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Chapter 33: When First We Practice to Deceive
VENATOR INVOLVEMENT SPARKS NEW WAVE OF PUBLIC OUTCRY
Last night, venators were officially deployed on British soil en masse for the first time in almost twenty years.
Under the cover of darkness, two squadrons converged upon the nation's capital to lift what was beginning to resemble a siege as witches and wizards pushed violently toward Buckingham Palace.
The riot began soon after muggles let loose explosives just outside Diagon Alley. Four wizards and twice as many muggles died in that blast, and the famed Leaky Cauldron suffered severe damages that have thus far kept the well-loved landmark closed.
This particular revolt on the magical side took centre stage when a group of aurors died in an attempt to keep the peace and a second squadron was left no choice but to retreat.
The large crowd of witches and wizards amassed in London was scattered when the venators launched an ambush late last night.
"I hope this is the last time the Order of Merlin is forced to intervene," First Lady Dorea Potter said this morning. "It pains my husband and I both to see Britain in this state, and I hope that valuable lessons have been learned during this madness."
Dozens have been taken into custody and still more were transported to St. Mungo's. We have been told there were no casualties during the skirmish.
Harry frowned down at the Daily Prophet. Recent reports had numbered the rioters somewhere in the hundreds. No conflict involving a side that large ended without casualties, especially not when the fighting happened after dark.
His stomach clenched with guilt. It meant things were getting bad if cover ups were entering the fold. Nothing else since his arrival had so obviously been censored.
Harry flexed his fingers underneath the table. Soon it would no longer matter. The chaos that was fast-approaching would be the end of it. Too many people had died in the pursuit of Riddle. No matter what it took, he would ensure no more lives were lost.
He headed for the Great Hall's exit when the bell signifying breakfast's conclusion sounded. It was a Sunday, so there were no classes. Given the task he faced, a day shut up honing wandwork would not go amiss.
Harry faltered just short of the Great Hall's double doors. Three of the Marauders were loitering in front of him. Indecision whether to walk past or to hang back until they left froze him.
Someone collided with his rear, then steadied him with a strong hand. "Sorry."
Sirius. A pang knifed through his chest. They had hardly shared a word since things had devolved with James.
The Black heir was gone before he could say so much as a word. Having raised a hand to forestall Sirius without realizing, Harry let it fall limply to his side and heard the telltale rustling of parchment.
The first sheet he read once up in the Room of Requirement was from Sirius himself.
Harry,
Meet me at the edge of the Forbidden Forest tonight once dinner's finished. James has a meeting with the headmaster, so he'll be out of the way.
I hope to see you soon,
Sirius
The second sheet contained a wall of writing that would have meant nothing to Sirius had his curiosity gotten the best of him. Harry had the cipher and it took him almost ten minutes to decode the message.
Tonight at nine o'clock. Make sure you leave the grounds before you activate the portkey. The phrase is corvus.
He plucked up a cloak pin in the shape of a raven with its wings outstretched that had been tucked into the roll of parchment. Grim satisfaction thrummed through him like an electric current. It was about time.
The magic thrumming through the wand she held moved soundless as a shadow, yet to her its current was a symphony. Where it had reminded her of unsteady gusts three weeks ago, now its tones evoked a summer breeze and the rustling of green leaves.
Narcissa frowned down at the wand. She should have heard the unbroken howling of wind across an open field. The imperfection nagged at her. Vieilla would have told her the intent was to mend, not perfect. That had been among his first 'lessons' — strive for the intent without becoming snagged on the ideal.
Her frown twisted into a scowl. That was one thing for an artificer to say. She was an artist and an enchantress.
Yet I can't name an enchantress who could do this. She rolled the wand across her palm, unable to deny the swell of satisfaction. How few hands had accomplished what hers had?
It was fulfilling, she could admit that. Artless sure, yet engaging in a way slaving over common trinkets seldom was. Where enchanting was a leisurely stroll along a gorgeous ocean road, this had been a daring hike straight up an ugly cliff. No pleasure came from the act itself. Finishing it, though… there was a certain rush she had not felt in quite some time.
Except for when she had examined the sword of Godric Gryffindor.
Narcissa smothered that well of thought and padded lightly down to L'Artificier's ground floor. Reflection was a steep slope that required care. Her moods turned bitter too often these days.
"Viens." Vieilla swept aside a stack of parchments as she closed his study's door. Narcissa was beginning to think the only reason he had accepted her as his apprentice was so he could spend more time nose-deep in his extensive readings. "How has your work been treating you?"
"I have repaired the wand." The French flowed easily from her, as it had for the last fortnight. That first week… well, she had been out of practice and the less said about how badly, the better.
Vieilla held out a hand. "May I?" She passed it over and watched him study it from all angles. "Magnifique," he said at last. "This is excellent."
Narcissa's sniff did not sound as condescending as she had been aiming for. "It is imperfect."
"It is a perfect job, if not a perfect wand." Vieilla passed it gently back to her. "I will let you return this to Madame Oullet when she next returns to inquire about our progress."
Narcissa reclaimed the mended wand and tucked it gingerly into a pocket of her robes. "Merci."
"Though that was a simple fix, if any restoration of a damaged wand can be considered simple, and you have not yet learned the subtler lessons that I hope to teach you, your talent is indisputable."
This time, her bearing fell easily into regal condescension. "You have made no effort to teach me. You've just encouraged me to strive for less, then handed me a wand to fix without instruction."
Vieilla folded both hands on the desk in front of him. "Did you not learn from the experience?"
Narcissa crossed her arms. "I learned nothing I could not have taught myself."
That knowing smile spread across Vieilla's face. "You wonder why I have not yet taught you in the way you yearn for, and then you clamber onto your high horse and sneer down your nose at me."
"I have not clambered onto anything. All I'm doing is telling you the truth. You said that was what you wanted when my apprenticeship began."
"Oui."
Her right eye twitched. "Oui? Is that all?" She regretted the outburst the second it had left her lips. Presenting unyielding patience and implacability was one of Vieilla's favourite tricks. It was among the oldest in the book and it should never have earned a rise from her.
I'm not myself, she thought. It was too humid in this forsaken city and she was nearing her wit's end. She had woken up that morning drenched in sweat. The frustrated yearning in her gut had almost been enough to make her sick.
Thinking about that just raised her hackles higher. Longing over trinkets like a spoiled schoolgirl. How low she had fallen. Damn you, Malcolm Renn, or whatever your name is.
If the world was just, he was making Riddle's life a living hell right now. She felt it was only fair that she hoped he took some knocks and bruises in the process. Renn's ego was large enough already, fleeing behind her skirts when he was wounded, then dropping her like an ugly doll when she was no longer needed. Men…
"When you learn to understand that yours is not the only truth, then and only then will I teach you in the way you have been hoping for," Vieilla said.
Damn him, too, she thought while storming from L'Artificier ten minutes later. Damn all men — they were arrogant, self-centred blockheads, the lot of them.
Almost all of them, at least. Her grandfather had put her first, as he always did. Perhaps there was an age when men gained the gift of mindfulness.
The humid air closed in like a sopping vice when she stepped out onto the cobbled sidewalk. The day was no cooler for the layer of clouds or the faint breeze. Sweat trickled down the brows of most she passed and over half their number reeked like rowdy teenage boys.
It was hard to believe how reverently she had worshipped Paris. It was the city of love and capital of enchanting. As a girl she had dreamt of kissing strong men atop the Eiffel Tower, and as a woman she had hoped to put down roots and grow famous here.
How ugly the truth could be. It was almost enough to convince her no dreams came true. Had she been of lesser stock, the disappointment might have crushed her.
Thankfully she was Narcissa Black, daughter of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. She would carve out everything she wanted, no matter what cesspit she was stuck in.
She pushed open a glass door and stepped into a quaint store selling high-end clothes. A bell tinkled at her back as she looked up and down the rows of racks and hangers.
"Bonjour, Mademoiselle." A young woman in a cream-coloured dress that went well alongside her brown hair and olive skin stepped up to greet her. "Here to pick up your order?"
Narcissa smiled, the first genuine smile she had worn all day. "Oui, Madame Labourdette."
"Calypso Jonquille, non?"
Her mouth tightened. "Oui." The alias Vieilla had selected for her had never felt like such a slap in the face.
"I will bring it out to you." Madame Labourdette glided through a door along the rear wall and vanished out of sight.
Calypso, indeed, Narcissa seethed, unable to shake the twisted joke out of its prominent position in her thoughts. Malcolm Renn was no Odysseus and she would rather kick him where it hurt than make love to him, yet she could not deny the irony of her current moniker. If her great-aunt Dorea was responsible, she would wring her neck the next time they met.
Madame Labourdette returned with a silk bag full of airy robes. "This is yours, Mademoiselle."
"Merci." Narcissa passed over a small handful of aurums. "Keep the change, Madame." She deserved it for cultivating one of the few gems Narcissa had found amid the stinking city.
It was midday and the sidewalks were lined with crowds of people in great hurries to go on with their mundane lives. All the diners that appealed to her were overflowing. The outdoor eateries with tables up for grabs were of no temptation. Between the weather and unrest, she would rather kiss one of the balding men in front of her than eat along a central street.
The best she could find among her slim pickings was a small, dim diner containing little in the way of open space. Its spindly tables and rigid, high-backed chairs were packed so tightly that neighbouring parties could converse in quiet voices just above a whisper.
She chose a spot nestled in one of the corners, far away from the majority of customers.
That was the upside.
The downside was that a quartet of muggle teenagers were conversing without regard for common courtesy three tables to her right. The boys were slim and dark-haired, dressed in shirts with high collars that looked prepared to strangle them.
Narcissa flagged down a waiter who was dressed in a shirt not unlike the boys'.
"Mademoiselle." The young man made a clumsy bow and placed her menu on the table. She could hear the four boys snickering behind his back. "Can I get you anything to drink?"
"Water, please. With ice, if possible."
He made another awkward bow. "Right away, Mademoiselle."
She skimmed through the menu while the waiter rushed off to fetch her drink. If this city had a single saving grace, it was the food.
"Are you going to ask her?" she heard one of the boys whisper as she perused the menu.
"Come on, she's like… I don't know, five years older than me!"
"So? Imagine the looks you'd get if you turned up to the next school dance with her!"
"Are you kidding?" a third voice chimed in. "Gabe has no chance. Look at her!"
She had long ago learned not to blush in these situations. Harder to resist was the urge to glare. Did they have no manners?
This heat really was taking a heavy toll on her. They were muggle teenagers — what else had she expected?
"Go on then, hotshot?" Gabe shot back at the boy who had dismissed his chances. "I'd like to see you get turned away."
"All right," the other agreed. "Five argents says I bag her?"
Gabe snorted. "Five argents? What's the matter, Louis? I thought your father had a mighty job in the empire."
"Fine," Louis drawled. "I can afford to wager a little bit of pocket money. Say… two aurums?" I will humble this boy if he tries his hand, Narcissa vowed.
"Done." Gabe sounded stiff and rigid, not half so confident now as he had been mere seconds prior.
Her waiter chose that moment to return with a cup of water. Ice jingled against the glass as it was set down. "I'm so sorry for the wait, Mademoiselle. We don't offer ice, you see, but I thought… just for you."
"Merci." She offered up a smile that made the waiter blush.
"Are you ready to order?"
A chair scraped against the floor nearby and she resisted the urge to glance in its direction. "Oui. May I have a crêpe aux fraises fourrée au fromage frais?"
The waiter nodded. "Certainly."
"Put her on my tab." Louis had stalked over. His long neck looked out of place on him. It belonged on someone taller. Wearing platform shoes that granted him at least two inches, Narcissa guessed they would have stood eye to eye had she been on her feet.
"Of course, Monsieur," her waiter said in the stiff tones of one choking down displeasure.
Louis flashed his straight, bright teeth. "Would you do me the pleasure of joining my friends and I, Mademoiselle? Maybe we could find you something pretty when we're done?"
Narcissa conjured up a return smile and could practically feel his chest protrude. "Non." Her voice was like the thrusting of a dagger made from ice. The cocky smirk Louis had been wearing crumbled. "I don't appreciate being leered at. Women aren't trinkets for your group of lackwitts to collect. Remember that. It will be important once you're older."
"Once I'm…" Louis's face was turning puse. His friends were laughing into their cups.
"When you're older," she confirmed. "It's improper for women to humour children or their advances. It would be even less proper if the roles wound up reversed once you grow into a man."
Louis snarled at her. "Who the fuck do you think you are? My father—"
"Is a muggle, yes?" Louis's pasty complexion paled further as Narcissa's wand slid out of her sleeve. The lazy way she twirled it through her fingers was no threat, merely a set piece. Threatening muggles was beneath her. This whole thing was, really, but oh how good it felt, letting out her pent up scorn. "You asked who I am," she pressed on. "I am Calypso Jonquilli. I am an enchantress and the apprentice of Master Alden Vieilla."
Louis stumbled two steps back. "You work for him?"
"I study with him. There is an important difference." Had she been standing, she would have patted the brat's cheek. "Now, scurry back off to your group of little friends and make sure Gabe gets his two aurums."
"I think you dodged a bullet," she heard one of the two unnamed boys whisper. "She's way too sharp for you."
"Fuck her!" Louis growled under his breath. Did they not realize how clearly their words carried? "I don't want anything to do with anyone who works for that old warlock."
"I've heard stories about him." A chair scuffed against the floor. "They say he can do things that aren't right."
"That's called magic, Gabe," the fourth boy said. "It's kind of the thing that runs the world."
"Not like that!" Narcissa could not help but listen. What had these boys heard about the baffling man she studied under?
"Gabe's right for once," said Louis. "Vieilla's not normal, not even for one of them." He made the word 'them' sound as if it brought him to the verge of gagging.
"How can you be any less normal than one of them?" the third boy asked.
"Vieilla's not just a wizard," Louis muttered. "People say he's an alchemist. I've heard he conducts all sorts of twisted experiments in a hidden lab somewhere in his shop." Narcissa snorted softly into her glass.
"What sort of experiments?" the third boy asked.
"Who knows," Louis said. "Father says the metals their lot use in alchemy are dangerous."
"Your father oversees a mine, right?" the fourth boy asked.
"A few of them," Louis confirmed. "They made him sign really strict contracts in his own blood." Narcissa's derision mounted. Muggles had been integrated into their world for decades. Did they really still view binding contracts as some arcane witchcraft?
"I bet he regrets that now," Gabe grumbled.
"Shut up!" Louis hissed. "There's one of them a few feet away from us. Do you really want to start spouting off in here?"
Narcissa tuned out their conversation with a scowl. Never had she thought she'd see the day when unease rippled between magical and muggles like a dividing line. Idly, she could not help but wonder how long things could continue escalating.
The sun was low but not yet setting when he exited the castle. The gentle breeze that had whispered through the grass became a steady wind as the shadows lengthened. It was whistling off the water as he walked past the lake. It settled somewhere in between by the time he reached the forest's edge. Branches swayed gently in its grasp. Their shadows danced boldly forward each time their sources stirred, only to shrink back when the trees inevitably fell still.
It was amidst one of those silent spans of stillness when Sirius arrived. "Sorry, I had to give Remus and Peter the slip."
"It's all right," Harry assured him. "I haven't been here long." The wind kicked up again. A bird flew off its swaying perch and soared above them. "Is there anything specific that you want?"
Sirius rubbed the growth of hair along his chin. "To talk about a couple things, if that's all right." Harry waited. "I'm sorry about the last month or so. Longer, I guess. Since the solstice, really."
"Still pissed I won't teach him?" Harry had hoped for some changes in his father these past six weeks.
Sirius grunted. "It's more than that. James has been a mess since that first attack. I knew he'd do something pigheaded on the solstice. I tried talking him out of it on the train ride back to London."
Harry nodded. "That's why I can't teach him."
"I know." That was not the response he had expected from Sirius, who had campaigned for him to be taught and informed by the Order of the Phoenix. "I'm already worried he'll do something stupid if he gets the chance. The last thing he needs is false confidence."
Some of the tension Harry had been holding ebbed away. "You're not here to argue James's case, then?"
"No." A shadow passed across the Marauder's face. "I've seen how this story ends. My great-uncle… well, I won't bore you. Let's just say I'm pretty sure what happened to him is half the reason why my grandfather guards our library so closely. No Black gets in until he's sure they're ready."
"Smart man, your grandfather."
"I'm worried about James," Sirius admitted. "I don't know how to make him understand that he's heading for disaster."
"Sometimes you can't make someone understand." Merlin knew half the order had tried making him see all sorts of things. "Sometimes you have to learn the hard way."
Sirius grimaced. "I don't want James to learn the hard way. My great-uncle that I mentioned? It's hard for him to walk when his wife's not half-dragging him. I've seen what that does to someone."
"I don't want him to learn that way, either," Harry said. "I'm not saying don't try, I'm just… I don't know. Warning you, I guess."
"I hoped you'd have advice for me." Sirius kicked a patch of dandelions and sent the yellow flowers spinning. "You seem the type who might have had to learn the hard way."
Harry stared off over the treeline. "If I knew half as much as you seem to think, I would have pulled my head out of my arse sooner."
Sirius looked him up and down. "It's hard to imagine you with your head in your arse."
Harry crushed the urge to snort. "What makes you say that?"
"I don't know. There's just something about you." Sirius's inspection of him intensified. "You just seem… older."
"So do you." This conversation had opened his eyes to that.
"I knew this sort of thing years ago," Sirius admitted. "I was just too much of a hotheaded prat to see it."
"What changed?" Harry asked. James and Sirius had always been alike. If anything might provide insight, this was it.
Sirius winced. "I played a joke without thinking last year. On Prince." So that was what had done it. "It… went further than I meant it to — made me rethink some things."
"I've hardly seen Prince lately." It had been a pleasant change of pace.
"Best we can work out, he had a falling out with the goons he kept around after they tried jumping us. He spends most of his time locked up in his dormitory, or visiting the headmaster."
So Prince had firmly stepped onto the path into Riddle's ranks. "Interesting," Harry murmured. Losing Lily's friendship must have been the final straw.
"I should get going," said Sirius. "I convinced the others I was slipping off for a quick snog. They'll never let me live it down if I'm not back soon."
"All right." Harry wrestled up his most reassuring smile. "Just keep an eye on James and keep working on him. It's all that you can do."
"Yeah." Sirius's adam's apple rippled as he swallowed. "Yeah."
It was not too long until nine o'clock, so he slipped off the grounds and apparated to the mountains overlooking Hogsmeade. His blood wards were still active and the artifacts remained untouched.
Dangerous intrigue prickled as he looked the trinkets over. What did the others do? The diadem was made from silver. Did that mean its function had something to do with magical corrosion?
Narcissa's annoyance had returned by the time she re-entered L'Artificier. Vieilla was in the front room, chatting with a middle-aged couple who had walked in not far ahead of her.
"Mademoiselle?" Vieilla's address halted her before she could step past him. "A letter arrived that bears your name. I have left it in your study."
"Merci, Maitre Vieilla." She had time to see his eyes narrow before she stepped through the door leading deeper into the building.
"Really," she scoffed, entering the study that was hers so long as she apprenticed here. Vieilla could not really want her to dispense formality when in front of customers. If that was really what his look had meant, then it was him who had some things to learn from her.
Star-shaped flowers unfurling from purple foliage composed the seal upon the waiting letter.
Narcissa,
The riots are soon to heat up in Paris. I've heard that there's a large one planned for nine days from now. Please be careful — I expect things will get violent and that Paris will become a dangerous place to live that night.
Soon the sun had set and the stars had shown themselves. They were less stark here than they had been where he'd come from. The observation filled him with a profound loss. For the first time, he saw the sprawling city as a blemish on the highlands' beauty rather than a peerless wonder.
When nine o'clock arrived, he clutched the pin between his fingers and took one last look over the web of lights extending out across the space between his mountain's foot and the gravel path to Hogwarts.
"Corvus."
The portkey deposited him in a long room whose floor was done in granite. Black shutters were drawn across windows higher than most houses. Sculpted ravens rested on stone plinths that were spread around the hall's perimetre.
An old, hunched elf appeared feet away from him with a loud crack. "Master Arcturus and Mistress Dorea be waiting for you, sir."
Arcturus? Harry breathed an inward sigh. This next fight had to be the last and his alliance with the First Lady was the surest way of ending things. That was all that mattered.
Wards were buzzing around the black door the house elf led him to. Goosebumps crawled along his arms as he stared at the door's brass handle. It was so alike the entrance to the Department of Mysteries that his pulse had quickened.
Focus. Harry knocked three times.
"Enter."
A gas lantern resting on a long desk was the study's lone light source. Its glow caressed the gilded frame of a large painting hanging just above the desk. In it, ravens rode wide wings through a shining sea of stars, swooping high above a field of roses. The room's floor was carpeted in black velvet. The walls and ceiling were both hewn out of spruce.
Two leather armchairs were set out in front of the low desk. Harry's eyes flicked past these, resting on the seat behind that desk. It was wide, high-backed, and embroidered with gold patterns. Currently it looked much like a throne, largely thanks to the man who occupied it. Sleet-grey eyes so redolent of this man's grandson met Harry's gaze unblinkingly. "So, you're the Kalloway boy."
Harry took the empty chair on Dorea's left. "And you must be Arcturus Black." Between the steel-grey hair and hard lines etched into his grim face, Arcturus looked late into his middle years by muggle standards.
"I'm glad that we have all been introduced," Dorea said. "I'm sorry for the delay in arranging this meeting. I hadn't been expecting you to request one so urgently and Arcturus was… insistent he attend."
"Who else have you told?" It was hard to keep accusation out of his voice. "You said no one knew, the night we made our agreement."
Dorea pursed her lips. "That was true when I said it, and for your information I did not inform Arcturus."
Harry stared across the desk. "How did you find out?" he demanded of the Lord Black.
"Dorea asked for my advice when planning for the solstice," the man replied with unruffled calm. "I knew about your part and I heard third-hand about the night's events. Then my granddaughter, shaken like I haven't seen her in years, asked for me to house her." The shift in Arcturus's bearing was not stark. His face had hardly changed at all, yet it spoke of wrath with the certainty of an approaching storm. "When I eventually pried what Riddle had done out of her, I promised he would be brought to justice."
"Arcturus was the one who informed me of everything Narcissa told him about Tom Riddle," Dorea said. "One detail I thought interesting was that soon after the attack last winter, Riddle asked her about the limitations of enchantments placed on something like a ring. That was what first set me down the path."
Harry frowned, searching for the significance. "Something like a ring?"
Dorea flicked her hand. "The details don't matter. Suffice to say that Charlus happens to own a ring whose enchantments helped thwart that first attack. When Arcturus laid out Narcissa's story and asked if I would help him deal with Riddle… well, I had all the motivation needed and knew just the man for the job."
Harry relaxed a fraction. Arcturus knew he had been fighting Riddle, not that he was Malcolm Renn. "I've told Dorea this already, but you should hear it too. Azkaban won't hold Tom Riddle."
Arcturus did not bat an eye. "There are many kinds of justice. Azkaban is not the type I was referring to."
Harry shifted forward in his seat. "And what do you think is just for a man like Tom Riddle?"
Arcturus looked between the two of them. "I think it would be just if we hung Tom Riddle with his own tangled web of lies."
"Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive!"
— Sir Walter Scott
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