Sleet and Hail

by Friss

Desperate and terrified, Lily Potter would do anything to save her daughter. But her dedication is tested when a ritual goes awry, and she is faced with a bleak choice. A pact is sealed, unknowingly ensuring that Violet Potter's life will be a violent one. With ice flowing in her veins, her power will be great and terrible, the siren call of bloodshed never silent. Fem!Harry. AU.

56. Winter's Will

The greatest Queen ever to be known by the lands of Winter beheld the demesne of her old foe. Lady Satria, who dared to claim the crown that rightfully belonged to her. Her perfidy was breathtaking. To make common cause with Summer in defiance of Winter's rightful rule! Yes, Maeve could admit, their resistance had been impressive, but the court had stood this long only out of an abundance of caution. She could have ordered a concerted assault and buried its highest spire beneath a tide of snow and flame at any point, had she chosen to. But it had been wiser to husband her forces lest her plan for dealing with her dear brother and the other nuisance go awry. A wise choice then, but no longer. To wait was no longer viable; tonight, traitorous blood would flow, the cost be damned. Besides, what could Satria hope to accomplish in her continued defiance, really? Did she think Maeve would shed tears for a few hundred or at worst thousand fallen subjects who would mostly return in a few decades anyway?

No. Maeve no longer feared ice, fire, or iron. Satria had no tricks left. And this time, Maeve had surprises of her own in store—preparations inspired long ago, after first witnessing the horror of a twisted human girl scything through fae flesh like so much mortal chaff. Tonight, she would make war such as the Wyld had never seen. Satria had proven the concept, she would give her that . . . but she had always suffered a pitifully limited scope of imagination.

Of some concern was the shifting in Winter she had sensed just hours ago; vast yet unplaceable, like the calving of a glacier heard but unseen, Maeve could only suspect at its source. Either Satria had devised some unforeseen strategem, or . . .

Surely not. Her lips pressed tight. The girl had fulfilled her mortal nature most admirably. Maeve could still all but taste her lifeblood. But something had happened, and that meant she had already delayed too long. Well, no more.

"Highness," pronounced a tall, black-eyed man clad in barbed armor of ice with a voice as hard as stone. "All is prepared and awaits your command."

Maeve showed no sign that she had heard him. A perfect copy of herself stood in front of her—a glamour, of course. With a brow furrowed in deepest concentration, she lightened the shade of the glamour's dress a shade. After a brief contemplation, she did the same to her real garment. The bloodstains would stand out better this way. She rotated the glamour and tsked. The dress's cut was all off—much too smooth, not nearly sufficiently evocative of suffering and woe. A more sharply pointed neckline, maybe? There was a certain unstated violence to it, no?

Oh, that's positively dreadful. Certainly not.

She loved this, savored it all the more since she had drunk from her cup. The power, the control—the death she would deliver by words alone, the act of making this powerful man wait for her to complete the most inane of tasks, to fulfill her every whim—

I am magnificent.

No previous Queen had been so beautiful, so cunning, so powerful. She was the greatest strategist, the wisest leader, the most daring commander, the cruelest tyrant, the bitterest darkness, the serpent who stole the crown. No one was more feared; no one was more adored.

"And my . . . personal retinue?" she asked, now holding a crown in each hand, as if weighing them. One was proper silver, the other iron. Even now, she found the latter metal hideously prosaic. Yet, it was a symbol of her terrible majesty, her conquests that no other fae could boast—not even Satria, since she had always used her little pet to do her dirty work. She huffed. Decisions, decisions.

"They await you in the arranged place," her general grated in response to her idle question, head bowed in respect. Submission.

"Oh, very well, then," said Maeve with a final adjustment to her appearance. The Weapon, hanging from a thin black belt cinched around her waist, really did fit better on the right side. With a flick of her fingers to dismiss the illusion, she finally deigned to grace her servant with her gaze. "You may begin at once."

The general's cold eyes darkened further. He said not a word, but all around the encampment burst into motion. Second later, thunder tolled and tongues of flame lashed out from concealed positions, swirling tempests of snow and magic obscuring them from the court. Maeve laughed, sharp and musical.

Satria thinks she can play with fire?

~#~

"Violet . . ." Satria's expression was set. "So shortly have you returned to us, and already I must ask you to rise to arms. Maeve has spent months preparing for this assault after her initial advances ended in disaster. I confess, the outlook seemed grim. But if we can count on your wand, I know we shall prevail."

Violet scoffed. "Do you think I'd pass up the chance to repay her for her betrayal? Of course I will fight."

Satria nodded sharply, resting a hand on the sickle at her side. "Good. Listen closely. We cannot afford for this internal conflict to continue, lest we win the crown from Maeve only to lose it to the Other. Her host must be destroyed tonight, not merely forced into retreat, and for that I believe we must fix them on the field with an unexpected counterattack in order to permit an envelopment through their rear. You will take command of a mobile element, and . . ."

A brisk discussion ensued, followed by Satria being forced away to convene with the Summer contingent. Violet went to find Fleur and got her to retrieve Bill; she wanted as much mortal magic as possible concentrated in one place. With luck, Maeve's forces would be well aware of the peril they faced to their supposed immortality from them, and they would thus offer little resistance before breaking into flight. She knew Winter. Those who followed Maeve did so out of self-interest and little more. A short, sharp shock would hopefully encourage them to swiftly recognize the error of that calculation.

Sirius, regrettably, would be needed with the Summer fae. Violet wished she could at least speak with him before the fighting began, to apologize, to thank him, to say something, but of course there was no time for that. After, surely, but in the minutes before a battle, after was never anything more than a hypothetical.

Refocusing on the matter at hand, Violet took stock of her task and the fae Satria had given her to achieve it. Many of them had come to Satria's court after Violet's slumber began, but none dared challenge her authority to command them. Perhaps her reputation had spread more widely than she thought—or perhaps they sensed something of the morbid power that now followed her. Even without that to waste her time, she scarcely managed to make the most basic of arrangements for communication and a chain of command before time ran short and the distant enemy lines erupted into light and thunder.

Night had fallen properly by then. The moon was weak, though Satria had earlier noted it was full the previous day; such irregularities in the natural pace of things were becoming ever more frequent as the Wyld succumbed to the Other's influence. Regardless, the deep gloom of night made the flashes of cannonfire and spell-light all the more entrancing. Fire came from various positions spread across a wide arc that halfway encompassed Satria's court, responded to from atop the wall and the outworks around it. The occasional crash and burst of light spoke of impacts, though they seemed to be causing little harm to the court or its defenses. Arcane power ran through stone and earth like blood through veins to lend them unnatural durability, reinforced by the vast numbers of Winter fae who had pledged themselves to Satria as their future Queen. But even the most powerful enchantments would be overcome in time if the barrage was allowed to continue.

Fascinating, to consider how the Wyld's connection to the mortal world was and was not reflected in its adaption of technology. Fae developed nothing that could be called technology on their own, but there was an undeniable tendency, like a predominately directional wind, that guided them to mimic the inventions of the mortals they mirrored. Until recent centuries, presumably, the weapons of the fae would have seemed miraculous to muggles. Artisanally crafted and infused with subtle magic, no common blade could cut so deep as fae silver; the finest English longbow would have seemed clumsy and crude beside an elegantly curved fae-bow; and even for most of the era of the firearm, fae craft outpaced muggle ingenuity.

It was only as the muggles grew cleverer in their practices of war and industry that a strange dichotomy emerged—the fae could mimic much of the sound and color of muggle war, but with little of the sophistication. It was as if all the Wyld was frozen in a state of conflict akin to the muggles of several centuries ago, albeit with unique adaptions for the advantages of a more mystic nature. Further advances were too reliant on practices unknown and unnatural to the fae. The cannon, for instance—they all fired directly at their targets, with some accounting for elevation perhaps, but with no ability to take advantage of the theoretical range of their supernaturally potent powder with arcing fire. It was different for the muggles, Violet knew; though she had not a clue how it was done, she was aware that there were mathematical tricks that allowed them tremendous range and accuracy with this sort of thing. Alas, that was neither here nor there, now. Still . . . it was interesting to consider.

Nor could fae fight like wizards. For the wizard, war was little more than a prolonged succession of wand duels. The unmatched subtlety and flexibility of mortal magic encouraged shadow conflicts, skirmishes and assassinations over pitched battles, attrition over strategic brilliance. The positional maneuvering at the heart of both muggle and fae conflicts had virtually no bearing whatsoever for them. Fae magic could often match its mortal equivalent in power, but not in precision or esotericism. So, what is the future to be? Violet did not believe for a moment this would be the last great battle fought between fae, even should Maeve fall and Satria be amenable to an eventual accord with Summer. In her time fighting for the Ministry against Voldemort, Violet had come to recognize the value of preserving a force over a prolonged campaign, and how even a victorious engagement could be a defeat in truth if the losses were too great. Fair fights were best avoided; bitterly contested and bloody battles made for excellent history books and terrible strategic outcomes.

Violet had an unfortunate feeling that this coming night would be both.

The plan outlined by Satria was convincing—but Scrimgeour's plans had always been sound too. The issue was, the enemy got to have their say before the bodies were counted.

Knowing she had some time before she needed to act, Violet's wings emerged once more as she returned to the air, again struck by the astonishing novelty of it. She rose high and peered down at the ground below, piercing the veil of night by the faintest hints of moonlight reflected off white snow to reveal the shape of the terrain that would be all-important if she was to successfully complete the task Satria had entrusted her with.

She could see Satria's own element from here, consisting of two squares of heavy infantry with only a light cavalry supplement. Violet's own was smaller but entirely cavalry and fae swift enough on their own feet to match them. Obscured by the court itself, they would wait for Maeve's main effort to extend themselves on the open ground and to dash themselves against the high walls of the court before making their move. Satria would circle the court and crash into Maeve's flank, acting as the hammer to the anvil of the walls. As Maeve's host reacted to the new threat, Violet would take her riders and circle the opposite way, bypassing the field of battle entirely to slip into the enemy's entrenchments, occupy them, and capture their artillery. The enemy's vanguard, cut off from their reserves and with their cannon silenced, would try to withdraw—only to break against their own fortifications. From there they could either lay down their arms and kneel to their new Queen or be cut to ribbons. It hardly mattered which.

A good plan, yes. But precarious—very precarious.

Violet's greatest concern was for her cavalry being spotted as they bypassed the melee. If the enemy's reserves could be forewarned of the attack, the fighting would be much harder. She might still prevail through her power alone, but that would count for little if her force was destroyed in the process. The enemy's backline was too long, too dispersed, for her to deal with alone.

Tracing her eyes along potential paths between relative depressions in the land, consisting in many places of the effects of the mercurial wind, where vast peaks and valleys of snow had been sculpted. It could be done, she decided. But the timing would be crucial—if the enemy was not sufficiently distracted, they would be spotted, and a carefully orchestrated dance would devolve into a costly melee and, at best, a Pyrrhic victory. Satria's counterattack should occupy the attentions of their central thrust, but there would surely be watchers spread across the field too. Given the difficulty she herself had assessing the field of battle from the ground, Violet was confident that Maeve's scouts would consist primarily of the rare few fae with the ability to fly. A less than kind smile spread over her face; she had wished for a chance to stretch her wings, had she not?

The flash of a firing cannon lit up the peak of a great swell of snow, and atop it were countless tiny figures. Violet caught only the briefest impression of them before they were once more plunged into near darkness, but a second flash illuminated them once more—a tremendous force by fae standards, arrayed in close order and steadily advancing. It had begun.

Coolly, she watched them, now just barely able to pick them out from their surroundings by moonlight alone. The first ranks were formed of Lesser Sidhe—wolves with eyes like glowing coals, redcaps with pike and hammer in hand, and lumbering trolls with roughly fashioned planks worn as feeble armor. Behind them were fae, most dismounted to stay in the shadow of the disposable Lesser Sidhe. What little light there was seemed to shiver and sparkle over them, skating off the same protective magics that would ward off shot and spell. Thin, silvery films encompassed the advancing columns, as interlocked and densely overlapping as dragons' scales. Not all fae possessed the magical ability necessary to conjure such shields, but arrayed as they were in a tight formation, those who could would be able to extend the benefit to the rest.

Violet spoke.

"They are coming."

There was no need to shout. A sliver of magic awoke the connection she and Satria had formed earlier, and a stirring of the wind carried her words to their intended recipient. Seconds later, the whisper of Satria's voice returned in response.

"Thank you, Violet. Return to me once more before departing, if you would. I have something for you."

Violet dove. The rushing air nearly drowned out the intensifying booms of the cannon, only for it to rush back in as she flared her wings and alighted to the snow, upon which she left not even a footprint. Navigating the air felt as natural and instinctive as walking over the ground. It took only the lightest nudges of her magic to swoop across the sky, and even less to come to a weightless stop.

Satria was waiting for her. Allowing her Knights to oversee the final preparations for battle, she stood in the shadow of her court's, a hand pressed flat to its smooth stone. She did not react to Violet's approach until she cleared her throat.

A twitch of the hand was the only sign of her surprise, but even that was a shock. Never before could Violet have hoped to move so silently as to escape Satria's notice. A pang of something unidentifiable coursed through her, proud and bittersweet. Satria turned, her eyes slightly widened, and Violet wondered if she was feeling something similar.

"You said you had something for me . . .?" Violet asked.

"I do." Picking up a silk-wrapped object from where it leaned against the wall, Satria passed it to Violet. She unfolded the fabric, allowing it to silently fall away, and felt a pleasant shiver run through her at what was revealed.

It was a sword. Longer and broader than her last, to suit her adult stature, its dark steel seemed at home in the night, its edge so keen as to catch no light at all. Unlike the utilitarian nature of her previous blade, it was adorned with the finest gold etching of runic languages and arcane symbolism. There was a palpable air of magic around it, ozone mixed with the scent of oiled steel.

"It's spelled," Violet murmured. Left unsaid was that such spells were obviously not the result of Winter magic, not on an iron sword.

"The work of your lovely mortal companions. I must say, I am . . . intrigued by the Frenchwoman. I would never have expected Summer to have such a lingering legacy of consortion with mortals. She is quite devoted to you."

"Yes," Violet said, running her finger down the length of the blade and savoring the delicate precision of the spells upon it. "I have come to see that."

Satria nodded. With a hint of humor, she said, "I don't believe they got around to finishing the sheathe."

"That's all right. I don't expect I would have much use for it tonight."

"No, I should think not." Satria's expression turned grim, and she grasped Violet's hand, ignoring how close it brought her skin to the bare iron. "You must promise me something, Violet. You will not die today. You will not die tomorrow. You will not die facing your own enemy, the Lord Voldemort. I cannot return to being as I was before you. I have lived for eternities, yet I feel born anew, and the last four months have been the longest I have ever known. I could not endure your loss. I cannot rule our land without you. Promise me."

Violet swallowed, remembering a similar conversation not so long ago from her perspective, and a vow she had gone on to break.

"I promise," she said. "Death will not have me, nor you. Not yet."

"Good," said Satria, and kissed her. "Go. Take your fine blade and let its innocence be washed away in the enemy's blood. Oh, and Violet? I know not what you have done to attain them, but I simply adore your wings."

Reluctantly, Violet released her. Flaring her wings she rose, blade and wand in hand, and gazed down on the developing battle. With a whisper, she gave her command, trusting Winter's winds to carry it to the intended ears:

"Advance."

~#~

The attackers had marched halfway from their entrenchments to the court. In their wake, they left a line of white frost, the slush and muck frozen solid under their feet. Violent bursts of energy flared around them as the court's artillery split its attention between the advancing infantry and the enemy cannon still raining a relentless barrage upon the walls. It was a bitter night—a black storm was gathering, its fury soon to be unleashed, as the forces of Winter gathered for a conclusive battle. Unfortunately, the advancing column was maintaining its close formation well, and their layered defensive magic was proving effective against the incoming fire. But it was very stiff, strictly arranged to withstand a frontal barrage. A strike to the flank—as Satria intended—would, in all likelihood, shatter it decisively.

"Lady," came the report of a Knight leading Violet's cavalry on the ground. "We approach the point where we will no longer be veiled from sight by the cover of forest. Ought we proceed?"

"Stand by," said Violet.

Leaning forward, she streaked across the sky, scanning the ground below. Yes, she'd been right earlier; the slope of the ground should hide them from the enemy, even as they advanced into the open. But, wait—what was that?

"Hold," she commanded, scanning the dark sky. She'd seen something, she was certain—there. Even higher than her, a tiny bright speck in the night. Not directly over her force, thankfully, but a threat to their secrecy all the same. A thrill ran through her, subtly different than what she had felt prior to combat in the past. It was Death she felt, Death in the palm of her hand.

Confringo. Confringo. Confringo.

Three streaks of light flashed from the Elder Wand, but their color was soon muted, veiled by Winter to vanish into the dark and arrive without warning. As her curses disappeared into the distance, Violet pursued them. The storm was growing fiercer, but the gusts of winds seemed always favorable, never in opposition of her intended path.

The clouds were lit up with silvery light as her curses detonated; though the blasts themselves were small, visible shocks tore through the following snow and echoing booms reached her about a second later. As light faded, she caught a glimpse of a falling shape. To ensure the job was done, she slashed the Elder Wand, and the sky blazed once more as a flash of lightning arced from the heavens to the falling form and then to the ground. The first of Maeve's fliers. It would not be the last.

"Go," Violet said. "I will keep the sky empty."

"As you say, Lady."

She could see the loose formation below stir into motion. They had dismounted their horses to present a lower profile more easily concealed by the terrain. Bill and Fleur were among them, though she could not pick them out from here, and her method of communication would likely not carry her voice to another mortal, particularly one affiliated with Summer. She would have to trust that they could protect themselves—and, in the future, perhaps do something about it.

Whispering the incantation of the Supersensory Charm, Violet once again surveyed the great domed sky. She rarely made use of the spell given her already uncanny senses, but here it proved its merit. Keen sight became stunningly so, and Violet spotted an aerial sliver of motion far in the distance. She made to approach, only to feel foolish—she was a witch, was she not? Bellatrix's curse must have conditioned her more than she had thought.

Instead Violet vanished with a hiss of wind and appeared alongside her next foe—a silver-haired male fae who seemed to be manipulating the air around him to stay afloat. He had time only to marginally widen his eyes before she cut him in twain through the waist, blooding the virgin blade as its spell-steel sang in perfect harmony with their purpose. Bone had parted with only faintly more resistance than air under its edge.

Without a moment's pause, Violet Disapparated again and repeated her tactic, sending another of Maeve's fighters tumbling from the sky. Again. This one was prepared for her, thrusting at her with a bayonet that was contemptuously knocked aside, moments before a Crushing Curse silenced them for good. Again. The enemy was taking note of the rapid demise of their fellows and were peeling away in a desperate attempt to escape an unknown threat, in vain. This one fell to a stream of Piercing Curses, and the next was bracketed by Blasting Curses in much the same way as the first. All around her, distant flying figures were diving toward the ground, fleeing from the certain death above. She hurled more curses across the vast distances, not particularly bothered if they struck home or not. So long as they did not threaten to spot her cavalry from above, they mattered little for now.

A lull followed, Violet cleaning blood from the blade of her sword as she took stock of the battle below. Her force was continuing unmolested, steadily progressing toward the enemy fortifications whence flashes of light and rolls of thunder still came. Maeve's own thrust was nearing a section of the court's wall, which stood strong and scarcely damaged by the bombardment. What they intended to do once arriving, Violet couldn't begin to guess—they would be hopelessly vulnerable to Satria's assault. All seemed to be progressing in line with the plan—better than Violet had imagined possible. Admittedly, the defenders on the walls seemed to have quieted under a hail of gunfire and curses, but that would change once the enemy's formation was disrupted. Yet something was off.

Where was Maeve?

Surely, the claimed Queen of Winter would not allow Violet's command of the air to go uncontested. She had only attacked tonight because of Violet's awakening, so where was she now? Where was the fury at Violet's refusal to perish, the wand she had wielded in defiance of all reason?

Slowly, the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end.

A flash of light was the first sign—and then an unfolding of the earth, so rapid that Violet took note of it only because of the Supersensory Charm. And then there was fire and an immense volume of black smoke and hurled earth and stone and mortar. The shock hit next, buffeting her backward despite the great distance, and a wave of stabbing pain and nausea coursed through her as her eardrums burst—damn that charm. Fighting to regain her balance, Violet gazed in a mixture of awe and shock at the rising plume of smoke from what had been by far the largest explosion she had ever seen.

And, she supposed, gaping at the twenty-meter crater where the court's wall had been.

How? But she shouldn't have been surprised—Hadn't Maeve demonstrated a willingness to stretch, even shatter the boundaries of what should have been possible for fae, even more than Satria? The lies, the iron, the wand; why not this too, whatever this was?

The sporadic fire from the walls had ceased entirely. The only reason all was not yet lost was that the explosion seemed to have disrupted the attackers as well, but that wouldn't last—and once they streamed into the court proper, the battle really would be lost.

"Satria!" Violet cried, not hearing her own voice. Grimacing, she shook her head and vanished. She knew not what Satria intended to do now, but she couldn't remain still.

She appeared high in the sky, above the breach. Below, tightly ordered fae and Lesser Sidhe extended across what seemed a vast area, slowly resuming a now inexorable advance. Plunging downward, Violet spread her wings, and the ground below became a blur as she flashed over it, the enemy ranks fast approaching ahead.

"Fiendfyre!"

With a roar of static, the colorless cursed flames scoured the ground in Violet's wake, devouring all they touched. Powerful, overlapping shields collapsed at the slightest touch; great armored trolls bellowed as they were consumed. Completing her pass, Violet brought herself to a stop and began to climb, intending a second, but her eyes widened as a sudden, overwhelming sense of danger seized her.

Inviolatus!

No sooner had the protective magic wreathed her than Violet was blinded by waves of oncoming magic crashing into it. The torrent was so fierce that she could not distinguish individual attacks. The crack of bullets was nearly continuous, and after scarcely a second, the nigh-impenetrable shield had already begun to buckle, spiderwebs of cracks running through it. Disapparate, now! snapped a keenly honed instinct, but it wouldn't be so easy. The alien mindset required to cast the Inviolable Shield did not allow for the practical working of other magics.

Taking a single breath's time to prepare herself, Violet erupted into motion. She shot upward and to an angle, leaving the collapsing shield behind, and began to twist in the air, even as the motion carried her wand arm in a wide arc—

Dissoluti Lux!

Golden light scoured the foe, their defenses once again useless, their close order a killing ground. A burst of purple light struck Violet's chest, fraying and stiffening her garment, but caused no harm to the skin below, so much greater was her closeness to Winter than its caster. But just before the compression of Apparition whisked her away, a shocking blow struck her ankle, instantly deadening her foot and sending her tumbling through the air. Reappearing elsewhere, still tumbling, she plunged from the air and was driven into the snow, coughing and spluttering as it collapsed over her.

She pulled herself free. Pain, an old friend, lanced through her as she tried to stand; her ankle had been shot through, dangling awfully, blood pouring upon the snow. But that was all right. What need had she of feet when she had wings?

With a thought, black ice flowed up and around the wound, fixing shattered bones in place and staunching the flow of blood. Even the pain was numbed beneath the chill of Winter. Rising into the air once more, it took Violet a moment to place herself on the battlefield. Her hasty, distracted Disapparition had been off-target. It was fortunate she hadn't Splinched herself. But, before long, she was once again over the court.

The enemy's formation was broken at last. They had scattered, some by teleportation, some by flight, others just running. But it wasn't enough—clarion rallying calls rang out, and soon most were again advancing on the breach in the walls, only now they were separated enough that Violet couldn't possibly stop them alone.

As Violet hung there for a moment, feeling an itch in her ears as her hearing began to return, she was struck by the deathly beauty of her vantage. The scent of smoke and the faintest impression of blood drifted on the air, carried by darkening winds, whipped along with vortices of swirling snow. Continuing fire of distant cannon were like winking stars, there and gone; and where the projectiles struck the walls, their protections broken by the great underground blast, black corrosion crept through the polished stone. A line of roiling Fiendyre marked her earlier pass, raging in furious defiance of the growing blizzard. And then came the promised counterattack.

From the shadows of the walls emerged Satria's cavalry in a doubled column. Gradually splitting from the rear into a smooth crescent, the blood-starved steeds of Winter churned clouds of misty snow, their billowing wake aglow with the arcane radiance washing off the riders in black and purple and the other colors of Winter. Fire-lit by the still-burning breach, drawn silver gleamed orange: shouldered saber and leveled lance. Violet's breath caught—such a sight was not one to be forgotten.

But even as she counted down the short minutes before the charging counterattack crashed into their foe, she could see it would not achieve its desired effect. Had the enemy been locked in a stiff, tight column and fixed by fire from the walls, they would have been shattered by a blow to the flank, pinned and scattered against an unmovable object, trampled beneath frozen hoof. But there was a void where the anvil should have been, and the walls around the breach were silent, allowing Maeve's forces to swiftly reform into squares.

For Violet, the world had until recently been a silent place, but when the defending infantry fired a final, synchronized volley, she heard it as a vast, distant rumble. The charging crescent erupted in the light of defensive magic, obscuring the moment of contact. When she could see again, the squares had compressed, pressed hard by charging horse, and she supposed many had fallen. But in the chaotic melee that had developed—saber's flash, magic's burn—it was impossible to imagine the cavalry prevailing. It had all depended on that great charge winning the day.

Violet's gut twisted, and she made an instant decision. Reaching for the magic that connected her to the smaller force tasked with taking the enemy's entrenchments, she snapped, "Where are you?"

The response was swift. "My Lady, it is to my pleasure to hear you well. Your Summer compatriot was much aggrieved by the thought that you had fallen. If it pleases you, Lady, we near the enemy's reserves and are prepared to fulfill the true Queen's command and raise havoc among these unprepared fools."

Violet scanned the distance for them, finally catching sight of a loose line of mostly mounted figures well-camouflaged against a thin wood. Far. But not too far.

"Do not attack," Violet said, not without regret. "Your Queen is hard-pressed. Return at once, and take Maeve's main strength in their opposite flank. Better to risk leaving the battle inconclusive than surrender the court to enemy hands."

". . . Lady?"

"Immediately, and I care not if it pleases you," Violet retorted, forcefully severing the magical connection.

With a sharp breath, Violet Apparated downward, appearing just a few meters over the ground, buffeted immediately by a wall of noise, surrounded in all directions by a writhing maelstrom of blood and silver. The words already on her tongue, she took sight of a mighty troll swinging its club wildly, viscera trailing from its toothy grin, and she whispered, "Avada Kedavra."

With far less fanfare than might be expected for a creature of such size and ferocity, it fell, heralded only by brilliant green and an unearthly wind that seemed to silence even that of the storm. Yet, the Killing Curse, her first since she awoke with a stone of Death on her finger, seemed to draw the attention of the whole battlefield, and for just a moment, the fighting ceased.

From the troll's body rose a wispy, ragged something, as thin as a wisp of hot air on a Winter's day, as fading as a dying oath. It was not quite by sight that she saw it, but something more near to that than anything else; and its greenish hue was not quite color, but something near enough as well. Like velvet smoke, the essence of the beast rose, separating from its body and threatening to disperse into nothing. Violet saw and understood and, on instinct, she reached.

An ache seemed to run through her, the feeling of magic strange and unteachable. A hiss of static roared in her ears, a painfully hollow sound. The Stone, worn on the same hand that grasped the Wand, dragged on her finger like a lump of lead, and the smoke flickered.

Eyes wide, Violet grasped and pulled.

The dead Stone on the dead ring shone in the darkling night, and the rightful unfolding of this world, and all others, was overruled.

Unlike the Fair Folk, who possessed nothing that wizards would know as a soul, the mortal troll did. And as it separated from its body, to another place or perhaps to the same nonplace as vanished objects and unremembered dreams, Violet had seized it, taken dominion over it by right of the united Hallows, and bound in chains of the same spectral nothing as the soul itself.

With an unholy yell, the dead troll rose once more. Its heart beat; its veins pulsed with blood; and its eyes gleamed with the cruel cunning of life. No mere Inferius, it was a dead soul trapped in a prison of living flesh. Still roaring, it charged into its allies' ranks, heedless both of shouted commands and wicked blades that licked its dull skin.

There were no words for what Violet felt as she beheld her doing. This was without doubt the greatest and most terrible magic she had ever wrought.

Any contemplation was cut short by jagged icicles thrusting from the ground to impale her. Effortlessly, she willed them to shatter, and so they did. With a cry of exultation she joined the fray, thinking of nothing but the great and perilous dance between herself and the next foe, with Death standing ever near to judge whose grace was finest.

Heavy was the toll of immortal life she exacted upon those unwise enough to cross her path.

Spurts of dark, sticky fire spilled from her wand. Eruptions of unfathomable cold blackened and froze even Winter flesh. The Imperius compelled the enemy commanders to issue nonsensical, confusing orders.

Even those foes who were skilled with magic were helpless before the merciless flexibility of mortal sorcery and the cruel majesty of arcane Winter flowing from the Elder Wand. Her sword, spelled with all the cunning knowledge of a Curse-Breaker and a master of Charms, rendered nearly any enemy blade as little more than kindling to be split. And the green of Death flared again and again, the curse truly effortless now, lives taken as easily as severing a thread of yarn.

Yet the scale of the fighting was so vast that Violet could not be sure her actions would be enough to win the day. Embroiled in ferocious hand-to-hand combat, hovering just inches over the ground, she missed the sense of perspective she had gained from high above. It was only by chance, or perhaps the will of the wind, that she caught the words of her subordinate.

"My Lady, we approach!"

Beating her wings twice, Violet rose, lashing out with her blade along the way and sending an enemy fae staggering backward, stung by iron. From her elevation she could see the friendly charge, much like a smaller mimicry of Satria's earlier attack. But unlike then, Maeve's forces were entirely unprepared, their rigid squares now spread into a ragged line of contact, while a more irregular mass sought to push their rest of the way to the court. Some turned, sensing the new threat, and coils of light began to gather around shining blades as they made ready a desperate defense.

Violet whipped her wand toward the ground, a whisper of "Inpulsa!" offered to the storm, casting a blindingly bright point of light along a downward arc to land among the densest section of the enemy, where a cavalry charge might possibly be resisted. The point became all but a star, brilliantly white and ringing with an awful resonance. The enemy's cohesion dissolved, as did flesh and silver alike in a great circle around the bright flare. Just as it began to fade, revealing tens of twisted, tortured survivors crawling away in a great ring, they were trampled beneath the thunder of hooves.

Cries rang out as bodies were run through by lance, blighted by curse, struck down by pistol shot. The momentum of the charge was tremendous, and the enemy seemed to flow away like water, driving their chaotic formation thinner and thinner, until in places a single enemy fae was pressed between two friendly ones. Without even a command, Satria's force seemed to redouble their efforts, pressing the enemy with vicious intensity. Silver flashed, surrounded fae torn apart from two sides. Bright white-blue flashes erupted constantly, filling the air with whining shards of ice, felling many. Dark red trails carved trickling paths through the snow before themselves freezing into striking treelike patterns. What had been a battle was now slaughter, a grand charnel house beyond anything Violet had witnessed, exceeding even the butchery of the Massacre of Lords. It was both magnificent and tragic—glorious victory tarnished by the knowledge that it was only Winter's blood to be spilled tonight.

Violet's spirits could not remain melancholy for long, not as it became clear that the enemy was now in open retreat, struggling to regain a semblance of order as they pulled away, desperate to escape the scything blades that trapped them. A rout! A rising crow escaped Violet's lips as she began casting curses as swiftly as she could, striving to convince any who might still hunger for battle to think otherwise.

Cold iron cleaved a skull in two; boiling Fiendfyre left charred skeletons, standing for a final moment's mimicry of eternal life; the Killing Curse flowed smoothly from the Elder Wand; and, soon, Violet realized there were no more enemies to challenge her. The battle continued, somewhere in the churning darkness of a Winter blizzard, but around her were only allies and the dead. Fae of Winter watched her carefully, warily, with the mien of wolves before a dragon. One or two she recognized, faces that had also watched her in her years of early childhood, their impeccable politeness masking avarice, hunger, calculation. They were predators, and if not for the invisible and unspoken mantle of protection Satria had granted her, she would have been their prey, once. Now, though they fought on the same side, they regarded her with greater unease than the enemy.

Thinly, Violet smiled.

In the sea of Winter, she sensed a spark of warmth. She floated toward it, eerily unmoving but for the slow and silent beat of infinitely soft, white wings. The Winter fae parted before her in equal silence.

"Fleur," Violet offered, dipping her head in greeting and flicking her hair back when it fell over her eye. "Bill. The beard suits you."

The man looked hardened. Always handsome, months in Winter had left him with a lean, positively dangerous air. On a blood-soaked battlefield, he was not the least out of place—a far cry from the hapless Order member she had so effortlessly overcome in the Department of Mysteries. It was easy to forget, at times, that the Weasley line was as ancient as any other; not so now.

Pleased, Violet offered him a hand and laughed when he gracefully kissed it. A change for the better, indeed.

"Thank you," he said, releasing her hand. His eyes flicking to the reddened blade she had tucked under her arm, a hint of his family's characteristic good humor crept into his expression. "Is that thing as good as I think it is? You wouldn't believe how long Fleur and I spent on it—not much else to do here, surprisingly. Of course, Fleur's only good for Charms, so I had to put a bit of extra effort in."

Fleur sniffed delicately in protest. Standing slightly in the shadow of her fiance, she seemed somewhat less sure-footed—but then, given the intensity of Winter magic about them, she could hardly be blamed for that.

"It's better," Violet said firmly with a brilliant smile. "I'd love to stick Maeve with it, and maybe Voldemort too. I owe you both a great debt."

For far more than even the finest piece of steel.

"Forget that," Bill said gruffly. He paused, his eyebrows rising slightly, and coughed. "Those are new, I take it? Impressive, if a bit . . . inconvenient."

"Inconvenient, you think?" Violet replied, lingering overlong on the word, and running a finger over a wing feather. She curled the wing backward, and it seemed to collapse inward, vanishing into the smooth skin of her back. The other she stretched forward and barely brushed his short, sharp beard with its tip. She gave him sly look. "I don't think they'll be a problem at all. And I still haven't tried everything they might be good for."

Abruptly, Fleur's hand flashed out, trying to snatch the offending feather, but Violet drew it back too swiftly, retracting the wing as well. Violet pouted and settled to the snow, testing her wounded ankle. It twinged with pain but held her weight. She healed faster now too, then.

" 'E does not know how to react to your teasing," Fleur said primly. "It eez like giving a Squib a wand. Amusing in ze moment, disastrous for anyone who 'as to be around zem afterward. You could not imagine 'ow long eet took me to straighten 'im out after we made love with you."

Bill made a sound vaguely like drowning, stern composure finally faltering, while Violet smirked. "Well, I think—"

A silvery light stole over the battlefield, illuminating the backs of Satria's forces as they pursued the retreating foe. The light was faint and shimmering, coming from a low angle and casting long, strange shadows. Trailing off, Violet turned and saw a shining star of arcane light rising over the court. A second light emerged from behind the wall a moment later, illuminating the whirling snow around it in a halo. It was a signal, an urgent one—coming from within the walls.

"Violet," came Satria's voice, terse and strained. Any relief Violet might have felt at hearing from her at last was forgotten with what she said next. "They are inside the court. Mortals. With iron."

A black curse slipped from Violet's lips. They ought have expected this. Maeve had been ever-so-proud of her victory over the restrictions of fae existence. Of course she would not allow Satria to hold the sole claim to mortal loyalties in Winter.

"Is Maeve there too?" Violet asked quickly. Maeve had allowed her main effort—a costly feint?—to be cut apart on the field without her intervention. It would be foolish to assume she had done so for any reason other than to exploit a greater opportunity.

No response from Satria came. Violet's brow twitched. Some powerful magic must have broken the connection.

Feeling Bill and Fleur's curious looks, Violet swiftly explained. Questions followed, but she waved them away, tapping her foot with impatience. "I'm going. Coming with?"

"Of course—"

Not bothering to hear any more, Violet snatched each of their hands in one of her own and twisted into Apparition. Effortlessly, she carried them through the dense Wyld magic to the center of the court, a garden of ever-blooming flowers—none less poisonous than nerium—in the shadow of the manor house. Smoke drifted on the air, and not just from the pyre of the Summer delegation. Buildings, intricately and organically sculpted by fae magic, blazed in the night. Flashes of light from deep within the court's narrow streets lit up the sides of buildings and the trails of smoke, and they were serenaded by the staccato chatter of automatic gunfire.

Muggles? Perhaps Maeve is not so ambitious as I thought.

Violet's lip curled, but she forced herself not to underestimate her enemy. Muggles may pose little threat to a competent witch, but many fae would prove vulnerable to even mundane weapons loaded with iron ammunition.

"Stay together," she told Bill and Fleur, unnecessarily, she expected. "See if you can link up with anyone still fighting—Satria, Sirius, maybe. Keep a shield up—you only have to be distracted for a moment to catch a bullet, and that's an embarrassingly sloppy way for a wizard to die. And if you see Maeve, Disapparate immediately."

Fleur grasped her arm. "Non, we stay with you."

Violet looked away and shut her eyes, reaching out through her supernatural sense, sifting through the chaos of battle in search of one star brighter than the rest. And she found one, stark and tremendous in its intensity. In the shifting tumult of Winter magic, its precise position was impossible to pin down. Violet's eyes snapped open and she gently pulled away from Fleur.

She flipped her sword in her hand, feeling the cold metal of its pommel press into her palm. "I know. But you wouldn't be able to do that while following my advice."

"Why?"

Violet's smile was cold. "Because," she said, "I intend to win Satria her crown."

~#~

"Front!" bellowed a coarse, male voice, and Violet's ears twitched as a storm of bullets were unleashed upon her.

The five muggles were dressed normally for soldiers, she supposed, as if synthetic materials could truly ward off Winter's chilling grasp. She waited, watching with faint interest as hundreds of tiny, shiny—bare steel, not jacketed—rounds came to a stop a meter or so in front of her, still rotating at an unbearably slow pace.

A cold wind blew, and the soldiers' rifles grew spines of ice, twisting and curving from the plastic sections of the weapons to pierce flesh. The gunfire ceased, but not a sound of pain came from the men, even as the ice began to spread through their bodies, branching and piercing like roots growing through earth. Violet tilted her head, then clicked her tongue.

Imperius. Of course. Maeve would seek out that sort of mercenary.

She flicked the Elder Wand. Homenum Revelio.

"Avada Kedavra!"

The deathly curse flashed toward her from down an alley, only to smash against a swiftly formed pane of ice, bursting it into a cloud of fine, sparkling pieces. Another curse followed, cast by an unsavory-looking witch whose Disillusionment had faded. A Crushing Curse and Reductor came next, both of which were unspooled under the Elder Wand's authority, dissolving into bright sparks before crossing even half the distance to Violet.

"What the fu—" the witch exclaimed audibly, before scrambling to shield against a black bolt of Winter's power leaping from Violet's wand. The witch twisted in place, seeking to flee, but a swift anti-Apparition Jinx pinned her in place. Staggering as a Blasting Curse detonated on the wall beside her and sprayed her with marble fragments, she turned and bolted behind a building. Violet could hear her labored footsteps moving to her right.

Clara Sagitta!

A bright white jet arced from her wand, turning sharply to pursue the witch down the alley. A thud followed by a loud hiss and a piercing scream told Violet her curse had found its target and, dismissing her jinx, she took a far step and appeared next to the witch, sword raised.

The bolt of light was embedded in the witch's back, spraying white sparks and throbbing with heat. Pale flame was spreading across her heavy black robes as she futilely gasped the incantation of a Flame-Freezing Charm like a poetic refrain. Then Violet brought her sword down, and there was silence.

For a moment. Then the mercenary's Imperius failed, and the ensorcelled muggles shouted out in agony and terror. Irritated by the delay, Violet reached out, located the powerful source of Winter magic that she hoped was Maeve, and Disapparated. Her target's position was a little clearer this time, a little less uncertain. She'd be closer this time, and closer still the next. And before long, she would pay Maeve what she was owed: a length of sharpened steel, placed as close to the heart as possible.

~#~

The night grew darker and colder.

Even in Winter, there were some whose nature was not well suited to open warfare. Artisans and artists, dreamers and dancers, they exhibited the predation of Winter in forms more subtle and cunning than tooth or claw. Some had worked the song-spells into the walls that ringed the court, brought crashing down by mortal device—always, the undoing of fae magic. Others had carved the statues of ice, whose still and austere beauty somehow preserved the suggestion of life. Others still had weaved the curtains of spun silver that veiled the windows of the sultry places where more than gold was lost and won.

Thousands more had flocked to Satria's court over the recent years of instability in Winter, first from the bloody days following Mab's assassination, then from the Other, and likely even more from Maeve herself, as she would have made Lord and Lady choose their allegiance at the point of a sword. But the walls that had protected them were broken, and iron, the unvoiced fear of all fae, the sharp blow that shattered the dream, was among them. And the ethereally lovely bodies that rested on the cobble streets, slowly vanishing beneath thin palls of snow, would not rise again.

Seeing that she had once again failed to find Maeve, Violet prepared to Disapparate again, only to stumble against the pressure of a powerful anti-Apparition Jinx that had not been present previously. Despite the inconvenience, it brought a vicious amusement. It seemed the wizards on the other side had come to the uncomfortable realization that they did not enjoy the power of mortal magic alone.

"That's all right," Violet whispered, alongside the soft rustle of feathers. "Now I know you're close."

Upward she rose, a blur of white wings on a tapestry of night. Smoke rose with her, the plumes bent like hunchbacks by Winter's winds. Buildings burned with billowing orange fire, like breathing coals. Scanning the embattled court for the source of the jinx, Violet caught a flash of unmistakable green. It originated from near the walls, illuminating the base of a tall, round tower of pearly stone, immaculate even now. Out of a narrow slit halfway up it came a bolt of blue magic aimed to the ground below, though if it struck anything, Violet couldn't see.

As Violet swept closer, a deep crack echoed, and a plume of dust exploded out the far side of the tower. It happened again a moment later, and this time she caught a dark blur of movement first. There were wizards on the ground around the tower, and one was propelling great lengths of conjured iron at tremendous speeds, the mundane metal negating the magic soaking the tower's stone and punching through both sides of it. No further response was offered from those within the tower.

Violet landed, silent, behind the wizards and drew in her wings. There were perhaps eight of them, surrounded by about as many Imperiused muggle soldiers. Four of that latter quantity approached the tower's lower entrance, moving with the perfect coordination and fearlessness of the mentally dominated. In such close quarters, automatic rifles loaded with iron ammunition would be murderously difficult for any surviving fae to overcome. And the wizards wouldn't risk a thing of value in the process.

Clever. Nice and neat—warfare by the numbers.

Never particularly good at maths myself.

"Hecatoncheire!"

Ghastly arms of spectral purple and black emerged from every corner and shadow, clawed fingers trailing burgundy mist. The assaulting muggles were torn apart mid-step, razor nails shredding flesh and tearing limbs free, dragged off into nowhere. The wizards sensed the spell coming, reacting perhaps to the surge of magic or their preternatural instincts honed over lifetimes of violence, and the cursed shadow hands scraped and scratched and battered at the shields they conjured in response, seeking even the smallest crack to slip through.

Violet pointed the Elder Wand at the closest wizard, who was cycling a multitude of spells in an attempt to dispel her curse while maintaining a crystalline bubble of protection around himself. Intus Abrumpitur!

A bright and indescribably small bead of light issued from her wand and pierced his shield, creating a hole no thicker than a needle. It penetrated his torso next and exploded, throwing viscera onto the snow. Violet's lips drew back at the vicious satisfaction of it.

"That's a fucking witch! Ruina Corporis!"

Violet slashed the curse out of the air with her sword, the enchanted steel unmarred by the dark magic. Maeve's wizard pets were overcoming the dark limbs that assailed them, but she caught one more with a Killing Curse that sailed effortlessly through his shield as the hands held him in place. Two dead. Six more.

A wave of curses streaked toward her, followed by a flock of conjured ravens with steel beaks. Protego! Dissoluti Lux! The former ricocheted off her Shield Charm or broke against conjured sheets of floating ice, while the ravens came apart under the golden light of her curse, which she then swept over her foes, drawing shouts of pain as skin blistered and peeled.

"Kurwa!" bellowed the same wizard who had shouted earlier, watching her Killing Curse strike home and his comrade fall. "Flee, fools! I know this—"

He was drowned out as the remaining muggles opened fire on Violet, creating a deafening racket. Hundreds of bullets collected around her, frozen in space, and she curled her wand inward with a murmur of, "Volvebatur," pouring heat into the small chunks of iron. She flicked a Blasting Curse in the muggles' direction in between deflecting incoming curses, and the firing ceased.

The bullets glowed a painful white now, so hot their radiant heat stung her skin. She banished them all toward two more wizards and leaped upward, wings unfolding once more. As curses streaked behind her, she corkscrewed through the air, crossing the distance in seconds. Scarcely two meters away, she deflected a Reductor curse from one into another, killing him, and finished her aerial leap by driving her sword through the other man's chest moments before her feet touched the ground. Yanking it free with a spray of dark blood, she shielded against a spray of poisonous green darts, then leapt again.

Less than a minute later, there was silence. The entire enemy force were still and dead but one, the wizard who had demanded the others flee. He knelt, his wand thrown down in front of him, his hands raised. Violet could see a muscle in his jaw repeatedly tensing as he clenched his teeth, his eyes transfixed on her wand.

She approached, head quirked. Something of the man's weathered features, a coarse beard whitened by frost, struck a chord. "I know you, don't I?"

When he responded, his voice was eerily tranquil, filled with the calm that remained when the last of hope faded. "They told me you were dead. Never would have taken contract if I knew you were fighting for other side. No glory here. Just death."

Violet blinked, finally recognizing him. "It's you, the Dead Man. Ministry contracts can't compete with fae gold, I suppose?"

"Ministry?" He snorted. "British Ministry is gone, scary girl. Dark Lord took over our contract, gave us new task, strange task. Stuck in freezing mud and ash ever since. Gold was good. Won't get to spend it now."

Violet concealed a grimace at the news. Unsurprising, yet . . . she had held out some hope. Scrimgeour was strong, capable, unflinching in the face of any threat and any means needed to confront it. And now he was all but certainly dead.

"Wait," she hissed, striding up to him and grasping him by the chin, forcing his eyes to meet hers as she parted his thoughts. "Voldemort employed you, and now you're here fighting for Maeve? Why—Voldemort struck a bargain with her?"

The man shrugged, unresistant. Stunned by the revelation, Violet released him, pacing furiously. The Winter magic Voldemort had somehow attained had come from Maeve? What could he possibly have offered her of such incalculable value for her to sacrifice even a shred of her power for it? And then the answer presented itself, so ominously perfect that she immediately knew it was true. Voldemort, so repulsed by the thought of any power being unknown to him, had bought what Violet was given. And Maeve had wielded a wand and committed overt treachery, after swearing vows that should have left her forsworn.

. . . and she had drunk from a gold-kissed cup.

Hufflepuff's cup. An evening with Dumbledore came rushing back, memories of Tom Riddle deftly manipulating an old woman, leaving her dead and bereft of ancient treasure. A diadem, a locket . . . a cup. Voldemort had given Maeve his Horcrux.

A piece of his soul.

At least it had not been any mistake of Violet's that led to Voldemort gaining his Winter magic, as she had feared. But to think that Maeve had concealed this secret, that in all the planning for the expedition and the course of it she had harbored a part of Voldemort within herself, put an eerie feeling in Violet's mind.

"You have helped me more than you know," she said distantly to the kneeling man. "Perhaps I will let you live. How did you breach the court's walls?"

"Tunnel," he replied shortly. "Took fucking months for trolls to dig out all the dirt. Many accidents. Told we needed to make it blow. Muggles good for that. Before it goes up, we walk down tunnel under wall, Apparate up. Queen was with us. Took half of us with her. Told the rest of us town was undefended inside, take anything we could find. Found you instead."

Violet nodded slowly. "Where is Maeve?"

He bit off a bleak laugh. "Where is Avalon, where is Atlantis, might as well ask. Queen-bitch does not report to me."

Unsurprising. Planting a foot on the man's shoulder, Violet kicked him backward, into the snow. "Flee. If you survive the cold, perhaps you will yet find a way to see your home again. If I see you again, you will not."

After a moment's contemplation, she kicked his wand over to him, which he snatched up. He looked at her uncertainly, as if fearing a trick. She turned away.

"Run, Dead Man. Your master commands you."

With that, Violet Disapparated again, certain that this time she would find her quarry. It was knowing about the Horcrux that did it. She sought not just brilliant Maeve but also her cursed shadow.

~#~

Violet's search ended where it had begun.

Unknowingly she and her foe had made a great circle, rotating around each other as Maeve made her way to the court's center and Violet followed in her footsteps. Now, back at the foot of the manor house from which Satria presided over her court in better times, it was pointedly clear that someone was within. The polished stone steps Violet climbed bore clear footprints in their snowy caps, left not by the weightless feet of fae but the heavy boots of mortals.

The footprints led only in one direction.

Violet slipped through the ornately decorated wood doors, taking note of a small smear of blood left in the shape of a handprint on it. Inside, the long foyer, adorned with cold-burning candles and curling columns of black stone was a corpse of one of the muggle soldiers, lying on his back, his skin a waxy blue-black from which blood seeped. A curse on the door, perhaps, left by someone taking shelter within?

Somehow, Violet doubted Maeve would suffer much for the loss.

The manor house was deathly silent, Violet's steps on the polished marble floors ringing out and echoing back to her. If Maeve really was here—and Violet could feel her—she had to know Violet had come for her. But if she was of a mood to play games of cat and mouse, Violet was not inclined to oblige her. Searching the entirety of the sprawling estate would be no small task, but the Dead Man had told Violet all she needed to know how to find Maeve.

Homenum Revelio, Violet cast, feeling a thrum of a presence from the upper floors, a familiar one. A chilly smile spread over her face.

Downsides of a human soul, Maeve. And you had to go one and pick one I know so very well.

She moved swiftly, retracing the steps she had taken a thousand times since her young childhood. Curving stairs brought her closer with each step to where she knew Maeve was waiting. From out the blue-stained glass windows along the stairway, Violet could see the now widely burning court refracted into a thousand shards of beautiful orange tragedy. She did not look for long.

Reaching the top floor, she followed a corridor to the chambers of the Lady of the court—Satria's. The door was swung shut but not latched.

Violet paused, taking stock. With something like a faint sigh, she tilted her neck, rolled her shoulders, and pushed open the door.

"Ah, Violet," she was greeted. Maeve sat—alone—on a low stool, toying with a curl of her deeply red hair as she stared, transfixed, at a standing mirror. "I was hoping you would find me first. I'd like to have a little chat, you and me, now that there's no chance of Satria arriving to ruin it."

"A chat?" Violet repeated, deadpan. "I suppose we do have so very much in common. Just to be clear, though—I'm not doing your hair."

Maeve stood and turned to face Violet. She looked windswept, slightly flushed, and indescribably alive. "Isn't it magnificent?"

She wore a deeply blue dress that followed her like a second skin. A long black wand was clasped lightly in one hand, and on her waist a thin leather belt held a very familiar dagger and a slender saber, its dull hilt glinting with the shine of steel. Violet rested the tip of her sword on the dark pine flooring.

"You'll have to be a little more specific than that," Violet said.

"Everything. You should be able to feel it, a mortal like yourself. I never could before, not truly. Heavens, it defies belief! The feel of a lie on the tongue. Of a war nearly won. A grand design moments before seeing the sun. Do you have any idea what I have accomplished? No, of course not. I'm almost glad Satria found a way to drag you back from death, you know. Someone ought to appreciate this."

"Bit premature of you, no?" Violet challenged. "Even if you prevail tonight, there's still Esrid. You'll be the undisputed Queen for, what, a few weeks before he finally takes the Origin with your entire army sacrificed out there? And you know it'll take a mortal to kill him, don't you? And you know what will happen to them when they do. That's to say nothing about what happens when your . . . soul donor decides to repossess his property. If you think he'll let you keep it, you're as mad as you pretend."

A little shiver seemed to run through Maeve, and she laughed breathily. "It's so much more perfect than you think. I've had it all planned for so long, every last detail, and you've played your part marvelously. Following me to the Distant Lands, leading me to the Weapon, dying so graciously, even coming back . . . it all works perfectly. As for my brother and the 'Dark Lord . . .' " A positively wicked glee came over her. "Well. Let's just say that I have a feeling certain problems will resolve each other, very soon indeed."

Violet nodded, slowly. "Interesting. I admit, you fooled me. I never remotely considered the possibility that you might make a bargain with Voldemort or that you could use one of his Horcruxes the way you have. I suppose I should have, though. You always did have an interest in the mortal world. Pity for you those interests came into conflict with me."

"Aryssa," Maeve hissed. "Yes, you'll pay for taking her from me. I thought I knew the pleasure of vengeance before, but as it turns out, nothing can hate like a human soul."

"Oh, believe me, Maeve . . . I know."

Violet leapt forward, driving the point of her sword toward Maeve's chest. Maeve seemed to do nothing—but glee came over her, and Violet sensed peril, and an instant before the sword struck home, Maeve seemed to explode into a cloud of blinding blue sparks.

Blinking spots from her eyes, Violet threw herself away, feeling wind against her face as something swept by it. A moment later a line of stinging pain made its presence known, stretching from the side of her nose to the back of her jaw. She slashed with the Elder Wand, unleashing a wave of unfocused Winter magic that keened hauntingly as it raced through the air. Wood creaked and groaned.

Dashing the blood trickling down her face away with her sleeve, Violet scrambled to her feet, cursing her foolishness. Maeve's glamours had always been terrifyingly convincing.

There had never been a mirror; Maeve, the real one, stood where it had rested, looking a touch disappointed with the slight coating of blood upon her saber. Clever of her to use Violet's expectations that way—of course she would have viewed the apparent reflection as the less real of the two.

Well. Another scar of iron to grace her visage, even as those she had gained as a child were finally beginning to fade. A few inches the wrong way and she would have died, but she hadn't, and she had never particularly minded the effect of scars on her appearance.

"You know . . ." Maeve began, the tip of her tongue flicking over her lips, "I really thought you might be more curious why I was so sure Satria would not interrupt us . . . and why my personal contingent is absent."

A dreadful chill came over Violet, and her eyes narrowed. "Why?"

"Come now, Violet, use your senses . . . my glamour reflected me as I appeared before battle was joined. Look closer. . . . What is different now?"

Suspecting further trickery, Violet slowly moved her eyes down Maeve's body. Her glamour had been nearly identical to her, but there were a few changes. A few drops of blood stood out against her dress. Her hair was a little wilder, a little more red.

And, on her belt, there was another weapon that had not been present on the glamour. It was a sickle, its curving blade a pale, familiar bone-white.

Delicate, stiffened fingers clutched it, tightly enough that their grip did not fail. Violet knew that sickle, knew those fingers, knew the severed hand they were attached to.

No, she thought, feeling dizzy, yet strangely calm. Not her too.

Pure sadistic pleasure suffused Maeve's face as she beheld Violet's realization and she spat on the polished floor, a gesture so uncouth Violet would have scarcely imagined it possible to come from a fae. "Yes," she said. "It hurts, doesn't it, to say farewell to someone you expected to accompany you forever. I think this a fitting fate for the supposed right hand of Winter who whored herself for a taste of Summer's fire, do you not? Even now, my lovely mortal toys are cleaning up the last of her contingent, and the Summer filth too. To think they have a new King, a mortal soon to join the late Lady—I could not have asked for more from fair fortune!"

They stepped forward at the same time, Violet lashing out with a high cut empowered by a blind, wordless hatred, only for it to be knocked aside in a metallic blur as Maeve deftly interposed her own blade. Steel rang against itself there in the cold of Winter, its Queen facing its champion at last.

Blades locked together, Violet's wand came up in the same moment as Maeve's. Two spells were cast. Violet's won.

Driven by a lance of force, Maeve was propelled backward, through the great windows and down, falling among a sparkling cloud of shattered glass. Violet's legs tensed and she cast herself after her, empty air under her feet as her wings spread and she slowly descended.

Maeve was on her feet beneath Violet, her garments torn and stained by trails of blood leaking from dozen of swiftly healing cuts. Then her wand came up and her lips drew back into a snarl, and the Killing Curse flashed up toward Violet. Violet vanished an instant before it would have killed her and rematerialized behind Maeve's back, already thrusting with her sword. This was no elegant display of skill and showmanship as each duelist sought the others measure in the opening exchanges. Violet intended to kill Maeve as quickly as she possibly could and, it seemed, the sentiment was mutual.

Maeve disappeared, sharp steel slicing through nothing but a puff of snow. Sensing the threat, Violet ducked reflexively, and Maeve's saber hissed overhead before Winter's Queen teleported away again.

"Oh, no you don't." Violet slashed the Elder Wand through the air, and an intangible weight spread outward. "I will not have you fluttering about."

A column of silver fire descended on Violet from above, erupting into a colossal blast of steam as she met it with a jet of freezing water. Casting her gaze upward, she caught sight of Maeve standing on the same balcony she had been thrown through. A Killing Curse followed, which Violet sidestepped with ease.

In this moment, facing this treacherous foe, who proudly wore the dead flesh of Violet's oldest companion as a gruesome trophy, Violet wondered how she had ever thought she knew hatred before. The extent of her dark feeling eclipsed anything she had entertained for Voldemort or even Bellatrix. She imagined the twisted, unspeakable fates she would subject Maeve to, depths of cruelty to which she had never imagined herself sinking. And yet she was calm, calculating, heartless. She had learned what would happen if she was not.

With two great beats of her wings, she rose to be level with Maeve and twisted the Elder Wand through a complex pattern, evading another deathly green curse with an aerial maneuver as she did. The balcony's railing, the soft metal already warped from having Maeve thrown through it, came alive under her Transfiguration. Writhing chunks of living metal broke off and turned to dull iron, snapping at her with jagged fangs. They latched onto her like leaches, and rapid flashes of Winter magic failed to take hold on the iron; nor did Maeve seem to know of the simpleRevulsion Jinx that would have trivially sent them scattering. Violet allowed herself a sharp spike of satisfaction at the sight of her enemy's pain.

With an indignant shriek, Maeve stamped her foot and the silver fire returned, wreathing her in such heat that Violet could feel its radiance nearly painfully from twenty meters away. It burned for several long seconds, a cocoon of flame that was so bright and hot that night seemed to become day.

The shrill tearing of metal heralded the collapse of the balcony, its construction heated to such a point that metal melted and sheared. Maeve landed in a snowdrift for the second time in as many minutes and an instant later the snow exploded out from around her, revealing Maeve, entirely naked now, and spitting mad. Though the flames that had consumed her clothing seemed not to have touched her, but her pale skin was burned bright red in places where the superheated metal had slid off her, to say nothing of the bite marks.

"See, Maeve?" Violet spat. "A wand doesn't make a witch. There's more to mortal magic than the Unforgivable Curses. And you had best hope I slay you on this night, else we'll discover just how much together."

Maeve's expression of fury grew a notch more incandescent. Her mouth opened as if in a scream, but no sound came—no, it was like she was swallowing the sounds of the battle, the endless crackle of gunfire drowned out by a crushing, silent pressure—and Violet was suddenly very glad she had kept her wits about her.

"Inviolatus!"

There was one last eternal moment of stillness and then the world shattered, a sound like the explosion of a mountain peak echoing from Maeve's mouth thrice, crushingly louder with each refrain. On the third, there was the briefest impression of a blurry white bubble emanating outward from the royal fae, of bricks of polished stone turning to powder behind her, metal twisted and bent like taffy, and then an impossible force struck Violet's shield. A faint gasp escaped her lungs as an overwhelming roar enveloped her, the sounds of destruction on a tremendous scale barely audible beneath it. Objects moving at immense speed dashed themselves against her shield, but Violet could see nothing but a whirling gray-white.

A high, groaning pitch began to emanate from the magic that protected her, and Violet grimaced, planting the tip of her sword in the ground and gripping the Elder Wand with both hands, forcing her thoughts to contort themselves in perfect alignment with the demands of the esoteric magic and drive any minute imperfections from it so that it might be truly inviolable before an incomprehensible force. There had been a time when she might not have managed it. For better or worse, or perhaps both, her psychic clash with the Other had altered her.

At once, all was silent. Releasing a harsh breath, Violet dismissed her shield and pulled her sword free once more, blinking as the blanket of disturbed snow and dust began to settle.

What had previously been a neatly paved cobble path between sculpted hedgerows, neath and shadowed by the eaves and balconies of the manor house, was a flat and barren expanse, stretching no less than fifty meters in each direction. Of the manor house itself there was nearly no sign; only sections of its foundation were visible, mostly obscured by snow and crushed stone. Distantly, she could see where buildings had been smashed by the entirety of the manor house's mass, picked up and flung hundreds or thousands of meters away.

For the second time that night, a lull had fallen in the sounds of fighting. No rifle's crack or distant gun dared disturb the absolute quiet. Even the storm had paused, as if it too was awed by the invocation of Winter's magic on such a grand scale, and now not even a breeze blew across the flat waste that had been the court's heart.

"Your Queen has spoken," said Maeve, standing unaffected in the epicenter of the destruction, and her bare skin was unblemished; even the burn of iron had left no lingering mark on her. "Yet you do not kneel?"

She extended a single damning finger, and Violet staggered as a tremendous weight pressed down on her, as if all the heavens had descended to press on her shoulders. But even as it did she could feel an icy strength trickling up from where her bare feet touched the frozen ground, a power that was equal and superior to any malediction the Queen might call down upon her. And with a flutter of wings that left her as light as air, Violet took a single step forward, toward her foe.

For whatever Maeve said, however royal her name might be, whatever crown she might wear, Winter had not chosen her. It had chosen Violet.

They moved simultaneously, again. A lance of perfect black stretched from Maeve's imperious finger toward Violet but came apart when scythed through by cold iron. Violet's curse was less swift, instead forming as a sable swarm of silent insects, an evocation of hunger that had been taught to her by an enemy, as all the most precious lessons were. Silver fire devoured the devourers, and in turn Violet brought forth her own fire, wielding the cursed flame she had threatened Maeve with so long ago. Curses flashed across the steadily narrowing distance between them, skating and shattering against deftly conjured shields, punctuated frequently by bursts of killing green.

"The battle turns against you, it seems!" cried Maeve, only ten meters away now, striking at Violet with a bright red lash of crackling light. "Here we clash in the center of our good, late Lady's court, and yet you stand alone. How their spirits must be broken for them to offer you no aid at all!"

Violet caught the tip of the lash on the Elder Wand and wrenched it free, the dark energy forming transient spiderwebs of spitting fury before finally being drained into the cold air. Blowing static-stuck hair from her face, she met Maeve's eyes, those primeval pools of unquenchable power, and she struck.

You never deserved to carry a wand. A true witch knows magic is more than a tool.

You never deserved to wear a crown. How dare you claim the title of protector when our land's greatest threat is of your making?

You are not immortal. You have spoken, but Winter has too.

In the fraction of a second before Maeve threw off her Legilimency, Violet showed her things. She showed her the true potential of mortal magic, the heights of mastery over the natural world that Maeve so shallowly mimicked. She showed her the aberrant truths she had gleaned from the creature Maeve had condemned her very brother to become. And, last of all, she showed her the dream she had dreamt in the cold cave, of a beach and a sea and the revelation that for the font of power from which they both drew, the favored between them had never worn a crown.

And Maeve froze, for just a heartbeat, but it was enough. Violet struck again, physically this time, and in a blur of feather and steel she was against Maeve, so close that it was as if they were to share an intimate, whispered secret. But separating them was a hilt of steel: crossguard pressed into palest bare skin; cold steel piercing through, through a bitter heart if indeed Winter's Queen had one at all. And Death was near.

"What do you know?" Violet breathed, meeting Maeve's strikingly wide eyes and the eerily expressive emotion they betrayed. "I didn't have to wait for you to turn your back."

With a flourish, Violet pulled the blade free, a thin curtain of dark blood following its path. The Queen of Winter fell to her knees, sagging like a banner without wind. She stared at Violet, her mouth slightly open, silent as her life flowed away with a terrible swiftness. Though she had demonstrated a wholly unique ability to recover from wounds of iron, thanks likely to her bargain with Voldemort, this was too much.

Violet had struck too high. Had she placed her blade just a little lower, Maeve's death could have been exquisitely slow, a scandalous atrocity that would forever stain this place that had always been Satria's with suffering and horror such that even Winter had never known.

Or perhaps it was better this way. Perhaps she had, in some unconscious way, deliberately pierced Maeve's heart and saved herself from crossing a final line from which there was no return. For she felt no frustration for seeing the full extent of her vengeance denied. Instead there was only a deep, hopeless sorrow that seemed to swallow her and everything, and, listlessly, she watched a Queen die.

With a roar of wind, Maeve thrust a clawed hand up to the sky, and at last she screamed, like a banshee's wail that shook the air and ground. Violet stumbled backward as threads of silver and blue began to gather around Maeve's upstretched hand, spooling like the weft of a weave. They seemed to come from nowhere, but they ached with Winter's power, and for a moment it could almost be believed they might lend her the power to stand once more. But something clearly went awry, and the threads of power were wrenched away by an unseen force, drawing a tortured cry, and Maeve collapsed at last, the last of her strength spent.

The mortal wand that might have preserved Maeve had she explored its domain beyond the curses that had tempted her with their dark allure lay forgotten beside her. Or so it seemed.

Maeve's eyes fluttered shut and she drew a final, defiant breath. Violet wondered, as she had at times before, what thoughts might come to a being so ancient when life eternal came to its final moments. Whether her thoughts had been so different from Satria's, in the end. Silently, the two of them waited for Death to come.

With a final shudder, Maeve's head dipped, and her crown of iron tumbled to the snow. The dead Queen tipped backward, hair spilling around her, the very same shade as her blood, and it was done. Violet took a slow, sad step forward and grasped the crown.

Maeve's eyes opened, and they were red.

---

AN: Well, I really hoped to get this out (much) sooner, but between it becoming a behemoth of a chapter, having a silent crisis realizing I'd deviated from my plans for the endgame of the story and had to rework things, and managing to break the laptop I used for writing, I kept putting it off. Anyway, if you're reading this, thanks for bearing with me.

Losing the laptop won't risk the story continuing, by the way, though it does reduce my writing flexibility (and I'm cursed with an inability to write in anything other than short spurts). If you should so happen to want to contribute to replacing it/supporting my fanfiction in general, I do still have a p atreo n.

p atreo n . com [slash] friss

And as always, feel free to join the Discord server and ask what the status of the next chapter is. discord . gg / HfyNqfMqfJ

- Blitzstrahl

Missed your review last chapter-my thought process for Hermione surviving without Ron is that he and Harry were the ones to actually lock the door that trapped her in with the troll. Without that, I think there's a good chance she could hide until it got distracted or could make a run for the door. Definitely a close call though.

- Guest (Dec 23, 2023)

I don't want to bloat this AN any more with a lengthy summary of the last few chapters, and I can't reply to your review since you left it as a guest, but if you join the Discord and ping me I'll be happy to summarize things for you there.