had still smoldered, ivory roads littered with debris and the dead. Now, it seemed she had made good on her oath to rebuild it greater than before. By size alone, it had nearly doubled. It seemed the migration driven by Satria's ascendancy to second in Winter along with the flareup with Summer had not slowed in the least. Possibly, the Reviled issue was also driving smaller settlements to band together for security. The threat of iron had a tendency to shake the confidence of even the most reclusive of fae.
As she emerged from the treeline, cut back to ensure sufficient open ground around the newly grown court, she caught a glimpse of movement in one of the newly constructed spires at the center of the court. Nearly brushing the clouds and as narrow as a lance, they were presumably used as watchtowers, as a trio of mounted figures rode out a few minutes later. Clearly, they didn't intend to allow any Reviled to so much as reach the walls.
"Halt," one of the riders ground out, and all three slowed to a stop once it was clear she wasn't Reviled. He glowered at her beneath a bronze helm. "Identify yourself."
"You don't know me? Disappointing. You, give me your horse."
The man in question bristled and reached for a weapon but thought better of it as one of the others nudged her horse forward and muttered something in his ear. A stricken look crossed him, and he slid off his steed, the powerful stallion tossing his head irritably at the proceedings.
"A thousand pardons, milady," he said, dipping his head.
Violet sniffed and accepted the reins, swinging herself astride the horse. Technically speaking, she didn't qualify as a Lady, but she wasn't about to remind him of that. "I encountered the remains of some Reviled on my way; I take it there has been a great deal of fighting?"
The unending storm was not so severe here in deference to the court, but dark clouds still circled the sky, and the wind was not gentle. The man took a moment to respond, head still bowed.
"Constant, milady. And they all bear iron."
Violet nodded and, without acknowledging the guards further, urged her newly acquired mount forward and rode the rest of the way to the court. As its hooves clattered on stone and she passed under the open gate, she dismounted and handed the reins off to someone or other and continued on in search of Satria. With luck she wouldn't be away from her court, though if she was, Violet only had herself to blame. In the future she would have to work in her dramatic fits of temper with Satria's schedule.
Fortune favored her however, and she picked out the presence of Satria from the lesser fae, like a star amid fireflies. Before long, she was regaling her with sarcastic renditions of the mortal world and extolling the incredible power of the Elder Wand, which Satria immediately insisted on inspecting more closely and spent several minutes stroking its gnarled patterns and holding it to her ear, as if it might whisper, before Violet irritably snatched it away and suggested she might try caressing something else instead, if she was so eager. And so three full days and more passed lightly, full of wine and amusement, with scarcely a thought of Voldemort or Esrid.
But, alas, it was not to last. As if she had been drawn by Violet's presence—and perhaps she had, for the Queen of Winter knew a great deal of what transpired in her domain—Maeve arrived at the head of an excessively elaborate procession of fighters and attends, bedecked with colorful pendants, none so vibrant as to compare to the bloodiness of her hair. Violet, leaning against a window of perfectly clear ice, sighed.
"Perhaps if we sneak out the back?" she suggested dryly.
"I shudder to imagine what might occur to my court in our absence," Satria replied. "Regrettably, I believe we must face this misfortune head-on."
"It would be such a shame if she had to come all the way up here, would it not?"
Satria smiled slightly and flicked a hand. Dark blue drapes closed around the windows, and she reclined lazily with her head supported by one hand, sinking into rich upholstery. "Indeed, such a terrible pity. We shall have to offer our sincerest apologies—when she finds us."
Alas, their snub seemed to go unnoticed, as Maeve was an unusually amiable mood, especially for her. That meant one of two things: either her journey had been more diverting than expected, or she was planning something. Personally, Violet hoped for the former. She'd had rather enough of Maeve's schemes.
"I need not explain our challenge, of course," Maeve said as she literally played with her food. Light refreshments had been served, including artfully arranged legs from a small wild bird, served uncooked as typical. As far as Violet could tell, Maeve had not eaten a thing, but there was a growing pile of clinically dissected strips of muscle and tendons, neatly separated. When she had stripped each bone bare, it was snapped with an effortless twitch of her reddened fingers.
It was, ever so so slightly, distracting.
"Of the Reviled, certainly not," Satria said. "Indeed, as the outer courts have faced their presence in its greatest intensity with the royal forces mysteriously absent, you could perhaps say I have some expertise in the matter."
Violet hid a smile behind her wineglass. Conversations between Satria and Maeve, ever filled with poorly veiled mockery and sarcastic compliments, never failed to amuse. But it seemed that this time Maeve's spirits were too high to take the bait, for she merely nodded.
"Alas, as much as the outer courts might prefer to think otherwise, Winter extends beyond their modest domain. A number of impudent Lords and Ladies seem to have fallen under the dreadful misconception that they can openly defy my rule. It was necessary to correct this misunderstanding."
"Yes," Satria said. "I do believe that was your response to my previous missive as well. Such persistent uprisings they must be to have endured for so long. Why, did I not know better, I might be led to believe that such failure indicated a Queen whose position was… fragile."
"It seems a good thing you know better, then," Maeve said, something ugly finally flickering in her eyes.
Knowing this could easily continue for hours, Violet coughed lightly and glanced at Maeve. "The clear pleasure of your company aside, was there a specific matter you wished to discuss?"
"Indeed," Maeve said, casting Satria an annoyed look. "As I was saying, our challenge is obvious. These new Reviled are clearly the work of my mad brother. But as to how, I admit, I haven't the faintest conjecture. But it's clear that we will need to know if we are to deal with the problem before we are fully overrun."
Another stripped bone joined the pile. Maeve continued, once more alive with an electric fervor.
"One cannot war with that which they do not know. I propose an expedition to learn the truth of what befell my brother, deep into the mad lands in which he wandered. Yes,"—she laughed then, eyes literally aglow—"I speak of the Distant Lands, those profane planes which have defied our fair influence for time uncounted. Let us press firm against the borders of the known and secure what is ours by right. Yes: it is not enough to rebuke this foul intrusion into our lands. We must seek out the source and raze it to bitter ash."
A pin, dropped, would have rung like a bell. Finally, a full minute later, Violet began to slowly clap, cackling in high, crazed fashion.
"Oh, well done! I knew whatever your plan was would have to be mad, but this—why, the thought didn't even cross my mind. Why wouldn't we wish to traverse the very same steps that drove Esrid to derangement in the first place?"
"Esrid was weak from the start," Maeve hissed. "Pathetic. To imagine the finest of Winter sharing his frailty is naive; you sharing it, absurd. Or, do you truly believe Winter twisted the threads of Fate and granted you your unprecedented position for any reason other than this?"
Satria set down her wineglass and sent Violet a considering glance. "You cannot deny it makes a certain degree of sense."
Violet's eyes narrowed. Perhaps. There was no doubt Winter had always intended her for something.A path set by the stars. But, somehow, she found it difficult to believe Winter would choose Maeve as the vehicle of its intentions.
However, she could hardly say as much without revealing to Maeve her perhaps unique communication with Winter. To question the Queen in such a way would be tantamount to outright rebellion, and she didn't need to make a third great enemy.
"Very well," Violet said softly. "We may depart as soon as June dies."
The discussion continued for some time yet, delving into logistical minutiae and circling back to acidic observations. Violet participated little. She had enough to consider and, frankly, she couldn't care a whit whether the majority of the expedition was drawn from Maeve's forces or Satria's.
The petty arguments came to an end only when Maeve stiffened, tilting her head to a sound only she could hear. She bid a short goodbye to Violet, and none to Satria, before vanishing straight from the room in a wake of damp snow. Satria tsked irritably, but Violet only twitched her lips at the impolite gesture. The Elder Wand had found itself in her hands, turned over and over again and offering its morbid reassurance.
Perhaps Maeve was correct, and Esrid's undoing would be found in the nature of that unordered place, in which case she would not miss it for anything. Or, if Maeve proved a fool…
Well. One could hardly ask for more convenient circumstances to arrange an unfortunate accident than a perilous expedition to unknown lands.
There are no immortals.
~#~
"Yes, Minerva, I'm confident she's just fine. As she was the last time she disappeared and the time before that." Dumbledore couldn't help a hint of aggravation slipping into his voice. Minerva's concern for her students did her credit, but a little perceptiveness wouldn't go amiss. Violet was hardly a typical case, and if she managed to discover a threat worse than Voldemort in her wanderings—well, he hoped she'd deal with it on her own. He was overworked as it was.
Oh, and preferably she'd do it without stoking the dictatorial tendencies of any more national leaders. As a personal favor to him, of course.
"Albus." There was a familiar warning note in Minerva's voice that promised many long, tedious conversations to come. "Even aside from the danger, do I have to explain to you why it's problematic for a student to come and go as she pleases with no regard for her lessons? It gives the others ideas. Just today the Weasley twins told me they didn't show for Transfiguration because they were 'showing support for the Savior.' What in Merlin's name the Minister thinks he's doing spreading that drivel, I would like to know. Did you know Trelawney—"
At the very moment when all seemed lost and Dumbledore resigned himself to spending one more of his distinctly numbered days in intellectual purgatory, salvation arrived. There was a rapping, soft and hesitant, on the closed door to Dumbledore's office, providing an opportunity that he immediately seized.
"Ah! I'm terribly sorry, but I did have an appointment for tonight. I would love to continue this discussion at a later time, really, but I believe I will be similarly occupied for, oh… a week? Yes, a week sounds just right," Dumbledore said brightly. With luck, Violet would be back by then and he could avoid it entirely.
Minerva squinted, catlike. Her feline side always came out with her irritation. "With whom, precisely?"
"Confidential, I'm afraid. Yes, a terribly important business. Now if you would just…"
With a huff perfectly calculated to express a depth of disappointment fit to curtail the most unruly student, she stomped over to the door, opened it, glanced out, and laughed briefly. "All right, Albus. Enjoy your important business."
Dumbledore bid her a serene farewell and settled a little deeper into his chair. Distractions for Minerva aside, he always tried to present an impression of approachability to the students. It had not been done that way in his time as a student or even a professor. Armando, though admirable in innumerable ways, had exemplified an older philosophy of education, steeped in tradition and unyielding propriety. A great many regrettable events might have been avoided if he—and the rest of the staff, for the headmaster's unspoken actions reverberated most strongly in the others—had been concerned just a little less with ensuring the students respect and a bit more with their trust.
Despite the weakness of the flesh that came with age, it was the young that were most fragile. Even before his cursed hand began to sap his strength, Dumbledore had been aware of his failing body with every movement, every late night spent hunched over a parchment, every time he tried to move swiftly and paid a price for it. But not for a moment would he exchange the calm weariness of age for the chronic uncertainty and anxiety of youth. Why, at times when he recalled the neuroticism and wild unpredictability of his teenage thoughts, he wondered if any passed through those most trying years unscarred.
Well, Violet certainly seemed to suffer from none of the ungainly trials of adolescence. But as before, she was a special case, and the damage to her had been done long before. Such a terrible mistake he had made.
But there was no time for recriminations, because his office door was opening, tentative, and he was presently set to lend an attentive ear. To err was human, but to dwell on one's regrets at the cost of creating ever more was a miserable spiral. And that too was a lesson of youth.
Despite all that, when Draco Malfoy entered his office for the very first time, head ducked and radiating nerves, Dumbledore couldn't help but be surprised and immediately chastised himself for it. Of all the wounds the first war had left in society, few were so deep as the division that had formed within Hogwarts itself, and it was wise to remind himself that he was no exception. When children of the other houses lost their families, in this war or the last, he took care to remind them in the quiet ways that no one need be alone at Hogwarts. But when it was a Slytherin who lost—and they did—he made no such effort. It would be refused anyway, he knew. But perhaps he should try all the same.
"Do have a seat, Mr. Malfoy."
Hesitantly, he did, and Dumbledore could all but see the conflict within him, the starched discipline of his upbringing a poor mask over a boy who had abruptly lost everything.
"I'm not here for you," Malfoy said. "Understand?"
"I would not dare presume such a thing. But if I may ask…"
"Yeah, sure, sure." A glint of confidence had returned to his grayed face, looking then for all the world like his father reborn. Lucius had been such a wonderfully talented student. "It's funny. They talk about you and Potter like you're some sort of deities, and it's not about you at all. That's funny. But this, this is hilarious."
"I have been known to enjoy the occasional jest."
Malfoy smirked. "Yeah. You're going to love this one." He leaned in, blatantly meeting Dumbledore's gaze in an unmistakable challenge. "You'll be calling me a bloody hero after this. Like one of your little Gryffindors. I'm going to help you kill the Dark Lord."
"I see," Dumbledore said, both eyebrows shooting up. By habit, he looked to Fawkes' perch to gauge his reaction to all this, but the phoenix had recently been reborn and was in what Dumbledore liked to think of as his fuzzy and foolish phase. Any opinion from that quarter would be worse than useless. Returning his attention to Malfoy, he said, "As pleased as I am to hear that, you'll forgive a mite of skepticism. I believe it was the very day before the Easter break that you upset a young muggleborn girl so badly she was unwilling to leave her dormitory for the train. I advocated for lenience given the horrific circumstances regarding your family, but—"
"It's his fault!" Malfoy roared, suddenly full of fiery passion, the sort of rage that led to wizards immolating themselves with Fiendfyre. The headmasters' portraits muttered their disapproval. "Potter's too, but damn her! The Dark Lo—Voldemort knew what she was, what what she could do, and he did nothing. They summoned him, and he never came. My family is ruined! Centuries of progress lost on a single failed alliance. He's—he's not normal, Dumbledore. Father was scared, I think, at the end."
His tongue flickered over his lips, weighing whether he should continue. But he pressed on in the end. "I think something went wrong when he came back from the dead. He's wrong. You have to believe me. Forget the mudbloods, he doesn't even care about the twenty-eight. I don't think he cares about anything except Potter. He's obsessed."
"I see," Dumbledore said softly. "You should know that you still have options. You have committed no crime. You are, of course, welcome at Hogwarts, but if you wish, I could arrange for you to transfer to any of many prestigious institutions abroad if you desire separation from your family's past. I realize you may not wish to think about these decisions right now. There is no pain quite so great as to lose one's family. However—"
"No, no, that's not it at all. I'm not looking for sympathy." Indeed, he looked disgusted at the very prospect. "No. Voldemort thinks we're all just his pawns to use as he pleases. He's not even pureblood. Well, fuck him. Father was smart, smarter than the Dark Lord gave him credit for, smart enough to see the way the potion was brewing and start planning his revenge. We Malfoys are very good at vengeance, you understand. Father left me a note, and it told me to tell whoever opposed the Dark Lord what he knew. So I came to you."
He took a quick breath, as if the words, now started, would wait for nothing. "There was a word. I don't know what it means, but you probably do. It's Horcrux."
And that quite changed everything.
Less than an hour later, the two of them were in a forest on the Malfoy property, well stocked with magical game and ethereal in the evening hour. Malfoy bounced on one foot and the other, radiating eagerness.
"We're close," he said. Then, "Here."
And Dumbledore then knew his cold choice to send Violet and Nymphadora into the greatest of danger had been for nothing. For Malfoy had led him to a union of two trees, hundreds of thin branches embracing as each bowed toward the other. Between them, an arch was formed.
"Father said he was told to bring it here, and the Dark Lord took it. And then he walked under that"—he pointed—"and he disappeared and didn't come back until the next day. Father didn't know what happened, but…" Malfoy swallowed. "He said, sure as anything, the Horcrux is on the other side of… whatever. I don't know what's there, but…"
There was a bright, brittle smile on Draco's face, and Dumbledore felt a great surge of pride rising for his oft-problematic pupil. His motivations were, well, not ideal, but actions spoke louder than words. Like he always told Severus, a selfless act for selfish reasons was selfless all the same.
"I understand, Draco," Dumbledore said, raising a hand. He approached one of the trees and touched its gnarled bark before pulling away. "You have done a great thing bringing this to me, and I assure you it will not be for nothing. Now, let us return to Hogwarts. We can't have Professor Snape thinking I stole his student away, now can we?"
"No! You can't wait any longer. Father's message said this was a temporary location for the Horcrux. It might be gone even now. You have to go now."
"I can hardly leave you alone in the forest."
"I'll be all right," Draco insisted. "I'll take the Knight Bus or something. Tomorrow might be too late. Go."
"I assure you, the Order of the Phoenix will act as swiftly as possible, without having to maroon a student in a forest to do it. Why, we have no idea what might be on the other side of that arch. A little caution in these matters is the wisest approach."
"Please."
The plaintive quality to that word, one that Dumbledore had quite rarely heard pass a Malfoy's lips, brought him to a halt, and he sighed. Was he wrong to wait? Slowed by age, his edge dulled? Violet might be gone for weeks yet, and if there really was a Horcrux on the other side of that arch, could he afford even the slightest risk of it slipping from their grasp because of his hesitation? Violet, certainly, wouldn't have waited a moment. Was that the rashness of youth or the bold initiative he had forgotten?
Or, more insidiously, was it the loss of the Elder Wand he was feeling? Had he grown so dependent on its power that he feared relying on his own abilities? The thought disturbed him greatly.
"Dumbledore," Draco said, gaze boring, unblinking, into Dumbledore's. "I need this. I have to know Father's plan worked. It has to be you. Who else has a hope against the Dark Lord?"
Despite himself, Dumbledore reached out with Legilimency, almost without thinking. He pulled away quickly, but in their brief moment of connection, he sensed such heartfelt sincerity and dedication that he made up his mind instantly. If Draco could turn away from the legacy he had been brought up in, so too could an old man afford one last risk.
"I am proud of you, Draco."
"Well," Draco said, looking slightly flustered, "as I said, Malfoys will do anything for vengeance."
Dumbledore chuckled and rested his hand on Draco's shoulder, squeezing gently. "I truly am sorry."
"I know."
Humming gently to himself, Dumbledore closed his eyes, patted his wand through his robe—comforting in a way the Elder had ever been—and stepped through the arch. He felt himself drifting, as if near sleep, and the strangest sound reached him. Some manner of nocturnal animal perhaps, though it was curiously reminiscent of laughter.
His vision came to order a few moments later, and he chuckled in boyish delight. The air was arctic, and the wind howled, but neither was a challenge to a learned man, and a bit of spellwork left him comfortable, robes unruffled.
He straightened, looking about curiously. Snow was everywhere and accumulating further. Noble evergreens swayed over the gray horizon. The very air tasted dangerous and enticing. Truly, though he had not doubted Violet's remarkable tales in the least, some part of him had not truly believed in this parallel world. But now? It was stunning. Such a shame it was to think it had been tainted with magic so foul as a Horcrux.
Without any better plan and slightly enchanted by the whimsical nature of this place, Dumbledore set off toward the trees, reasoning Voldemort would not have felt a need to find any particularly cunning location for his Horcrux if it was truly intended as temporary.
Five minutes later, he realized Malfoy had lied and Violet was in terrible danger.
The sky turned dark. Gray was streaked with black, and artificial night blanketed the sun. Alien stars gazed down, searingly dispassionate. Dumbledore's heart fell.
"Albus Dumbledore!" Voldemort crowed, widely sweeping his arms apart and stepping forward from nowhere. His appearance no longer reflected the defilement of his soul, but his eyes—oh, his pitiless heart shone through there. Had that red glow, a demon's heart, been present in the child Dumbledore brushed away?
He was flanked on each side by Inferi. Their decaying, frostbitten muscles twitched randomly, and black spheres were in place of their eyes—a tiny white star in each. But neither Tom nor his ghoulish fiends could match the unearthly spirit behind his last companion's smile.
"Albus," Voldemort said again, laughing now. "Allow me to introduce you to the bitter heart of night—my fair ally, Maeve, High Queen of Winter!"
AN: Thank you for the reviews! All are greatly appreciated.