For months now, Amelia had been in fairly good shape, with plenty of free time to spend with her niece. Compared to the previous years spent trying as best she could to deal with the disastrous consequences of the end of the civil war, with the attempts to incriminate former death-eaters, the power of the criminal underworld feeding off the carrion left by Voldemort, and the recurring resurgence of violence perpetrated by or against categories of individuals disadvantaged by the system in place, her position as head of the DMLE had never been so peaceful.
Someone less observant, or less cautious than her, would no doubt have accepted this new state of affairs as excellent, or even boasted of the effectiveness of their work in bringing it about, but she was no fool. This calm in criminal circles, which had now lasted for more than a year, was highly suspect. Because the kind of trouble that was stirring up magical society in Great Britain could not suddenly subside like that. Even less so without the government managing to deal with the underlying problems, of which violence and crime are only symptoms.
She was more than certain that something big was at work, whole communities of magical beings seemingly evaporating from the slums, werewolf and vampire attacks ceasing almost completely. The illegal trade sectors becoming more discreet and organised, gang fights ceasing almost entirely... A few months ago, when she had formalised this feeling of strange calm and put her finger on the problem, she didn't know where to start. But the lack of more serious cases on a wider scale than the possible personal dramas had given her enough time to study this enigma in greater depth. After months of research without any major discoveries spent sending her aurors undercover in search of the slightest rumour about the major currents currently shaking the criminal world, she had before her, her first real lead.
In the corner of a large piece of cloth, torn during the pursuit of an as yet unknown individual, was a strange symbol. Three long stems covered with small white flowers crossed under a full moon against a deep blue background... In any other situation, she wouldn't have paid any attention to it. But this was not the first time her aurors had come across this strange symbol. It had been spotted in certain speakeasies and shops selling artefacts and magical ingredients on the border of legality. Always discreet, never obvious. Rumours of a group of individuals using the asphodel as a symbol had come to her attention.
She frowned, as if her gaze alone had the power to incinerate the piece of cloth. As the days went by, one of her theories was finding more and more support, even though it displeased her to no end. Because if it was right, the implications were terrifying. If, as she thought, a new criminal group had appeared and spread just as quickly, devouring all the others, suffocating them, depriving them of their light, like starving ivy, then who knows how long it would be before this group decided to gradually emerge from the shadows and attack bigger preys?
She felt a dull buzz at the edges of her perception, perhaps it was lunchtime, and all the ministry officials were hurrying towards the cafeteria. But she had no time for that, she had to put in place a plan of action to infiltrate this group, understand its chain of command. She had to decide whether it would be better to try and collaborate discreetly, if she could make it morally possible, or if, as she feared, they were the worst kind of criminals, try and destroy them from the inside, without risking splitting them up and creating terrible chaos, the large group splitting into dozens of small, disorganised and violent independent entities, replacing evil with even worse... She was faced with a bramble knot that she didn't want to get her hands into under any circumstances, but she was bound to act. She couldn't let things get out of hand and out of control. Hell, in the worst-case scenario, it could be a warlord wishing to emulate the last dark lord gathering an army of all those dissatisfied with the current status quo. And damn knows there are a lot of them.
Another tremor shook her desk, far more powerful than the hungry hordes of Ministry bureaucrats were capable of causing. Her inkwell shook on her table, her sheets rattled in all directions, a dull rumbling making her vibrate. Then a wave of icy magic swept through her, and she fell to her knees, an intense urge to vomit turning her stomach. Her hair stood on end as a deep, inexplicable horror settled in her heart. She didn't have time to get up before the tremor intensified, the orange light emanating from the Ministry's magic lamps all going out simultaneously, plunging her into darkness. Never in her life had Amelia experienced an earthquake in the heart of London. And an earthquake of magical origin at that. Magic of a kind she had never felt before, as if something immense and terrible had briefly focused its attention on her pathetic existence as a lowly being of flesh and blood...
She shook off her strange thoughts and stood up panting, feeling ridiculous, this must have been an accident in the Department of Mysteries. Given the kind of thing this bunch of lunatics were working on, it was more than likely to have come from them. In any case, whether it was that or something else, she had to give the order to evacuate. With a muttered lumos, she illuminated the room, the light causing supernatural shadows to recede, twisting in all directions, the silence broken by strange whispers. Definitely the mystery department. A catastrophically failed experiment, perhaps. After all, she'd heard that some innovative new theories were being tested.
Leaving her office in all haste, ignoring as best she could the shaking of the floor, and the state of chaos and destruction of her office, she found her Aurors, who were currently in charge of administration, all more or less dazed, visibly shaken despite the mental toughness required to join this body of the Ministry. "We're evacuating! Everyone, join the surface by separate exits, no apparitions, what happened with the unspeakable could very well have blown the apparition cover! And make it snappy!"
"Yes ma'am!" came a chorus of more or less panicked voices.
She herself hurried down the corridor, helping everyone she came across to find their way without letting them slow her down too much. In the event of a major magical accident, the procedure was clear: the evacuation of personnel came first. Soon she was taking one of the many lifts to one of the Ministry's most discreet exits. She ran out of the telephone booth, a great sense of relief coming over her at being out in the open. She had to give the order to retreat to the DMLE's secondary headquarters until she had more information. She took out her apparition permit scroll and... shit, it went black. As she'd feared, whatever had just happened had screwed up the most instantaneous means of travel available from the Ministry.
She would have to find somewhere from which to take off in a broomstick discreetly.
As she left the alleyway, she was struck by a most unusual sight. Dozens of muggles had stopped and were staring up at the sky, some pointing at it, others using their hands as visors to get a better look. Amelia raised her head too, what on earth could be going on up there to distract people from the earthquake going on? Once her eyes were raised, she froze in the same way as the muggles: two bands of cloud were visible from her position, describing immense curved arcs, so vast that their curvature was almost undetectable. But that wasn't the thing that left her speechless, no. The sky was streaked with green and purple, similar to what she had heard about the Northern Lights. Except that this one, as well as being visible in broad daylight, was moving, twisting in all directions, their erratic movements following no form of logic. If the earthquake and ... these things were linked, then she was facing the most serious breach of secrecy she had ever seen. She had to pray that the scientists working with the Ministry would manage to find a sensible explanation to present to the public.
Forcing herself to look away from the strange hypnotic shapes tearing at the sky, she ran towards the nearest secure take-off point. But as she rounded a bend in the road, she stopped dead in her tracks: the whole street was flooded, people perched on their doorsteps, staring in horror at the dark waters of the Thames that had overflowed its banks. Amélia turned back, swearing again that she would have to make a diversion. The earthquake, the sky, the overflowing Thames... was it a cursed day? One thing was certain, something serious was going on.
She entered another alleyway, narrow and dark, from which the strange sky was no more than a thin line. Luckily it was deserted, because no sooner had she entered it than a weasel's patronus appeared, Mary Malkin's, a relatively new recruit stationed in the Shetland Islands. On an emergency surveillance and liaison mission. And an emergency it must have been, for the use of patronuses over such distances was highly inadvisable and risky, so much so that Amélia had strongly forbidden this method of communication for all agents over a hundred kilometres.
The weasel stopped in front of her, and a breathless voice filled with intense terror emerged: "Madame Bones, Azkaban has fallen, the island has vanished, the storm has dissipated, the wave is coming," she said before her voice and the ethereal form dissipated.
Amelia was pale, her mouth half-open, the muscles in her hand twitching, closing and opening, her eyes wide, the taste of bile rising from the back of her throat. A visceral terror gripped her as her panicked mind replayed over and over again everything she knew about the prison, its monstrous guards and the criminals, monsters and... innocents locked up there. But also the more obscure rumours she had heard about the horrible place. The sky, the earthquake, the Thames, it probably had nothing to do with the Department of Mysteries. If Mary was right, then it all made sense, but it was far worse than anything she had imagined.
As head of the DMLE, she had prepared for everything she could imagine, contingency plan after contingency plan, the worst of them concerning the possibility of a mass escape from Azkaban. But nothing, nothing had been prepared for the destruction of the prison itself. She leaned against a wall, beginning to hyperventilate, her breathing and heartbeat out of control. She had read about the near apocalypse of the Status War, and since then no magic on this scale had been unleashed. Was it an attack by a foreign power? An act of war? One of those new muggle weapons she'd heard about. With a trembling hand, she drew an emergency calming potion from one of the pockets in her bag and swallowed it in one gulp. She had to get to emergency headquarters, gather information, contact the Ministry, assess the extent of the damage, protect the population from potential dementors on the loose, understand the origin of the attack? When she lifted her head, only the thought that her niece was safe inside Hogwarts' walls allowed her to take another step without collapsing.
oOOOo
Albus Dumbledore was tired, so very tired. The half-hearted victory over Voldemort 13 years ago had been a bitter relief after years of struggle against a strategy of murder and terror designed to bring down the state at the expense of any notion of humanity. Only the intense relief of no longer living in a hell where the luckiest could be flayed alive overnight had allowed the wizards of Great Britain to rejoice on the day of the Potter couple's death. But for himself, although he hid this feeling from Hagrid and Minerva, it was only the beginning of a bitter truce. Basically, nothing had changed. The symptoms had subsided, but the root of the problem remained as powerful as ever in the very structure of their society. It was only a matter of time before Tom returned, or another warlord decided to set the world ablaze again.
Aware that he was treading on the thinnest of ice, he had to calculate his every step, trying to take the path that would lead him to the least amount of death and suffering possible. He would have liked not to have to involve the child that Voldemort had designated as the child of prophecy, or to not have to involve any children at all. But the fact that Voldemort was acting on this prophecy, whether true or false, forced him to take it into account too, secretly hoping that it would lead to its fulfilment in the right way. He would have liked Hogwarts not to be a breeding ground for propaganda and the moulding of young minds to serve a cause alien to them. But inaction is a form of action, and not acting meant letting the followers of the superiority of blood impose their ideology on young minds that were still easily moldable.
So he had cautiously advanced, made plans, anticipated and planned, everything to avoid the worst. But before he knew it, Aster Potter had disappeared, presumed dead at the hands of her uncle. When, years later, she returned as a vampire, he saw hope. Perhaps, once Voldemort had been defeated once and for all, revealing this could have made it possible to take a step towards untangling the delicate infernal knot making up the problems of magical society. Once again, he had been fooled, he had been right all along, Aster was dead, her body used by a foul necromantic creature to prey on the children of Hogwarts and steal the Philosopher's Stone, like a wolf in sheep's clothing. And once again, his victory had been a bitter one. His hope that Aster was still alive had been extinguished, the poor young girl indoctrinated by the creature had managed to escape with the stone, the creature had been sent to Azkaban to rot there with its fellows and poor Professor Quirrelle had died a hero.
After this succession of debacles, each more dreadful than the last, he had hoped for at least a little calm, a time of respite before returning to the metaphorical front. But no, barely a month after the monster's imprisonment, as chief warlock of the Wizengamot, here he was dragged to the table for diplomatic talks between Great Britain and the Grand Alliance. For the third time in the last forty years, at the request of the pseudo-nation of Hymgaabal, a motley collection of small groups of veela hiding in a remote region of central Europe, the Grand Alliance once again demanded that Great Britain recognise the period of the Great Purges as genocide, with apologies, heavy financial and magical reparations, as well as the return of all the artefacts 'stolen' from the groups of veela who had lived on the islands.
Obviously, no member of the government could accept such a thing. Least of all the Minister. It would run completely counter to the rhetoric that had been bandied about for decades, to the effect that the veela had been a savage people whose eradication had been a necessary evil to save honest human wizards from their vile perfidy. Acknowledging their actions as genocidal meant giving the veela equal status with humans, which was simply unacceptable. Not to mention the strong anti-Statutarian sentiment common among the veela, who refused to sacrifice their ability to fly everywhere without restriction for the benefit of the rest of the magical world. Not that he himself had agreed or consented to the purges, he had kept well out of this whole sordid affair, but it had to be admitted that the various anti-Statutarian figures that the veela protected by giving them sanctuary on their land had been a big thorn in Britain's side. For a myriad of additional small reasons, the decision had been taken to eradicate the corruption of the feathered beasts by whatever means necessary, without fanfare, in all discretion. Which shouldn't have been difficult, given that these communities prefer to live in isolation from the rest of magical society.
However, the creatures put up a powerful resistance, causing many deaths among the mages in charge of the extermination, despite the simultaneous surprise attacks on the various flocks and the use of traitors among the veela. This resulted in media exposure of the affair, albeit kept to a minimum. The Grand Alliance immediately called for an end to the operation and reparations for the veela communities affected, but too late. Fortunately, it had been possible to keep the outrage to a minimum, which had not been difficult, as anti-non-human sentiment was strong in all the upper strata of society with the exception of a few specific groups.
Since then, the Grand Alliance and the continent's veela have regularly done their utmost to seek reparation and admission of the state's action as genocide. Today, this is the main reason for the increasingly cold diplomatic relations with the Grand Alliance. How the European Veela community had managed to gain so much influence over one of Europe's most powerful magical states, along with the Holy Roman Empire, he did not know. A less observant person might have put it down to the veela's ability to charm their interlocutors, but this was clearly not the case, as protective magics against this kind of psychic interference were present everywhere in government circles. The only way to get around it these days is with the most precise application of imperialism.
In short, for hours he had been listening to Cornelius and his clique debate, along with a member of the triumvirate governing the grand alliance, a small army of diplomats and three large veela who he felt were ready to disembowel, shred and reduce to ashes the delegation from the British ministry. Being here as an observer was both a blessing and a curse. On the one hand, he didn't have to defend an untenable position himself at all costs; on the other hand, watching Cornelius and his henchmen plunge their winged interlocutors into a blind, bloodthirsty rage with a combination of denial, arguments that were questionable at best and plain bad faith, made him want to retch. ... Yet another thing to add to his long list of regrets punctuating his existence, not having done more against the advent of the great purges. In his defence, he was still recovering from his final battle with Grindelwald.
Just as Cornelius was opening his mouth to say something new, the large double wooden door of the meeting room opened. One of the honorary aurors accompanying the delegation came running in. "I have here an extremely urgent communication from the DMLE." He said, waving a letter breathlessly. Albus saw a twinkle in Cornelius's eye, a glimmer of hope of escaping the rest of the confrontation with their friends across the Channel. But with a vindictive satisfaction, Albus stood up and took the letter from the young man's hands. "Come on Cornelius, let me handle this, it would be most impolite to interrupt what is undoubtedly a most fruitful debate."
"Of course, Albus, of course." The man replied, glowering at him. "Where were we... ah yes! ..."
Albus let the conversation return to background noise as he concentrated on this welcome distraction. So, what could dear little Amelia mean by so urgent. He thought as he placed the letter on his lap and broke its red wax seal.
A few seconds later, without anyone noticing, Albus was motionless in his armchair, too motionless, his eyes glassy, unconscious. In his lap lay an innocent letter, barely a few sentences long, with the following hastily written words.
"Azkaban is destroyed, vanished into thin air, A tsunami is approaching the North Sea coasts, Earthquake. No word from nearest agents, death toll unknown. Reason of destruction is unknown."
oOOOo
It all began with an earthquake that shook the whole of the Netherlands, as well as disturbing lights on the north-western horizon. A few minutes later, a gust of wind strong enough to rip the roofs off some houses hit Amsterdam. Caroline had hoped that whatever it was, it would stop here. The North Sea had never been shaken like this, let alone by a magical event. Yes, there was no doubt about it, the deep terror that had frozen her in place for several minutes, as if thousands of things were clawing, growling and scraping at the edges of her mind, hungry, was proof of that. Something terrible had happened far out on the sea.
Her theory was that it was a particularly violent event of wild magic, but it didn't matter. Barely minutes after the event, she and all the other mages in the town had been requisitioned by the local magic government in collaboration with the few Muggle authorities aware of the existence of magic.
So there she was, transfiguring and enchanting a huge breakwater with her compatriots on the seafront. No one had taken the time to explain why, just that it was essential to preserving the very existence of the Netherlands.
After an hour's work, perched at the top of the dyke, consolidating its buttresses, she finally understood. At this hour, when the tide was supposed to be rising, the sea was retreating out at full gallop. Its grey waters under the cloudy sky revealed the sands, leaving many fish in its wake. "The sea is receding!" She shouted to warn her colleagues of this strangeness.
"The sea is receding? And they're asking us to build an emergency dyke? What do these morons think they're doing?" Said Romuald, a man whose name she had learned half an hour earlier and whom she would probably never have met had it not been for these particular circumstances.
Bastian, the member of the government supervising the structure, climbed the stairs on the inside of the dam four by four before rushing to the edge of the structure, his gaze fixed on the sea receding further and further out to sea. "Shit, shit, shit, shit." He growled, digging into his pockets. "The wave's coming!" he shouted. "Come and get a broom if you haven't already got one. If you've got one on you, get on it and take off!"
The wave? Caroline asked herself. It made no sense, the sea was now several hundred metres away, leaving the beach bare. But when in doubt, she obeyed, taking out the shrunken broom she used to keep with her just in case, and with a flick of her wand, restored it to its normal size before taking off into the air.
No sooner had she reached a height of ten metres or so above the top of the newly-formed dam than her face turned livid. She understood what the man meant by a wave. A veritable wall of water was breaking over the beach that the sea had abandoned a few minutes earlier. She glanced at the town behind her, praying that the sea wall wouldn't give way. The wave was enormous, bigger than anything she had ever seen, easily fifteen metres high. Its grey foam-covered crest rose higher and higher.
Finally, with a deafening crash, the wave hit the sea wall, the water meeting the newly transfigured stone. All along the coastal defence, swirls of black water formed as the power of the surge met the will of every wand-wielding mage in Amsterdam.
A sigh of relief escaped her: the dam had not fallen. But in the grey eddies of the wild water, she could make out strange dark shapes twisting in all directions, pale yellow glints in the water, a horrible sensation, things were moving in there. She raised her head, staring at the north west, the place where this madness had come from. What kind of horror had been produced there? For this was far beyond what she knew natural events of wild magic to be capable of.
oOOOo
It had been over fifty years since Ilvermorny (and all the major magical enclaves on the east coast of North America) had been confined to awaiting information from the North American Inter-State Magic Council. The last time had involved part of the American magical states going to war against the armies of Grindelwalds. It all began at around midday with a violent flash of light above the horizon in the north-east, followed a few minutes later by a violent gust of wind, a slight earthquake and a wave of the most disturbing magic. Many of the artefacts designed to control the school's wards, ensure long-distance communications or all sorts of uses involving subtle interactions between runes and mechanics had at worst shattered, at best gone haywire. Not to mention the impact on some of the students.
The four seers currently studying at the school had either fainted on impact, and were still unconscious at the time, or had described visions of unspeakable horrors. Marcus hesitated for a moment before putting down on paper the rest of the report the headmistress had asked him to write as an account of that horrible day, the vision of young Sarah, a brilliant fifteen-year-old witch who, with the help of the faculty, was coping really well with her condition as a seer, convulsing on the floor, her skin white as snow, trying to claw her eyes out and her face to the point of bleeding, uttering heart-rending screams. Her words incoherent, speaking between sobs of a torn thorn, of the death of the sky, before repeating over and over again "she's waking up". Fortunately, he had managed to cast a stunning spell on her before she irreversibly injured herself.
He himself had felt a deep, inexplicable horror, as if the wave of indescribable magic that had passed through him had awoken memories that had lain dormant in the blood of his ancestors for millennia, indefinable horrors whose terror made his hand tremble, forcing him to take deep breaths before writing the next lines of his report.
Under such circumstances, he would have expected the students to resist being locked in their dormitories under the constant supervision of at least two teachers for every twenty pupils. But all were docile, even the most recalcitrant individuals, the fear reflected in their eyes crushing all defiance. Trying not to tremble, he added another note to his report: the assistance of several spirit healers or mages versed in the arts of muggle conscience would be most appreciated in the coming days to carry out a psychological assessment of the students. Hopefully, the consequences of whatever happened in the East on the children's mental health will not be permanent.
With extra care for pupils with specific magical characteristics. Not just the seers who had to be put to sleep, but also others with less developed perceptions, spirit mages and other magical minorities who are more sensitive to the flow of wild magic. For until there was proof to the contrary, he considered this to be a wild magic incident. Mostly, because he didn't dare imagine the implications of this event if it wasn't.
oOOOo
Minerva climbed the steps of the Hogwarts divination tower four at a time, worry gnawing at the back of her mind. Earlier today, Hogwarts had shaken. A deep, unfathomable scream from the caverns beneath the school, where she knew the heart of the wards to be, had sounded as the stones themselves crunched against each other, as the staircases and corridors twisted wildly. Calm had then returned, leaving most of the students stunned, all the occupants of the portraits hidden in the dark corners of their frames, refusing to speak or give any explanation of what had just happened at the castle.
Before she could come to her senses, all the decorative armour posted throughout the corridors and halls of the castle had come to life and begun to move towards the gates and ramparts and to patrol in groups of six, marching at pace. The statues had also come to life, reinforcing the army of dozens of motley figures in marble, granite and bronze. Some joined the metallic cohorts, others stood guard.
Outside, through one of the windows, she had seen the outer wards of the castle grow in power until they became visible as a translucent blue dome surrounding the whole of Hogwarts. Minerva ran to Albus's office, but found it hopelessly empty. Fawks was absent, only the clanking and hissing of his dozens of small metal artefacts disturbing the silence, the former headmasters of the school strangely absent from their portraits.
She had tried to reach Dumbledore and the Ministry urgently through the chimney, but her flames had remained glowing no matter how much floo powder she had thrown at them. As for her patronus messenger, it remained immobile, no matter how much energy she injected into it to get it to carry her message of distress. Something terrible must be happening for Hogwarts to have such a reaction before going on a level of alert beyond what she thought she knew of the ancient fortress's defensive capabilities.
It was just as her thoughts were racing through her head and she was about to call a crisis meeting of all the teachers on the school grounds that 'the thing' happened. A wave of energy from the north-east had passed through her, its power fortunately mitigated by the wards of the fortress. While the human part of her felt a powerful headache, the control of her magic slipping away for a moment, an indescribable sensation, as if something profoundly unnatural had just pierced her. The feline part of her screamed in unspeakable terror, as if for a split second, an ultimate predator had turned its attention to her, something immense and terrible bringing the weight of its monstrous consciousness to bear on her fragile existence. Reminding her of her complete insignificance.
When she regained consciousness, her throat was sore, irritated by her own screams. She had managed to get down on her hands and knees, her breath coming in short gasps, concentrating on trying not to spill the contents of her stomach onto the carpet of Albus's study.
Not that her efforts mattered, given what she'd seen when she looked up. All the mechanisms Albus liked to display were in various states of destruction. Some had just stopped, others had completely exploded, spilling the strange liquids they contained everywhere. Turning the office into a chaotic battlefield.
Even more worrying were the screams echoing throughout the rest of the castle. Some from fear, others from pain. It was with an energy she didn't know she was capable of that she dashed through the corridors, fearing the worst. Everywhere in the corridors, some students were unconscious, collapsed on the floor, others rolled in a ball on the ground sobbing, the worst of them convulsing and screaming in pain. Alexander, a Ravenclaw seventh year whom she knew as a seer, was prostrated on the ground, frantically trying to tear the skin from his hands, unable to react to her voice. A stunning spell was needed to stop him mutilating himself. The least affected seemed to be the Hufflepuffs, who chose to huddle together and clasp their hands over their ears or eyes.
Getting everyone together in the great hall, even with the help of her colleagues, had taken a bit more than an hour. Poppy had had to move her infirmary to gather the fifteen or so most seriously injured students and do her best to treat their self-inflicted wounds. Another hour later, all the students had been accounted for, and it was with immense relief (and two more counts) that she saw that no one was missing. A massive distribution of hot chocolate, biscuits, teas and herbal infusions with soothing properties had helped to calm most of the children. Pomona's help had been decisive in calming the most affected kids. As for Slytherin's pupils, they seemed to be among the most affected, especially as Severus's absence did not help; his presence, though not the most reassuring, brought discipline and strength to his house. All the more so as her keen hearing had allowed her to overhear certain Slytherins whispering about terrifying creatures and shape-shifting shadows seen in the Black Lake shortly before the event.
After a short debate within the teaching team, which she had chaired, taking over Albus' role in his absence, it was decided that lessons would be suspended and that all students would remain in the Great Hall under the supervision of the whole team until any news from outside had reached them.
It was during this exchange that Aurora pointed out Sybill's strange absence. After a few questions, it was quickly established that no-one had seen the divination teacher since the incident began. This was hardly surprising, given her reclusive nature and the difficulties of being a seer. However, this reflection did nothing to calm the terrible feeling of apprehension that sprang up in Minerva's heart at this discovery. Trying to reason with herself and persuade herself that Sybill was surely drunk again did nothing. So as soon as she was assured of the safety and supervision of all the students, she excused herself and set off in the direction of the divination room.
Her walk quickly became a race, her apprehension growing with every step. For some reason, her instincts were telling her that something terrible was at work. Once at the top of the steps, she paused for a moment to breathe, her heart pounding in her chest, not only because of the one hundred and fifty steps she had just climbed at full speed, but also because of her growing apprehension.
Once her breathing was under control, she knocked on the door. When no-one answered, she winced, her bad feeling almost tangible. She put her hand on the cold metal handle and tried to turn it... Locked... This was not Sybill's habit; she always left her door open to receive the most curious students and answer their questions, or help them.
A quick release spell on the lock did the trick, and a click echoed in the corridor. Minerva pushed open the door and stepped inside, asking in a loud voice. "Sybill! Are you all right?" A second was enough for her voice to die in her throat, a cold sweat running between her shoulder blades as a violent smell of iron and rust assailed her nostrils. She stood still, unable to move, unable to realise what she was looking at. The walls of the classroom were covered in writing. One sentence, written over and over again, in fresh blood. "I saw it I saw it I saw it I saw it..." The writing almost illegible in places.
At the bottom of one of the walls was the motionless form of Sybill, below a large drawing of what Minerva assumed to be three eyes, the central one vertical, wide open, giving off a disturbing aura. Ignoring this, she rushed to her colleague's body, kneeling beside her, praying to Merlin that she was still alive. She grabbed her by the shoulders, a first-aid stabilisation spell at the tip of her lips, but the sight of her face stopped her dead in her tracks. Sybill's eyes were wide open, dried blood forming tear tracks on her cheeks, dripping from her ears, nostrils and the corners of her mouth. She was bloodless, pulseless, breathless, dead. An expression of intense terror distorted the features of her face, frozen in death.
Unable to bear the sight any longer, she raised her head in shock, her breath coming in short gasps, her mind slowed by the horror of the situation. Sybill had not been a friend, but a colleague she had known for many years. Her agony turned to horror as her gaze fell on the fresco that Sybill seemed to have drawn in her last moments with her own blood. The pupils of the three drawn eyes had lowered, now focused on her.
oOOOo
From the hills overlooking the beach to the north of Inverness, Marie could see the extent of the damage caused by the tsunami that had hit the region the day before. The wave had not been very big, around five metres high according to the television news. But it was enough to evacuate many coastal villages. The water had receded rapidly after the disaster, leaving behind vast quantities of seaweed and kelp, like the ones she was treading on at the moment.
As far as she knew, Scotland had never experienced a tsunami of this kind, which made the government's response all the more impressive. Emergency embankments had been raised as if by a miracle along the coastline of all the coastal towns and even some of the villages. How such a thing had been possible she did not know, but she was most grateful. Without it, her family home would have joined the countless other ruins caused by the disaster. Most of them were high, smooth stone dykes that the backhoe loaders and bulldozers seemed to be having a hard time dismantling.
She took a deep breath of the iodine air, there was so much work and rebuilding to be done... The best news was that none of her family members were among the dozens of people reported missing on radio and TV.
Several specialists had been called in to explain the disaster, some talking of a violent landslide under the sea, others of a gas pocket having exploded... she didn't really know what to think, except that the strange storm that had occurred that day had been most unwelcome. Especially as she had several times thought she had seen strange shadows moving unnaturally in the darkest corners of the house or in the streets, far from the streetlights. Nothing to worry about, no doubt the result of her recent nightmares and a strange stress for which she couldn't find a reason (apart, of course, from the fact that a tsunami had hit her town).
That was the main reason for her walk. She couldn't stand being cooped up in this anxiety-inducing atmosphere. So she put on her boots and anorak and walked along the shore, returning by a path further inland, winding its way through the pastures. But she was still a long way off, her gaze lost on the grey horizon of the sea.
It was then that she caught sight of a nearby form washed up on the beach. Her heart began to race. Could it be one of the missing persons? Perhaps she was still alive and needed help! Or in the worst case, she would have to notify the authorities to give the unfortunate person's family a body to bury. In any case, she had to get closer to find out if this person could be saved.
Once she was about thirty metres away, she stopped running. Slowing down to a walk. The person, no, the creature, although it looked human from a distance when she squinted her eyes, was much bigger than she thought. Once she was about twenty metres away she stopped, too uncomfortable to continue. The thing was quite different from anything she had seen before. It was a human torso covered in grey fur, the whole bottom ripped off, viscera staining the sand with blood. Too many long, skinny arms with far too many chaotic joints were attached to it in an incongruous and disgusting manner. Its disproportionate head was the face in the sand, the ... corpse? Of the motionless creature.
She took a step backwards, her discomfort turning to fear, her imagination seething. Was it a genetically modified creature that escaped from a laboratory? A victim of intense radiation? Fear turned to dread as she looked up and saw that the beach was covered with dozens of similar grotesque washed-up forms. What... She didn't have time to ponder the reason for this horror any longer, because a movement caught her attention. The thing closest to her, the one she thought was dead, had turned its head in her direction. But instead of a dead face, bloated from drowning, what the creature was wearing was the same thing she had seen that very morning in the mirror. Her own face, staring back at her, expressionless.
Marie turned and ran, never in her life having run faster than she did today.
oOOOo
"Do you feel ready?" Hermione asked, placing a hand on her shoulder and squeezing affectionately as she placed the comb on the dressing table facing her.
"I think I'll be fine, as long as I can withdraw if it turns out to be too much for me." Aster replied, looking at her... girlfriend? In the mirror on the cabinet. Thinking of Hermione in that way was strange, it wasn't as if their relationship had changed. The only noticeable differences were that Hermione was more open to cuddles than before and insisted on at least one kiss a day, both of which suited her, really. Kissing Hermione was a most pleasurable discovery, she would never have guessed it was such a sweet act before, and cuddles, after her time in Azkaban were something she couldn't get enough of them. What a relief it was to know that the abominable prison had been wiped off the map, and most of its prisoners sent to Ulthar, their files stolen from the DMLE so that they could be retried. From what she had been told by Micha, the royal doctor Samarillis had insisted on assigning to her.
After her rescue from Azkaban, and an evening she would surely never forget in Hermione's arms, the next morning Hermione had taken her to their little house in Ulthar. Aster had been most pleased that her past self had taken the trouble to create a portal between their English country house and their town house in Ulthar. The thing wasn't the most practical because of its enormous need for magic to work, and the time that had to be left between each use to prevent the delicate tiny runes making it up from overheating, but to get her to Ulthar in her terrible weakened state after far too long in Azkaban, the portal had been the greatest help.
Apparently, a battery of matagon doctors had wanted to be assigned to her case, but Samarillis and Micha had remained firm. During the week it had taken her to slowly get back on her feet, the number of visitors had been kept to a minimum. The only exceptions were Hermione, Severus, Micha, Samarillis, Nepeta, Nailla and Ethan. All in all, quite a few people.
Ethan had only come twice to brief Aster on the outcome of the assault on Azkaban and the state of the Order of the Asphodel in her absence. In the first case, Aster had been most discouraged to learn that eleven members of the Order had died during the onslaught. She only knew three of them personally, having come across them during her visits to the Order's enclaves. The others were strangers, people who had sacrificed their lives to free her and to bring down one of the greatest symbols of the oppression of the British magical government. She wasn't sure that these reasons were worth their deaths. But it was too late, their souls had already been dragged to the edges and beyond, prey to the predators there, or were about to dissolve in the maelstrom of pure magic that lay deep in these unspeakable lands...
The matagots had also suffered some losses, with five of their warriors dying in the battle. Fortunately for peace in Europe, none of the veela who came to rescue their sisters from this infamous prison died, because otherwise, Aster knew that Hymgaabal would have used this as a cassus belli to declare war on Great Britain and blow up the secrecy statute at the same time. No anti-Staturian power was yet ready for this. Aster already felt terrible about the deaths of the members of her order, she didn't feel capable of pushing her small organisation into the conflict, knowing that she would be responsible for more deaths among those she considered her own would break her irreparably.
After Ethan had left, she and Hermione had talked about it, Hermione being surprised by this because Aster had killed many of the mages who had attacked her and Anna in cold blood. She had then explained that it was not the same thing, that these people had attacked to kill, that she had had no choice. This justification, however, sounded weak to her own ears. Hermione had not insisted, much to Aster's relief. What could she say to her... girlfriend... (hell, it's strange to think of Hermione by that term.) that she couldn't justify it rationally? That she thought the merciless slaughter of dozens of her attackers was normal, but that the death of one member of her order twisted her heart and made her throat hurt, so aberrant did she find the notion?
The second case had been much more positive, a relief really. The fact that the Order of the Asphodel remained united even in her absence proved that the council formed to lead it had more than just a facade of authority and did not rely solely on her. What's more, the fact that so many resources were deployed to free her while keeping the Order's existence secret from the Ministry of Magic demonstrated a resilience and loyalty that she had never imagined. The Order had grown. And to think that in the beginning it was just a small, illegal group of vampires linked only by the aura that the name Karrasinqi gave her.
Having Severus at her bedside for a surprisingly long part of the week had been strange. He had spent most of his time in an armchair, reading, writing and answering his correspondence in silence. The longest exchange she'd had with him was about using Magecraft in potion making to infuse particular magical effects at certain points in the brewing process. Perhaps this was the key to piercing Severus's mask of indifference: academic discussions. Something told Aster that Severus would really enjoy having tea with Kav-deb. Once she'd found a way of reconnecting with him via the edges or the passage of a Fahri caravan, she'd have to put the idea to him...
Unfortunately, neither of these options would be available in a reasonable time. Since the application of the statute, the Fahri caravans had reduced the frequency of their visits to a minimum. Anna had been lucky to be able to take her to see Tùche... As for the edges, she found herself unable to open a portal there, without a map the journey would become too dangerous, and the fact that she hadn't heard from Sonya indicated that her little misunderstanding with the birthless had still not been resolved... Let's hope Sonya is all right. Kav-deb had said it was silly to worry about the entity's health, but there was nothing Aster could do about it.
Nepeta and Nailla's visit had been an excellent surprise. The two ladies had been very worried to learn the whole story of Azkaban and had come to spend an afternoon with her having tea. Well, hot milk with honey, spices and catnip cakes, which she knew the matagots were crazy about. It had to be said that the sweetness of the milk and honey with the heat and piquancy of the spices was particularly delicious. Especially when served in small crystal glasses from a tall silver teapot adorned with floral bas-reliefs. (It had been amusing to see Hermione discover a new passion for catnip pastries. )
As for Sirius, he had spent the week in his Grimm form, hiding under the bed when Severus was present for one reason or another, evading him completely, the rest of the time lying at the foot of the bed, or asking for scratches... She was curious to see to what extent the form taken by her godfather influenced his behaviour. In any case, a week spent warm and well fed had done him a world of good. He'd gone from a sickly, flea-bitten street dog to a proud, glossy Grimm. One question remained, however: how to tell Hermione that she had decided to adopt a godfather?
One of the best moments of the week had been when Severus had brought her back all her personal belongings stolen by the Ministry during her incarceration. She had not let go of her ivory staff for several long hours that day. Inspecting it from every angle to see if the Ministerial scoundrels had damaged it. Fortunately, nothing had been harmed. The artefact's Eldritch aura must surely have delayed any attempt to dissect the precious staff.
When at last Micha decided to release her, announcing her recovery as complete as possible under the circumstances, she, Hermione and Sirius returned to their English country house where they spent two days resting. (Aster discovered that if she wasn't hugging Hermione at night, terrible nightmares haunted her. Making her feel as if she were back in that small, cold, damp cell, her sanity slowly eroding as the hunger grew, consuming her whole being. )
In short, it had been exactly nine days since she had been released from Azkaban. And today had been the first Council of the Order of the Asphodel that she had been able to attend for far too long. At first, everything went smoothly, the subjects on the agenda flowing smoothly, the Order's business going rather well, their strengthened links with Ulthar, Hymgaabal and Svorak's Hanseatic League offering more than juicy trade. That is, until Ethan stood up and calmly announced that Aster's presence would be required at tonight's party to celebrate the destruction of Azkaban, the release of the imprisoned veela, her own liberation and her return to health.
This explained her current situation. Sitting on a small stool opposite a dressing table, with Hermione busy braiding her hair. In the cabin of one of the largest passenger airships in Sorak's Hanseatic League. All those involved in the assault on Azkaban, the diplomatic diversion and everything else that had gone into the destruction of Azkaban had been invited. As the primary reason for the mobilisation of all these forces, and the founder of the Order of the Asphodel, she was of course among the guests of honour. Hermione had therefore insisted heavily on making her as presentable as possible.
To honour the Order and their allies, and with the advice of Samarillis, Severus and Hermione, she had dressed in a blue silk tunic with silver embroidered edges and a V-neck ending in a fastening of five elegant silver buttons. A thick dark leather belt with a buckle fastened the tunic around her waist, over a pair of hard-wearing dark grey canvas trousers. On top of this was a few pieces of matagon armour, discreet and light enough not to bother her, but strong and finely crafted, a symbol of her links with Ulthar. The whole thing was surprisingly comfortable, the fabric soft and warm and smelling of lavender. Dressing in a mixture of the traditions of each of the cultures present had been a headache, but an effort she felt was necessary.
Hermione, for her part, wore a long, calf-length dress of dark crimson wool with borders embroidered with arabesques of bronze thread. A clear metal breastplate engraved with low plant reliefs as well as heraldic and Matagon symbols took on the role that a corset would traditionally have had for this type of dress. Dressed like this, her hair tied up in a high elegant bun, despite the fact that she was only fourteen, Hermione looked formidable. And she should. The successful assault on Azkaban under her command had made her look like a warlady to the Order and their allies, rather than just Aster's mysterious advisor. Frankly, even if she wasn't ready to admit it within earshot of Hermione, Aster felt reassured that Hermione had taken on a more important role within the Order. Before she had been captured and sentenced to Azkaban, managing the band of crazed maniacs she had gathered under the banner of Asphodel had weighed on her more than she had admitted.
Hermione's voice drew her out of her thoughts. "Voilà! I've finished your braid. What do you think?"
Aster raised her head, throwing Hermione a smile through the mirror before inspecting her girlfriend's work. The braid was perfect, well shaped, tight... since when was Hermione a braid pro? "It's perfect. Thank you very much." she said. In the mirror, her gaze fell on the thin vertical pinkish line in the middle of her forehead, running from just above her nose to just below the start of her hair... She traced it with her finger, her skin supple, perhaps a little more sensitive here than elsewhere, but nothing abnormal, the bone of her skull firm under her skin, no trace of the eye that Hermione had described to her as being open in the middle of her forehead apart from that thin line, almost imperceptible if you didn't pay attention.
"I'm worried, Aster." Hermione sighed. "You really don't feel anything strange or peculiar about your magic?"
Aster shook her head no. That day, after accepting Lagaelis' offer, she had fallen asleep, only to wake up in the safety of Hermione's arms, exhausted, her whole body aching. But since then... "No, nothing, and that worries me. It's true that I haven't had much contact with Lagaelis since Kav-deb bound me to its power, but after something like this, I would have expected to hear from it again sooner. But there was no sign of it at all. Perhaps I should experiment with a little black magic to get a feel for the changes."
"Aster! Micha said to limit any use of magic until you've fully recovered. Your imprisonment has had terrible effects on your body and your magic... Perhaps... how does your arm feel?"
Aster rolled up the sleeve of her tunic and glanced at her new arm, a 'gift' from her patron. Black, covered in fine scales, each of her fingers ending in fine claws harder and sharper than steel, only its shape was human. She closed and opened her hand a few times, feeling the tendons in her fingers and muscles move under the scaly skin. "Surprisingly normal. Apart from its appearance, its strength and... the claws. It was as if I'd always had it. My magic flows through it normally, I feel no resistance..."
"I don't like it." Hermione said.
"Hm?" Aster glanced curiously at Hermione in the mirror.
"Lagaelis, leaves you alone for years, then suddenly takes advantage of a desperate situation to get you to accept their offer, possesses your body, uses it to manifest an instance of themselves in the material plane, 'devours' Azkaban, then disappears without further explanation. I hate the way it leaves us in the dark."
Aster gritted her teeth. "Hermione, there's nothing we can do about it. The next time it shows up one way or another we'll press it for answers. But there's no guarantee that we'll get anything. Entities of this type are the closest thing we have to divinities, we can't force them to do anything.
"If there's nothing we can do, we might as well go and change our minds. I think we're late enough as it is. It's time to join the party.
"You're right, let's go." Aster said with a slight smile as she rose from her seat. She grabbed the ceremonial short sword that Samarillis had given her for the occasion and strapped it to her waist. It was a fine silver blade, far from perfect for combat, its delicate appearance being more for sight than for cutting. Hermione did the same with hers. She adjusted her tunic one last time and opened the cabin door. An idea crossed her mind. She made an elegant little bow holding the door open for Hermione. Hermione's cheeks flushed as she stammered out a thank you. Phase one of the " annoy Hermione " plan accomplished and now... As Hermione had just come out, and Aster had just finished closing the door, she hurried just enough to get to her girlfriend's side and grabbed her shoulder. "Hermione, I've got a secret to tell you."
Her eyes widened. " Is everything all right, Aster? "
She merely nodded and motioned for her to lean down, her small size preventing her from reaching her goal. Instead of whispering the "secret" in her ear, she activated phase two of her Machiavellian plan. She placed her hand on Hermione's cheek to draw her closer and, quick as a flash, placed a kiss on her lips before running off with a devilish laugh. She could hear Hermione's footsteps behind her in pursuit. "Come back here! You... You... You little brat!"
…
"Shh, it's okay. It's over." She heard Hermione's voice say, one of her hands stroking her back.
"A speech, they made me improvise a bloody speech." Aster grumbled as she buried her face deeper into Hermione's robes, too tired to sit on the seat of the cycloplane with even an ounce of elegance.
"You did very well, you should be proud of yourself. Didn't you hear the applause at the end?"
"It's ridiculous, I was locked in my cell the whole time and I get applauded..." Aster preferred to keep her eyes closed for the moment, the darkness and the gentle hum of the little cycloplane's wings calming her somewhat.
"They don't know about Lagaelis, the rumour has spread that it was you who summoned something to destroy the prison."
A shiver of horror ran down Aster's spine, of course it would be perceived that way. And she couldn't openly admit to having made a pact with an extra-planar entity, the terms of which could not have been more vague... If the fact that she had been in control of absolutely nothing to do with the destruction of Azkaban became known, there would be panic, and she would lose all forms of authority and control over an organisation too large for such an upheaval not to have abominable consequences. The speech was the final highlight of the evening, sealing her decision to flee. But before that, the moment had been bearable, even pleasant at times. Her meeting with many of the most powerful guild masters in the Hanseatic League of Svorak had been trying, to say the least. Interesting, and she had honestly enjoyed meeting some of them, like Mistress Ilda Minkov, Mistress of the Union of Runic Arts Guilds. But talking for an hour and a half about techniques, magical theory, trade and diplomacy had left her on edge.
Discovering that Ethan and Mimosa were now together had made her feel very strange. Those two had always got on well together, but she hadn't imagined that it would be to this extent. She then went to say hello to various other members of the Order, Matagots, and to make the acquaintance of important figures among the veela present. Hermione, for her part, had stayed to talk more with Ethan and Mimosa, something to do with the consequences of the attack on Azkaban on the organisation of the Order.
A little later they were joined at the table by Samarillis, Nepeta, Nailla, Severus, and a certain Sarah Malbois, who nearly gave her a heart attack. Which, frankly, is the limit for a vampire. But could she really have reacted differently to the face she had last seen as she fled her burning house with mages at her heels and the soul of her dead mother in a vial clutched to her chest... Even if the said veela had let her go, seeing her here again had been a shock. Even more so when she saw Severus smiling at her! Severus, smile! Incredible...
Then came the moment when the speeches began. First Samarillis, then one of the Hansian guild leaders who had apparently been on board one of the warships, then Hermione. Aster had been impressed by Hermione's speech, and had simply listened while sipping her glass of blackcurrant syrup. Then, by mutual agreement, three quarters of the guests decided her fate, and she was pushed onto the deserted dance floor, with no idea of what to say... She had improvised as best she could, making the shortest of it... until she felt the general mood was positive enough to accept her descent from the balustrade.
She then discreetly slipped away to find Hermione and quickly collapsed into her arms. Begging her to take her away, somewhere quiet. Three minutes later, they were both in a cycloplane heading for Ulthar's airport.
"You know, you kissed me once before you ended up in Azkaban." Hermione said thoughtfully.
"Really?" asked Aster, surprised. Yet the change in her relationship with Hermione was very recent. Before, it wasn't even something she had considered.
"Yes, I had just given you the idea of using the wards to locate the stone when you kissed me before you ran away."
Aster blinked, straightening, now on all fours on the seat of the cycloplane, a series of memories coming back to her mind. "I... that was the first time wasn't it?"
"And you'd forgotten about it, you idiot, I wondered for weeks about the meaning of that act while you moved on... unbelievable..."
"I'm sorry..."
Hermione didn't give her time to start blaming herself, grabbing her by the chin to give her a quick kiss. Light, almost imperceptible. Aster stood still, speechless. "You know, if you hadn't kissed me that day, I probably wouldn't have been able to step back and reflect on my own feelings enough to accept our new relationship."
"I'm glad I did, then," Aster smiled before sitting down on Hermione's lap, the top of her head coming up just under Hermione's chin.
"And I'm glad I didn't panic. You know, I..." Hermione was interrupted by a sudden green light shining through one of Aster's tunic pockets.
"What is it?" She said, pulling out the object that had just materialised in her previously empty pocket. She held the object up to the light of the cycloplane's small lantern to observe it. It was a letter, a slightly browned paper envelope sealed with a green wax seal devoid of any form of symbol, the paper of the envelope devoid of any writing.
"It's the letter Amaranthe gave you on that bloody visit to Ulthar, the creepy black mage! What's it doing in your pocket?"
"I'd tried everything to open it and used all my methods to check that it was dangerous, without any convincing results... I remember putting it in a drawer..." After a few seconds, Aster added. "Do you think I should try opening it again?"
"I don't know, it's pretty suspicious..." Hermione was interrupted by a sharp clacking sound, the seal on the letter having just broken of its own accord.