To say that Cornelius was sweating profusely would be an understatement. As he strode through the corridors of Buckingham Palace, his mind was elsewhere. Since the beginning of his mandate, he had only met the Queen once, a few days after his election, to reaffirm the agreement and treaties between the muggle world and the wizarding world, guaranteeing the protection of one in exchange for the concealment of the other. These treaties had already been undermined three times. During Grindelwald's war, the Great Purges and Voldemort's reign of terror. Each time, the revision of these treaties had been narrowly avoided, without the cooperation of at least some of the Muggle political institutions, maintaining the status of secrecy would have been impossible, and three times already, the magical world had almost failed to keep its part of the bargain.
So it was with a layer of cold sweat that Cornelius wiped feverishly from his brow that he responded to the Queen's summons regarding the events that had shaken Europe and the east coast of the United States a few days ago. He felt as if he were in a waking nightmare: Azkaban, the safest prison in Europe and one of the prides of magical Britain, had been wiped off the map overnight without a single culprit being identified. He could have blamed the infamous veela who had decided to continue their harassment on that very day, but that would draw public attention to the events of the Great Purges, and he couldn't afford to do that under normal circumstances, so what could he do in such a time of crisis?
It was true that a decent level of detestation was maintained towards the veela engeance, but everything indicated that nowadays, nobody not linked to blood extremism would consider what the veela called genocide as something acceptable.
He didn't have time to think any longer about how to get out of this most delicate of situations. He glanced at the auror following him, two steps behind him. A tall, well-built man with a stoic face, and his secretary Lewis, a small, sickly, efficient but impressionable fellow. Not the person he would have chosen to accompany him if he'd had more than ten minutes to prepare.
He readjusted his black and white three-piece suit, tightened the knot in his tie, combed his hair and took a step towards the huge light-coloured wooden double door. The two royal guards posted on either side of the door gave him a customary salute before one of them pressed a discreet switch to open the door. He couldn't feel it, but he knew that the throne room was one of the most protected places in England, against both muggle technology and magic. He had no doubt that at least one of the two guards at the door was a battle mage. It was one of the rare exceptions to the status of secrecy. The most powerful families, as well as certain governments, had retained certain institutions that allowed them to train elite mages to defend them. The existence of "royal mages", as they are called in England, was the only reason why Voldemort had not succeeded in placing all people of Muggle powers under imperius, and why Grindelwald had failed in his plan to bring down England from within.
When he saw the inside of the throne room, Cornelius swallowed. Not because of the impressive wealth and beauty of the place, with its walls covered in red draperies, its carved gilding reflecting the light coming from dozens of crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. Nor even by the ten royal guards posted on either side of the long red carpet leading from the door to the throne. No, the dread he felt was entirely due to the expression of cold fury he saw etched on the face of Elizabeth II, Queen of England.
It was only when he heard the Queen's imperious voice say "Step forward" that he realised he had frozen in place under the pressure of her gaze. Trying not to tremble, he moved forward until he was no more than ten metres from the throne before kneeling down.
"Raise your head, Mr Fudge, Minister of Magic". Said a voice colder than a winter's dawn.
"My queen." He said, trying not to stammer. "You summoned me."
The Queen stared at him for a moment before saying. "In 1692, when James II, then King of England, agreed to give his blessing to the separation of magical and mundane affairs, the terms of the agreement were clear. The common people would agree to no longer benefit from what magic had to offer, on condition that ignorance protected them from the dangers inherent in its existence. This decision led to a most terrible war, a war we waged in the firm belief that this separation would be for the common good, and would finally allow mages and common folk to live together in peace. Tell me, Mr Fudge, have these sacrifices really brought peace to the world? Because for almost a century you seemed determined to prove the contrary."
"My Queen, we assure you that we are doing our utmost..."
"Silence! First of all, the affairs of the magical world were largely responsible for the expansion of the Great War. Then, barely twenty years later, Grindelwald brought the Nazi regime to power and waged a shadow war on Germany's side. A decade later, unbeknownst to the royalty, a genocide took place on our land, with your people massacring all the members of one of your specific magical ethnic groups throughout Great Britain! Three times, I have personally suffered assassination attempts by your latest dark lord. And now I learn that your prison, which ignores the human rights you've kept from us for centuries, is exploding! Thousands of people are in emergency camps waiting to be rehoused, their homes destroyed by the tsunami YOU caused. Monstrous creatures from the sea are attacking the population, abominations haunt the streets of the cities that the existence of the statute was supposed to protect! Now, speak!"
"My Queen, the magical side of our country has entered a state of crisis, all the Ministry's employees are at this very moment doing everything they can to eliminate the threat caused by the destruction of the prison, while the head of our Department of Magical Law Enforcement and the most powerful mage in the country have gone to the scene of the tragedy to investigate. We don't yet know the cause of the explosion, but hope to find out soon."
"You don't know..."
Cornelius swallowed. "No, my Queen, Azkaban is a very old fortress that once belonged to a powerful Dark Mage. Our current theory is that one of his dastardly creations went undetected until it caused the incident we witnessed."
Elizabeth II stared at him, wide-eyed, without saying a word. Cornelius took this as an invitation to defend himself and continued. "We have been in contact with all the magical nations affected by the accident and are in the process of negotiating repairs, all of which will soon return to normal. This was an unfortunate accident that will not happen again, I assure you."
"Minister Fudge, the Ministry of Magic and its failures had already stretched my patience to the limit. The next time there is an incident due to the negligence of the Ministry of Magic, the next time there is an occurrence in which a member of the public is the victim of your negligence, you will have demonstrated the ineffectiveness of the Statute of Secrecy and can kiss all our treaties goodbye! Now get out of my sight!"
"I..." began Cornelius, but he thought better of it, biting his tongue. "Very well, my Queen, we will do everything in our power." He said before bowing one last time and leaving the throne room as fast as he could without running.
Once he heard the doors of the great hall close, and was out of earshot of the guards, he let out a deep sigh of frustration, anger and... fear. "Doesn't she realise what she's asking for?" he said to Lewis, without really expecting an answer. "We're not all-powerful! We don't control everything! We're not responsible for the individual choices of every magical creature that might attack a muggle! Lewis, did you take notes?"
"Yes Minister."
"Good, the wizengamot must be made aware of this as soon as possible! Drastic measures must be taken."
oOOOo
At the same time, high above the North Sea.
It had been a long time since Albus had ridden a broom. It had to be said that for his daily travels, using the network of chimneys or the Ministry's private transport had been more than enough. So it was with some discomfort, and the fact that he had not fought more valiantly against the ban on flying carpets added to his long list of regrets, that he flew over the North Sea.
The sky was covered by an immense blanket of uniform clouds, and the haze around him could have persuaded him that colour had disappeared from the world if the red and purple of his scarf hadn't constantly reminded him otherwise. The grey waters and white crests of countless waves spun below him and the icy wind bit at the small part of his face that he hadn't covered with his scarf. By God, when he got back, he'd thank Minerva for convincing him to wrap himself up in that thick fur coat which looked quite unflattering. The smells of cold and salt were strong, but there was also a whiff of some dreadful magic he didn't dare name in the air, growing stronger the closer he and Amelia got to their destination. He could almost taste it on the tip of his tongue, a slight metallic acidity, like a barely perceptible aftertaste behind that of sea iodine.
Not far away, to his right, Amelia was flying at full speed, leaning forward on her broom, her face grey and emaciated, her features drawn, heavy dark bags under her eyes. It was almost reassuring to see that he was backed up by someone who took the threat just as seriously as he did. Cornelius could shout from the rooftops that it was an accident, that it was an unfortunate but isolated event. Albus agreed that Azkban had been an insult to human rights. Allowing dementors to proliferate was an affront to the order of the universe itself. The death of all the prisoners was most regrettable, but for the vast majority it must have been more of a deliverance than anything else, prolonged exposure to the Dementors' aura being described as worse than death. Only the rare individuals with an unshakeable personality could stand up to them over the long term.
In short, perhaps this catastrophe would do more good than harm in the end. But Albus disagreed with Cornelius about the reason for all this. As far as he was concerned, this was no accident. Azkaban may have been on leylines, but they were stable, and nothing on the island could have caused what he had felt. There must have been an outside intervention. It couldn't have been any other way. But from whom? And why? It's true that this prison had a great many detractors all over Europe, but none of these groups was powerful enough to muster the necessary force to wreak such havoc in one of the most inaccessible and best-defended places in the world.
Since the disappearance of Aster, killed by her uncle, (oh how he blamed himself for not having been able to do anything to prevent it) things had been happening in the shadows. Things much larger than that, of which he feared Grindelwald and Voldemort were only symptoms. The fiasco of the attack on Anna Karrasinqi and the traces of daemonic incursion had only been further proof. He doubted that seeing the site of the Azkaban disaster with his own eyes would put him on the trail of the culprit or culprits, but he hoped at least to glean some clues, if only as to the magnitude of what was going on.
As his broom flew over the grey waters, he felt increasingly uneasy. His heart was racing in his chest, shivers running down his spine. An aura of wild, unhealthy magic grew denser as they approached. As if sensitive to the state of the surrounding magic, the sea swelled, its waves reaching impressive heights, their crests of white foam reminding him of the ivory teeth of monstrous jaws. His horror only increased when Albus realised that he had no idea where this thought, so foreign to his mind, had come from. "Amelia! Let's gain some altitude!" he shouted to his companion. She nodded, her worried gaze telling him that he was not the only one to feel this disturbing aura.
A greyish haze with purplish tints had risen over the turbulent sea, with only the crests of the highest waves protruding above it, along with high peaks of sharp obsidian. Like great black towers standing out against the grey sky, or great fangs protruding from the jawbone of an antediluvian titan's corpse. From time to time, he would catch fleeting glimpses of light below him in this morbid molasses of water and fog, and large, undulating shadows with diffuse outlines. At that moment, his wrinkled old hands clenched on the handle of his broom, he felt small, insignificant. A sensation that reminded him of the horror he had felt when he had called upon the unholy power that had enabled him to finally defeat Grindelwald at the end of their duel so many years ago. No one had witnessed the moment, but the duel was described as the most heroic and grandiose battle between two mages of the 20th century. There was much speculation as to how he had brilliantly ended the duel. All false. None of them even came close to the horror of what he had had to do, of what he had had to conjure up and renounce his principles to succeed in defeating his former lover. Nor the price he had to pay. The source of his greatest horror at his current situation was not the presence of this awful sensation, but the fact that he was feeling it even though it had been days since the catastrophe had taken place, his mind unable to form an image, or even a hypothesis of what might have happened in this place.
"Albus! Straight ahead! We're here!" Amelia shouted, the sound of her voice pulling him out of the dark spiral his thoughts were pulling him into. He swallowed, his eyes wide, just a few hundred metres away was the biggest maelstrom he had ever seen. A titanic whirlpool of water varying from grey to black, as well as white foam, which seemed to plunge right down to the ocean floor. Cyclopean pillars of obsidian emerged from the maelstrom, giving it an appearance reminiscent of the gaping maw of a wyrm of aberrant proportions. As if swept along by the waves, the magic too swirled around in vortexes of wild power, aimlessly, as if... Albus swallowed. The place hadn't just been destroyed, something had been torn from the earth's crust itself. Something with an appearance, size and power that defied reason. Here, the supernatural cold was becoming almost unbearable, despite his heat spells, the smell of iodine that had prevailed until now surpassed by that of the rust of rotting, corrupted blood. What he knew of the history of Azkaban came back to him at that moment. An ancient fortress belonging to one of the most abominable dark mages in history, found after his death, when the spells of concealment hiding the island had worn off. Giving the world one of the most abominable sights it had ever seen.
The place was crawling with dementors, five of the seven exploration teams never returned, and all the lower levels were sealed off and never explored. Which was considered a good thing, given the horrors and abominations discovered in the upper levels. Torture chambers, horribly transformed skeletons, monsters and artificial chimeras among the worst ever encountered. A nest of a dozen marrow-sucking dragons... and that was just to mention the things that the Ministry at the time had seen fit to keep, the rest having been deemed too abominable to be retained in the archives, however private and controlled they might be. The Department of Mysteries was even expressly forbidden to touch Azkaban in any way, and given the latitude the Ministry allowed its secret magical research projects, that was no small thing. For more than a century, Azkaban was abandoned to its fate, until the defeat of the Dark Lord Balthazar Octavius Barnabas led to overcrowding in Britain's prisons, and the abolition of the death penalty led to a search for new sentences for the worst criminals.
That Azkaban should turn out to have been much more than the hideout of one of the most abominable black mages in history, given the paucity of information and the lack of in-depth exploration of it, made a disturbing amount of sense. He couldn't help wondering what other abominable secrets the British islands harboured?
He and Amelia split up to walk around the maelstrom, hoping to find anything that had withstood the cataclysm. He didn't have high hopes on the subject, but why not, even if it meant suffering the displacement, he might as well try to make the most of it, even if every second spent in this cursed place weighed a little more on his mental health.
As he circled one of the terrifying obsidian spikes studding the interior and periphery of the maelstrom, wondering how such a thing could have formed, he noticed Amelia flying at full speed in his direction. "Albus!" she shouted. He pulled out his wand, alert, did the young woman have any horror that had survived?
"Albus! On a fold of the obsidian spine down there, there's a..." she paused, her already pale face now waxy. The hesitation was clear on her face. Whatever she was about to say, she was obviously not sure of the correctness of the term used. "There is a... surviving... witness."
Albus felt his eyebrows rise so high on his forehead that they almost reached his hairline. "What are you saying? It's impossible."
"Follow me," she replied and sped off on her broom in the direction of one of the obsidian peaks. About sixty metres above the tumultuous waves, there was a ledge, a strange crevice in the black rock. Albus glanced at Amelia, who looked horrified but determined, and she nodded, gesturing to the spot.
He landed as gently as the strong winds would allow. When his feet touched the ground, a wave of unease hit him, as if being in direct contact with anything to do with what was below Azkaban carried an echo of the abomination. His attention was then drawn to the sound of a voice, or a moan, he couldn't tell, not far away. He took out his wand, a spell on the edge of his lips, and stepped forward. There, a few metres away, half-buried under broken pieces of obsidian, was a monster. A vaguely human-looking creature, its white skin a cross between that of an amphibian and that of a fish, three long skinny arms made up of seven articulated sections each moved slowly, writhing on the ground in a horrible way. They were attached to a long tubular torso, a disgusting, parodic imitation of the human form, and above it, a misshapen, disproportionate head. Its face was flat and smooth, opening only to a huge mouth with human teeth and two glassy eyes fixed on the clouds hiding the sky. What kind of horror could have happened in Azkaban that he didn't know about for such a thing to exist?
His mouth was constantly emitting a series of strange sounds, and he realised with astonishment that what he had taken for moans were in fact the words of an unknown language. He didn't recognise anything the thing was saying so tempted as he was to make sense of it. As far as he knew, no human language used this kind of sound, hissing and clacking sounds that were impossible to imitate, strung together incongruously between dissonant tones. One "word" kept coming back, however, and the thing kept repeating "lagaelis" every few sounds, its ugly face staring up at the sky, unaware of its existence. With a flash of magic, he put an end to the degenerate beast's suffering, its awful sound still ringing in his ears as its lifeless limbs collapsed heavily.
He remained silent throughout the return journey, his mind returning again and again to the creature's incomprehensible gibberish, and to that word, "lagaelis". It was a word that evoked nothing but fear and horror in him, without him being able to place its meaning, or even remember where he had seen or heard it in the past.
That evening, he locked himself in his study and took out all his books containing the most occult secrets of magic he knew, with only one term in mind, "lagaelis". With each new page he turned, his certainty and fear grew. Something far more serious and far greater than the simple destruction of Azkaban had happened, and that word had to do with the facts. The only comfort he took from all of this was the knowledge that the abomination who had killed Aster and taken her place to infiltrate his school had definitely died with the prison.
oOOOo
Heavy dark clouds rolled over the horizon, far to the north, their orange outlines illuminated by the last light of the setting sun. Occasionally, a brilliant flash of lightning flashed across them from within, briefly revealing the contours and details of their wind-sculpted mass. No thunder followed, the silence of that warm spring evening unperturbed. Hermione's attention was then snatched from her contemplation of the evening sky by a familiar hoarse mewing. Crookshanks was trotting across the grass in the garden of their little English house, his coat dishevelled, his pink tongue occasionally licking the tip of his squashed muzzle.
"Mroow," he meowed, before jumping onto the windowsill and into her arms.
"You really need to be brushed." Hermione sighed as she ran her fingers through her little tiger's fur before closing the window then drawing the thick ochre fabric curtains for the night. "Go on, go on! Aster has served you your snack". she said as she set him down on the floor. Crookshanks meowed again, his fluffy tail proudly raised, its tip curved, and ran off without further ado in the direction of his bowls with an elegant step.
"You're weak with that cat." She heard Aster say in a giggling voice.
"As if you could talk! You're the one who's been feeding him snacks every other night and who spent two hours brushing him the day before yesterday! She said in a falsely outraged tone as she turned to her girlfriend.
She was sitting cross-legged on the wide oak and dark green sofa facing the large fireplace in which a wood fire was gently crackling, its dancing lights casting an orange glow over Aster's face, making her amused expression even more adorable. She was wrapped in... at least three blankets, maybe four, a large mug of hot chocolate close at hand, and an old grimoire with a dark leather cover and yellowed parchment pages on her lap. "If you took better care of your cat, I wouldn't have to worry about it." She grumbled without looking up from her book.
"You're hurting me. Crookshanks is a happy cat and well behaved with me." She said as she went into the kitchen to take the kettle off the fire and pour herself a cup of lemon balm tea with a spoonful of honey. Aster mumbled something in reply, but from this room and with the sound of the hot water, she didn't hear, and made no effort to overhear. Aster owed her some answers, and jibber-jabbering about Crookshanks was not going to help her have a serious discussion.
Once her herbal tea was ready, she picked up her evening book, "Journey of a Witch in Germany", a rather light read, somewhere between a life story and an adventure novel, recounting Alicia Marnet's journey to sort out the truth from the gossip among the legends and magical bestiary of Germany. Not to be confused with her morning and midday readings, the latter being much more serious, and it was better not to admit to the existence of her insomnia reading. If Aster ever found out about her taste in romance novels or sultry stories, she would never recover.
She took off her slippers and sat down against Aster on the sofa, who had stopped on a complex diagram of magecraft in classical yujul, her cup of hot chocolate held in both hands against her chest, from which she took a sip from time to time.
Once settled, Hermione glanced towards the window. "Aster, do you think the influence of what Lagaelis did will wear off soon? It's been two weeks, and the weather's still crazy."
Aster looked up from her book and took a few moments to think, her gaze lost in the glowing embers. "I don't know exactly, but I imagine that for the residual magic of opening a dimensional rift of this magnitude to wear off, it will take another week or two. Maybe a month before things return completely to normal... so long as no part of the alteration is permanent." She said thoughtfully.
"I hope it calms down quickly. When I went to have tea at Madame Louise's, she and I discussed the storm and the tsunami. Apparently the Muggle authorities are in a panic. There are theories that it could be the testing of a new weapon gone wrong, or the explosion of a secret laboratory." Hermione said before taking a sip of herbal tea.
"Lagaelis didn't pull any punches." Aster groaned, tracing the thin soft pink line visible in the middle of her forehead with the pads of two of her clawed fingers of her strange black arm.
"At least the Ministry is in enough trouble to have completely forgotten about the Philosopher's Stone's theft case. Ethan tells me that the Asphodel is taking advantage of the chaos to make big profits by investing in reconstruction and taking advantage of the Ministry's inattention to expand our activities. He's planning to open a fully legal hospital at Boggart Hole Clough in Manchester."
"Well, sooner or later we had to get a foothold in legality and diversify our activities, thus making us harder to uproot." Aster says with a toothy grin at the corner of her lips.
"What will Asphodel do next? Have you had time to think about it?" Hermione asked, curious. Aster's reaction was most intriguing. As if one of her innumerable plans was progressing pleasantly.
"Oh, nothing too remarkable. Just getting some of our people into the Ministry. Priority in the DMLE and the trade and transport departments."
Hermione frowned. "DMLE and trade I see, but transport?"
"You know? That handy little thing that makes the Ministry proud, the apparition cover. That large-scale ritual that covers most of Great Britain and allows you to teleport almost anywhere? This tool that has enabled the Ministry to establish its authority and given it a huge advantage in much of the war with Voldemort? Wouldn't it be great if... let's say... the Asphodel could have a similar system? Or hijacks some of the apparition cover for our use?" As she spoke, Aster's smile grew demonic, the excitement in her voice growing, her cursed eye lighting up with an unearthly light, her eyes locked on hers.
A shiver ran down Hermione's spine, an urge, a need. She had to resist... wait, a smile spread across her face, she no longer had to hold back. As Aster prepared to continue her speech, Hermione put down her cup, grabbed Aster by the chin, turned her towards herself and kissed her. Their lips met in a sensation of ecstatic sweetness. Even when one of Aster's surprised little fangs dug into her lip, adding the taste of blood to their kiss, it only made Hermione's heart beat faster.
After several long seconds, they parted, Hermione having to catch her breath. Hermione's brown and ochre eyes were lost in the acid green of Aster's. The latter was disconcerted, her eyes glazed over. If her heart was still beating, if she still needed oxygen, Hermione was sure that the little vampire would be all red and panting.
"Hermione, I love you, but I think you just scrambled my mind. What were we talking about?" Aster asked in a small voice, unable to look away from her.
"About your plans for world conquest by the Order of the Asphodel," Hermione laughed.
"But, I don't expect... EEEEEP" came Aster's cry of surprise as Hermione lifted the bundle of duvet that her girlfriend had become and placed her on her lap, without spilling a single drop of hot chocolate. "Hermione, just because I'm small doesn't give you the right to do that."
"True, but it's my right as a girlfriend." Said Hermione, hugging Aster close to her, their books forgotten on the sofa. Calling Aster this, gave Hermione butterflies in her stomach, sparks in her chest. She was so happy that things had turned out this way. Aster here, with her, on this sofa, in front of a nice fire. unable to resist, Hermione buried her face in Aster's neck and nibbled the junction between her neck and shoulder.
"Hermione! Stop it! It's me who's supposed to be doing that! And that tickles!" laughed Aster, struggling weakly.
Hermione tightened her grip until Aster stopped fidgeting and snuggled up even closer.
After a minute's silence, Hermione said in a serious tone. "Aster, it's time we read that bloody letter," the night of the party, Aster had chosen not to open the letter immediately, stuffing it into her pocket, deciding that she was in no state to face whatever might be written in it while exhausted. Hermione had found this decision most sensible, at least at first. But Aster had procrastinated, at least until now, because she wasn't going to let her ignore it any longer.
Aster heaved a deep sigh and buried her hand in the blankets to pull out her wand. She concentrated for a moment, murmured a summoning spell, and the letter flew from the dresser drawer into her hand and pulled out the paper.
"Aster, please read it out loud."
She nodded and began. "Miss, Aster Karrasinqi, Knight of Ulthar, Mistress of the Order of the Asphodel, apprentice of Kav-deb the Green, protégé of Sonya Legravallina. Chosen of Lagaelis. You are invited to the annos galacia masquerade ball of the people of the edges. Come alone or accompanied, in disguise and masked, as the theme is ponds and marshes. Come to Buchanan Castle, one hour before dawn, three days after the reading of this letter, and you will be guided.
Sincerely, Intravaalar. "
"The people of the edge? An invitation to a... masked ball? Aster?"
Aster put the letter down and pulled herself out of Hermione's embrace to face her. "Hermione, will you be my date?" she asked in a trembling voice, her eyes shining.
"Well, um, yes, but Aster, are you sure you'll accept? Do you know who these people are?"
Her voice full of excitement, Aster began to speak, pacing back and forth in front of the sofa, her hands waving in the air to accompany her words. "You have no idea how lucky we are to have been invited! The Edge People are the largest community of extra-planar beings, black mages and entities living permanently on the edges. They have caches on countless worlds! Before we got separated, Kav-deb had planned to introduce me to some of his friends from the edge peoples."
Aster happily waved the letter in the air. "Intravaalar, he's a deity... a birthless one, the kind of ... " Aster seemed to hesitate. "Ruler? Of the people of the edges. From what Kav-deb explained to me, he more or less ensures a kind of coherence within the people of the edges, but I confess I didn't quite understand. Anyway," she said, holding up the letter victoriously. "This piece of paper is our ticket to the edge! I can't open a gate by myself, Fahri caravans are extremely rare, and hoping to find an entrance to the borders by chance would be worse than a waste of time. If we do our best, we might be able to get a map of some of the edge trails, or even contact Kav-deb. I am pretty sure he has an iron chrysalis. Even if we can't get hold of him, I've read about some caravans that might have one in the depths of the edges. That's not even mentioning the contacts that could be made! They say it's the biggest gathering of black mages and entities in the worlds!" At the end of her diatribe, Aster was trembling with excitement.
"Aster, are you sure this is a good idea? I mean, this letter could not be more suspicious, and why was it only unsealed at the party? It's like there's some kind of condition on it being opened! And it's coming soon after... whatever happened with Lagaelis. And you're really sure we need that iron chrysalis to bring Anna back?" Hermione asked, worried.
"I'm pretty sure it's safe, Kav-deb wouldn't want to take me there otherwise. Besides, Samarillis and Nepeta wouldn't have let Amaranth into their house if there was any real risk. As for the iron chrysalis, I'd really like it if we didn't need it, so I could bring Mum back now," she said, taking out from inside her shirt the small crystal vial engraved with thousands of tiny symbols diffracting the light from the small flame floating inside. Her gaze fixed on the flame with a tenderness that melted Hermione's heart. "But the iron chrysalis is the only way I know of to reattach her soul to the new body."
"In that case... we'll have to order ball clothes quickly. Do you know a weaver in the Asphodel's Enclaves who could do that for us?" asked Hermione, unable to argue any longer and give reasons why they should be wary, and not go, knowing that it would delay Anna's return.
"No, but I'm sure Mimosa or Ethan will know." Aster said, putting the letter away in her pocket and slipping the vial back into her collar.
An idea then occurred to Hermione, and she stood up, a mischievous smile on her lips. "Aster, you know, at the party celebrating our victory, I didn't get the chance to dance with you. But this time, it's a ball, and as a couple, we'll have to dance." She said as she approached her like a feline approaching its prey.
Aster swallowed, and stepped back, until her back was against the wall, next to the fireplace. "Hermione?"
"Unfortunately, neither of us have had dancing lessons, so perhaps a little practice would be in order, hmm?" She said as she took one of her hands in hers and placed the other around her waist before pulling her close. "I remember when I was little, I saw a film with a waltz scene, it didn't look too complicated."
"Hermione! Do we have to? Do we?" Aster asked her pleadingly.
"Come on, I'm sure you'll like it," she replied with what she hoped was a charming smile. At these words, the old gramophone in the corner of the room switched on, an old classical waltz beginning to play, sizzling at times, as she began to lead Aster through the steps she had memorised. "You see, even Mr Brownie agrees with me."
Aster sighed, "Very well, but tonight you owe me some nibbles."
Hermione nodded, it was a small price to pay, she thought before spinning Aster around to catch her in her arms. This was the beginning of an excellent evening ahead.
oOOOo
The front page of the prophet was headed as follows
Azkaban destroyed. Natural disaster or magical accident?
Underneath was a photograph of a swirling maelstrom of gigantic proportions, with small shapes riding broomsticks occasionally passing within the frame of the moving image, giving an idea of the immensity of the phenomenon.
At 5pm on 22 May 1994, a terrible catastrophe was felt by all magicians in more than half of the northern hemisphere, from the American east coast to the western borders of China. A wave of magic of unknown nature plunged all our most sensitive brethren into disarray and disturbed all the others. This was followed by a tsunami that ravaged the entire North Sea coastline. The cause of this catastrophe? Azkaban prison. It was the highest-security prison in the United Kingdom, reserved for mages too dangerous to be held elsewhere, prisoners who would have received the death penalty before it was banned, and guilty creatures and abominations.
One of the last trials to result in a conviction was that of the abomination that murdered our nation's beloved heroine, Aster Potter, the last of her name. Before infiltrating Hogwarts to corrupt its youth and steal a powerful artefact. Other major prisoners included the death-eaters who were agents of the last Dark Lord - "the one whose name must not be spoken" - such as Bellatrix Lestrange, née Black, Sirius Black and Bartelemius Crouch Jr.
Many experts in magical disasters have visited the site, including our illustrious Albus Dumbledore, Warlock, President of the Wizengamot, Grand Wugwump of the ICW, victor of Grindelwald, expert in ancient magic, wild magic, alchemy, transfiguration spells... According to his expertise, backed up by that of the many other independent experts who visited the site after he declared the place not to be an immediate risk of another disaster. It seems that Azkaban was the victim of a powerful accident of wild magic triggered by an overload of the leyline networks under the fortress, which created a positive feedback loop resulting in the explosion of the prison. According to these initial investigations, the wave of magic felt by everyone was the death cry of the 748 dementors guarding the prison. Contrary to popular belief, dementors are not indestructible, as the spells needed to destroy them are simply more powerful than most of us are capable of using.
We would like to reassure our readers that none of the dangerous prisoners held in Azkaban survived the explosion. And that t he direct consequences are well on the way to being completely repaired.
We deplore, however, the death of the 18 guards who were present that day to support and monitor the dementors in their duties. They will all receive an order from Merlin third class for their sacrifice at ...
The article went on in many other paragraphs, today's edition being dedicated to the catastrophe, but Susan could not bring herself to read the rest. Breathing was difficult, her heart was pounding in her chest, her hands were gripping the paper so tightly that her knuckles were white and the paper was about to tear. She felt like she was going to cry. A strange mood had descended on the great hall after the arrival of the newspaper, a gloomy one, like a shadow crushing the voices and discussions, changing the usual hubbub into a choir of murmurs. Aster, despite having been at Hogwarts for only a short time, was a celebrity, a Hufflepuff mascot, and few people disliked her. When the result of Aster's trial appeared in the papers, along with the dreadful news of her imprisonment, rumours were rife. That Aster was not the monster she had been portrayed as, that it was all a plot to get the Potters' money. That she had been used as a scapegoat to hide the truth about Quirrell's death. Susan herself had been guilty of spreading many of these rumours. Hoping that word of mouth would spread to the parents, and that they would push for Aster's release.
And now, after more than a month of effort, as the rumours spread, Aster was dead, along with all the other prisoners.
A sudden noise caught her attention. Nym had risen from the bench, her hair and skin white, walking quickly towards the exit of the great hall, her head bowed.
"Susan, what's going on?" Hannah asked from beside her. She handed her the newspaper without a word. Her heart ached. Aster couldn't be dead, it was so unfair. She looked around for Neville, Sophia and Leane. The history club was suspect in the eyes of the teachers because of their proximity to Aster and the suspicions of brainwashing, so they could not meet openly. So they were scattered across the Hufflepuff table, and Gryffindor for Neville. Leane, who hadn't yet had a newspaper in her hands, looked around in bewilderment, while Leane seemed about to incinerate the newspaper in her hands. As for Neville, he seemed to have collapsed, looking pale and absent-minded, as if he were about to faint.
His gaze wandered to the teachers' table. Snape and Mcgonagall were both stoic and silent, the other professors talking amongst themselves in hushed tones. Dumbledore looked tired but unaffected. His new arm and new eye were visible, as if the 'so-called' fight with Aster had never taken place. There was a rumour that the man had spare bodies, should one of them fail. Susan rather thought that his friend Flamel was too good to the old bastard.
Susan put her hand on Anna's shoulder and whispered in her ear. "Let the other one know that the history club has to meet today. I'll see you later, I need some time to myself", then she got up and left for the dormitory, she needed to cry.
...
Later that day, in an old disused classroom on the fourth floor, in one of the least frequented parts of the castle, musty old desks had been pushed up against the walls, curtains drawn in front of the windows, letting in only a subdued light that plunged the room into penumbra. An ancient brass candlestick was lit, the flickering flames of its candles casting the whimsical shadows of the six young people sitting in circles on various old, crumbling chairs.
"We must avenge Aster!" said the eldest, her hair blood-red, her eyes giving off a golden gleam of sadness and rage, her long, curved fingernails looking more like claws than anything else.
"How? We can't take on the whole wizengamot!" exclaimed Susan, her eyes red with tears.
"It's all Dumbledore's fault. He's the one who presented and judged the case," Neville said through gritted teeth, his attitude quite different from the usual mild-mannered boy.
"Is she really dead at least? This is Aster we're talking about! I'm sure she could get out of any situation!" said Léane, her voice tinged with hope.
"Did you see the photo? Not even the dementors survived that." Susan said bitterly, her gaze fixed on the old stone slabs forming the floor.
Silence descended on the small assembly for a few minutes, no one knowing what to say, the wound fresh.
It was Nym who broke the silence, her eyes shining with anger. "We can't confront Dumbledore directly, but we can drag him through the mud! We've already started spreading rumours, so all we have to do is get the truth out, prove Aster innocent, and get Dumbledore convicted."
"It might work, but can we really pull it off?" asked Hannah.
Just as Nym was about to answer, a voice from one of the darkest corners of the room interrupted her, all the members of the History Club standing up, as if on springs, to face the threat. "Your... plan of revenge will not be necessary," said the deep voice, its tall, thin figure darker than the shadows standing out against the gloom.
"Professor Snape." Nym yelped, as the man's pale, stern face appeared in the candlelight of the candelabra.
"Insightful observation, Miss Tonks. Misses Abbot, Bones, Tonks, Maywind, Leymill, and Mr. Longbottom, a strange group for a conspiracy to slander."
"How dare you interfere! Aster was one of the only pupils you liked, she was your god-daughter!" Nym growled, her hand tightening on her wand. "She must be avenged!"
"Put your wand down Miss Tonks, I assure you Miss Potter has no need for any of this." He said in a cold, biting tone, his eyes squinting, as if he was sizing them up one after the other.
"What do you mean?" Leane asked, trembling, terrified of the teacher.
"Miss Potter is alive and well. The destruction of Azkaban was merely the unfortunate consequence of the efforts that were made to free her."
"She's alive!?" exclaimed Neville.
"Where is she? "I want to see her! "How is she?" "Is Hermione with her?" were some of the questions that arose at Snape's statement.
"If you want any chance of me answering those questions, you'll have to sign this." He said as he pulled a roll of parchment and a dark red quill from his pocket.
"Mum told me never to use a blood quill." Susan said, immediately recognising the object.
"A most wise piece of advice." Said Snape, shaking his head. "I'll leave the parchment here for you to read. I'll know if or when you've signed it." He said before leaving and closing the door behind him.
All the members of the history club looked at each other. "Do you think Snape's telling the truth?" said Neville, trembling.
"I don't know, but I'd be surprised if he was lying. At least not about Aster." Nym said.
Susan took a deep breath, picked up the parchment and began to read.
"Well?" asked Sophia.
"It's a contract of silence, one of the most serious I've ever read, and yet Mum showed me lots of them. Basically, we can't talk to anyone who doesn't already know all the information about Aster and things affiliated with her that we'll find out after we've signed. It's not punitive, it just prevents you from saying, writing, or thinking your information in a way that someone who might want to harm Aster and Aster-affiliated things could find out." Says Susan.
"Pass me that," grunted Nym. "No hidden clauses, just very restrictive. What on earth has Aster been hiding from us?"
"It's suspicious, to say the least." Said Hannah.
While everyone else was discussing the pros and cons, Susan picked up the parchment. She thought for a moment and picked up the quill. Aster had trusted them, she would trust Aster. She brought the quill to the paper and winced at the pinch she felt on the back of her hand.
"What do you think, Su?" asked Hannah, turning to her. "Su!" she exclaimed, her eyes wide.
With a look of determination in her eyes, Susan held up the quill and the blood-signed parchment. "You do what you like, but my mind is set."
oOOOo
The sunny, brightly coloured solarium at Malfoy Manor was in stark contrast to the mood of its occupant. Narcissa Malfoy was sitting on a padded seat in the middle of the greenhouse, blind to the beauty of the exotic flowers, deaf to the chirping of the birds and the song of the water trickling down the little waterfalls and streams in this corner of indoor greenery. Even during her descent into madness, she had continued to love her big sister, Bella. The one who had protected her from the worst of her parents' abuse throughout her childhood, the one who had educated her almost entirely. The most impressive witch of her generation.
Narcissa hoped that one day she would be freed, the madness instilled in her mind by Voldemort broken by the leaden yoke of the dementors. That after a few months... more likely years of care, she would get her sister back. But then, from one day to the next, it was all over. Azkaban destroyed, Bella inside. She couldn't cry, something inside her had broken a long time ago, closing off her access to tears. But the sadness was no less overwhelming.
She tried to read, to distract herself, to think of anything else. To no avail, the images of her sister when they were young kept coming back to her. It was during one of these moments that she sensed the wards of the manor letting someone into the gardens through the main gate. Was Lucius expecting someone? In which case he hadn't told her. She sighed. The man knew that she liked to know when she was going to have visitors.
Fortunately she was presentable, dressed in an elegant green housedress, one of her favourites. She got up and headed for Lucius's study. She knocked and waited a moment before pushing open the door. Lucius was sitting behind his desk, his features drawn, piles of documents piling up in front of him. "Ah, Narcissa, were you planning a visit?" he asked without looking up from his work.
"No, I was hoping you could tell me who we were expecting."
"Hm, not many people are accepted indiscriminately by the wards." He said as he started to stand up.
"Don't bother, I'll go and see. I need the distraction anyway." She sighed.
"Thank you Narcissa, don't hesitate to call me." He said, picking up his quill again.
She closed the door, crossed the long corridor ignoring the inquisitive looks of the many portraits before descending the grand staircase leading to the large entrance hall. As she made her way towards the large double door, it opened with a bang. Narcissa could not suppress a cry of surprise. " Oh my! What are those meni..." she began, her voice dying in her throat as her eyes fell on the impossible.
Tall, skeletal, dressed in a long, ankle-length black dress. Her cheekbones protruding, her mane of long, dirty black hair in tangles, like a halo around her face, her black eyes sparkling with malice and madness. "Cissy! There you are! I missed you so much!" Bella, unfailingly Bella, said in a high, husky voice.
"Bella? How is that possible." Narcissa heard herself say as her older sister walked in her direction.
"Oh, one little bang isn't enough to finish off dear old Bella." She laughed. For all her confidence, Narcissa could see the exhaustion in her gait, the sickness in her thinness.
"Narcissa, what's going on?" shouted Lucius from the top of the stairs, just as Bella stumbled and Narcissa barely managed to catch her.
"It's Bella." she managed to say.
"You're so pretty, sister, you've grown so much..." she heard Bella whisper, touching her cheek with her frozen fingertips.
"How?" came Lucius's strangled voice.
"Call our healer! She needs medical attention!" she shouted, lifting Bella in her arms. Her poor sister, so thin she could lift her without even needing a spell.
"It was incredible, they came... immense, the light, the sky split open. The scream, ah the scream..." whispered Bella as she carried her as fast as she could towards the nearest room.
Let's hope Severus gets here soon. Narcissa felt disconnected, nothing made sense any more, Bella declared dead, then on her doorstep. She could do with a drink...
oOOOo
Neville was nervous; since he had arrived at school, he had never been summoned by the headmaster alone. The last time had been with the other members of the history club and had already been terrifying. This time he had to summon all his courage to climb the stairs to the office. Especially as his friends' suspicions of Professor Dumbledore made the man even more intimidating.
Taking a deep breath, ignoring the little scratchiness at the back of his hand, he approached the door, but just as he was about to knock, he was startled by the sound of Dumbledore's voice. "Come in, my boy."
Wanting to get this over with as quickly as possible, he opened the door. Dumbledore was there, sitting behind his desk with a steaming cup of tea in his hand. His office looked strangely tidy compared to the last time. Shelves previously covered in magical knick-knacks were completely empty. But what struck him most was the lady sitting in an armchair opposite the desk. "Grandma?" he choked out.
"Neville, please sit down." said Augusta Longbottom. The hard-faced old witch looked even more haunted and stern than usual.
"Hello Grandma, hello Professor Dumbledore. Why have you summoned me?" It must have been serious, Granny was very busy...
"Good morning, my boy." Dumbledore sighed, his features drawn. "We called you here to talk about your future. Circumstances have changed, and there are things you need to know."
oOOOo
Above a sea of stars, a titanic ceramic structure of strange shapes sped silently by, accompanied by dozens of other similar but smaller craft. To any creature unable to see magic, these long, tapering vessels were black, blending into the darkness of the immense void between the stars. But for those gifted with such vision, the flight of one of the Khrè Yujul fleets was a sight of breathtaking magnificence. Each of their ships shone like a star, covered in sublime patterns of unspeakable colour. Works of art carved from the immense clay quarries of Sheehè-thra by some of the greatest mage craftsmen of all worlds.
A splendour that, through the words and will of the first Emperor, would remain forever beyond the perception of inferior creatures incapable of seeing the web of magic that forms the truth of the world, or worse, those who chose to reject the glorious vision of the weft, of the will of Aathna, and to keep their blind eyes to reassure themselves in the illusion of the vile gleams of the undulatory particles they dare to call light.
At the heart of the greatest of these masterpieces, in the enchanted hall of the ball of blades with its great twisted pillars, above the heart of the rifts, sat the emperor, head of the reigning Koxhkoxh dynasty. The troubles and quarrels between the Sheehè dynasties and the Jdaleen revolts were becoming more and more numerous, and as always, the imperial house would bring order. Ikube Koxhkoxh took another whiff of Langkor grass, admiring its magic-laden wisps dissipating in shimmering filaments in the spice-laden air. Their perception shifted from his subjects chatting or enjoying the finest dishes in the empire to the silhouettes formed by the tangled veins of magic of the dancers, moving gracefully to the waves of rapturous music.
Terra-Thra was almost mature, a few years at most, and like a perfect fruit, it would fall into one of their hands. Their agents' attempt to set the powder keg ablaze in Ulthar had failed, but their innumerable ears had whispered to them that it was only a matter of time before another event led to their willed results.
Bending to their subtle influences, the magically-touched and the unseeing had separated, hiding from each other in a bloody war. For three centuries, the separation had weakened them. And now, the narrow wall separating their two worlds was so fragile that a simple stroke of their fingernail would be enough to force them together again, no doubt in delicate violence.
And that's when he would reach out their hand, and effortlessly seize their due, appeasing the empire by adding another jewel to its glittering crown.