Black Luminary Chapter 65: ML: Finality II, a harry potter fanfic

Finality II

The following early morning, somewhere deep within a forest in central Europe.

'Will you look at that moon?' rumbled Boris, his eyes wide with awe as they reflected the eerie glow of the satellite shrouding the lands of man with a cover of crimson.

'A blood moon,' said Glücksburg with a leery expression.

'Was there supposed to be a lunar eclipse?' asked Ahuja, who had only just finished her work on the wards, bewildered, rummaging in her knapsack for a calendar.

'Bound to be. I mean, it's hard to argue with what's hanging above your head,' said Sterling, who was likewise gazing at the celestial body.

Working for months on the same job, the team had developed a routine of camping out in the open, discussing their findings or sharing private or even altogether frivolous talks to shake off the tiring monotony of their daily ward-breaking activities.

Fujiwara shivered. 'How often is it you witness a total eclipse though? It feels like it's … bad luck.'

Mao grunted his agreement, his eyes flickering from his bowl of rice to the moon every other second.

'Bad luck?' asked Sterling.

'A great many cultures,' mumbled Glücksburg almost absent-mindedly, 'rooted in their ancient ignorance about the movement of the planets, have a deep-seated distaste of lunar and solar eclipses.'

'Oh, don't give me that rot,' said Boris with a scoff. 'It's black cats crossing the street all over again.'

Fujiwara blushed a bit, lowering her gaze.

'Superstitions,' said Glücksburg, 'are just wrongly inferred assumptions – a recurring theme with humanity, I might note, my simple-minded friend. What you regard as common knowledge now might – someday – be proven to be just another superstition. Isn't that fascinating?'

Boris rolled his eyes, making a face as he soundlessly aped the German prince behind his back.

'Blood's been spilt tonight,' grumbled Mao, speaking up for the first time and preventing another heated crosstalk.

'Haven't we been over this?' said Boris. 'It's all rubbish!'

'Quit flapping, lad!' barked Mao suddenly. He instantly relaxed again, pointing calmly at the wreath of crimson light that crowned the nightly luminary. 'Quit flapping that boisterous tongue of yours. Look at the moon – really look, not just see – and tell me you don't feel like something's off. That something bad has happened. It's an ill omen. Explaining the science behind it doesn't change that. Knowledge without wisdom is like trying to use an anvil without the hammer.'

'But – I mean why would the moon care about one death?! What could possibly be so important?' asked Sterling incredulously. 'Why would planets care?!'

'The moon isn't a planet,' interjected Glücksburg with a lazy smile.

'I'm no prophet, lad,' said Mao with a shrug, ignoring the interruption. 'Some deaths, I reckon, are more important than others. In any case, who said anything about there being only one death?'

'Well, I for one can't begin to –'

A thundering yell cut Sterling short. 'GET IN HERE NOW! EVERYONE!' The echo reverberated from the trees. If words could be angry, these were snarling, beating their audience over the head with fury and outrage. 'RIGHT THIS INSTANT!'

They all caught each others' eyes.

'What happened?' asked Fujiwara, looking worried as she got to her feet.

'Not a clue,' said Boris. 'But I suppose we'd better check, yes? He sounds pissed off.'

Antonius had his wand in his hand as his squad entered his tent, and he glared with fiery eyes at each and every one of them with such brutal force that only Mao and Glücksburg didn't flinch back. 'Who do you think you are?' Antonius growled, his voice dark and guttural. 'Who do you think you are?!'

'Er, what?' asked Sterling, taking a cautious step behind Sergeant Mao.

'Who do you think you are?!' barked Antonius once more, wheezing with furore. 'If I find out who did this, if I get my hands on whoever's responsible, I'll invent new hells just for this bastard to stew in! Eternity – I promise you all – won't be long enough to get used to my vengeance!'

'What are you talking about, boss? Er, Colonel,' amended Boris, gaping at those bloodshot eyes of pure rancour with horrified fascination.

Antonius slammed a wrinkled copy of some foreign newspaper on the table. 'This is what I'm bloody talking about!'

Memory Lane

A few hours earlier and back in Britain, still in the dead of night, Zadie Selwyn sat in his study discussing politics with a few associates when his elf knocked on the door with tender politeness as if she dearly wished she would go unheard.

'Please excuse this inconvenience,' said Zadie smoothly with a bare-toothed smile at his guests. 'Well?' he snapped, turning towards his servant. 'What is it? How dare you disturb me now?!'

'Topsy is sorry, master,' whined the elf, twisting her ears. 'But master is having a visitor. An important visitor.'

'They can wait,' said Selwyn with a dismissive wave of his hand. 'Tell them to take a seat and –'

'Topsy is terribly sorry, master. Terribly sorry! But Topsy doesn't think the visitor can wait after all …'

'WHAT?!' yelled Selwyn, jumping from his seat, his fingers closing around his wand. 'Are you telling me what I can and what I can't do in my own bloody home, elf?!'

'Topsy is telling no such thing,' pleaded the elf desperately, throwing herself on the carpet. 'Topsy is being sorry. But the visitor is … ill. Sick.'

Selwyn glared at the elf as it cowered in front of him. 'Who is it?'

'Madame Greengrass, master!'

Selwyn cursed under his breath. That blasted elf! Someone was going to regret this day for the rest of their miserable life!

'Oh?' mumbled Avery with vague interest behind him. 'Greengrass it says? How curious, Zadie. I wasn't aware of your dealings with the Ministry. I suspect you were going to inform us tonight?'

An elderly female voice gave a short burst of cackling. 'You naughty, naughty boy! Come, tell your elf to escort the poor old woman inside. We should very much like to hear about her grievances.'

Selwyn's face contorted. Anger and frustration scintillated in his eyes before he forcefully set his mouth in an expression of accommodating politeness. 'Certainly,' he exclaimed jovially. 'Bring her in,' he barked at the elf.

What the elf eventually dragged inside was … a hairless skeleton with sunken, dim eyes that were much too big for their sockets. Grey folds of skin blotched with eczema sagged from the … the thing's face as if the tissue had given up its struggle with gravity and millennia of onerous burdens.

Selwyn fought to keep his face straight. He had trouble recognising the – he hesitated to use the word – person, the woman who had looked centuries younger only a few months ago. He also immediately understood the elf's insistence. This … this pathetic creature looked as if a single gust of wind might do it in.

'Dear God!' Bulstrode cried out, wrought with shock. 'What's wrong with her?!'

'I heard she was ill,' muttered Travers, looking disgusted. 'Dragon Pox or something.'

'Ye gods! Get her out of here!' screeched Avery, pressing himself against the back of his chair with all his might. 'Get her out!'

'Gentlemen, calm yourselves!' commanded Selwyn, standing up to approach the thing on his doorstep. 'This is not what Dragon Pox looks like, I assure you.'

'Are you quite sure, Zadie?' asked Avery shrilly. 'Quite, quite sure?!'

'Yes,' hissed Selwyn. 'I saw the illness take my own uncle. Even he didn't … wither away like this.' He took a few steps forward. 'Madame?' He faltered. 'Esme, can you hear me?'

The skeleton swayed backwards and forwards. It was dressed in what vaguely resembled a patient's gown, but it was ripped and cut, torn from whatever tribulations had led to his mansion.

'Zadie?' she mumbled, staring past his right ear. 'Is that you? I can't hear you. I … I can't see you.'

'Yes. It is I, Esme,' said Selwyn stoically.

'Is it you, Zadie?' mumbled the skeleton, wobbling in the elf's hold. 'Is it? I wondered where you were. We promised to meet at the end of Diagon Alley. I waited and waited, but you wouldn't show up. Do you remember? We … we promised to meet. But you didn't show up. You never showed up.'

Selwyn stood rooted to the spot. Was this what he thought it was? Was this a reference to an old, old promise? Good grief – it had to be forty years or more!

The woman in front of him, if it was indeed Esmerelle Greengrass as he now believed, was clearly delirious. He needed to get as many of his political allies out of here before the dazed crone revealed something she really shouldn't.

'I think my guest is greatly distressed and seriously ill,' said Selwyn with an air of worried compassion. 'Naturally, I shall ensure that she gets immediate treatment. It wouldn't be proper to flaunt her deplorable state any further. We should continue our discussion at some later point in time.'

'When you've set your story straight, no doubt,' said Shafiq snidely.

'I don't like this,' grumbled Avery, and there were a few other fractious growls here and there. 'This stinks to high heaven.'

'One of us should stay,' suggested Bulstrode. 'Just to, ah, represent the rest of us.'

'By all means,' said Selwyn, thinking fast. He'd still rather deal with one problem than a dozen. 'If it will assuage your concerns. By all means! But be quick about it, I don't think we should dally.'

'But who?' asked Avery nervously, licking his lips and eyeing the other people in the room.

Everyone immediately surreptitiously tried to size everyone else up without – as it were – being sized up in return.

'I believe,' said Carrow after a while, 'that Madam Rosier will do.' And Selwyn could hear the rest of the sentence, left unsaid as it had been, resounding inside his skull: because you don't have enough gold to bribe the Fuming Devil. Because you need her. Because we all need her.

Damn the man! But there had to be something even the Rosiers wanted. More than petty gold or offices. Something to broker a deal.

'I concur,' said Bulstrode after a second of pondering.

'As do I.'

'Aye!'

'Fine! Fine. Druella? Do you mind representing the rest of our associates in the spirit of fair-minded neutrality?'

The old woman in the back of the room snorted, blowing a huge cloud of ghastly, foul-smelling fumes from her ancient pipe. 'I don't mind.'

The other guests were gently ushered outside while Selwyn had the elf escort the patient of the hour to the nearest guestroom.

'Zadie?' came the voice from within the blankets again, so vulnerable and desperate. 'Zadie, is that you? I've been waiting for you! I'm so glad you came.'

'Barking mad,' grumbled Druella Rosier, biting her pipe as she bent over the bed to have a closer look at the sunken ruin of a face. 'Looks like she's about to bite it, too. What the hell happened to her?!'

'She was indeed supposed to have the Dragon Pox,' said Selwyn. 'She hasn't been out in a while.'

'Zadie?! Zadie!'

'I'm here.'

'Get away, old man! Where is Zadie?!'

Druella Rosier blew another acrid cloud of smoke. 'You're too old for her,' she said with a smirk.

'Where is … Zadie?! I'm supposed to – to meet him here! We promised.'

'Do you know of this … promise?' inquired Druella Rosier.

'That was more than forty years ago!' said Selwyn reluctantly. 'She's not sane!'

'Clearly,' agreed Rosier. 'But I'm inclined to overlook the foolishness of youth at least. You were right, though; this is no case of Dragon Pox. But what is it?'

'Why bother guessing? A healer will lift this mystery easily enough.'

He was about to summon his elf when the Fuming Devil pushed down his outstretched hand. 'Did you have some kind of … arrangement with her, even after all these years? It's quite strange, isn't it, that she would turn up here? So very many years later? Why you and not someone from the Ministry, I wonder.'

'What are you talking about?!' said Selwyn calmly, careful not to show how close to home the woman had hit. 'She clearly thinks she's still seventeen. I told you we had an … entanglement once.'

'Yes,' said Rosier with a patronising smile. 'But back then, you were still living with your father, weren't you? You only came into the headship of your family when your uncle passed away. Back then, she wouldn't have known this address. So either some more recent part of her brain still works very well indeed, or there is something more to this.'

Selwyn clenched his fists. Forwards or backwards – he was stuck. 'What do you want?!' he hissed.

Rosier blew a smoke ring. Her cold smirk stung as much in Selwyn's eyes as her cheap tobacco.

'Start with your deal with your calf love. We'll come to our little private agreement later, I'm sure.'

'Zadie?!' whispered the thing underneath the blankets again, drawing terribly rattling breaths. 'Zadie? My … my head hurts so bad. Make it stop. Make it stop hurting!'

'She showed up a few months ago,' began Selwyn after a momentary glance at the bed.

Another pleasurable blowing of smoke. 'Why?'

'To get "reassurance" as she put it.'

'For what?'

'For the Blacks acting up,' said Selwyn, eyeing the bed again despite himself.

'And the price?' When Selwyn didn't reply immediately, Rosier continued more urgently. 'The price, Selwyn!'

'Her gold. All of her family's gold.'

'But that doesn't explain what she's doing here now, does it? It's done, isn't it? Her family cut ties with the Blacks years ago. Even her daughter –'

A hand shot out from underneath the blanket, bony, blotchy grippers with their wrinkled skin almost transparent underneath the sweaty sheen coating it. It grasped Selwyn's wrist with surprising strength. 'No. No. No, no, no. Nonononono.'

'What?' demanded Selwyn, alarmed. 'What is it?'

'Don' want ter drink no mo',' moaned the skeleton, the voice creaking like a rusty hinge. 'Feelin' … weak. Yes … tired. Sleepy. Can't think. No more drink …'

Selwyn and Rosier exchanged a glance.

'Need … away. Away!'

The hand lost whatever burst of strength had held it in place, and it sagged back onto the bed, limp and dead-looking. Several moments passed in near silence.

'Poison?' asked Selwyn, disgusted.

Rosier shrugged coldly. 'Who's to say? Headaches, skin diseases, speech impediments – could be heavy metal poisoning. I'm no bloody healer!'

'Heavy what?!'

'Not much of a potioneer, are you? Heavy metals? As in lead, mercury, arsenic – natural metals. Used to be in vogue with the Muggles. Nasty stuff. Destroy the body from within.'

'Can you cure it?!'

'I? No. Besides, depending on how long she's been dosed, her body will be beyond recovery.'

'We have to do something! It's my name on the line!'

Druella Rosier blew another smoke ring, smacking her lips. 'Did your contract with her give you some kind of time window to act on her behalf?'

'Of course not! How would that –' He faltered, turning around with burning indignation and red-hot disbelief. 'You want to let this pass?! This is murder! Murder of a fellow pure-blood! A head of an ancient line of purebloods!'

'Possibly,' conceded Rosier coolly. 'Or maybe it isn't. You're not a healer, and neither am I. Besides, it could've been any number of people. Why would the Blacks poison an old crone of no real consequence to them? Her descendants will all be Greengrasses no matter what they do now. Do you really want to poke the Doxy nest based on conjecture and … misplaced melancholic compassion? You'll get your money either way, won't you?'

'NO!' he bellowed. 'No. I will not let this pass. This has crossed the line. Someone will pay! But first, I must find a healer.'

'Certainly. If that's what you wish,' said Rosier apathetically. 'But are you really willing to trust your elf with such a delicate matter? People could … talk.'

Selwyn stiffened. 'Follow me. I've got a secure Floo connection in my office.'

The Floo, Selwyn had to admit after the third pinch of powder ineffectively wasted, wasn't working. 'Blazing hell!' he cursed. 'Why at a time like this?!'

'One does wonder,' said Rosier lowly.

'I shall get to the bottom of this! I'm paying good gold for a direct connection!'

'I have a useful contact in the Floo Network Authority,' offered Rosier with a weathered smirk. 'But the bureaucrats can wait. Other things can't.'

Selwyn growled, flexing his fingers. 'Everything, EVERYTHING you need to do for yourself. There's no relying on bloody anyone these days!'

'Too right you are,' muttered Rosier as she swept after him.

The door of Selwyn's ancestral home burst open, responding to its master's will. Zadie Selwyn and Druella Rosier both rushed out of the mildly daunting estate, striding over the lawn, past the gargoyles and the time-worn kissing gate.

'It's not far,' barked Selwyn. 'The wards extend just past the fences. A healer at St Mungo's owes me a favour. Spleen won't ask any questions if he knows what's good for him.'

'I appreciate you being so transparent, Selwyn,' said Rosier.

'No bloody time for crafty games!' grumbled the head of house Selwyn just as he passed the ancient protective enchantments of his home.

'Too right you are.'

A cold wind momentarily made Selwyn stop in his tracks, freezing his bones with what felt like a draught blowing on his naked brain. Shivering, he turned around, his eyes resting for a moment on the long, bulky robes of Druella Rosier.

He felt much cooler now all of a sudden. Emotions were unnecessary, ancient attachments unprofitable and unprofessional. The head of a noble line needed to think clearly, rationally. Great leaders had to make strong decisions. On the other hand, avenging the dead and the dying, or so it seemed to Selwyn now, was doomed to remain a vain endeavour, nothing more than self-aggrandisement wrapped in an illusory coat of righteousness.

It was all so clear now.

A passing cloud darkened the red moon. On the second floor in Selwyn Manor, it looked for a mere moment as if mean shadows grew to encroach upon the innocently white pillow, swallowing the piteously moaning visitor whole, before the red light doused the scene in a pool of lukewarm luminescence.

Memory Lane

'What – just – happened?!' demanded Harry loudly. He didn't care that he was shouting. He didn't care that he was endangering their raid. He didn't care that he kept gaping like an imbecile. He didn't care at all!

What he did care about was that Pettigrew was dead, that his head was filled to the brim with memories that weren't his, that even now he had to fight off the nausea and mortal fear the wretched little rat had felt during its last moments.

'What happened?!' he repeated louder still.

'You killed him,' said Aenor softly.

'I can't have! I don't even –' Harry stared from his wand to Pettigrew's corpse. A muttered incantation and the ghostly echo of a blasted lock, followed by spookily burning blood and a Healing Charm mending a scrapped knee rose from the tip of his wand. 'But I didn't – see? I couldn't have!'

'You devoured him.'

'What? How?!' Harry whirled around. 'What do you know of this?!'

'I intended to tell you regardless of what transpired here,' began Aenor, raising her voice as Harry made to interrupt her, 'but this isn't the place!'

Harry was about to snarl a furious response, but then he thought better of it. 'Fine. But I want those answers – tonight!'

Aenor nodded.

'What do we do about this … him?!' Harry gestured wildly in Pettigrew's direction. 'They'll know!'

'No, they won't.'

She flicked her wand but – to Harry's surprise – not in the direction of the body. Instead, her spell restored the lock Harry had previously blasted apart before a second spell caused the old iron to corrode rather rapidly until it naturally gave way.

Faced with Harry's demanding glare, she said, 'Calm yourself, Harry! I already told you I'd explain myself. I didn't mean for this to happen either!'

Harry kicked at the dingy wall as hard as he could, venting his anger and frustration.

'Feeling better?' asked Aenor after a short while, watching him nurse his aching toes.

'Not particularly,' Harry grumbled, hobbling on one foot. He leaned against the stone wall, not minding how dirty and foul it was. 'My head feels … crammed.'

'Come,' urged Aenor a touch softer. 'We should leave – and quickly.'

Harry took another deep, calming breath, nodded, and scuttled towards the cell's entrance, casting one last confused look over his shoulder. Pettigrew was still gaping at him with that mad look of utter horror. Harry made a face and turned around, following Aenor and forcing himself not to look back again.

In his head, a thousand scenes blinked in and out of focus, his own horrific past mixed randomly with those alien, defiled memories that had to be Pettigrew's. His head threatened to burst from the sheer volume and the immense pressure. It took all of Harry's concentration to keep on walking, to follow the woman in front of him, and still he wobbled into several walls and fell over all the unspeakable things he had overlooked with one flash of memory or another sidetracking his attention.

He didn't pay any mind to where they were going; she walked in front, and he staggered behind. That was all there was to it. It came as a mild surprise when they eventually emerged from the breach in the fortress wall. Taken aback by the whiff of something hinting at fresh air, Harry almost walked right into Aenor, who – still as death – stared at something up in the clouds.

Confused, Harry followed her gaze.

The moon shone red – a deep, rich, saturated crimson. Unusual as it was, it wasn't the lunar eclipse that caught his attention. A milling black mass was writhing underneath the eclipse, writhing as a dark ring, perfectly surrounding the heavenly spectacle like a second, revolting layer of squirming maggots. All of the Dementors were in the air – clearly discernible against the pale red light – twisting, spinning, and turning, all seemingly gliding aimlessly, and yet not a single spectre broke the bloodcurdling dance of the damned.

'We should leave,' said Aenor, tearing herself away from the spectacle.

'What are they doing?' breathed Harry, mesmerised and nauseated at the same time.

'We should leave,' re-echoed Aenor more insistently, taking his hand. 'Now!'

'But – the wards!'

From one moment to the next, the dreadful choreography froze. All movement froze. And then – as one – more than a thousand Dementors dove at them with impossible haste.

'WHAT THE –'

A yank, a powerful pull, and then … darkness.

Memory Lane

Harry came to with every fibre of his body burning. There was the rumbling of the surf, and he smelled the tangy aroma of salt and algae. Grunting, he forced himself into a sitting position, opening his eyes. He was lying on what appeared to be an artificially flattened mound of sand that had been spelled to offer some warmth. He was barefoot, and both his mantle and his robes were gone. From his waist downwards, he was dressed in archaic, grey wool.

A sharp throb of Harry's temple painfully cut his investigation short.

'Take these,' mumbled a voice to his left, pressing a number of crystal phials into his hands. 'You know how to permanently remove memories?'

Harry nodded through the haze of agony.

'Do it. It'll be better afterwards – trust me.'

Thinking was hard; acting on behalf of a familiar voice, by contrast, easy.

Harry gritted his teeth and – one by one – arduously removed all the foreign elements clogging his mind. Slowly, the pressure eased. When he was done, he sank back, exhausted.

'Well done,' mumbled the voice as Harry once again succumbed to his fatigue.

He awoke later – how much later he couldn't say – though going by how all of his limbs still felt like they were stuffed with lead, it couldn't have been long. Labouring to turn his head to his right, he eventually caught sight of the person who the dismembered voice from before belonged to. Aenor stared at him, her eyes watchful, wand in her hand.

'Where are w–'

'The oath,' said Aenor expectantly.

It took a few seconds for Harry to compute what was demanded of him. 'What – right now?!'

Aenor nodded. She had also done away with her travelling cloak, Harry noticed. She was dressed in very rough-looking, bland robes that appeared to have been conjured up. And she looked tense. Tired and tense.

Once more, Harry felt like protesting, protesting that it would be reasonable for her to answer some basic questions first – like where the hell she had taken him this time! But then, he conceded after a moment of deliberation, she had rescued him from certain death. Again. And she had also fulfilled her part of the bargain – even though it might not have worked out precisely how Harry had envisioned it.

'All right …'

'Hold out your wand.'

With fingers that felt like rubber appendages – and hurting rubber at that – he fumbled around near his bed of sand until Aenor took pity on him and gently pressed the soothingly familiar wand into his hand. Harry instantly relaxed as the familiar, alluring power washed over him, freely shared and intoxicating – even after all those years.

'Speak after me. I, Aenor Eydís, declare it to be my solemn vow …'

'I, Aenor Ey–' repeated Harry dutifully before he faltered when faced with Aenor's irritated glare. 'Oh! Right. Sorry.' He cleared his throat awkwardly to cover up his abashment. 'I, Harry James, declare it to be my solemn vow …'

'… to publicly profess to my allegiance to Harry James as my sole and true apprentice …'

She widened her eyes meaningfully, and this time, Harry got the gist.

'… to publicly profess to my allegiance to Aenor Eydís as my sole and true … master …'

'… to publicly act as is befitting and expected of my responsibilities according to this rite …'

'… not to abuse this covenant to publicly mulct my avowed counterpart …'

'… and further not to abuse this covenant to influence the way he might conduct his familial duties …'

Harry nodded at her, and Aenor – with a minuscule smile – nodded back.

'… to uphold this oath faithfully and loyally through the best and worst of what is to come …'

'… and thereto I pledge thee my troth before magic's holy ordinance.'

As their vows trailed off, Aenor drew a deep, mighty breath before she sagged groggily next to him, her back turned to him in – Harry realised despite his dizziness – an almost painfully expressive gesture. She tilted her head backwards, resting it on the edge of Harry's sandy bed.

'Well, that was slightly embarrassing,' she mumbled.

'Hmm? What do you mean?'

She laughed, patting his knee without turning around. 'Oh, sweet ingénue! Nevermind, my young apprentice. On a totally different subject, you haven't attended a great many marriage ceremonies, have you?'

'No, none. What's that got to do with anything?'

'Never you mind!'

Harry, his brow furrowed, racked his brains as to what she could have meant, but after a few seconds of peaceful, silent pondering, he decided that he didn't really care either way. He took the time to have a better look at his surroundings instead.

They were, he realised in a moment of disbelieving clarity, not at any place at all. Rather, they were currently camping out in the open on a sandbank surrounded by the receding tide, under the watchful eye of the earthly satellite that still held a tinge of red. On the far horizon, he could just make out the jagged, crooked outlines of a vast fortress in the middle of the sea. Above them, high in the air, a flock of seagulls was bickering with what looked suspiciously like – yes – ravens.

'What a desolate patch to bed down,' he said.

'I sometimes come here to think. I like the seclusion.'

Harry craned his neck to stare in the other direction behind his makeshift divan. Maybe it was just the weather or the lack of light, but he couldn't make out the coastline. 'Well, it's got insularity aplenty.'

She didn't comment, though Harry automatically pictured her rolling her eyes.

'Don't you think,' he tried once more, 'that holding vows under a blood moon in clear sight of that accursed, evil prison is kind of a bad omen?'

This time, she did give a short bark of laughter. 'It adds to the ambience. Now, if you were a Potter still, I might have picked a verdant meadow with frolicking unicorns and cheerful rainbows instead, but considering our factual families, this fit the bill just fine.'

'Maybe.' Harry's eyes came to rest on her rustic garment and, perhaps more pressingly, his. 'Where are my clothes?'

'Torn to shreds – all of them. Our escape wasn't the most … elegant of flights. It took a lot out of me to force my way through all the additional wards from that side, and you were injured in the process. I … wasn't sure I'd be able to patch you up at first to be completely honest. But where was I supposed to take you?! Your grandfather would kill me, Hogwarts was out of the question, and Durmstrang – well – Karkaroff is a weasel of a man. It's better not to rely on people of his type.'

'Durmstrang?'

She looked over her left shoulder, a fleeting smile on her lips. 'My old school. Doesn't really matter anymore, I suppose. Even Dumbledore knows by now. I'd loathe for that man to know the most about me.'

As both humans kept their silence, nature was left to pick up the conversation with the gaggling of the birds above, the howling of the wind, and the low rumbling of the surf as it tore from their little shelter with every wave, patiently reclaiming just a few grains of sand at a time.

'We should probably head back to Hogwarts soon,' said Aenor after a while. 'I don't want to give Dumbledore any more reason to stick his crooked nose into matters that don't concern him. You should know, though, that I had to tell him about the apprenticeship. Not that he's in any way aware of its true nature, of course, but he might have passed the information on.'

Harry grimaced. He didn't really care per se; their entire charade had always been about public perception after all. That did not, however, mean he was looking forward to explaining it all to his friends, especially Daphne and Tracey – or his grandfather.

'Here,' said Aenor, offering him a small satchel over her shoulder. 'Your memories. Well, Pettigrew's memories.'

'Thank you.' Harry opened the unremarkable container and stared at the phials stored within. 'So … what happened?'

He heard Aenor sigh. It was clear that she wanted nothing more than to forego this talk. She finally turned around, sizing him up. 'I was about to say this isn't the place, but then again – I have to admit – there probably is no such place.' Her eyes darted around until they focused on her wand. 'What do you know of Emeric?'

'What – the ancient Dark Lord or the horror story?'

'Both, seeing as they're one and the same. I once told a very abbreviated version of it in your class – but now that I think about it, you were still excused back then, so you wouldn't have been there. You're at least familiar with it, right?'

'Yes? Squib son cast out, returns as an immensely powerful Dark Lord, kills his own family, vanishes. Happy ending.'

Aenor smirked. 'More or less. Only, he didn't vanish – he … well … died. For all intents and purposes anyway. I have always been fascinated with Dark Lords and their tales, and Emeric intrigued me to no end as a teenager. How could such an ordinary, unremarkable kid return to destroy one of the premiere clans of the time? What magic could a near-squib possibly learn to overcome so many more able wizards and witches?!'

'Near-squib? Every recounting I've read stressed the point that he couldn't transfigure a handkerchief.'

'Right, he probably couldn't. But that's not the same as saying he didn't have a speck of magic in him. I decided to delve a bit deeper into Emeric's mystery because something I'd recently seen reminded me superficially of the descriptions I'd read about the aftermath of the battle. History has always been a favourite pastime of mine, and it was quite easy to pinpoint both the place and time of origin of his tale based on linguistic evidence, magical history, and circumstantial hints derived from the surviving records, including their lore and difference in making.

'And that's when – in Durmstrang's most ancient archives – I stumbled upon something fascinating. Little Emeric wasn't as ungifted as one might have been led to believe. Indeed, part of his father's frustration stemmed from his son's inability to apply what obvious and rare talent he had. For you see, little Emeric was able to perceive magic beyond what even his own clan, famous for producing gifted seers, had ever heard of.'

Harry jerked himself into an upright sitting position. 'You don't mean …'

'Yes, I do. He was able to perceive magic in ways incomprehensible to common wizards. Colours, sounds, dream-like images. It is said that he could hear the echoes of magic being cast from miles and miles away – and it drove him mad.

'As you did, his teachers discovered that he was able to dull the sensation with rigid meditation exercises. But except his heightened sensitivity, no further practical application of his curious gift could be found at the time. The rest is as you know. He was discarded, cast out, and later revenged himself upon his undeserving family.'

'So how'd he do it?' asked Harry. It was easier not to dwell on the historic company he now knew he kept. 'I dare say he didn't shower them with upbeat sounds and gaudy paintings.'

'How are you feeling?' asked Aenor severely.

Even though the question vexed Harry to no end, it was obvious that this was no concern for politeness' sake. 'Better. Still somewhat dizzy, but I haven't got a headache at the very least.'

'Calm your mind as best you can, point your wand at me, and speak the word.'

'What word?!'

'Legilimens!'

With a sinking feeling in his stomach, Harry warily eyed his wand. 'Are you sure?'

'Do it.'

Hesitantly, he pointed his wand. Another impatient nod from his vis-à-vis robbed him of his peaceful moment of indecision.

'Legilimens!'

A sharp twinge near his temple, the muffled feeling of trying to produce a sound by beating a stick on solid ground – and that was it.

'Ack!' he hissed, rubbing his temple. 'Impossible. It's impossible after all!'

Aenor smirked. 'Give me your wand.'

'What?'

'Your wand, Harry.'

'We're not trading again, are we?'

She patronisingly raised an eyebrow, and Harry – curbed – meekly offered his wand.

'Now do it again. Only don't speak the word, don't think the word. Don't think of the spell at all. Just imagine the feeling, the intent – and be careful to empty your mind as best you possibly can!'

'What – without my wand?!'

'Harry, did some grey matter leak from the inside of your skull during our outing into the prison? Yes, without your wand, for pity's sake. You just gave it to me! Do it!'

Harry sheepishly scratched the back of his head. Feeling foolish, he stared into Aenor's cool, crystalline eyes. There was nothing for it.

Unsure what to do, he continued to gaze at those unblinking orbs, willing himself to dive into them like one might dive into a pool of water, of leaving his body behind.

Nothing happened.

Concentrating with all his might, he tried to project his own self, to overcome the distance by any means possible.

But the only thing that happened was his stomach protesting loudly, reminding Harry that it had been almost an entire day since his last meal.

Frustrated, he shut his eyes, his thoughts still dwelling on his hunger. Indignation and frustration began to churn in his guts. He just wanted to know! Why did it have to be so difficult?! And as he opened his eyes again and met Aenor's detached look, Harry's world shook, lurched with the sound of of water rushing by. He felt like an explosion drove him onwards, outwards – not unlike a firework's fiery launch. And then, just as he was beginning to enjoy the sensation of diving into an open sea of dreams, of leaving the bodily constrictions of reality behind, he slammed full force into what felt like a metre-thick, glacially blue dome of steel.

Unbiddenly squashed back into his own body, he stumbled and fell from his bedding of sand as if subjected to some magical recoil. He immediately scrambled to his feet, spitting out sand. Aenor was watching him with grim constraint, but there was also a trace, just a hint of victory lurking underneath her mask.

'You, Harry,' she continued calmly as if nothing extraordinary had happened, as if Harry hadn't just performed some miraculous and unheard of feat of magic – wandless magic! – on command, 'will never be able to learn Legilimency, just as birds will never mount an ornithopter. Asking you to perform the spell is akin to teaching a fish the breaststroke. In fact, I dare say the Legilimency spell and much of its encompassing art was fashioned, in times long past, after the peculiar talent you and a few other individuals throughout history have displayed. Now, why you display it at all … that's another question entirely. I'm reasonably sure it's limited to families with seer blood. A question for another time, perhaps.'

Harry's thoughts raced. He stared back at Aenor, who was giving him time to catch up with the events that threatened to crash over his head like a storm surge of destiny.

'So,' he mumbled, 'I can read thoughts?'

Aenor looked almost conflicted. 'Not … precisely.' She mulled over what words to choose. 'What you perceive is … magic at its most basic, its most raw. Magic without words, without intent. It's nothing like spells or rituals, nothing at all like anything we try to harness which is no true magic but merely meta-magic – our attempt to force magic into something we can comprehend.

'Yours is … speech without language. Do you understand? You can, to some extent, read wards or see through illusionary magic, because – while it's part of the spell's effect to conceal its presence – you simply perceive the … elementary modules that make up the constructed entity we call spell and which tells us we shouldn't be able to see it. The human mind interprets the spell, but you try to make sense of the elemental chaos directly! In terms of language again, we try to interpret sounds and you the motions of the air moving.

'You're not reading thoughts – you're touching minds, Harry, and I really mean "touch" – as in to finger. Or to maul. Sadly, the human mind, it would seem, is thoroughly unable to handle this state of euphoric understanding. How would you describe the sensation you feel whenever you successfully … do what it is you're doing?'

The words rose on their own. 'Feasting.'

This time, she definitely winced.

'What!' demanded Harry. 'That's … bad?'

'Harry, I … don't want to give you the wrong impression. In some ways, you might well be the most naturally gifted Legilimens alive, for all we know. In another way, however, in a much more real, practical way, you're also one step – one tiny little step – away from becoming –' Without looking, she pointed in the direction of the cursed fortress swarming with Dementors on the horizon. '– something like that.

'Your "talent" – and while I certainly choose to think of it as such, you might want to consider what people devoted to rooting out the Dark Arts might call it – is at least as much a gift as it is a curse. Should you – at any point in time – completely lose control and fully give in to this … hunger … you will cease to be as you are now. You will lose all sense of identity, all aims and goals, your past and emotions. Everything except this: hunger! If you give in,' she nodded once more in the direction of the swarm of Dementors, 'that is your future. And your doom.'

Memory Lane

Daphne yawned wearily, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. Through droopy eyes, she stared unseeingly ahead, serenely unaware of the controlled chaos all around her. For one or two minutes she simply gaped, sitting on the edge of her bed, the drapes around her bed still mostly drawn, while the other girls whirled busily all around her, having a shower, getting dressed, some putting on carefully calculated amounts of make-up, droning on and on about this and that, ranting about how boys could possibly belong to the same species as women, lamenting how icy the dungeons were or – one of the golden oldies – complaining about their teachers, homework, the other houses or – at a pinch – Peeves.

'Aren't you going to get ready, Daphy?!'

'Hmm?'

'Getting – ready?!'

'Oh. Right.'

At least they'd skipped jogging that morning.

With another imitation of the lazily sunbathing lion, Daphne grudgingly lowered her gaze. She was still wearing her shirt from the day before. Unusually, she hadn't even changed into the pyjamas Harry had bought her last summer. True, it was a pain how careful she had to be, slipping out of them before emerging from behind the closed drapes for fear of being ridiculed for the rest of her life, but they were comfy.

She gave her shirt a tentative sniff. It smelled of Harry. So that's why …

'Daphy? Daphy! What's wrong with you?! If you're that hungry, move your bum already!'

'What?!' Daphne blurted out, wiping her mouth. 'Oh, er. Yeah. Coming!'

She had just about almost entirely managed to practically stand up a bit when Amy burst into their dorm. 'Hey! Leo wants me to ask if Harry's up here somewhere.'

All the girls stopped bustling about and turned towards Daphne, eyeballing her dazed look and the partially drawn drapes.

'Hmm?' mumbled Daphne. 'Whazze matter?'

Amy rolled her eyes, and – ignoring the scandalised hissing of the girls – strode over to Daphne and unceremoniously yanked the drapes back. The bed was distinctly tousled and messy but otherwise empty.

'Thank Merlin for small mercies,' whispered Tracey, looking rather pale.

'What are you all looking at my bed for?!' whined Daphne.

'Harry,' said Amy curtly.

'He isn't here.'

'Thank you, Miss Obvious!'

'He wouldn't even though I wanted him to,' muttered Daphne groggily, wiping her eyes once more.

There was firstly more silence and staring, shortly followed by secondly more urgent whispering and – in Tracey's case – paling.

'Wait what?!' said Daphne, slowly coming to. 'Forget I said anything!'

About ten minutes later, Tracey was still struggling to find words strong enough to decry Daphne's deplorable fall from grace. 'I can't believe you'd do something so … something so …'

'Something so what?' asked Daphne defensively.

'Something so yucky!'

'I don't have to explain the technicalities to you, do I, Tracey?'

'Don't be ridiculous! It's just … Harry? In our dormitory?! While we're all asleep?! Urgh!'

'I wonder what's for breakfast,' said Amy airily.

'I think I've lost my appetite,' grumbled Tracey miserably.

'Have you – have you finished the Potions essay already, Tracey?' Hermione struck up desperately.

'You know what?! No, I haven't. And I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'd really, really, rather like to discuss Potions in all its abhorrent glory, Hermione.'

'So why were you looking for Harry again, Amy?' asked Daphne, ignoring the other two girls.

'Well, Leo's looking for him. Don't ask me. Maybe he got up early?'

Harry wasn't at breakfast either, though his post owl was. The poor thing kept looking around in such a confused sort of way that Daphne took pity and offered it a bit of toast with jam.

'He's not here,' she muttered, petting the imperial owl that eyed her beadily. 'But I'll make sure he gets the Prophet, all right?'

The owl, lording over her from her perch atop the candlestick holder, gave her a sharp glare, which Daphne took to mean, 'You'd better – or else!' and stretched out her leg. Daphne carefully detached the newspaper, offered one more piece of toast as a peace offering, and got clipped by the enormous dark brown wings for good measure as the owl took flight again.

'I like that owl,' said Amy with a grin.

'It hit me!' grumbled Daphne, rubbing her head.

'Part of her charm.'

Daphne unrolled the paper, took a sip of pumpkin juice – and proceeded to spray all of it over the entirety of the table.

'BLOODY HELL!' cried Amy, reeling back.

'URGH, DAPHY!'

'Impeccable manners as always, Greengrass,' jeered Malfoy.

'Er, something the matter?' asked Hermione, trying to surreptitiously glimpse over her shoulder.

It was one of those days that the editor rued that there was only one front page.

'This is bizarre,' muttered Daphne. 'Bonkers. What's going on?!'

'How would I know?!' grumbled Amy angrily, glaring at her wet sleeve.

'Arcturus Black,' read Daphne dutifully, 'head of the infamously reclusive ultra-conservative clan of pure-blood extremists, shocked yesterday's plenary meeting of the ICW with his announcement to donate the unprecedented sum of 25,000,000 Galleons cash down to bolster the ICW's striking power in their fight against any threat to civilised society. "I specifically bequeath the aforementioned sum," proclaimed Lord Black, who made his first appearance at the ICW in more than thirty years, "to the ICW's Head Auror for the stellar work that was done in service to the good people of Britain, and I hope that I, too, can contribute in my own, modest ways to help with current and future endeavours. My hopes for our future rest in his more than capable hands, and my prayers are with him – in whichever forsaken and no doubt clandestine patch of forest he is currently camping out and working his wonders with his most trusted men and women."

'The entire sum has already been confirmed to be delivered – and verified – leaving many to speculate the dimensions of the Blacks' notoriously vast coffers. In recent times, the Longbottom and Prewett families sparked public waves of euphoria and gratitude with their prominent donation of 3,000,000 Galleons, a sum that now pales in comparison to what witnesses of yesterday's record delivery called "a freaking bizarre amount of money". Lord Black's donation, disregarding inflation, amounts to roughly seventy years worth of the ICW's Auror corps' annual budget …'

'25,000,000 Galleons,' breathed Hermione dizzily. 'That's … a lot of cars.'

Even Leo, as famously guarded as he was, had stopped eating to stare at them. 'That's more than some countries raise with taxes in a year.'

'Imagine the interest!' said Amy avidly.

'I try not to,' replied Tracey with a sour expression. 'That much money … it's wrong.'

'I say!' agreed Daphne emphatically. 'Twenty-five mi–'

'No,' said Tracey, shaking her head. 'Listen, you know that man. Do you seriously think he'd offer anyone the shirt off his back?'

Daphne pictured Uncle Arcturus – all lordly and style. Power made matter. She had to concede the point. 'Er … no.'

'Makes you wonder how much they really have,' wondered Amy, grinning. 'Hey – if you actually end up snatching Harry, you've got to take me into their vaults. At least once!'

'I … erm … okay,' said Daphne lamely, incapable of coming up with anything better to say.

'Well, there are Muggles that have even more money,' said Hermione eventually.

'That's different,' disagreed Leo.

'How?'

'You aren't allowed to trade in more Muggle money than you absolutely need because it's so easy to get incredibly rich in the Muggle world. Conjuration … multiplication … Transfiguration … That's why magical governments tax up to 98% of non-magical income per annum – or downright confiscate it.'

'Oh … magic,' said Hermione with a rueful grin. 'Right.'

'Anyway,' said Amy with an air of finality that suggested she wasn't in the least prepared to discuss Muggle finances, 'Arcturus Black is … Arcturus Black. Him donating stupendous amounts of money is strange, I get it, but hardly warrants you spitting all over the table!'

'I did not spit all over the table!' huffed Daphne.

Amy wordlessly raised an eyebrow in the direction of her soggy sleeve as evidence A and then pointed in the direction of Tracey's soppy hair as evidence B.

'Well, there's also … Oh, it's stupid!'

'What is?'

Daphne, feeling rather hot around the ears, glared at the paper, refusing to recite the article in question. Hermione, over her shoulder, scanned the page until she came to a stop with a barely audible sharp intake of breath.

'What is it?!' said Tracey. 'And you'd better not take a sip before reading!'

'Headmaster Albus Dumbledore announces extraordinary new joint research project. Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher professor Aenor Rose, the Daily Prophet can exclusively reveal, has opted to take controversial Slytherin third year Harry James Black as her ceremonial apprentice to further an extracurricular project in the applied theory of Charms.' She paused, apparently re-reading the article to make sure she got the names right. 'It really does say Harry,' she murmured wondrously.

'You're kidding me!' exclaimed Malfoy.

'Er … no?'

'I don't believe it,' said Amy determinedly.

'What do you mean, you don't believe it?!' said Malfoy. 'It's in the paper!'

'So what? I wouldn't believe it if it was in a hundred papers! Harry's not that stupid. Not that kind of stupid, at least.'

'I don't know,' mumbled Tracey thoughtfully. 'He's always been disgustingly subservient to that foul woman!'

Amy rolled her eyes. 'Doesn't matter. He wouldn't do it.'

'Well,' insisted Hermione, pointing at the paper as if it were incontrovertible proof. 'It says here she formally asked Professor Dumbledore for permission to exchange the traditional oaths. She even agreed to an interview with Dumbledore and the Daily Prophet!'

'Still doesn't matter,' said Amy strongly, shaking her head. 'It's just words! I don't believe it for a second.'

'An interview with the Prophet? Harry?' repeated Leo, his eyebrows threatening to vanish in his hairline.

'That's what it says!'

'Barmy,' muttered Amy. 'Preposterous!'

Hermione, still leaning over Daphne's shoulder, took a sip from her cup – and choked, desperately pressing her left hand over her mouth.

'Thanks for making the effort,' said Tracey, cautiously peeking out from behind her hands that she'd raised to shield herself from another malicious spraying attack.

'What is it?' asked Daphne, browsing the paper.

Wordlessly, Hermione pointed at a small article at the side Daphne had obviously overlooked in subconscious self-defence.

She read it. Then, she read it again. She also read it for the third time. 'Oh …'

'What now?!' asked Malfoy suspiciously. 'It can't be any more outlandish than the last two!'

'No, it's … erm … well,' began Hermione, squirming uncomfortably.

'My gran's dead,' said Daphne, shocked by how flat her own voice sounded.

'Oh, I'm so sorry, Daphy,' said Tracey earnestly. 'I know you didn't get along but … you know.'

'I hated the old hag,' said Amy bluntly. 'We all did. I'm glad she's dead.'

'Shut up for a second, Amy!' To everyone's surprise, those had been Leo's words. Nobody was more taken aback than his own sister, who – in disbelief – actually did shut up, staring at her little brother.

'Well, it says here she died peacefully in her sleep. Professor Spleen, a resident healer and correspondent for the Daily Prophet, expressed his regrets and commiseration but emphasised Madame Greengrass – Gran – passed away after some time of illness but without great pain.'

Daphne hesitated, glancing up from the paper, unsure how to act. 'Well, I admit I kind of hated her.'

'Daphne!' said Hermione, shocked.

'But I'm strangely relieved she passed away peacefully.' She glanced at the paper again, uncomfortably aware how everyone was watching her. 'I'm glad she didn't suffer. I wouldn't want family, even her I guess, to die suffering.'

AN: Two in two with important character deaths these two most recent chapters. I'm on a roll! :)