Chapter 33 - A new day
Two hours had passed since the moon set itself atop of the sky, accompanied by that cool breeze of late spring and the cricket's song. Two hours in which all Ron had done was to stare at the white curtain which separated his bed from those prying eyes of the medical wing, with his tray of food—a large mound of potato mash and three succulent chicken fillets—over his knees. It smelled nice, for sure, but the redhead wasn't in the mood to satisfy his growling stomach.
What had he done? That bloody question was all he could think about.
It had an answer, one name: Tom. That bastard had toyed with him as he had pleased, and later on, when Ron was no longer of use, he had been tossed away like some broken quill. How many students had that bastard made him attack? A minimum of three, of that he was sure. Because Harry and Hermione, two of his best friends, also belonged to that group.
Ron and the rest of the petrified students had been woken up that very same day; in fact, he could still feel the awful taste of that bloody potion. Around him, in their own beds and shielded behind their curtains, the others must have been in the same situation; awoken but not allowed to move. Suddenly, the mental image of Hermione came to his mind. The girl had lied so still in her bed—face so pale and body so stiff in a silent grimace of fear and surprise—that she looked more dead than alive.
And all because of Ron.
Sure, Tom had manipulated him until the redhead became the most useful of the tools he could have wished for. However, the blame rested on the boy's shoulders, not on that bastard's. After all, it had been Ronald Weasley the one to fall right into his tricks. A bloody diary which had all the information he needed about the Heir of Slytherin and the Chamber of Secrets, what a lucky day he had! How did he fall so easily to such an evident trap? To that question, he also knew the answer: because he wanted to be a hero, that's why.
Ron wanted to scream about how stupid he had been, but he wasn't alone to vent his frustations that way. No, he needed to wait for Gerdnyaram to come back. That was all he could do right now.
The Essentia took a few more minutes, but she finally came through the curtains, moving them aside so she could get inside. The little woman that took a seat at the other end of the bed was Gerdnyaram, not Gerd, the boy reminded himself. Many things had changed during his long slumber—just as many as promises had been swore. "Your sister is okay," she just said.
A wave of relief fell all over Ron; those words took a heavy weight from his shoulders. Ginny was okay—Ginny, who, just like him, had been involved, somehow, in the Chamber's opening. "Is she…?" Ron started, yet he couldn't find the words.
"She's sleeping as peacefully as a person can," the Essentia nodded her head in response. "That medi-witch didn't give her the same potion you all drank—thus she couldn't have been petrified. Although I know for a fact that she's spent the last few days here."
Gerdnyaram was an unknown person to him; far too serious and royal for the redhead to understand. However, there were many traces of Gerd in her, and because of that, Ron could still read the faintest of the gestures her face and posture gave away. "No more lies, Gerdnyaram. We both promised it."
The Essentia sent him a sharp look, one Ron held to the end. "I never had that intention," she finally said. "True, I know what happened to your sister, and I was waiting for the right moment to shed the light over it."
"That moment is right now."
Her sharp eyes were still fixed on his. "When Albus Dumbledore confronted the Heir of Slytherin, there was some unexpected person down there. Your sister stood by the diary's side, just as you did prior to her—golden eyes instead of blue and mind taken away by an evil shadow, Tom had manipulated her the same way he did with you: through the diary. There's way more into it than this; sombre details you can imagine, but of no importance now that she's safe. What matters is the fact I carried out my oath. I protected your sister just as I swore."
Ron remembered that promise, the one they both swore in that strange world which went by the name of Scala ad Caelum. He also remembered his end of the deal. "For that I will forever be grateful to you, Gerdnyaram. I don't even care how much you lied to me in the past, for the damage my actions caused were far worse than that of your lies. It's funny, ain't it? The moment I free myself of your control is all I need to fuck it big time again and again. Maybe, I should have stayed under your control…"
"The most obedient tool I could wish for; wasn't that what you promised me?" Ron gulped down as he nodded his head. Then, much to his surprise, the Essentia's eyes softened. "If so, I need you to bring the true Ronald Weasley back, not this excuse of a wizard who sits in front of me. We've all committed mistakes in the past, Ron, and trust me when I say my sins are far worse than yours. Yet here I am." She paused for a moment to exhale a long sigh. "You will need to deal with the consequences of your actions, of course, but it is the only way to bury them and go on with your life. As far as I know, only the two of us, your sister and maybe Dumbledore know what really happened; most likely, each one of us will have a different part of the full picture."
To bury his actions? That sounded nice, but also impossible. There still were far too many incognites to be known, but cursed be him if Ron would not gather all of those missing parts of the story. Probably, the Headmaster would come to talk to him about Tom and his diary. Then, the redhead would talk to Harry and Hermione, and most importantly, he would beg for their pardon… And lastly, he and Ginny needed to have a long talk about her involvement in this huge mess.
Then and only then, Ron, maybe, would come to pardon himself.
Still, the redhead clapped both of his cheeks with force under the surprised eyes of the Essentia; two red marks were left printed on his face. "Okay, you are right," Ron said. There were far too many problems of utmost importance for him to loathe himself an entire day. Tom, the Heir of Slytherin and the Chamber of Secrets needed to be a thing of the past. Ron had to focus on the future, on Herpo the Foul and He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named; the one who started this story and the one who continued it. "Someone once told me to be better, not sorry. I will try my best to move forward, Gerdnyaram. For my people, I must and will do it. There won't be any second chances from now on."
"We've already spent all of them," the Essentia replied with a mirthless smile. "Though you are correct—we both need to be better. For the moment, you must rest well, Ronald. Tomorrow will be a new day, the very first of our new life. We will begin it as equals." This being said, Gerdnyaram just disappeared from his sight.
That night, Ron really tried to rest as he had been told, however, a constant torrent of images and emotions didn't allow him to find that peace he seeked for.
A pair of golden eyes amidst a sea of darkness. An open diary in which, over its pages, a constant flow of words appeared—'don't you wanna be a hero anymore, Ronald?' The sentence said, 'I'm your one and only friend, Ronald, everyone else hates you,' another followed it. There also was a snake of incredible dimensions, its large body covered by dragon-like scales of a dark green tonality. A curved blade which gleamed with an ethereal-blue light. And finally, a sense of oppression that not only made him shudder in fear, it also filled the redhead with a sense of familiarity, like the face of some old friend who came to visit after many years.
And then, as soon as the rays of the morning sun seeped through the window above the bed, Ron opened his eyes. The first thing he realised was how exhausted he felt, to a point in which all the redhead wanted to do was to close his eyes and sleep for a few more hours.
Yet there was a voice that wouldn't shut up. "You are the next one to go, Mr Finch-Fletchley," Madam Pomfrey said with a chirpy voice. "All looks alright, and this potion isn't supposed to have secondary effects. However, if you feel the slightest of the discomforts, you must come here immediately. Was I clear enough?"
"Y-Yes!" The Hufflepuff answered. Its voice was followed by the noise of footsteps, which got fainter with each second.
Ron sat up on his bed—the redhead did feel as exhausted as he had ever been, yet his mind felt very awake. When the curtains of his bed were opened by the medi-witch, all she found behind them was a smiling Slytherin. "I'll go next, right?" They all were unpetrified at the same time, but unlike Harry, Hermione and the older girl from Ravenclaw, the others were denied their discharge. If Justin had been given permission to leave, there was no way Madam Pomfrey would leave him behind, right?
"That's for me to decide, Mr Weasley." The medi-witch grabbed his chin and stared at him dead in the eyes—her pupils moved fast and precise, scanning whatever the hell she looked for. Then, with her wand pointed at him, a sudden warmth invaded Ron's body. Finally, she nodded her head, satisfied. "You can dress up and go."
Ron sighed in relief, but there was a question swarming his mind at that moment. "Why wasn't I discharged yesterday, with Harry and Hermione?"
Madam Pomfrey turned around, and, for a few seconds, the redhead thought she would not answer him. "Something weird happened to you a few days ago," she confessed. "None of the petrified students, you included, showed any sign of life for months—until you did, that's it. You did not move, and neither did your face show any different gesture, but your magical aura suddenly flared. It was a very faint burst, so much I thought I made it up, but deep inside me I knew it was you. Up to this day, not even the Headmaster could come up with a plausible explanation."
So, another weird thing happening to me, eh? Nothing occurred just because—there needed to be a reason behind it, and Ron knew all the fingers pointed at Gerdnyaram.
His lack of response must have surprised the medi-witch, who didn't allow the matter to die. "Say, Mr Weasley, do you even know what a magical aura is? You acknowledged my words with ease."
"I have no idea," Ron lied. He could not waste any time on useless explanations; not when he needed to talk to so many people and to do so many things. "But you didn't sound worried, so I assumed it was no grave problem. Do I need to worry about it?" His voice faltered at the end, just as his lip trembled a bit—had Daphne been there to see the way he lied, even she would have nodded in approval. Bloody me! I've sure changed since I first stepped into Hogwarts! The thought about the blonde girl brought another matter to his mind. He really missed his friends.
"Oh, of course not!" She had bought his act. "All you need to worry about at this moment is to have a nice breakfast! Come on, off you go! Mr Creevey is still waiting for his discharge!"
Ron did not need to be told twice.
The second he stepped out of the medical wing, he realised something—the castle's corridors had not changed in the slightest, but the way they felt had. There was no one around, and even those figures of the pictures and paintings weren't there to pester him. There wasn't any visible damage, so the Heir did not have the chance to punish everyone as he wanted. His name is Tom, not the Heir. He tricked you, he turned you into a puppet. Don't ever forget his name! Tom, that was the Heir of Slytherin's name.
Ron walked through the very same corridors he knew so well, those in which he got lost so many times. Yet his eyes paid attention to every single detail—not because the redhead feared a sudden attack, but due to the fact it felt like ages since he last strode through them. At some point of the walk, still wandering around the third floor, Gerdnyaram joined him. The Essentia made no noise, and neither did she take her usual spot on his shoulder; Gerd's spot. No, she just glided by his side in the form of a blue eagle.
"You dread the encounter with those people you owe an explanation to." Different form or not, her voice was still the same. Just like her cold logic. "Even the bravest of the men, those who would jump into a storm of fire for the sake of others, had trouble facing those they loved and those who loved him. Do not make the same mistakes I did, Ronald. Go and fix whatever is troubling your mind."
It was very easy to say it, especially, when it wasn't her who almost killed all those people Ron attacked. Yet, deep inside him, Ron knew she was right. You are a Weasley, ain't you? Then grow a pair and get it done! His resolution was strong, yet it crumbled the moment he almost bumped shoulders with Harry. The two boys couldn't do a thing but to stare at each other in surprise—what the hell was Harry doing there? The Gryffindor's mouth opened, but no sound came out of it. And so it happened to Ron.
Then, at the same time, the two of them just embraced each other in a rather awkward hug. "You are okay," the redhead muttered in a low whisper. "I-I am sorry—I truly am."
Harry broke the embrace to look at him eye to eye; there wasn't hatred in them. Ron allowed himself to exhale a relieved sigh—Harry didn't hate him! "Why would you be sorry?" The Gryffindor asked; there wasn't surprise in his voice, and neither did he try to accuse him. He knew. But, if so, why didn't he hate Ron?
"Because," the words wouldn't come out, but Ron would make them. "Because I almost killed you. And Hermione, too, just like that girl from Ravenclaw. Don't you remember, Harry? You came to that room in my search! And then the Basilisk attacked us!" That name meant nothing to him, but for an unknown reason, the redhead knew it belonged to the Heir's monster—a Basilisk, the King of Serpents.
"Well, from the little I remember of that day, I went there myself," Harry shrugged it off. "And if what you just said it's true, then you saved me." Ron tried to speak, but his friend silenced him with a gesture of his hand. "Yesterday, I talked with Hermione—about what she discovered before getting petrified and a hundred more matters about the Heir of Slytherin. It turns out the Headmaster defeated that bastard, and he just summoned me to his office. I have no idea what he wants to tell me, but I need to go there if I want to get all the answers I seek." The boy paused for a moment; an instant in which he eluded Ron's look. "I know you, somehow, are in the middle of this mess. I also know you wouldn't ever hurt anyone else. Not because you saved my life, but because I know you. However, what pains me is the fact you did not tell any of us about whatever linked you to the Heir."
"I-I… It's a long story, I guess."
Harry let out an ironic huff as he squeezed his friend's shoulder, softly. "I figured so. I want you to tell me everything about it—to tell us about it, your friends. It doesn't have to be today, or even in the near future, but you need to do it. Something tells me you won't get to forgive yourself unless we take that weight out of your shoulders." As he walked away, Harry sent him one last smile; a very awkward one, but not nearly as much as how sincere it was. "You better do it, because, otherwise, I'm pretty sure Tracey will try to smack the idiocy out of you. She might be petite, but we both know her arms are strong."
Ron stared at his friend for an entire minute; it didn't matter if he was long gone. Those words had shifted something inside him, but he refused to free the tears that started to flood his eyes. "I am so very stupid," the boy let out a dry guffaw. Did he really expect Harry and the others to hate him? Did he really think so low of their friendship?"
"That's a good friend you have there," Gerdnyaram said from above; her voice sounded fond, if he wasn't mistaken. "Not so good at expressing his feelings, though. I guess it is a trait all the boys of your age share."
Ron ignored the pun and nodded to her words. "I know." He was very fortunate to have all those incredible friends—Daphne, Harry, Tracey, Hermione, Blaise and Neville. Each one of them had their flaws and strengths, but no one could deny how wonderful they were in their own way. "I need to move forward, Gerdnyaram. Not only for my family, but also for them. I swear nothing will happen to any of them."
Harry's head was about to explode, he could feel it.
Just a bloody diary—Tom Riddle's diary—had caused so much damage. He also knew there was more to it. It wasn't just a former student by the name of Tom who became the Heir of Slytherin. No, his real identity was Lord Voldemort; the bastard who controlled Ginny and Ron. For the tenth time in that minute, Harry tried to voice out his thoughts; another futile attempt. He tried again, until, finally, the words came out. "How is that possible?"
Albus Dumbledore just took another gulp of his tea; it smelled nice, enough to almost relax the boy. Almost. "I have a very plausible theory, but all I can tell you about it is the fact it's one of the darkest kinds of magic a human can ever think of. Somehow, Tom left a part of himself in that diary—a part of himself who, thanks to the pride it shares with the original one, tried to make Salazar Slytherin's dreams come true." The Headmaster talked about it as if he was commenting on the nice weather. On the contrary, Harry was terrified. "You are connected to Lord Voldemort in a very special way, Harry, and since you faced him last year, I won't hide anything from you anymore. He will be back, and you need to be ready for that day."
There it was, that special connection between the two of them Dumbledore mentioned a year ago. Memories of a looming shadow came to his mind—how it screamed in rage, how it swore to torture all the people Harry loved.
"Fortunately, this time there are less people I owe an explanation to," the Headmaster went on, almost humourly. "Ginevra and Ronald Weasley each know a bit of here and a bit of there, so I must speak to them in the near future." He sent the boy a sharp look. "Of course, I know Mr Weasley himself, Mr Longbottom and Mrs Granger will come to know all the truth, yet I trust your judgement, Harry. They are your friends for a reason."
There it was once again—all those words about him and Voldemort.
Why did it have to be him? All Harry wanted to do was to play Quidditch and learn magic! Why? Didn't that bastard have enough when he took his parents away for him? Why did he always find a way to torment those who were close to Harry? He hurt Ron and Ginny; he made them commit vile acts against their will. The Gryffindor boy was furious, yet that noble sentiment of his was dwarfed when compared to the fear that gripped his heart. "What happened to Ginny and Ron?" Instead, he said. "I know they fell under the diary's control, but how?"
"They were turned into mere puppets," Dumbledore sighed, his humour long gone. "How the diary came to their hands is something only they can shed light upon. However, I believe the Weasley siblings were nothing but a way to reach you, Harry." The Great Sorcerer let the words sink in as they shared a look. "For a second year in a row, I became careless. My students paid for my mistakes—Hogwarts paid for my mistakes. It will not happen again, Harry. This is a promise between the two of us."
Turned into puppets to reach him; that's all the boy could think about. In the end, it was his fault—then he pushed that thought away. No, the only culprit is that bastard. Just as Dumbledore said, Harry needed to be prepared. Lord Voldemort took a life away from him when he killed his parents; there was no way in hell he could take this new life away from him. It was an easy promise to swore to himself, but the mere thought about that shadow made his body tremble; he could still feel the pain that shadow inflicted on him a year in the past, like a thousand ice needles all over his body.
"What about Lockhart?" Harry continued. He needed to extract all the information he could. His friends also needed to be prepared; it had been proven no one would be safe from that bastard's malice. "He did not appear in the Great Hall yesterday. Is he also related to the diary? After all, he decided to become a professor the year the Chamber was opened. Just like Quirrell, he came here at the perfect time."
Something gleamed inside the old wizard's eyes; so fickle the boy thought he had imagined it. "Dear Gilderoy just happened to be in the worst possible place, at the worst possible time—quite ironic given his background, if you were to ask me. It is true he saw Ginny the day I faced Tom, but I fear he won't remember anything from that day—maybe, from that week. Such a stroke of luck for us, right?"
Harry nodded in agreement. From what Dumbledore had just told him, no one knew about Ginny and Ron's role in the disaster, and he shared the point that it was the best for them. "Professor," Harry began; he had one last point we wanted to talk about. "You said there was some kind of connection between Voldemort and me, right? Well, the day I was sorted… Voldemort is the Heir of Slytherin, right? And that day, when I was about to get sorted, the Hat was so sure Slytherin would have been my best option—to triumph in life, it said. Do you think…?"
"Do you still believe a House defines a person, Harry?"
Harry thought about those persons he knew—Ron was his first, and probably, his best friend, and there also was Tracey, a very kind girl, and Greengrass and Zabini, who, although not so familiar, didn't look to be bad persons. "No," he finally answered. "I don't think a House defines us. Not anymore." There still were a hundred bigots in the House of Slytherin, people like Malfoy, Flint or Parkinson, but some people, like Ron and Tracey, chose, for whatever reason, to get sorted there. Just like Harry chose to be a Gryffindor. In the end, it was a matter of choices.
"That's nice to hear," Dumbledore hummed in response as he got a flask of ink from under the table. "You should go back to the Great Hall. A nice feast is being held today, and the House Cup will be awarded. You might find some surprise there—a special surprise for a certain group of brave students." His eyes twinkled the way they almost did when there was something only he knew. "Off you go now, Harry. I must write a letter to Cornelius Fudge without further wait, and I fear there is nothing else for us to talk about."
Harry got up from his chair, but someone knocked on the door at that moment. Without waiting for permission, Lucius Malfoy strode into the office. For an instant, he looked stunned to see Harry there. Then he just adjusted his robes—some black coat with silver ornaments around the neck and wrist and a cape of a deep-red colour—with a clear gesture of disgust in his face. "In the end, all went according to your plans, eh, Albus?" The pureblood lord almost hissed.
However, Harry paid no attention to those words—how could he when there was an elf right by Malfoy's side. An elf he knew, who went by the name of Dobby. In the end, Greengrass' theory was on point—ally or enemy, the elf belonged to a conservative lord. Although Dobby acted to protect him—or so he said, at least—Harry could not forget how far he went. Not only did the elf almost kill him with that enchanted bludger, he also stole all of Ron's and Hermione's letters during the summer.
Yet, when Harry looked at him, it was happiness all he saw in those little eyes; happiness to see him alive and well.
Lucius Malfoy suddenly hit the floor with his cane; a stick of black wood which ended in a round, silvery snake head. "You were suspended by the Governors, Albus." Harry had been so distracted he had missed part of their conversation!
"Well, that proposal of yours was certainly approved," the Headmaster smiled at the pureblood lord, almost mockingly. "The seventy percent of the Governors submitted their vote in favour of my cease, if I remember correctly. This being said, I stopped the Heir of Slytherin and closed the Chamber of Secrets for good, and they certainly heard about that. If I am not mistaken, it was lord Davies who organised another assembly—ten Governors voted in my favour, one against me, and, oh, there also was an abstention, who, if I am not mistaken, would be you, Lucius. You must have not been at home when your letter came, I am afraid."
Lord Malfoy was a pale man, as much as his son was, yet those words drained more colour from his face, if it was even possible. "I see," he said, coldly and emotionless. "Since my dear partners left me out of the assembly, may I get to know how you came to stop the Heir of Slytherin? Asking just out of curiosity, of course."
"I am afraid I cannot do that. It is not personal, but I signed some confidentiality agreement with the Ministry. If you ask nicely enough, I am certain Amelia Bones will allow you to see the reports. She is a tough woman, but fair and just." Needless to say, was how surprised Harry was to see that version of the Great Sorcerer. It looked like an adult toying with children; a child who was a Death Eater.
"Ah, a confidentiality agreement, eh?" Lucius hummed—the man looked to have no emotions at that moment, a cold facade worthy to rival Snape's. "If so, I guess Mr Potter here will not happen to know anything at all, am I correct?"
"Harry?" Dumbledore repeated as if Malfoy had just said the biggest nonsense ever. "Of course not! He came here to have a cup of tea with me. I am old, you see, and I enjoy chatting with the new generations of wizards about Hogwarts and their lives." The moment Malfoy's eyes fell over the boy, he just nodded his head a couple times to back the Headmaster's words. "Unfortunately, since the Heir attacked him, we missed quite a few of the said meetings—and there is not a better time to make up for all that lost time than the present, or so I thought!" Out of a sudden, his amused gestures became cold; it happened so fast neither Harry nor Malfoy could hide their surprised faces. "However, and much to my sorrow, there are plenty of details Harry is aware of, horrors a child should never experience. Such is the price of being a victim."
It was at that moment, when the Headmaster's eyes looked down, that the boy realised Tom's diary was right over the table. And Malfoy was also aware of it, for his grey irises had lost their cold calm, replaced by a subtle shadow of shock. To his side, almost regretful of his action, Dobby pointed at the diary, just to then… The elf punched himself right on the temple, but only Harry seemed to notice it.
Wait, was Dobby just about to point at Malfoy? The pureblood had certainly reacted to the black diary. It was brief, but he looked surprised to see it. That last thought brought another one to his mind: from the very beginning, even before the year started, Dobby knew something horrible would occur at Hogwarts. How was it possible? Lucius Malfoy, his elf and the black diary; isolated dots which started to develop a connection in the boy's mind. The Malfoys are known to be followers of Voldemort, and this is his diary that we are talking about. Moreover, it was his elf who first tried to save me. Could it be? It is worth a shot.
To make that man pay for all the suffering he caused to Ron and Ginny, it was.
"I now see that my visit was just a waste of time," lord Malfoy suddenly said as he turned around, towards the office's exit. Dobby mimicked him, yet he sent one last look at Harry. "Congratulations are in order, Dumbledore, for you, once again, showed everyone that law does not mean a thing to you."
The door closed after him with a dry thud just when Harry turned to look at the Headmaster—one look and no words was all the Gryffindor needed to run after the man with Tom Riddle's diary clutched in his hands.
"For an elf to obtain freedom, all it needs is a piece of cloth from the wizard they are bound to serve." Those words, Hermione's, came to his mind as he strode out of the circular staircase; just as the first pained whimpers reached his ears. That urged Harry to run faster. Dobby's methods to save his life had been a bit extreme, but his intentions were good. Besides, let it be human or elf, no one deserved to suffer such a horrid fate like being a slave to a person like Lucius Malfoy was.
At the end of the corridor, Lucius Malfoy instigated Dobby to walk faster with a kick on the back. A sock will do. Oh, this better work! "Wait, Mr Malfoy!" Harry shouted as he ran forward. "You forgot this!" The diary, with a smelly sock right under its cover, fell right into the man's hand, who could do nothing but stare at the charred hole in the middle of it.
Then he noticed the piece of cloth. "The hell are you doing, boy?" The pureblood lord hissed. With a very natural movement, he tossed the sock at Dobby as his eyes lingered on the diary.
Jackpot. Yet Harry waited and observed Dobby, whose eyes couldn't hold his surprise. The elf's hands trembled and his face whitened, to a point in which the boy started to think he had just given him a heart attack. And meanwhile, Riddle's diary was all Malfoy could focus on. In fact, it was the elf's voice that pulled the blond man out of his self-absorption. "Master has given me a sock." The words, although just a faint whisper, echoed through the large and silent corridor. "He gave Dobby a piece of cloth!"
The said wizard just sent his elf a cold look, one of contempt—yet the moment he understood Harry's plan it was replaced by a furious one. It all happened so fast the Gryffindor could not react at all. Malfoy's cane rose to the boy's face, whose quick reflexes allowed him to dodge the hit. At the same time, Dobby shouted his name, and lord Malfoy was sent backwards as he was hit by a sudden burst of energy; his red cape flapped behind his frame, but, unfortunately, that was all that happened to him.
If looks could speak, his would express how low he thought of them. "Whatever," he just hissed, instead. "I do not have time for this. You can keep my worthless servant and use it as much as you want, Potter. It will be of my pleasure to hear he died trying to protect you from sharing your parents´ fate." Just like that, the man walked away without further preamble.
Dobby, who now stood right in front of the boy in a protective stance, and Harry were left alone under the torches' light and the corridor's silence. One day, he will pay for all he's done—for what he just said about my parents and for what he did to my friends. That is a promise, Lucius Malfoy. Fury poured from every inch of the boy's body because of Malfoy's words, but there was one sentiment which rose over all: satisfaction. That man had just mentioned his parents, true, but Harry had been the one who broke his cold mask. Lucius Malfoy had been outplayed by a mere second-year student, and that angered him enough to commit such a rushed act like attacking Harry.
A sudden tug from his robes reminded the Gryffindor he wasn't alone there. "Is Harry Potter okay?" The elf asked. "Dobby is so sorry he didn't react in time! Oh, what I've done! I couldn't protect Harry Potter!" His hand rose fast, but faster was Harry's to stop the auto inflicted slap—why were house-elves so bloody weird?
"There is no need for that," Harry sighed, a bit tired of the creature's nature. "You helped me with this whole Chamber of Secrets mess, and for that I truly thank you. Although I certainly don't approve of your methods, that's for sure. However, this needs to stop right now. I don't need you to save me, and neither should you feel responsible for my safety. So, please, just try to ignore me and enjoy this new life of yours—a new life full of freedom!"
Dobby sent him a confused look. "Was that an order?"
Harry was about to smack himself in disbelief; that, or his forehead's vein would pop first. "It was not an order, Dobby. There won't be any more orders to follow from now on, do you understand it? Better said, can you understand it?" This elf was really starting to tire him out. And he needed to be in time for the feast in the Great Hall; he was curious about that special surprise Dumbledore had just mentioned. "Well, I guess this is goodbye, Dobby. There is a feast I really want to attend, and all my friends will be there." With a last grin, the boy added: "The next time I see you, it bloody be in better circumstances. Take care of yourself, Dobby, and remember, don't try to save my life anymore."
The house-elf shared a grin with Harry since the first time they met—his eyes looked about to shed tears, but the elf held them as he threw himself into the boy's arm in a tight embrace. "Harry Potter is greater by far than Dobby knew! Farewell, Harry Potter; I swear I will be ready if you ever need me!"
With a loud crack, Dobby disappeared.
The elf had taken his sock with him.
Three of the four tables in the Great Hall roared in laughter and shouts—all but one, Slytherin's, in which only a few students shared the euphoria. As for Hermione, there were far too many emotions inside of her to fully share their enthusiasm.
Obviously, it felt good to be awake once again. It felt as if she had woken from a very, very long slumber; a dreamless one. Yet it wasn't all smiles and laughs. She had almost died. Saved by her ingenuity and a stroke of luck, those golden eyes could not fulfil their duty towards Salazar Slytherin. She still was terrified, that was a given; alive yet scarred by an unforgettable memory. Had she been a better witch, a more knowledgeable one, could it all have been avoided? Of that, the girl harboured many doubts; in the end, books could only take someone so far.
A loud shout from her right made her jump a bit on her seat—bloody Fred Weasley almost made her choke on the juice she had been drinking! "All of you sing with me so those snakes hear us!" The ginger exclaimed atop of his lungs. "There was some silly snake who thought it could beat a lion, but, oh, how loud did it cry when the proud lion roared on its face!" George Weasley and Lee Jordan were quick to join him; even some members of the Quidditch team, despite not knowing the lyrics, started to hit the table with their cups and cutlery. "Oh, how the snake cried when it realised it had lost once again! Green or silver, it doesn't matter, a loser wears them both!"
Many started to clap and shout, even from the other tables, but Hermione paid them no attention. How could they be so happy? Classes and exams had been cancelled! The Heir of Slytherin had been hunted—even if no one knew who it was; them, at least—and that was nice, of course, but just one person had almost ended Hogwarts. Its students needed to be more prepared; it was so obvious!
A plate of many different vegetables was placed right under her nose—steamed chards, aubergines and some others she couldn't recognise among them. "You really should try these," Neville's voice pulled the girl out of her thoughts. He sent her a warm smile as his eyes set on the shouting twins, who had started another song; a very detailed one about where snakes could stick their noses in. "They sure know how to rile people up," he commented. "I heard the Headmaster had something very important to say at the end of the fest. Do you have any idea about what it could be?"
"He told me it was something about a surprise for a certain group of brave students," Harry replied, instead. The boy was sitting right in front of her, and he shared her silent mood. "Knowing him, I'd say it is a surprise for us. You know, since we tried to stop the Heir and fought for the muggle-borns´ wellbeing and all of it."
His voice, and most importantly, the mention of his talk with the Headmaster brought another thought to Hermione's mind: Voldemort was the real culprit—Voldemort and his diary, which had controlled both Ron and Ginny Weasley to attack those students Salazar Slytherin swore to purge many centuries in the past. She sent a quick look to the Slytherin table, where the redhead talked with Tracey; he looked relaxed and even happy as he devoured a dish of beef. Voldemort, for a second year in a row, had almost killed them. Almost; it was funny how he always fell short of his goal—only that it wasn't, for a day would come in which he would succeed.
"Do you reckon it will be related to the House Cup?" Hermione asked, suddenly. It was not a good time to ponder about those dark ideas—they had won for a second year, and now it was time to enjoy life. If they were fortunate enough, exams and the new subjects would be the most important of their problems for the next year; although a certain buzz at the back of her head reminded the girl how improbable that was. "Last year, he awarded us points for what happened with the Stone."
"No idea, but, if so, we'll need all the help we can get," Neville sighed, sounding quite defeated and exasperated. And not without a reason—Slytherin held the first place in the yearly race for the Cup, and it was a large lead. "I just hope they don't win this year." Not even him, one of the calmest persons Hermione had ever met, could hide his animosity towards the Royal House, as they called themselves. From what she had been told, a great number of the Slytherin students had celebrated the Heir's attacks and the fact Dumbledore was, temporarily, sacked. It wasn't something that surprised the girl, given how low some of them had thought of her since the first day of school, but it still disappointed her.
The feast went on for an entire hour—at some point of the night, the twins' melodies ceased, even though there was plenty of noise to fill their absence. Hermione was about to explode; her stomach was, at least, maybe even surpassing her head. "Do you have anything planned for the summer?" The girl asked once the dessert was finished.
"I need to spend an entire month with the Dursleys," Harry groaned in response. "So I won't be able to communicate with you guys. After that, if I'm still alive, we are going on a trip to Diagon Alley."
"Do not say that!" Hermione interrupted her friend. "It isn't funny."
"Most likely, Sirius will take me to a foreign country for a few weeks, as he promised me last summer," the boy continued, completely ignoring her. "I think he said something about a Quidditch tournament in Africa and some very cool adventure for the two of us, but I can't really remember it right now. However, after that, I plan to spend the rest of the holidays doing as little as I can. McGonagall's talk about third year and the electives already stressed the heck out of me. Hell, given how quickly she went back to her normal self, no one would have said the school almost closed a few days ago!"
Third years and the electives; another problem to add to the pile, one as big as whatever problem they would face next year. Well, almost as big as it, at least. "I'm very excited about the third year," the words came out of her mouth. How could she not be? An endless sea of new things to learn about many, different fields of magic! Certainly, the look her friends gave Hermione speaks by itself; they were not as excited as her. "Come on! We'll learn about the magical fauna in Care of Magical Creatures, about the basics of spell-crafting in Arithmancy and Runes, and even about one of the oldest branches of magic in Divination!" How would she manage all those subjects was a matter for the future; knowledge was worth the effort.
"Talk for yourself," Neville smiled. "Both Harry and I picked Care of Magical Creatures and Divination." The said boy nodded his head in agreement as he attacked the last bit of pudding left on his plate, and just when he was about to speak, a loud voice echoed all around the Great Hall.
"Tonight, another year concludes," Dumbledore recited. His voice came out with the strength of thunder, even though he looked to be barely whispering. "A very difficult and tragic year, I am afraid, but one we managed to pull through. This year, the Heir of Slytherin attacked Hogwarts for the second time in history, and, unlike fifty years ago, I can say there will be no more of him and his Monster. First of all, my deepest condolences and apologies go to those who were petrified under our watch. We could not protect you, and that is a burden we all, Professors, will carry to our last breath. Secondly, I wanted to thank all of you, for your efforts and resilience were some of the greatest obstacles the Heir had to face—and these words also go to the three brave Aurors who defended the castle as dutifully as possible it was; Henry Fowley, Jessie Sweeney and Thomas Greene, their efforts and spirit will forever be remember by Hogwarts."
Some timid claps, which began at the Hufflepuff table, started to appear here and there, but as soon as the Headmaster allowed them time, many more students joined them; Slytherin being the exception, of course.
"However, although you all acted as good as was expected of talented and noble students as you are, there was an exceptional group of people whose efforts and heart stood out," the Headmaster went on. At her spot, Hermione's hands started to tremble—this was so embarrassing! "And I want to thank them from the bottom of my heart. So, first, may Harry Potter stand up, please?"
Hermione wondered how the Great Hall did not hear the boy's grunt as he stood up from his chair; he didn't even try to raise his eyes, but he certainly tried to shrink in his place as the first claps and shouts were emitted. Another grunt came as soon as the twins started to shout his name at the top of their lungs. "Come on; was this necessary?" The boy muttered. His face was redder than a strawberry.
"And from the noble House of Slytherin, may Ronald Weasley stand up?" This time, the claps and shouts took a little longer to appear, accompanied by either shocked or unfazed expressions at the snake's table. However, as it happened with Harry, the twins still were the loudest pair in the entire Hall.
One by one, starting with Hermione and ending with the sixth-year prefect by the name of Daniel Williams, with Tracey and Neville being named in the middle, they all followed the Headmaster's command. Out of the six students, the only one who seemed to not be embarrassed at all was the oldest boy, who wore a confident smile on his face—apart from him, only Ron was able to raise his eyes from the floor.
Three from Gryffindor and three from Slytherin, Hermione thought—a very odd sight, indeed. And a very frustrating one, too.
"Because of their noble acts towards the school, I award them with five-hundred points each." A deep yet quiet whispering, like a background noise, echoed the Headmaster's words. Those were so many points!
A huge amount of points that crowned Slytherin as the victors for another year.
And they sure let others know about it. To see the snakes so effusive and loud was a rare sight to behold, but this time, they acted like the lions they hated so much. From the ceiling, dozens of silver and green banners fell down along a rain of confetti, just as the torches lightened the Hall with a green touch.
Harry was the first one to sit down, followed by Neville. Yet Hermione stood up for a few more seconds. Once again they had lost the House Cup. Never ever had she thought of herself as a competitive person—sure, she always wanted to be the best student, but that was for the sake of knowledge—yet this failure hurt; way more than last year's.
Among the four Houses, Slytherin was the only one that hated her kind; muggle-borns were below them, she had been told quite a few times. And Gryffindor, the House that welcomed her kind with open arms, could not defeat those bigots. Deep inside the girl, a little part of her was happy for Tracey and Ron, her friends. They couldn't be more different to those bigots she detested so fervently, and that had caused them problems—although it was mainly Ron who fought the most against his house-mates—but as Hermione saw them being embraced and congratulated by the older students, she felt happy for them. Yes, happy was the adequate word.
She almost found herself clapping at their victory. Almost.
"Next year," the girl muttered as she sat down. "Next year we will beat them." Those words were drowned by the snake's celebrations, which resounded all around because of everyone's silence.
The golden and bright sun rays seeped through the glass of her bunk's window, and Hermione could do nothing but to finally sit up. It was a hot day, and she had woken up sweaty and a bit infuriated, for the memories of yesterday's night still lingered in her mind.
Slytherin had won the House Cup.
Letting out an exasperated grunt, she opened the curtains of her bunk. With a quick look around, Hermione noticed all her roommates had yet to wake up, which did not surprise her at all; Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil used to hug their beds as much as they could whenever classes allowed them.
In silence, Hermione dressed up for the day—a knee-length skirt of a dull grey, part of Hogwarts' regular uniform, and some white blouse, which its sleeves were quickly rolled upwards. She didn't even consider wearing the tights; the day was hot enough to suffocate her.
Once outside, in the common room, there was no one around—holidays were around the corner and the classes had already ended, so people used to spend as much of their time as they could doing nothing. But not her. With a quick stride, Hermione walked towards the Great Hall to have breakfast. The corridors were as silent and empty as the common room, yet she couldn't stop her eyes from glancing at everywhere. After all, those golden eyes still visited her dreams every night.
Get a hold of yourself; the Heir is gone for good. The theory was easy enough, but it did not change the fact that she exhaled a relieved sigh as soon as her feet were set into the Great Hall, under the Professor's watch. The Headmaster was nowhere to be seen, but McGonagall sent a smile in her direction once she made it to the Gryffindor table. There were more Professors there—Sprout, who chatted and laughed with some first-years from Hufflepuff at their very table, and Snape, who said something to Daniel Williams. Whatever it was, the prefect let out a smirk at it.
Instead, Hermione just pulled out one of the books she carried in her bag, Intermediate Charms Guide, and read it as she enjoyed a cup of tea and a butter and jelly toast.
Definitely, the General Counter-Spell was one of the most interesting things she had ever read about—to have the ability to negate almost any kind of magic was just… No, there weren't any words to describe how fantastic it was. However, despite it being a pretty simple spell, it also was one of the most complex techniques a wizard could ever hope to master. In fact, it was so amazing and useful that one of the spell's best users in the world—some German wizard by name of Leon Krause—had perfected it to a point in which it was considered some type of anti-magic.
The tea cooled way faster than she could drink it, just as more students arrived at the Great Hall. Soon enough, their conversation became too much for her. How can anti-magic be a thing? And why can't these people talk a bit quieter? I mean, all I ask of them is to not shout like monkeys! In the end, she closed the book and strode outside of the Hall. Hermione had no location in mind, and so, her legs took her where they pleased. The General Counter-Spell is taught again in the third year, but I think I might already be as good at it as my seniors can be. Couldn't next year start sooner? Like way sooner?
By the time Hermione realised where she was, a cool breeze hit her face as the sun warmed her skin. Here, outdoors, it was almost as hot as it was in the castle, but the girl still rolled down her sleeves; her parents would not appreciate her getting sunburned. The soft wind brought to her the scent of flowers and the approaching summer, and with it came the need to go for a walk around the castle's terrains.
The Great Lake looked as peaceful as ever—in theory, some kind of giant squid lived down there, but it wasn't mentioned in Hogwarts: A story, so she paid no attention to those rumours—and nothing but faint whistles came from the borders of the Forbidden Forest. Hermione could do nothing but to look at those trees with wary eyes; that was the place where Neville and Tracey had ventured into to gather information about the Heir, and the place where they almost died a dozen times. If not because they were saved by that snooty prefect from Slytherin and a tribe of centaurs. Though now that she gave it a thought, it would be so interesting to meet those magical creatures and learn a thing or two from them!
Those thoughts were pulled aside as some strange noises came from the Forest; was that a person's grunt? Hermione gathered a bit of courage as she pulled her wand out and took a few steps into the vegetation. There would not be a pair of golden eyes there, she reminded herself. And what she found was not a pair of golden eyes, indeed, but just a tall redhead throwing spell after spell at the trees as he moved around the clearing with calculated and elegant steps; just like a hawk about to attack.
"Ron?" Hermione asked, suddenly.
The boy missed a step and fell on her butt with a pained whimper. "The hell are you doing here?" Ron asked back as he sent her both an annoyed and surprised look. "You scared the hell out of me!" There were many spots of dirt all over his face, and his hair was stuck to his forehead due to how sweaty he was; needless was to say the fact he didn't smell like roses. He wore a similar attire to hers, with grey trousers instead of a skirt, but her shirt, unbuttoned and with the sleeves rolled up, was the very same. "Well? Did a cat bite your tongue? Lavender's, maybe?"
Hermione did not answer; she just strode around the clearing, eyeing the many trees which delimited it. Some were a bit charred, while others were completely burnt; some were missing chunks of bark and others had been cut in a half.
"I'm practising some spells," the boy's voice surprised her. "I know I have to work in my repertory, but it's been a while since I last practised, so… Well, I wanted to polish what I already was good at."
"The Severing Charm and the Fire-Making spell," Hermione answered in a thoughtful whisper. Those were second-year spells she knew how to cast, but not at that level.
"Yes, and also the Knockback Jinx and the Exploding Charm," Ron said with a shrug of his shoulders. "That last spell was the one I used for this." His wand pointed at some grey dust scattered all over the grassy ground; the remnants of a big rock, Hermione guessed.
That made something shift inside her; it was jealous. She had yet to cast that spell. "Why?"
"Why not?" Ron said back as he avoided her eyes. "I mean, it's pretty normal, isn't it? To aim for a better version of yourself, that's it—to be better, plain and simple. All my brothers are pretty awesome, you know? Especially Bill; trust me, he's even better than Percy. I am sure you two would like each other." Then, out of a sudden, he came to a halt. "And then, there is the fact loads of shit happens to us each year. Last one, it was the Stone, and this… Well, I am sure I do not need to elaborate."
The two of them were enveloped by a tense silence—the redhead still refused to meet her eyes, and Hermione had no idea about what to do. She wished Neville was there; he would have known how to act. He always knew what to say in these awkward situations.
"Hermione, I am so sorry," Ron finally said. His eyes rose, and although there was no trace of tears in them, although Hermione wasn't good at reading people's emotions, it was sorrow and pain that they expressed with great clarity. "I was stupid, more than ever, and allowed myself to be controlled by some lunatic—by a bloody diary! I messed up big time here…"
"It wasn't your fault," Hermione interrupted him. She hated to see that look on his friend's face. And maybe because of that, she did not think much about the words that came from her mouth. "It was Voldemort's fault. He is the one and only Heir of Slytherin, and the diary is a part of him he left behind—somehow, that is possible."
The redhead flinched at the mention of the name purebloods feared so much. To her, it was such an annoying obsession; after all, a name could not hurt people. Yet he said nothing. Ron just stared at her with open eyes, and bit by bit, the surprise turned into a cold, expressionless mask. "How do you know it? I mean, how can you be so sure it was Him?"
"Dumbledore told Harry, but do not ask me the details, for the Headmaster did not elaborate much on the matter."
For a few seconds, none talked; that's until Hermione realised his friend was talking to himself in a low whisper. Some words about Tom and a essentia were all she catched. "Are you okay, Ron?"
The boy snapped back to his usual self; more or less, at least. "I'm just trying to assimilate it all," he started. "I was manipulated by bloody You-Know-Who… Honestly, it should not surprise me this much. After all, he tried to kill us last year."
Memories from that day came to her mind—a screaming shadow and the way it paralyzed her, enough to cowardly, without any response, behind Ron's back. At least, the fact Greengrass did the same consoled her a little. "And I fear this will not be the last time he tries," Hermione whispered as a shiver went down her spine. "He's supposed to be dead, yet he comes back each year after Harry—and although he has failed for a second time, each attempt gets closer and closer. Maybe… I fear that one day…"
"We have Dumbledore," Ron cut in as a confident smile appeared in his face—how could he be so strong? How, when the mere mention of Voldemort's name was enough to make him shiver? "And I'd say we've proven Him a few points ourselves. If He wants to kill Harry, there we will stand."
A sudden realisation hit her at that moment. "Is that the reason because you practise here, all by yourself, so much?" It made sense—in fact, all which happened that night when they tried to protect the Stone should have woken up this same need inside her long ago. "Because you know there will come a day in which you…, in which we will need to fight him?"
"Yes and no," the redhead let out a long sigh. "I started because I wanted to stand out within Slytherin—those bastards only respect results, power or a name, and since I lack that last part, it was time to work on those I could. Then, that night came, and I could do nothing but stand on my feet as I prayed to whatever bastard watches up from above to protect us."
"Yet you protected both Greengrass and me."
"I did nothing. Snape saved us." His eyes made their way towards a tree, the tallest and the thickest in the clearing. "I can't even cut in half or burn that tree with just one spell. When the moment comes—and I know it will—I need to be able to protect myself and those I love. It is the way we, Weasleys, act. I know my family would do the same if they were in my position. I cannot let them down. I am not gonna let them down."
Books, knowledge, wits; those were Hermione's weapons against everything and everyone. But to her, it was clear there was much more to it than those mentioned qualities. Ron's courage and his resilience to get up again and again after each fall; Harry's will and his sense of justice towards those who are wronged; Neville's empathy and the way he, despite how insecure he was, always had kind words to those who needed them, no matter the moment or the situation; Tracey and the way she gave everyone an opportunity, no matter who they were or how people saw them.
Indeed, she had much to learn from them.
"Next year, not only will I be the best student once again," Hermione started with a firm voice under Ron's surprised eyes and his raised brow. "Like you, I will be ready for whatever might come at us. Like you, I will be ready to defend my friends and those who deserve it. Like you, I will put the hours needed, no matter how much those are, into becoming a better witch. After all, books can only take one so far."
Ron finally smiled—well, more like smirked—at her. Hell, he even let out a faint snickering! "I think next year might be the time for me to take the title of best student from you. What do you say, Hermione; why don't we show You-Know-Who that Harry is out of bounds?"
Hermione also smirked at him. "You bet so. Though I will still be the best student by the end of the third year."
Maybe, she really needed to learn more from her friends rather than from books.
The streets of Blackdusk looked deserted, yet there was not a single spot of filth on them—nothing but pristine and clean roads of grey stone which followed a pattern of long lines and sharp turns; down there, at least, at one of the lowest levels of that hellhole. Houses of every kind surrounded the large street that Levitt walked through; some were of elegant marble and roofs of black slate, while a handful were some of the most extravagant buildings he had ever seen, with walls o a dozen different rocks and windows adorned by several bright gems. And all of it was illuminated by the hundred crystals, of every kind of colour, that hung from the ceiling of that level—untouched stone of a reddish shade— almost fifty metres above his head.
This was Blackdusk, the place Levitt hated the most, and also, his home and shelter.
The former mercenary—because that probably was the most adequate word to define him; former, a thing of the past—refused to look at the only structure which rose over the rest as he took a turn to the left. A huge coliseum, of Roman style, baptised as The Tartarus; one of the cruellest yet most demanded spectacles of the underworld. A place he survived ten years ago.
To move forward I must focus on the present and nothing else. Yes, to move forward—that was all that mattered right now. For him and for those who depended on his damned fortune.
All the people who crossed paths with Levitt refused to meet his gaze; still, the Allomancer felt their eyes on his back as soon as they were left behind. As a man who survived The Tartarus, he had quite the reputation in the underworld that, along with the many feats he accomplished as a soldier of the Wings of Liberty, turned him into someone to avoid. Especially, when most of the people down there were nothing but spineless rats. Sure, there also were plenty of dangerous bastards—from mercenaries of top companies, to assassins and bounty hunters, and even smugglers and wizards who kept their identity and job a secret—but even them used to avoid being seen in the lower levels of Blackdusk.
In the underworld, secrecy meant safety.
A few conversations, which came from inside the houses, reached his ears; a bunch of foreign words he paid no attention to. Michael waited for him. After all, with Jordan gone and nowhere to be found, it was their duty to decide what to do next. They owed that much to those soldiers who had followed them in so many missions.
As agreed, the two men reached the meeting point at the same time. Through the Road of Glory, the main avenue of that level of Blackdusk, Michael came from the south, whereas Levitt joined him from a little street which appended to the said road.
His longtime comrade's frame was still as tall and thin as always, yet his ever pretty features were now replaced by a permanent scowl. Furthermore, there weren't any of those grey strands he had complained about so much in his blond hair anymore; whatever took the proud man to shave his head wasn't of Levitt's concern, even if he couldn't help himself but to feel curious about it.
It was a time of change, indeed.
"So, should I walk by your side as agreed?" Michael asked, suddenly, as he did it. His robes were of a simple grey with a black cape over them. There was no trace of the Wings of Liberty's attire, nor of the green cloak everyone wore or of the yellowish uniforms Michael's squad took to battle.
"Here, outside is the safest place," Levitt replied. "At least, if you don't want to be heard. In this level, every damn building is owned by Samir fucking Dakar or by any top dog of the underworld; their eyes and ears are everywhere. They already suspect that something happened to us since Jordan did not answer some calls from very important people. Under no circumstance shall they ever find out how weak we are at this moment. That would be our end."
The sudden rise of the Wings of Liberty had turned them into a fearsome force, one to not be reckoned with. However, it also turned them into a source of envy and hatred; after all, for them to reach the top of the underworld, some other companies had sunk into oblivion. It was one of the laws that bound the Wizarding World.
"Then, why did we bloody meet here?"
Levitt said no words and just raised his head up in a quick gesture—above them and over the roofs of many buildings around, men who wore countless of different robes could be seen, eyeing every of their movements like a hawk observing its prey. "In Blackdusk, no one would ever disturb the public order." It was one of the very first things people came to learn when given access to the underground city. With the corner of his eye, the Allomancer caught a woman subtly eyeing them from her seat in a terrace; her robes did not identify her as one of Dakar's hired wands, and the cup of wine she peacefully drank only added more details to her fake facade. Maybe, it all made it a bit too evident. "Just walk by my side and only speak in whispers. They know who we are; we must look strong in these tough times. Appearances are everything here."
"I get it," Michael grunted; still, it was a faint growl of exasperation. "Eitherway, I do not think this conversation will take long to be finished."
No matter how much Levitt had expected to hear those words, it still hurt. "That bad, eh?"
"Even worse," Michael continued. "No one knows a bloody thing—Jordan has fucking dissapeared from this planet. Him and that damned silver ring you stole from Isaac the First." The British wizard didn't use curses with much frequency; that sequence of them was proof of how frustrated he felt. "Honestly, I have no bloody clue why he decided to blow it all up. We had a thing! An incredible group of people, money and fame, and even a life every mercenary dreamt of! Yet he blew it up for a damn ring."
No, it was not a ring—Jordan had blown it all up for a Horcrux. Herpo the Foul's. But why? That was the question to which Levitt had no answer.
Jordan had always been a very enigmatic and secretive man, just as much as he was a fantastic leader—someone who once pulled his soldiers from the deepest of the abysms. And yet he accepted a mission which killed more than half of the company—and yet he abandoned them all. Why was the Horcrux so important to him? Why was it important enough to destroy his dream of becoming the most prestigious company in the world? The Wings of Liberty would never break a contract; that was very well known in the underworld. Until its captain and founder did it.
"You all are free to do as you please from now on." Those words rang in the Allomancer's mind every hour. "I broke a contract and betrayed a benefactor. There is no future for the Wings of Liberty. Take all of our gold and distribute it among our comrades as you consider it correct—among those who survived this day, that is. I am sorry to end things this way—I am sorry for all the lives I sacrificed—Levitt, but this path of mine is one none of you can walk with me." Just like that, the bastard had sentenced them all. To take all the gold, he said—as if that was enough! Not to survive, and much less to compensate for the lives of all those soldiers who perished as they fought for a lie.
"Are you okay, mate?" Michael sent him a worried look.
I need to stop day-dreaming, Levitt reprimanded himself—it was not the first time this happened to him in these past days, and it needed to stop at this exact moment. Yes, all his friends and comrades of battle depended on him and Michael. Far too many of them had died already. It was time for them to enjoy a peaceful life.
"I am," the Allomancer replied. "I just got lost in my thoughts. It ain't easy to think about the many lives that rest on our backs now." It wasn't, and that made him wonder how Jordan could do it so effectively and easily. For him, making a hard choice was always easy; just a few hours of pondering at best, that's all he needed. Instead, for Levitt, it was hell itself. Sure, he could take care of his comrades in the battlefield, as he had always done, but here there wasn't any head to sever or wizard to terrorise in order to save them. This was a new scenario for him; one he didn't like a bit.
"If you say so," Michael sighed. The Allomancer felt his eyes on him, yet refused to look at the British wizard. Until the dreaded question came. "What's next?"
Levitt would exchange all the gold he had to obtain the answer to that question; without a single second of hesitation. "Yesterday, Mikko proposed something to me," he started. "If nothing better comes to our mind, he will talk to his father to see if we can join the Hunter's Union."
"The Hunter's Union? Are you kidding me? They hate our guts. And I certainly hate the way they look down upon, as if we were the lowest scum on this planet."
"Although Mikko does not have the best relationship with his father, he still is the third son of lord Kovanen," Levitt went on, ignoring his friend's rambling. It was no secret there was bad blood between Hunters and mercenaries, but when the need arose, desperate measures needed to be taken. "Who, if I may remind you, is the head of the Hunter's Union. Under their sigil, we will be protected from those who might want us dead. Under their sigil, we will find a nobler and more prestigious profession. Under their sigil, some of us will find a reason to live. Think about it, Michael."
"Will they accept us?"
"I've heard they suffered some heavy blows, recently. It seems the magical creatures are bolder and more aggressive as the days pass. Lord Kovanen and the Union are recruiting wizards and witches all over the world, and their entry requirements have been lowered. Let me ask you something: are we, all that is left of the Wings of Liberty, ordinary wizards?"
"No."
"I thought so," Levitt replied. "They will accept us. I will make sure of it. It does not matter if I need to work a hundred times harder. Unless you come up with a better proposition, we will all be part of the Hunter's Union before this year ends."
As another street came to an end, a tense silence fell over them. "Will the boys accept it?" Michael asked.
"Most will," Levitt answered after a few seconds of pondering. "The underworld life is all they know, and it is well known that Hunters, despite some of our jobs being so similar, live much better than us. With the Union, they will still be able to fight, but against beasts instead of humans." That was something Levitt looked forward to—far too many lives had been taken by either his wand or sword. "Whoever wants to leave and abandon this dark lifestyle of ours will be free to do so; they will be given enough gold to start a new life. However, those who still feel attached to the family we created will be protected. Their lives are on me."
Suddenly, a wizard who wore grey robes and whose features were sharp enough to intimidate a bear stepped right in front of them. "Show me the permission," he grunted in Thai. Without realising, they had reached the elevator.
Michael showed the guard some kind of card as he grunted back a few words in a very rusty Thai. He shared one last look with Levitt, one of farewell, but before he could step into the elevator, the Allomancer grabbed his arm under the watchful eyes of the guard. "Find him, Michael," Levitt said in a faint whisper. "Find him. Meanwhile, I will take care of everyone."
A nod of his friend's head was the only answer Levitt received; that and a very serious look, one which swore an unspoken promise.
Jordan owed them an explanation, and they would have it.