If she hadn't caught her balance just in time, she would have faceplanted in the dirt. Bronach held herself carefully steady, bracing herself against the nearby tree, as she accustomed herself to the flood of magic setting her nerves alight. Whether it was from the sensation, or just the welcome familiarity of a magic-rich environment she didn't know, but she could feel a tear slipping down her cheek.
A soft, familiar whistle broke the moment, and she answered it without thinking, turning towards the direction where it had come from. It had been a signal she learned early on and knew by heart, the call of a Ranger looking for their companions in the wilderness. To her surprise, other calls came, and she wondered how many were here, wherever here was.
When she found the source of the call, it was another surprise, one that made her heart ache. Glorfindel was perched on a low-hanging tree branch, legs swinging idly, and he grinned as he saw her. "Mae govannen…which name do you prefer at the moment?"
Bronach made herself grin back at him. "I have resigned myself to Bronach. It seems to fit well enough."
There was an almost silent rustle in the brush nearby, and she turned, palming a knife only to put it back a moment later. The newcomers were certainly Rangers, and as they drew back their hoods and cowls she bit the inside of her cheek to keep from saying anything.
It was one thing to find Glorfindel in these strange woods. Despite having sailed decades before, he could have come back to Middle Earth as he had once before. But to find Halbarad, dead centuries before at the Pelennor, and Daervunn, who had lived longer but had not escaped death, standing before her?
It was beyond belief.
"How?" she asked, glad that her voice did not betray her emotions as she stared at the trio.
"My lords Irmo and Námo asked of me a favor," Glorfindel shrugged, a lock of hair falling free of the hood he was using to conceal it. "I was only too happy to agree."
Halbarad and Daervunn glanced at each other, and then shrugged. "However it happened," Daervunn said, seemingly the elected spokesperson, "it is good to see you once more."
"Where are we?" Glorfindel asked, glancing around. "There is a foulness in the air that I do not like."
Halbarad glanced at Daervunn. "We were told that we would arrive at the pivot."
"The pivot of what?" Bronach muttered, glancing about. It was unlike any place she had seen on Middle Earth, but she knew she had not seen the land in its entirety. "Or where?"
"I suppose the only way to find out is to seek out the source of the foulness," Glorfindel sighed as he slipped down from the tree and stood for a moment, head tilted as if he was trying to catch a scent. Now that he had mentioned it, Bronach could feel what he was describing, a corrupted, foul sort of magic that felt slimy and poisonous against her senses.
Together, they slipped through the undergrowth, as if they'd never been separated by time and distance, as if they were Rangers patrolling the forgotten lands of Eriador once more. Bronach let her magic unfurl cautiously, holding tight to the metaphorical reins to ensure that it wouldn't run away from her, swamp her senses. There seemed to be nobody else in the woods, not even animals, and the observation sent a chill up her spine.
Glorfindel stopped at the treeline, and she allowed herself to join him, looking out at what lay beyond the woods. Vaguely, she was aware of Halbarad and Daervunn joining them, but her eyes were fixed on the decaying house perched on the hilltop in the distance.
"I know this place," she whispered, the words feeling as if they were torn from her lips. "But I know not how we have come here."
"Does it matter?" Halbarad asked softly. "Where we are?"
"It is not where," Bronach said numbly. "Well, it is a matter of where. But it is also a matter of when." She finally dragged her gaze down from the house, into the valley where the church stood, and beyond it the churchyard. From here, she could see the dim outlines of the grave markers, and she had a sinking feeling that she knew what the date was.
"What should we do?" Glorfindel asked, and she turned to find him looking at her with grim eyes.
"Down in the graveyard," she said, taking a deep breath, "down in the graveyard, there is a cauldron. A cauldron, and a magician, a wizard, who will try to resurrect his Dark Lord. There is a large snake, and a wizened creature that carries the Dark Lord's soul. And…there might be children. Two, a girl and a young man." He may already be dead, she thought, tasting bile in the back of her throat.
Why here? She wondered, glaring at the churchyard. Why now?
Am I being punished?
"What are your orders?" Halbarad said, and she nearly gave herself whiplash turning to face him. His face was stern, but there was understanding in his eyes, an uncomfortable understanding.
She did not want to be the responsible one. Bronach wanted to rage against whatever cruel trick of the Valar had brought her here, brought her back to this time where she would have no choice but to save the world once more.
I was retired, she thought uncharitably, and then took a deep breath, stowing her emotions away. The fetid feel of necromancy was rising from the churchyard, and she suspected that their time was growing short.
"We go down there," Bronach said, seeing the trio nod. "If the children are there, our priority is rescuing them. Disrupt the ritual if we can. End the Dark Lord before he regains a body if at all possible."
"What can we do about the ritual?" Daervunn asked, pulling his cowl and hood back into place.
"Three components that need to be gathered fresh, that cannot be prepared in advance," Bronach said, Wormtail's words echoing in her ears. "Bone of the father, flesh of the servant, blood of the enemy."
"Charming," Glorfindel made a face of disgust. "So, remove the servant, the bone, or the enemy."
The magic writhed and twisted, and her stomach threatened to heave as she felt what had to be happening in the graveyard. She was too late.
Fury coursed through her, burning away her disgust. "The ritual has been completed," she snapped, stalking down the hill. "Free the girl, when the moment is right, and follow my lead."
She felt, more than heard, the others follow her down the hill towards the wrought iron fence that contained the churchyard. Her mind was too busy spinning with plots and plans, memory mixing with dreams of what she wished had happened, what could have happened had she known then what she knew now. At a thought, she threw a translation charm at her companions, the magic slipping easily from her fingers to settle around them without even the slightest bit of effort. Where her staff was, Bronach had no idea, but she did not feel as if she would need it, not yet.
Entering the graveyard, she slipped from stone to stone, making her way towards the dim glow of the Triwizard Cup in the distance. Unsurprisingly, she found herself standing over Cedric's body.
The pivot point.
She heard Glorfindel murmur the words they typically bestowed upon the dead, especially when there was no time to recover the body or lay them to rest properly. The fury raged up within her, and she fell to her knees next to the still form.
"You cannot do anything for him," Glorfindel said gently.
"Cedric Diggory did not have to die this night," Bronach said, reaching out to rest her hand on his chest, letting her fury burn through her. Her fingers tightened in his shirt as she called upon a part of her magic that she had sworn she would never use again. "Doomsman, I want a word."
The world around her faded into shadow and mist. Out of the distance, a familiar figure formed out of the shadow and walked towards her. "This boy is beyond healing," Námo said, folding his arms into his sleeves as he looked down at Cedric. "His spirit has entered my halls."
"Your timing was off," Bronach hissed at him. "Had I arrived sooner…his death is needless."
Námo studied her. "It is not our place to meddle with the workings of Iluvatar."
She bared her teeth. "And yet here I am, returned to the world of my birth as my younger self is tortured in the distance. This seems a lot like meddling to me."
Bronach had no idea why she was here. Had no idea why Daervunn and Halbarad were among the living, why Glorfindel was present, why any of this was happening. But the only solution that made sense was that she was supposed to change what had happened to her.
And nobody was going to tell her otherwise.
"If he returns, his death may be more painful in the future," Námo said quietly. "Or another may die who might have lived. Will your conscience bear that?"
"Bring him back."
For a long moment they stared at each other, Cedric's body still under her hand. Then, Námo spoke. "Ilúvatar wills that the child should be given a second chance, as his life was balanced on a knife's edge in the moment of his passing. But be forewarned: should he continue to fight this war, his true death will be neither swift nor painless."
"I will tell him," she said, and Námo stooped down to rest a hand on Cedric's forehead. Under her hand, she felt his chest rise and fall, breath resuming. The shadows dissolved, the world coming back into focus, and she could feel the warmth of life return to Cedric. His eyes snapped open, and she pressed him down into the ground as he struggled to get up.
"Peace, Cedric Diggory," she said quietly, aware that the Death Eaters were apparating in. The boy stared at her in confusion, and she realized that she'd been speaking Westron. It took a moment, but she dredged up English and repeated herself, adding: "We mean you no harm."
"I was…Harry…that was the Killing Curse!" he gasped, still trying to sit up.
"You are very fortunate," Bronach told him, pressing him back down into the ground. "It was a narrow thing. My companion will watch over you while I fetch yours."
She glanced at Glorfindel, and he nodded, kneeling down next to her. "We will need to depart holding the cup yonder," Bronach said, tipping her head to the Triwizard Cup. "Let nobody touch it without my leave. I will fetch the others."
He nodded once more, steadying Cedric as the boy tried to sit up shakily. Bronach stood, seeing the circle of Death Eaters among the gravestones. As she approached, she could see the body cowering in the shadows of the cauldron, shaking as Voldemort monologued to those of his followers who had avoided Azkaban. A grin slipped over her face and plans whirled in her head. And then, as Voldemort paused for dramatic effect, she stepped through the gap into the circle.
"Do you ever tire of the sound of your own voice?" Bronach asked idly, glancing around at the Death Eaters. Voldemort hissed in rage, but before he could open his mouth, Bronach continued: "No matter. It is my turn to speak, and yours to listen."
"Who are you?" Voldemort snapped, fingers flexing around his wand.
"I am called by many names," Bronach shrugged. "It matters not. Death is coming for you, Tom Marvolo Riddle, and for those who continue to stand by your side and commit atrocities in your name."
She glanced at the circle of Death Eaters, nearly all of whom had raised their wands at her appearance. "Those of you who bear the Dark Mark, listen well," she said, making eye contact with each of them, reaching out to tag them with her magic. "I will go from this place without harming you, but this is a mercy I will not offer again. Should I see you on another battlefield, I will remember that you spurned your chance to walk away."
Before any could respond, she crouched and slammed her hand against the dirt, causing the ground to lurch and heave under their feet. Prepared for it, it was a moment's effort to lunge forward and collar Pettigrew, slamming the hilt of her dagger into his head before he could transform. As he went limp, Bronach heaved him over her shoulder, weaving a featherlight charm around him, and made for the place where she had left Cedric and Glorfindel.
Two familiar forms flanked her, and she glanced to her right to see Halbarad. "You found her?" Bronach asked.
"She was injured," Halbarad vaulted over a headstone in his path. "Daervunn is carrying her."
Glancing to her left, Bronach saw pale arms wrapped around Daervunn's neck, a sluggishly bleeding wound visible on the legs wrapped around his waist. Her younger self stared back at her, bewilderment and fright in her face, but Bronach pushed aside the emotions. They were not safe, not yet. She could hear Riddle and the Death Eaters regrouping behind them, there would be spells shortly.
"Gather round," she ordered, skidding to a stop near the cup. Glorfindel and Cedric had made their way to it, the boy leaning on the elflord. "On the count of three, we need to all be touching the cup. Hold on to each other, as added security, but each of us needs to be touching it."
Portkeys were never her area of expertise, but she knew it would be a rough ride for anyone dragged along by touching someone who was actively touching the portkey. It took only a moment for everyone to arrange themselves, and Bronach reached out to fist her hand in Halbarad's tunic. Around the circle, she saw similar movements, and felt Daervunn grasping her shoulder. Counting down, she reached out, wrapping Pettigrew's wrist in her hand with only a slight wrinkle in her nose to betray her disgust, making sure not to touch the cup until the right moment, steeling herself as the familiar tugging sensation hooked into her stomach and whirled them away.
Sound exploded around them as her knees hit the soft earth of the Quidditch pitch, but Bronach didn't wait for the crowd to come to terms with what they were seeing, reeling her magic in tight as her mind whirled.
"Dobby, Winky," she whispered, glad to see the elves appear in front of her a moment later. "I need your help," Bronach said, trying to forestall any questions or outbursts. "I cannot explain now, but I will later."
Winky swayed dubiously, but Dobby peered at her, glanced at her younger self, and nodded decisively as he puffed out his chest.
"Winky, please take the injured man in Alastor Moody's trunk to Madame Pomfrey," Bronach cut him off before he could start. "You have permission to open whatever locks and undo any enchantments that may hinder your task. Madame Pomfrey will be able to help him, but please stay near and guard him from any that might do him harm."
The little elf wobbled, but disappeared, presumably to carry out the task. Bronach eyed Dobby. "Restrain the man who looks like Alastor Moody who is on the castle grounds tonight. Take him to the Headmaster's office and do not release him unless Amelia Bones or myself gives you other orders."
Dobby saluted, of all things, and disappeared. As Bronach straightened up, she saw the Headmaster approaching at the head of a number of staff, wand out.
Her palms itched at the feeling of the Elder Wand, but she could feel that it was different from the one that she had claimed from Draco Malfoy. Putting aside the sensation, she squared her shoulders and faced the Headmaster. "I must speak with you, Minister Fudge, and Amelia Bones in your office, Headmaster Dumbledore."
His eyes didn't so much as twinkle as he fixed her with a hard stare. "Who are you, and how have you entered these grounds?"
"I will explain," Bronach said, as patiently as she could manage, "but this is not the place. The students with us need to go to the Hospital Wing, and what news I bring is not to be shared in the middle of a Quidditch Pitch."
He frowned, but turned to find Minister Fudge in his entourage. "Cornelius, it is likely best that we have this conversation away from curious ears."
Fudge twisted his bowler hat in his hands. "Quite right, I suppose," the man muttered, eyes wide as he stared at her. Dumbledore gestured towards the castle, and Bronach marched forward, Pettigrew returned to his previous state of being a sack carried over her shoulder. Steadfastly blocking out her memories of the last time she'd been on the castle grounds, Bronach was glad of the silent support offered by her companions as they helped Cedric and her younger self up to the Hospital Wing.
She led the group directly to the doors, ignoring Dumbledore's hints that they go straight to his office. Speaking in Westron, she said: "The healer here will take the students and ensure they are treated. Do not let them leave until I return. A family of redheads will come for the girl, they may visit with her, as may a large black hound, should he appear. I assume the boy's parents will come to him as well. Do not let anyone take the children from the infirmary."
Each of them nodded, and Daervunn let her younger self slip down from his back and helped support her as she wobbled through the doors. Glorfindel and Cedric were next, and then Halbarad last, glancing over his shoulder at her once last time before the doors closed. Then she let the Headmaster lead them to the familiar gargoyle, focusing hard on shoving her past memories in a box as they went.
Inside the Headmaster's office, they found Dobby, who was overseeing a bound and gagged Alastor Moody.
"What is the meaning of this?" Fudge blustered. "That is a highly respected Auror!"
You dismissed him for being senile, Bronach thought uncharitably. "That, Minister," she said as placidly as she could manage, "is an impostor."
As if the universe was on her side, the Polyjuice began to wear off at that precise moment. After an ugly set of contortions, Barty Crouch Junior slumped in the chair, his bonds shrinking with him courtesy of Dobby's snapped fingers.
"Barty Crouch's son?" Dumbledore murmured, studying the man. "I see this are not as they appeared."
"I will not explain until Madame Bones arrives," Bronach said, unloading Pettigrew into the chair next to Crouch. "Has word been sent to her?"
Dumbledore frowned disapprovingly at her, but stooped by the fireplace, putting in a call to the DMLE, or so she assumed. There must have been privacy wards around the fireplace, as no sound escaped. Bronach busied herself with drawing a runic sequence on Pettigrew's forehead, nicking her finger to use her own blood, to ensure that he could not use his animagus form to escape. It was something she'd designed for Teddy, to help hide the nature of his metamorphmagic talents when he was a child, but it would work equally well for animagi.
The fireplace flared as she leaned against the nearest bookshelf, uncaring of the scrutiny of the Minister and the Headmaster. Madame Bones stepped through, raising an eyebrow as she took in the scene.
Bronach had never met Amelia Bones in her previous life, outside of the disaster of a hearing, but it was a strong recommendation that Riddle had decided to murder the woman personally.
Anyone on Riddle's hit list was probably someone Bronach could get along with.
"Headmaster, Minister," the witch said, her eyes flitting between Bronach and the pair of prisoners. "I see there have been…difficulties, with the Third Task?"
"This…this person appeared with two of the champions," Fudge burst out, leveling a shaking finger at Bronach. "Three others, and that one," the finger shifted to point at Pettigrew's unconscious form, "and refused to speak until the three of us were assembled in the Headmaster's office."
"I apologize," Bronach said, her tone sickly sweet. "Would you rather I had created a panic by explaining that Tom Riddle, your so-called You Know Who, managed to resurrect himself, using Miss Potter's blood, in the middle of the Quidditch Pitch?"
Fudge turned a waxy pale green color. "He cannot be back!"
Amelia Bones ignored him. "Managed to resurrect himself?"
"Using Miss Potter's blood," Bronach repeated, ignoring the flash of triumph that passed over Dumbledore's face. "When he attacked the Potters in eighty-one, his soul was severed from his body, leaving him a wraith. Unable to do much, but capable of creating mischief if he was sufficiently motivated. I'm sure Mr. Pettigrew would be glad to explain how exactly he helped Riddle regain a proper body."
All eyes in the room focused on Pettigrew. Helpfully, Bronach slit the man's grubby sleeve, baring the Dark Mark.
"Preposterous," Fudge blustered, and Bronach idly wondered how he escaped apoplexy, given how his complexion was a brilliant red-purple. "Peter Pettigrew is dead. Killed by Sirius Black!"
"Odd," Bronach said blandly. "He looked very alive to me, when I apprehended him."
"What is on his forehead?" Madame Bones asked, peering through her monocle.
"Runic sequence for trapping shape-shifters in their current form," Bronach said lightly. "Mr. Pettigrew is a rat animagus."
Bones hummed contemplatively. "Curious," she said, stepping forward to study it closer. "Any shape-shifter?"
"It locks the ability to magically change," Bronach said, glad she'd spent so long discussing theory with Hermione and Andromeda. "Should you place this sequence on yourself, Headmaster Dumbledore would be unable to change your hair color, let alone your physical form."
"Quite interesting," Madame Bones said, and moved on. "And who is this?" She gestured at Barty Crouch Junior.
"That appears to be Barty Crouch Junior," Bronach shrugged. "He's apparently been masquerading as Alastor Moody, but I am unsure of for how long."
"Where is Alastor?" Dumbledore asked, his voice grave.
"The Hospital Wing, being attended to by Madame Pomfrey," Bronach shrugged. "A house elf was able to retrieve him and ferry him to safety."
"Indeed," Dumbledore murmured. Madame Bones glanced between him and Fudge before stepping forward.
"And what is your interest in these things?" the woman asked, gesturing at the unconscious Death Eaters.
"Merely a concerned citizen who happened across the ritual," Bronach kept her voice bland. "When I found two Hogwarts students in a graveyard that reeked of necromancy…well, I could not let them be killed. I am sure interrogation with Veritaserum would provide further information as to what their full purpose was, but based on what I observed the goal was acquiring Miss Potter's blood."
"Where are the students?"
"Hospital Wing," Bronach said, before Dumbledore could say a word. "Recovering from the ordeal. My companions are watching over them to ensure they come to no harm."
"Very well," Madame Bones said, ignoring Fudge's bluster. "I have heard, and seen, enough to open an investigation. Please be prepared for an invitation to visit the DMLE so that we can take your statement."
"I will be at your disposal tomorrow," Bronach said, dipping her head in acknowledgment. "My companions and I are weary and need to rest tonight."
"Will they be available to take statements from?"
"I'm afraid they speak an obscure dialect that is incompatible with European translation spells," Bronach shrugged, knowing that translation spells only worked if the spellcrafter knew what the languages being translated to were. The universal translation spell had been crafted my a polyglot and it worked on the major languages of Europe, and she knew there were similar universal spells for the other major languages, but the spells for obscure dialects had to be crafted by an individual who spoke both the dialect and the language being translated to.
Considering she was the only person who spoke fluent English, Westron, Sinderin, and Quenya, no charm Madame Bones could use would apply. And she doubted that Madame Bones would take her word as a translator, especially with what they would be discussing.
"I see," Madame Bones looked unhappy, but understanding. She crossed to the fireplace and threw a pinch of Floo Powder in, and a moment later she was stepping back to admit Kingsley and Tonks into the office.
"Please escort these two previously dead men to our holding cells and make sure they stay in the cells and alive," Madame Bones told the pair, sounding frazzled. "And the one with the runic sequence on his forehead is an animagus."
"Hoh boy," Tonks whistled, coming to take Pettigrew as Kingsley squared off with Dobby. The house elf looked to her, and Bronach nodded. With a snap, Crouch Junior was floating in the air, one of the ropes binding him coming free and floating to Kingsley's hand, like the world's most disturbing balloon. To his credit, the auror simply took the rope and turned back to the fireplace.
Once they'd vanished, Fudge seemed to have regained his voice. "You, you can't be serious," he howled at Bronach, glancing between her and Madame Bones. "Dead men that aren't dead, You Know Who alive once more?"
"I do not joke about Dark Lords, Minister," Bronach said dryly. "I am as displeased as you that Riddle has regained a body and the loyalty of many of his former followers, but that is the truth of the situation."
"You must be mad."
"Think what you will, Minister," she snapped, recalling the arithmancy Hermione had done, the lives that might have been saved had Fudge not spent a year in denial. "Sit in your office and vehemently deny the truth that I am sharing with you. Let the deaths rack up, the attacks begin; as you deny Riddle's return you empower it. That is something I refuse to see happen."
"He can't be," Fudge stuttered. "He can't be back."
"Unfortunately," Dumbledore said softly. "Tom has always considered himself above the will of the Ministry."
Fudge grasped that thought with a lifeline, and proceeded to swim further out to sea with it. "I refuse to authorize any sort of, of- action! Amelia, you may interrogate the prisoners, but nothing more!"
"Fortunately for me," Bronach said, rolling her eyes. "I need no permission from your Ministry to stop Riddle."
Fudge gawped at her, before scurrying through the Floo. Madame Bones lingered for a moment to confirm that Bronach would present herself to the DMLE to give her statement on the morrow, and then she followed him. Dumbledore, now that he was once more king of his own office, opened the conversation.
"I do not believe I am familiar with you," he said, grandfatherly charm turned up to the max.
"That is because I am from an incredibly remote enclave unknown to Britain," Bronach said, having concocted her story on the walk up to the Headmaster's office. It would certainly explain the supposed dialect that her companions spoke, and why there would be no records of her. She would just need to find a copy of the Potter family tree to invent suitable ancestry for herself, to finish legitimizing things.
"I see," the Headmaster hummed. "And your companions?"
"Also from the enclave."
"And how did you come to be present in time to rescue our wayward champions?"
"We were trekking through the countryside, looking for a place to make camp," Bronach shrugged her shoulders idly. "I am…unable to let foul deeds occur if I am in the position to stop them."
He beamed at her, but she could tell that he wasn't fully sold on trusting her yet. That was fine with her, Bronach didn't particularly want to cooperate with the Headmaster until he had an attitude adjustment. "I would like to speak further with you as well," he said, moving to sit behind his desk. "Can I offer you lodging in the castle?"
"No need, headmaster," she said, patting her belt pouch. "My companions and I are packed for camping. We will stay on the grounds tonight, and then we must be off to London, to speak with Madame Bones in the morning."
"And if I should deny you permission to remain on the grounds?"
Bronach would like to see him try. He couldn't keep Sirius off the grounds when the man was half-mad with dementor exposure, let alone keep the students on the grounds. "Then we shall be on our way tonight."
"Forgive me," Dumbledore said, feigning weariness. "It has been a trying night, and I find myself unnerved by the news you brought. You and your companions may stay upon the grounds for as long as you need."
"Thank you, Headmaster," Bronach said, turning towards the door. "I must find my companions."
He bid her goodnight, and as she walked down the stairs, Bronach suspected that he believed that there was a chance he could corner them in the morning.
Unfortunately, she knew far too much of how he operated to let him gain any advantage in the game they were playing.
NOTES:
Mae govannen: (S) greeting
Probably a monthly update schedule, I'm unsure.