Harry Potter and the Persistence of Vision - Marzipan77 - Harry Potter (2024)

Chapter 1

Chapter Text

Ten days after Dumbledore's funeral, the wizard's spells faded from the world.

At Hogwarts, Minerva McGonagall stood rigid in the Headmaster's office, trapped in a web of light and magic as the castle searched for its new Mistress. Three hours after the magic had begun to infuse her spirit, to build new wards and transfer rights and privileges, it gently sat the trembling witch on a deep cushioned chair, House Elves appearing with tea and strengthening potions to minister to her.

When she was able to raise tear-filled eyes, she spoke to the sleeping portrait behind her desk. "What have you done, Albus?" she whispered. Trembling, she rose to face him, shoulders back and head high. "Even dead you want to control us, to lead the battle, to keep us all in our places on your chessboard, convinced that there was no better mind, no more complete strategist than yourself." The tears in her eyes dried in the heat of her anger. "All of us, all of us friends," she ground the word out between her teeth, "all of us colleagues, powerful witches and wizards, good and decent men and women who fought and bled and died under your orders could never measure up to your standards of wisdom. We could not be trusted to contribute in some educated fashion. You convinced yourself that we had absolutely nothing to add to your genius."

She turned her back. "I have wasted enough time – far too much in considering what the great Albus Dumbledore would want me to do." She raised her arms and drew complex runes, murmuring long phrases, undoing charms, breaking wards, and building newer, thicker ones. "I may not be Albus Dumbledore," she murmured, jamming her wand into the air to punctuate the new order she'd put into place around the castle, "but I am Headmistress of Hogwarts. And I will protect our children – all of them – until there is no breath left in my body."

A flare of heat under her breast concentrated her focus. Alarms – immediate alarms shook her. As soon as her new wards took hold, Hogwarts raised alarms, pinpointed deadly, dark spells or artifacts inside the castle. In Hogwarts. A school for children. "Never," Minerva whispered. "Hogwarts," she announced, feeling the command reverberate from the stones beneath her feet, "watch and ward."

In the air before her, a map of the castle appeared in glowing lines of green and yellow. Dark blots emerged, revealing the locations of the threats. Deep beneath the first floor washroom she recognized the Chamber of Secrets. She nodded. She, Albus, and Severus had explored its reaches thoroughly after Harry's second year. Her gaze moved to the Slytherin Common Room. Several curses had lodged there, cast either by unknowing students or perhaps Tom Riddle himself during his years as a student here. With an unvoiced command, Hogwarts destroyed the lingering magic, commanded to cleanse and purify the Common Room as well as the student dormitories.

Severus' quarters revealed a pattern of darkness. His Dark Mark left its traces, even after the murderer had fled. Minerva allowed her rage to fuel her magic, diving deeper into Hogwarts, tracing connections, images, any darkness remaining within the traitor's secretive lair. Other items glowed - various potions ingredients. Severus had set his own wards to keep their effects trapped. She would leave those for the moment. His Floo had been shut down, the secret exit he had installed laid with traps. Severus would not be able to return.

Black splotches had settled in the Restricted Section of the library. Minerva wrapped the shelves in an extra layer of protection against curious young hands, resolving to search through those books with Madam Pince before the fall semester. The DADA classroom was splattered with darkness – spells, curses, student duels gone too far and the lingering smell of Dolores Umbridge's evil tainting every surface. Minerva slammed the doors, set the wards to full, and sent a purging fire to burn up every atom of substance and air. She did the same for the pink toad's office, one floor above. Untouched since her removal, the bitter taste of her dark artifacts fired Minerva's rage even hotter. Hogwarts seemed to approve as it added to Minerva's fire with a white light, purifying the bare stones that were all that remained.

Her focus skirted along hallways and staircases, erasing the taint of a hex here, the lingering stain of a spilled potion there. As Minerva submerged herself within Hogwarts, the castle's magic put down deeper roots within her as well, its satisfaction with her fiercely protective attitude causing unexpected changes. Aches and pains lessened, the tightness in her chest eased, and she felt her heart strengthened, beating more effectively as arteries and veins were cleansed. As she vowed to sustain Hogwarts and protect its charges, so Hogwarts opened all of its magic to her, giving her access to powers long unused and corridors and wings long inaccessible.

As Hogwarts opened itself to Minerva, one final spot of darkness appeared. Black and green, a festering wound, a gaping tear in Hogwarts' wholeness appeared. Seventh floor. Behind a blind wall – no, a room appeared on her inner map of the castle. A room that was tied more tightly to the castle's magic than any other, including the Headmistress's office. A room that could only be accessed at great need.

Both hands on her wand, Minerva let the castle whisper its secrets about the Room of Requirement. A frail memory was teased to the surface of her mind, the memory of Albus speaking of a room full of chamber pots, of her school-friend Martha describing a vivid dream of stumbling into a room containing a muggle telephone that connected her with her dying grandmother for one last talk, and, finally, of Harry's secretive club dedicated to training themselves for battle.

Here lay the final item – an artifact wrapped in curses, radiating death. She and Hogwarts built up complex wards, trapping the thing in an impenetrable cage of power. It rattled and banged, hurling power against her, trying to wrap itself in the guise of a harmless token, or a priceless historical relic. She would not be fooled.

"Headmistress."

Minerva opened her eyes, Hogwarts holding her magic steady as the ghost materialized before her.

"Grey Lady. Helena," she corrected herself when the castle offered up the Ravenclaw's ghost's name. "You speak?" She had been silent for centuries.

"Destroy it, Headmistress. Remove the sin and stain, I beg you."

"Has this thing trapped you here, my Lady?" Splitting her focus between the ghost and the dark artifact, Minerva realized that the thing had taken its final shape. A jeweled crown. A – "The lost diadem of Ravenclaw."

Hogwarts itself crushed the thing to bits without one spoken or unspoken spell. Fiendfyre did the rest. A scream pierced the castle, echoing from the stones and along the hallways. Minerva watched Helena Ravenclaw's ghostly form shiver and shake, silver tears leaking from behind closed eyes. As the echoes of the scream died away, the other Hogwarts ghosts appeared, the remaining House ghosts huddled around Helena, the Bloody Baron folding one arm around her misty shoulders.

"We are at your disposal, Headmistress." The Fat Friar bowed his head. "All of us stand ready to aide Hogwarts and her students."

Minerva straightened. "I accept your fealty. For now, I send you to search every hallway, nook, cranny, secret passage, and cupboard for weakness. Weakness in our wards, in our stones and floorboards, in the magic and material that makes up our home. We shall not fail."

She stood for another hour, rewriting protective spells, warding secret passages to respond only to Hogwarts' children at need, and reminding the very stones and stairs that its loyalty was not to the memory of Albus Dumbledore, but to young witches and wizards who called the castle their home.

Hogwarts glowed with life, eager for the changes, the stones shimmering with the witch's magic, welcoming spells laid down with power, with intention, and with a greater heart than it had felt in hundreds of years. When the magic settled, she cast three Patronuses in rapid succession. "To Filius, Pomona, and Horace." Both hands on her wand, McGonagall issued her orders. "To me," she commanded. "At once. There are Hogwarts' children in danger."

Chapter 2

Chapter Text

Chapter Two

At the Ministry of Magic, Rufus Scrimgeour raised a startled gaze from his paperwork. A cold wind tore into his office from the crack beneath the door, sending parchments and books and every loose item flying as if animated. Eyes narrowed, he struggled to breathe, to think, the wand in his hand lifeless and inert. He heard the panic in the outer office, voices raised in shrieks and boot heels thudding as people ran. The gathering darkness he'd sensed hovering – over the Ministry, London, the world - crashed down to overwhelm his senses.

Shaking, Scrimgeour managed to stand, swallowing thickly. His magic reared up around him like an animalistic bodyguard, snarling and swirling to protect him. He managed to touch his throat with his wand. "Unite the Light!" he bellowed. The verbal code of the warding spell set off a series of charms that he had personally locked into the perimeter of the Ministry, ready for this moment. A spear of light appeared on the wall behind him, stretching up and down until it reached every floor, from subbasem*nt to attic. The light spread to either side, forming into a wall of light that sped east and west, north and south, until the entire building was sheltered within its power within a few seconds of the previous wards' failure.

The bindings and wards of Albus Dumbledore had fallen. He could not allow the enemy to take advantage of an instant of weakness, caught between that process and the enactment of the new wards. Not if Scrimgeour's plans were to succeed.

He felt the others join their magic to his. Department heads, ministers, Wizengamot members who happened to be visiting, Aurors, trusted witches and wizards who had taken oath to him, sealed with unbreakable vows to the Light. Magic poured into the warding spell, rippling around the walls in wave after wave of protection. He heard the first shouts of the enemy – those who had masked their traitorous natures and lingered here, working against the Light, sowing seeds of treachery. Death Eaters hiding among the sheep. Those who had refused oaths, pleading a need for reflection or advice from family members.

Scrimgeour did not care for manipulative games, for thrice-cursed counter-espionage. He was no Dumbledore. Nor was he an ineffectual politician like Fudge. No, Scrimgeour had trained and administered the Auror Department for years. He intended to rid the Ministry of threats, internal as well as external, and to allow each wizard and witch to state, plainly and clearly, his or her allegiance or absolute neutrality and then bind them accordingly. His new wards plucked each one who had not pledged to fight Tom Marvolo Riddle – or pledged to give him no assistance whatsoever - from his place, Apparating them to warded rooms, out of the way for the moment. They would be held secure, with no way to contact any allies, until his Aurors could investigate.

When the quaking eased, Scrimgeour hoped the worst was over. He flinched, wand up and a hex on his lips when the locked drawer of his cabinet burst open, and four items he'd tucked away there floated to his desk. A will. A snitch. A strange metal device. An old children's book. The Minister bared his teeth in a feral grin. Finally. The last items held in Dumbledore's powerful grip had been released. He straightened, smoothing his robes. It was time for others to move forward to lead. Yes, they'd miss the wizard's power, Dumbledore's magic was unmatched in Scrimgeour's knowledge. But the Headmaster's underhanded manipulations were well gone.

Scrimgeour would honor Dumbledore's last wishes – he would personally deliver the three items on his desk to their new owners. And when he returned, he would have the Potter boy with him. And then the war would truly begin.

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At Gringotts' London Branch, a blind, emaciated dragon raised its head and screeched loud enough to rattle the ancient stones. Its chains dissolved into dust and thin wings strained to lift it from its prison, up and up, until it broke through glass into the warm early afternoon sunlight. It perched there on Gringotts' high dome, drawing in light and warmth and power long denied it in the dark catacombs. Imprisoned by magics intent on using the creature to keep the darkest artifacts from curious hands, the free dragon rested, the bright sun pouring healing balm on its cold skin. Heat sank into the thick hide, firing its blood and bone. Chest rising and falling, the dragon embraced its kindled magic, remembering its original mission. Protect, yes, it cried its freedom into the sky, protect those in its care from darkness. It lifted its head and released a long plume of fire, shuffling around in an awkward circle while it burned. The circle of fire didn't dwindle or die out, instead it brightened into a shimmering gold net, widening until it encompassed not just Gringotts, but all of Diagon Alley and the streets and buildings that touched its boundaries in muggle London. There the circle remained.

Goblins stopped mid-count and mid-word; heads lifted as if they were scenting the air. Without a word, each one abandoned its post and apparated to the sunken Ritual Room, taking its place on the points of the many-sided star carved deep into the bedrock beneath the building. The oldest goblin, white haired, its eyes gleaming bright beneath its deeply wrinkled brow began the chant to stabilize the building's wards, to knit up the raveled magic before the vaults' doors all broke open.

Gnashrend growled as the new wards refused to settle. It glared at the Ritual Master, gathering in the flailing energy at the center of the star. "The Accords!"

The growl was taken up by every goblin, echoing from the ancient stone. The signature of the meddling wizard was obvious – how dare the foolish wand-waver interfere with the goblin kingdom! He had no idea of the intricate weave of blood and bone, of the magic that flowed in every goblin's veins. Gringotts shook, the interrupted ritual breaking stone.

Ragnok snarled them to silence. "Goblin honor will not be broken! Our ancient Accords, sealed with the blood of our ancestors, tied to living goblin magic, will not be damaged! As the First Ones vowed, so shall we be charged. Prepare yourselves!"

Each goblin obeyed, removing its personal dagger from its sheath that lay flat against its chest, beneath its robes. Blood oaths had been broken; blood would knit them again. A hush grew around the huge room, each goblin poised with the tip of the dagger against the palm of its hand.

Ragnok chanted; Gobblydegook filled the room. Flashes of lightning appeared, one after another, until each goblin was joined to the others with electricity, the live magic within rising to the skin's surface, eager to be released, to rejoin the whole.

"Now!" Ragnok shouted, plunging its own dagger deep.

Bronze light erupted from each goblin's wound and, using the lightning, traveled through the crowd, to everyone, in and out and through and around. The sacred runes on the stones turned black, the priming color of all goblin spells.

"Begin!"

The goblins began the ritual once more, chanting in unison. This time, the wards answered, reknitting, knotting tight, woven with blood and bone, with living magic. Station by station within the runes came alight, the goblins standing on those runes shouting defiance. From outer circle to inner, the star glowed, reaffirming the Accords of the First Ones, until the chamber glowed like the sun.

The shaking stopped. The goblins breathed as the light died, waiting.

Ragnok knelt and pressed its wounded hand to the center of the star, every goblin echoing its motion. It stood, the new scar on its palm a reminder of these new oaths. It growled. "There are dark artifacts hidden within our vaults – artifacts forbidden by the most ancient treaties of the first goblin families! They are forbidden. Their presence alone would void the oaths of the First Ones."

The others grumbled agreement.

"That is our first priority. Collect the dark things. Place them in lead-lined chests."

Griphook dared to speak. "Vaults have been tampered with."

Bogrod flinched beside him. "Potter. Black. Longbottom. Crouch. Lestrange. Weasley. More."

The ancient goblin snarled, slamming one fist into the other, causing a reverberation of power to flow through the ragged circle to release each goblin from its place. "You will close the doors of Gringotts. You will perform an audit immediately! Each and every knut in each and every vault will be accounted for! Deny all access!" The white-haired goblin shook with fury. "I will not have wizards interfering with proper goblin rules and regulations." It teetered towards the exit, the other goblins following along. "Now, get to it!"

It was Ragnok himself who followed the baleful scent of dark power down to the Lestrange vault. Who commanded the door open. Who greeted the eldest dragon that plunged its head back into the cavern it had created on bended knee. It was Ragnok who summoned the deadly Horcrux into a lead-lined casket and cast it into the dragon's flame.

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At Nurmengard Prison, an ancient man rose from his soiled bed to stand straight and tall. "Peace, my friend, my enemy. Finally, peace for both of us." Arms flung out to the side, head back, he laughed, his body dissolving into ash as his spirit fled from its fleshy prison and into whatever afterlife awaited him. Gellert Grindelwald was dead.

Chapter 3

Chapter Text

Chapter Three

At Malfoy Manor, a strange whisper grew to a strangled growl that wrapped the dark mansion with sound. Wizards and witches hurried to the windows, wands in hand, examining the grounds for threats, readying themselves for battle. Wind rattled in the trees, breaking branches. Trap spells, alarm hexes tied to the doors, the gardens, and the secret entrances tore free in a cyclone of magic, flinging rocks and soil into a tempest that stripped every glamour of beauty from the building and grounds, the meticulous gardens reduced to ash and embers.

Fenrir Greyback curled his hands, talons extended, the fur on his spine standing on end. It felt as if he'd flung off a stifling blanket. Hunger roared through him. Ravening, unending hunger clutched at his guts. He grabbed the wizard nearest to him in both huge hands and bent him backwards, digging his teeth into the man's neck until blood rushed down to his gullet. Bones cracked; the dead wizard's spine broken in two. When Fenrir had drunk his fill, the alpha werewolf howled and leapt on another – a black-haired witch with wild eyes and a useless wand. Her blood tasted of madness and heat. Hexes and curses stung, but the werewolf threw them off, intent on his goal. Kill. Kill them all.

In an upstairs room, Narcissa Malfoy gasped, one hand pressed to her chest as the sensation of tightness suddenly released. Draco lurched from his chair to kneel before her, his own magic flailing within him.

"Mother? What is it? What's happening?"

She turned to him, her eyes aglow with light and power. "All bindings are undone." She rose, bringing her son up to stand with her at the touch of her hand. "Come." Before Draco's hammering heart beat again, they were gone.

He who had been Tom Riddle lifted his head, his tongue flickering along his lips as if scenting the air. Red eyes narrowed, glowing with anger and fear. "No," he breathed, rising from his makeshift throne with trembling limbs. "He is gone – he cannot hurt me now." His low voice became a defiant shout. He lifted both pale hands, his wand tracing fiery runes and sigils in the air. "Ah, the old fool's magic has dissolved. Power to guard, to stifle, to bind, to trap. Power to hide whatever the great Dumbledore chose to keep hidden. Chains that held wizards dumb and blind, that turned monsters into puppies on his leash, that smothered intelligence and allowed his touch – and his touch only - to open and close doors. Gone. All gone."

The Dark Lord admitted – to himself alone – that he had not expected this. He had thought Dumbledore's interference had been broken at the very moment of his death. That his most trusted one, his spy, had rid him of the devastating power of Dumbledore once and for all. He stepped to the center of the empty room, drawing Nagini from her sleep to his feet.

"I was a fool, Nagini. Of course, the old meddler did not restrict his magics to Hogwarts. I should have realized he had a finger in every corner of our world, that his arrogance far outweighed his appreciation for others' privacy. That he could not keep himself from interfering with other wizards – other beings – to bring about his 'greater good.'" He lifted the snake to drape across his shoulders. "Even here, within the strong wards of the darkest family Dumbledore had laid his traps, set his alarms, and had woven bindings and charms into those who dwell here."

He must think of himself, now, Voldemort determined. Allies. Servants. Spies. He smirked. Slaves. They were, regrettably in some cases, expendable. As the wizarding world shook from the release of Dumbledore's magic, new alliances must be made. New strategies enacted. New precautions taken and taken at once.

Voldemort wrapped his arms around Nagini and flew, abandoning all who remained within Malfoy's crumbling home to the monsters he had gathered there, thinking them leashed to his will. The werewolves would make short work of those too slow to Apparate away. Only the most powerful, the most cunning, would survive to return to his side. Those worthy to truly stand with him. Anger fueled his flight, turning his movement into a flare of fire across Britain's sky.

The Dark Lord Apparated from the sky, his bare feet touching down on pale pink carpeting. The caterwauling of cats pierced him straight through like an icepick to his brain. Without a word, Voldemort destroyed the plates lining the walls, silencing the infernal creatures. The woman sitting at the massive desk hopped from her cushioned chair, simpering in a series of short bows as she approached him, the gold 'S' on the locket around her neck glimmering.

"My Lord, what a happy surprise. How may I serve you – ah, and your friend, of course." Umbridge eyed the massive snake that unfurled from around his shoulders. "I did not expect –"

"Quiet, fool," Voldemort hissed. "We have work to do."

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At the Tonks' manor house, Remus Lupin's hand closed too tightly around a crystal glass and it shattered, tiny shards and liquid exploding across the white damask tablecloth. It was as if an electric prod had been shoved against the base of his spine, energy sizzling up into his brain. His tumbling, anxious thoughts cleared in a flash of white light, the grey haze of confusion that he'd known since he began his magical schooling abruptly dissipating. Theories, facts, spells, faces, and names were shuffled into logical order, into cause and effect, parallels and conclusions drawn seamlessly. Precise points lined themselves up, revealing truths, resurrecting obliviated memories, and igniting an intelligence that he'd once been proud of.

Remus' mind was alight with knowledge.

Spells, charms, runes, arithmancy – all the studying Remus had done when he was alone and friendless, shying away from anyone who paid too much attention to him – it all came flooding back. He had been the one to enchant the Marauder's Map, building layer after layer of charms into the parchment. He'd created rune wards and carved them into his bed, into the small rooms and hiding places where he spent his wolf nights, protecting others from his other self. He'd crafted other identities as easily as breathing, brewing Polyjuice that was far superior to the basic potion. It had been another who had commanded that he hide his aptitude, that drawing attention to himself would guarantee unwanted attention.

Remus heard his teeth grind and felt his nails begin to grow. He was a brilliant wizard. Gifted. Strong. Yet he'd abandoned his friends and their son. Abandoned Harry to grow up among abusive muggles, to be left alone and friendless for eleven long years. He'd finally fought his way back to the child's side only to parcel out dribbles of information like it was precious gold to be protected. He'd left Sirius to rot in prison without a thought, without a single, momentary desire to find out the truth. His magic shuddered inside him. He'd taken an oath, once. An oath that he had forgotten – been forced to forget – of mutual aid. One he must take up again if he was to live.

Remus had been bound, leashed, a great iron collar tethered around his neck since – since Dumbledore.

"Remus? What's wrong?"

Dora leaned close, the scent of her hair lifting Remus' spirits and kindling his longing, his love, his devotion for this, his mate, his pack. All his lingering hesitation or withdrawal burned to ash. Remus enveloped Dora in a fierce embrace, pressing kisses to her face, her neck, and whispering his love.

Across the table, Ted's laugh was deep and kind. "Finally acting like newlyweds. It's about time."

Remus pulled back, his eyes sparking fire as he gazed around the table at each one. At his wife, her father, and her mother, now Remus' pack. One was missing. The cub. Not much of a cub anymore, he reminded himself. Instead of being raised by wolves, Harry had raised himself.

"You have no idea." Remus bared his abnormally sharp teeth across the table in a grin before capturing Dora's hand and staring into her beautiful eyes. "My love, I am so sorry for my hesitation. For making you believe, even for a moment, that I was not fully, completely, idiotically in love with you."

Cheeks already pink, Dora's hair morphed into dark purple waves, descending past her shoulders. "Remus? What –?"

"There is nothing more important than my life with you."

Remus heard a sniff from the other side of the table, from Andromeda, but he didn't turn. His wife had endured enough of his chilly, standoffish moods. His fears. He admired so much about her, but especially her steely backbone. She'd faced down all of his fears, all of his illogical and hurtful statements and never wavered.

The chains that had been wound around Remus' heart and mind scattered into visible points of light. His magic surged and Dora's met it, a flame of passion and regard kindling their two fires into one.

When their lips parted, she smiled. "My love."

"My always," he replied. Clutching her hand tightly, he turned to the stunned Andromeda and Ted sitting across the table. "My friends, we have a lot to discuss. But there is an oath that compels me to act – now." He rose and raced to the Floo.

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At the Burrow, Ron and Hermione stopped mid-argument, mouths open, clutching hands that had been raised to point and poke before.

"What are we doing?" Hermione whispered, tears in her eyes.

"Bloody –" Ron stood up straight, frowning. He pulled Hermione to his side to support her. "You're brilliant. Beautiful. I'd be a fool not to tell you how much you mean to me. Why haven't I? Why do we always end up arguing? And why the bloody hell have we left Harry all alone with his useless, nasty relatives?"

"I – I don't know any of those answers." She put a hand to her forehead. "You know that feeling when you know you should have been doing something, but you can't remember what? I feel like that's all I've been feeling – for weeks – for months!"

"What are we waiting for?" Ron whispered, staring into her eyes.

She had no answer.

Bill! Charlie!" With a swish of his wand, Ron sent his Patronus bounding out the door and down the stairs. "We've got to get to Harry."

"No argument from me," Hermione answered. "Ron," she pushed off from his side, "do you even know where he is?"

"Of course, I do! Fred, George, and I rescued him second year and why I suddenly can remember his address is something we will figure out later."

"And how you forgot in the first place," Hermione added, her jaw clenched in fury.

The oldest Weasley boys thundered up the stairs and burst into Ron's room. "A Patronus! Ron, I had no idea!" Bill eyed the couple up and down. "Are you two finally finished arguing?" He struggled with one arm in his leather jacket, tossing Ron his cloak with the other hand.

Charlie's wand was in his hand. "I've sent my Patronus to warn Harry to be ready."

Ron kissed Hermione and she clung to him for a moment. "We'll be back."

"You don't think I'm staying behind," she snapped.

"You're brilliant at wards – the best of all of us," Ron answered, holding her by both shoulders. "He's not going to be safe here. It's the obvious place to bring him, but, like idiots, we haven't set up anything else. He'll have to come here for a bit." When her scowl deepened, Ron tilted his head. "Who is the better strategist, Hermione?"

She blurted out her answer. "Yes, you are. I know that. Why am I –" she shook her head like she was trying to throw off her doubts. "I'll talk to your mum and dad. Tell them. And then Ginny and I will strengthen the wards. You're right – they won't last under a direct onslaught, but they'll shield his presence for a little while."

"Don't forget Fleur," Bill said. "My veela is mighty fierce when her passion is roused." The scar on his cheek pulled his grin into a dangerous expression.

"Good." Ron tossed his cloak over his shoulders. "Let's get Harry." He imagined the perfectly groomed front yard of Number 4 Privet Drive and stepped forward, Apparating with a loud crack.

Chapter 4

Chapter Text

Chapter Four

At Number 4 Privet Drive, Petunia Dursley lifted her eyes from her magazine to stare at the glass of water on the table beside her. The water was moving, vibrating, as if shaken by invisible hands. Her narrowed gaze fixed immediately on the stairs, as if she could see through walls and ceiling to glare at the burden that had weighed down her life for fifteen years. The Freak should be good and tired after the early morning wake-up and the list of chores she'd given him. He'd been nearly stumbling with exhaustion when he trudged through the kitchen half an hour ago, grimy and sweaty.

"You're disgusting," she'd snapped at the boy. "Five minutes in the shower before you touch another thing in my house." She'd shoved a half sandwich and a very generous cup of milk at her sister's son as he nodded and headed upstairs.

Petunia had been using that strategy for years. Since he'd been dumped on her doorstep with the threatening note from … those people the little burden had done freaky things: making toys fly, shooting up to the roof of the school, making his hair grow overnight. Keeping him undernourished and exhausted had stopped most of it. But, now – lips thin, she watched the vibrations in the water move on to the glass itself, making it dance across the highly polished surface until it fell sideways onto the spotless carpet.

She shot to her feet, snarling. She'd get Dudley, that's what she'd do. It took a real crisis for Petunia to want to expose her pure-hearted son to the Freak's presence, but this could not be tolerated. Dudley would teach the boy a lesson he wouldn't soon forget. Well, perhaps. Petunia breathed out a huff. Ever since that horrible attack last summer, Dudley had been cowed and withdrawn around her sister's brat. This was Petunia's opportunity to remind her son that he was much bigger and stronger than the Freak and should never be afraid or daunted by his freakishness. Clutching her magazine to her chest, she took one step towards the steps when the sight out her window stole her breath.

The bright sunlight streaming in through her lounge windows was dimming; the sound of birds, of the wind in the trees, the hum of the transformer on the pole outside were all suddenly silenced. The floor rippled, from the outer walls into the center, as if a great wave of energy had rushed in. Or, as if something powerful had collapsed inward. Petunia dropped her magazine.

"No," she whispered, all color draining from her sunken cheeks. She'd lived with the feeling for so long, the feeling of the protective magic they'd told her about tingling along her skin. That wizard, Dumbledore, had promised. He'd promised her that nothing could hurt them – that no one from that vile, disgusting world could touch them here.

She suddenly remembered what the Freak had said when he returned that summer. "Dumbledore's dead. He's been killed." Her eyes widened. That buzzing along her skin was gone because the wizard protecting them was dead. But there was something else. As dark clouds billowed up over Privet Drive, Petunia felt another presence. Something familiar. A scent, golden and floral that reminded her of …

"Lily," she muttered, her lips a thin line, creases along her forehead cutting deep. "I knew it. I knew you'd be the death of us. That that boy would be the death of us." She shouted, fists hitting her chest. "You promised! You said we'd be safe if we took the Freak in one more time!"

The floor shook and rolled. Petunia shrieked, tumbling sideways. She grabbed onto the stairway railing. "Dudley! Dudley, quick!" She flew up the stairs, desperate to save her son – her family - from what would surely come. "Hurry! We're leaving! Right now!"

In Dudley's second bedroom, Harry sat bolt upright from an uneasy doze to pull in the first deep breath he could remember taking. He frowned. He thought he'd heard something – felt something. He looked down at his hands spread wide on the thin blanket beneath him. He lifted them, staring at the glow surrounding him, the light beaming from underneath his skin until it was a blazing fire illuminating every inch of his tiny room. The walls bent inward with a groan and then bulged outward as if they couldn't contain the magic inside him. The roaring in his ears was deafening.

Legs tangled in the blanket, Harry fell to his knees beside his bed, eyes tight shut, hands in fists against his temples. The noise seemed to come from inside his own head – or his chest. Loud. It hurt. Pounded through him. A moment later, it stopped beating against his skull and narrowed into one voice, one voice he'd only ever heard before when Dementors were nearby. Or when he was in fear for his life. His mother's voice.

Warmth fell around him like at thick cloak. His mother wasn't screaming, wasn't pleading for his life. Not this time. This wasn't a frantic woman without any hope – this voice belonged to a powerful witch rising up in righteous fury. Finally the noise filtered into words – long strings of Latin lifting up from the depth of his being, surging up his chest, his throat. The words leaped from Harry's mouth, the magic in the room churning into glittering maelstroms of energy. The fury of the spell shrank into a ball of light, too bright to look at, and shot straight to Harry's forehead where his scar burned icy cold.

Harry's voice stilled. He hauled himself to his feet, heart leaping into his throat. She was there, right there, outlined in shimmering gold. Her red hair crackled with energy; her green eyes were dark with power. He couldn't speak, couldn't do more than reach out towards her with shaking hands. His mother.

She smiled, holding up one finger as if to ask him to wait one moment. When Harry nodded, she flung both hands towards his scar.

A battle was being fought. A battle between whatever had lodged beneath Harry's scar and his mother's magic.

It should hurt. It should hurt a lot. Harry waited for the pain, familiar from years of his encounters with Voldemort. From Quirrell. From the graveyard. From the torture of Snape's Occlumency lessons. But the magic seemed to be blocking the pain this time. He blinked at his mum's face. Maybe it wasn't magic. Not this time. The warmth and security, the protectiveness – this felt like love.

Harry had never realized that love could be so much more than sentiment, or grief, or compassion. More than holding hands with a girlfriend, or happiness that a best friend had written. Watching his mother's stance, her expression, love could equally be fury. Rage.

His mother shouted: "Get the hell out of my son!"

Harry felt something then. Felt a snap. A breaking. The ball of light came away from his forehead, its center a writhing mass of darkness. It flew to his mother's hands. She held it motionless in the air between her palms for a heartbeat. Then, with a massive clap, she brought her hands together and destroyed it.

He clutched at the bedpost to keep his feet as the world rocked. Sucking in a deep breath, Harry felt so light, so free, that he thought his body might rise up to the ceiling.

Lily Potter's magical protection had performed its final purpose, long delayed.

Harry collapsed, completely himself, Horcrux destroyed, his unbound magic overwhelming his senses. Before the darkness closed over him, he saw his mother, smiling, eyes shining. "You're free," she whispered. "Harry. You're free."

Through her fading figure, Harry caught a glimpse of a silver image flying through the window and coalescing into a roaring dragon. "We're coming. Hang on, Harry, we're coming."

Harry fell, safe within a swirl of hope and love and magic.

HP HP HP HP HP

At Spinner's End, Severus Snape hesitated over his cauldron, his stirring rod poised, his muscles suddenly clenched tight. As the first drip fell on the surface of the counter, his shield spell snapped an impenetrable skin around the cauldron, flame, potion, and the end of his rod, neatly slicing it in two. The wizard barely noticed.

Pain erupted, too big, too all-encompassing for Severus to pinpoint its location. His muscles turned rigid; his fingers spread so wide each bone seemed disarticulated. Eyes at half-mast, Severus tried to apply his Occlumency shields, to hide his awareness behind innocuous, everyday thoughts and scenes, to protect his psyche from the relentless attack. Harsh, panting breaths were too loud, the light too bright, the air itself too rough and searing along his skin. Not an attack, he realized. This was not some outside spell or hex, not a Crucio or another pain-curse.

This was Severus' own magic rising up against an invader that was inside his own skin.

Ice crackled, a wave of cold mist bursting from his pores to lock him inside its cloud. His breath stopped in his chest; his heart stuttered to a halt. Frozen in time and space, Severus' mind was the only active part of him. Was this death, then? Some long-waiting infirmity rearing up? Some wizardly disease? Would his end be as ignominious as his birth – and as pointless?

Severus' mind was awake, alert, functioning. He counted two seconds, three, six. Without blood or breath, he did not have long to wait for the end. One last thought rose up from its locked and chained dungeon. Lily. I've failed you, failed your son. Regret, sorrow, humiliation at his lack of strength – of spirit, of mind, of heart – took hold. He would not beg for forgiveness. He did not deserve it.

With the shriek of tortured metal, bonds broke within Severus' spirit, releasing magic that billowed out of deep cisterns and dusty, forgotten chambers. Changes rushed through his body – muscles and bones reknitting, curse-scars healing, the physical consequences of years of pain and grief and self-loathing vanishing.

The cloud released him, and he gasped in a deep breath, his heart beating loud in his own ears. A moan was dragged from his lips as his skin rippled, throwing off glamours he had no idea existed. Finally, his magic centered itself on his left forearm, releasing Severus from his frozen stance. He clawed at his long, tight sleeve, buttons popping, until the Dark Lord's mark glowed black and throbbing within his magic's grip. Right hand tight around his elbow, Severus murmured. "I can't – I have to – I must continue –" he argued with his magic, with the core of his power that obviously intended to remove any and all damage to Severus' well-being. "Dumbledore's plan must go forward –"

He gasped as his magic tore the words from the air and left them in bloody fragments around his feet.

Pain. Searing, inescapable pain. Severus screamed as the Dark Mark was split from his skin and bone and spirit, every layer of the horrid spell burned away in an instant, utterly removed. Severus' lips pulled back from his bared teeth. He swallowed down the pain – he'd had plenty of experience – breathing slow and deep through the last remnants. Control. Always control, he reminded himself.

Release came gently. His magic swelled, filling him from the crown of his head to his cold toes in his thin, worn boots. He remembered this feeling. Remembered the warmth of magic, the joy of spell work, the excitement of sharing what he'd learned with his best friend. The magnificence of learning at Hogwarts, of drawing all that knowledge into himself. His eagerness to learn more and more, to master the trickiest spells and charms, the sense of peace when he brewed potion after potion, revised his process, perfected the science and art of the magic.

When had magic stopped being a joy? Something new to discover every day? When had Severus lost all sense of wonder and hope?

Memories formed and reformed. Truth pressed its way to the surface, too long denied. Faces and scenes appeared – full of color and motion and life. Childhood was turned from well of darkness and misery into rekindled warmth, his mother's protecting arms, and knowledge of his long family history of wizardry. His father had been a true bastard, but Eileen Prince had never abandoned her son. Never allowed Tobias Snape to hurt him. And had made sure to put everything in order for Severus' future.

Hogwarts unfolded in memory. Classes. Fellow Slytherins. Others. Bonds broken; friendships begun. The pranks set against him took on a different flavor. His own retaliations were revealed as severe. A werewolf lunged and others protected him. An office sketched itself across his mind, three Gryffindors gathered there. Minerva – then Professor McGonagall. One ragged student grasped Severus' hand; both spoke the words that tied an oath to their magic. How long had Severus been an oath breaker? How much longer could his magic stand against the binding?

Slowly, drifting from bright memories into the dim light of his laboratory, Severus came to himself. Slumped on a stool, he glanced down at his bare arm, trembling. All true. Not a dream. He didn't need to pinch himself to know he was alive. Inside of a few hours, his entire universe had changed, reality had been wrenched back into place from its hidden and tortured past. He remembered, now. Remembered all of it. His horror at what was required of Tom Riddle's followers. He remembered the self-styled Voldemort's demands for blood to set the Mark within Severus' spirit. The face of the dying muggle-born wizard who had fallen at the end of Severus' wand appeared. He'd barely managed the spell, sick to his stomach at Malfoy and Travers' torture and mutilation. The death curse had been fueled not by Severus' pureblood fury, but by his deep desire to end the man's pain. It had been enough for Voldemort.

The truth of Severus' final rejection of the Dark Lord and his purposes was almost worse than the fable he'd been forced to believe for years. The prophecy was the last straw, the final horror. Voldemort's dark glee at the excuse to kill the Potters had severed every bit of loyalty Severus had kept. That very day he had knelt before Dumbledore in abject servitude and renounced all allegiance to the Dark Lord. Renounced death and killing and the selfish yearning for power that was at the heart of Tom Riddle's every move.

Severus raised his lowered head. Yes, he remembered, now. Remembered how Dumbledore had struck away Severus' oaths with a blinding spell and locked down Severus' voice so that he could not refute the Darkness and drive the Dark Mark from his own body – even if it meant his death.

"You are not permitted to renounce him," Dumbledore had stated. "Not now. Not ever. Not until he has been defeated. Not until you earn your death, earn it with your utter devotion to my plans. You will return to him, fully aware that you have now two loyalties, tied inextricably together." The wizard's eyes had twinkled, his smile cruel. "You are not permitted the luxury of driving the Dark Mark from your skin and your soul. First, you must pay for what you've done at that madman's will."

"How?" Severus had cried, the pain of his rejected oath driving deep into his bones, crippling his joints, dragging creases into his skin. His mind shied away from the pain, his tears, love, compassion and every trace of empathy locking themselves behind doors that were made thick and fast by Dumbledore's magic.

Dumbledore had raised his wand. "You will forget you ever sought release from your Dark Lord's Mark. Oh, you will remember your grief, your rage, your guilt – yes, that will be your strongest memory. Let that fill up your mind when Tom travels there. Let it fill up your very being. Until I release you," Dumbledore had said, "you will pay for your crimes with an inner darkness that rivals the darkness Voldemort would bring to our world."

The alarm of Severus' Floo jangled sharply and he sucked in a breath. He drew his wand, and hurried up the stairs to his lounge, making the journey with more ease and quickness than he could remember since his childhood. He could examine his memories at another time – first he must make himself safe. Leave this house. His eyes widened as his memories caught up with him, disclosing the perfect shelter, already prepared for him. Severus had been released from Tom Riddle's service – and from Dumbledore's control. But he was much too exposed here at Spinner's End.

He needed time to remember who Severus Snape was – or to create him anew.

The fireplace in the lounge glowed green, the attempt at communication stifled by his wards. It could be Pettigrew. Malfoy. Bellatrix. Severus took a deep breath, readying himself for battle as he glared at the green flames, querying his wards so that he could identify the magical signature of his visitor.

Severus stumbled backwards in shock. It was not a Death Eater. It was … Remus Lupin. Werewolf. James Potter's friend. One of Harry Potter's staunchest supporters. The rush of memory stormed across Severus' knee-jerk annoyance.

Oh.

Hands shaking, he released the wards to allow only communication.

"Get to ground," the wolf snarled. "All bindings are undone, and memories returned." Lupin's eyes shone with more than the green light of the Floo. "Don't make me apologize to a rotting corpse, Severus. Contact me when you are safe."

As Lupin's head disappeared, Severus locked down the Floo with a gesture and then, for good measure, collapsed the bricks to destroy the fireplace.

Chapter 5

Chapter Text

Chapter Five

"Harry – mate – blimey, he's freezing cold."

Harry frowned in the darkness, Ron's voice washing over his shivering form like a blanket. "S'too early," he murmured, trying to turn away to dive back into his covers. He must have thrown them on the floor. Why was Ron up before him? He moaned. And why was Harry's head throbbing? Nightmare? He searched his aching head for the memory, but random images drifted behind a smokescreen of pain.

Ron shook him. "Hey. This isn't Hogwarts and the danger here isn't Seamus finishing all the sausages at breakfast."

Danger – here –

Harry opened his eyes and reached for his wand, lurching upright and away from the clutching hands, a hex on his lips. The tip of his wand stuck in the knit of Ron's sweater, right over his heart. He stilled, clamping his mouth shut before the last word of the spell could escape.

Ron didn't seem angry – in fact, if Harry didn't know better, he seemed relieved at Harry's overreaction.

"Finally. Where's your stuff? Have you kept it packed like Hermione suggested?" Ron clambered to his feet just as Bill Weasley leaned in around Harry's door.

"The muggles are gone. Looks like they ran when the wards sent up the failure warning. Just grabbed a few things." Bill shrugged. "Might make this easier."

"What – the wards?" Harry lowered his wand and rubbed at his forehead. He felt different. Awake. Aware. His headache eased into a strange feeling of lightness, like his head would float right off his shoulders. Magic buzzed along his nerves as if eager to be used.

"We've been expecting it." Bill hunkered down next to Harry's sprawl on the floor. "Dumbledore's magic finally fell apart. For most wizards, it would have happened right when he died, but Dumbledore wasn't most wizards, was he?"

"But –" Harry closed his mouth tight, refusing to ask the question out loud. His mum. His mum had appeared. She'd done something to his scar. He looked at his wand, at the magic that hummed along its length. It felt alive, ready, anticipating Harry's thoughts. Something had happened to his magic. To his mind. Fear of failure, of not being good enough, of being the stupid, uneducated, ignorant freak reared up and then was ripped to shreds by a new confidence, a heady feeling of skill, and a cold, cutting anger.

"Dumbledore's magic," Harry repeated. He couldn't blame this feeling on Voldemort – on anger from other source leaking through the connection the evil bastard had forged when Harry was fifteen months old. His mother's spirit had removed that link. Destroyed it. In the sudden silence within his tumbling thoughts, he realized the truth: it had been a Horcrux. That explained everything. Everything from his dreams, to his Parseltongue, to his inability to Occlude – to keep the evil bastard out - to his fits of rage.

This time, Harry seethed, the rage was all his own.

"No time for discussion." Bill and Ron grabbed one arm each and hauled Harry to his feet. "Where have you stashed your – aha!" Bill caught sight of the sturdy muggle backpack and lifted it, hefting it to judge its weight. "Featherlight and Undetectable Extension charms?"

"Yeah, that's everything. Hedwig –" Harry startled at the sight of his owl's empty cage.

"We sent her ahead. Won't need a cage for her where we're going."

The sharp pang of relief knowing his owl was safe came and went quickly. Harry frowned, trying to remember. "This – this wasn't the plan." What plan, he asked himself. Running off with Hermione and Ron to look for Horcruxes with no clue how to find them? That wasn't a plan, that was nonsense. They'd have been alone, three teenagers without any resources or mentors to guide them and the entire continent to search. He shook off Ron's and Bill's hands. Alone and scared – they'd have been at each other's throats in weeks. Depressed and desperate.

They'd been fools to consider it.

"No," Ron growled, his own anger shining clear on his expressive face. "This is actually a plan – or the start of one." He hooked Harry's pack over his shoulder and nodded to his brother, as if giving an order. "Got him?"

Bill looped an arm around Harry's waist and held him tight. "Charlie is outside leaving about a dozen false trails. We're going to Apparate to the Burrow and have a short talk now that we can talk freely."

"And think freely," Ron added. He gripped Harry's wrist, stopping Harry's questions and demands before he could draw breath. "Bill is better at side-along, so let him take you. I'll muddy the waters here and then join you. In fact –" his wand appeared in his hand and he grimaced apologetically at Harry, "- I'm gonna need a bit of blood."

Of course. Harry nodded once, sharply. Ron's strategic mind was a thing of beauty and Harry would be a fool to let his righteous fury interfere. Ron made a neat slice along Harry's wrist before whipping his wand in a complex whirl, leaving large and small drops in an obvious pattern on the floor and bed before closing the cut.

"See you soon," Ron promised as Bill shifted the two of them into the darkness of Apparition.

Alone in Harry's dismal room, Ron used all the anger that was pooling in his gut to power his magic. He overturned furniture, smashed the wardrobe to splinters, and tore floorboards up one after another. Within a few minutes, he'd left Harry's room strategically destroyed, Hedwig's cage smashed, and enough ripped books and broken quills to make it believably devastated. He narrowed his eyes in satisfaction – he'd left just enough of Harry's blood spattered around to keep ministry officials and Death Eaters befuddled with questions.

Joining Charlie on the front lawn, Ron checked with his brother, gave a quick nod and the two flicked their wands one last time towards the upper bedroom with the remnants of bars still on the windows. As the two wizards Apparated, Harry's window blew in as if hit by a muggle explosive.

HP HP HP HP HP

Packing was the work of minutes. Books. Brewing supplies. A few letters. Teaching robes. Long ago, Severus had drained Spinners' End of anything personal. Anything precious. Especially anything that would allow an enemy one single insight into Severus' mind.

He stood on the last stone of the cracked sidewalk, one step from the public road. It should be far enough. Severus closed his eyes and let slip the strands that tied his father's home to his own magic. The glamours dropped, revealing the bones of the house, brick and stone, beams and rafters; unlivable; lifeless. The last connection snapped, and Severus opened his eyes as the house collapsed into dust.

He nodded. Any connection to Tobias Snape had been destroyed. It was time for Severus to take up another name, another existence. To become the half-blood Prince, indeed.

Severus held his wand in one clenched fist as his wild magic whirled around him. Turbulent. A ragged storm of grief and anger at the awareness of how he had been bound. Bound and manipulated. The massive energy rustled his muggle coat and pants and tugged at his hair. He turned from the wreck and shifted, Apparating to a secluded spot on the Dover coast. The high winds were a welcome parallel to his roiling spirit. He drew in cleansing lungsful of bitter salt air and murmured the disguising spells to change his appearance into a bland, boring tourist.

The tourist coach was parked exactly where he'd expected it. Severus joined the queue, handing his conjured ticket to the smiling tour docent.

"Right," the woman announced once they'd all taken their seats. "For those of you joining us here, welcome! Our next stop is Kent where you will have a couple of hours to explore the unspoilt haven of the English countryside. The area sustained awful damage in the war, but it has been rebuilt by loving hands that captured all the charm and avoided most of the modern ideas of style that would have ruined the affect. After lunch, we'll head over to Chartwell, the home of Winston Churchill …"

Severus set his expression into one of bland interest and tuned out the woman's instructions about routes and times. He slid his wand into the holster sewn into his sleeve and patted his coat pocket. His possessions, shrunk and made featherlight, were secure and, soon, he would be, too.

No one would look for the arrogant, smug, murdering Potions' Master of Hogwarts among a muggle tour group. Nor at the home the coach was approaching.

Severus hung onto his Occlumency with clenched teeth, unwilling to examine the new memories and old promises revealed by the failure of Dumbledore's magic. The man had been his manipulative Master for far too long, longer than Voldemort had ever held Severus' reins. He would not allow one honest thought about either bastard to unravel his control. Not yet. Not until he was safe.

At the pub in Kent, he smiled at the friendly American couple and made inane small talk over a pint, agreeing to join them on their hunt through the tourist-trap shops for just the right souvenirs to carry home. Postcards seemed appropriate. Severus smiled to himself. Once he had access to an owl, perhaps he could make good use of them. His smile faltered. Indeed. He had much work to do – beginning with reopening avenues of communication that Dumbledore had eliminated.

"Control," he whispered to himself, his anger billowing out in a wave as he and the others took their seats on the coach again. Hopefully the muggles would put the rattling of the windows down to the weather. Muggles were very good at not seeing, not hearing, and not noticing those things that were inexplicable. Glancing at those nearest him from beneath lowered lids, Severus wondered if that characteristic had given Dumbledore the idea for the spells he'd cast across Severus' mind.

The tour docent played a video of Chartwell as they approached the manor house. Severus watched closely, fascinated by the muggle interpretation of the house's history. After more than enough rousing platitudes applauding Winston – a good man, one who listened to the wizards in his wife's family - Severus tuned out the woman's voice and concentrated on the video.

Clementine would be amused, he finally concluded.

Clementine Hozier Beverley Spencer-Churchill, granddaughter of Lord Beverley, Chief Mugwump of the Wizengamot and powerful pureblood wizard, had been a daunting personality in her own right. Trained to diplomacy and magic at Beauxbatons, Clementine had been a Diviner as well as a Legilimens. Using her powers – and the high position of her family – she had come up with the plan to engage Mr. Churchill's interest in order to sow knowledge and strategy into muggle culture. To prepare them for the Nazi uprising. And to turn England into a bastion of power and stability, not just for muggles, but for wizards as well.

She had become somewhat of a legend in Severus' mother's family. Eileen Prince had been raised on the stories of Lady Clementine and the Manor of Blood. Severus' father had stumbled into the doorway of his childhood room one night, heard that title, and thought it a horror tale, designed to stir feelings of terror in a child's mind. Severus smiled at the memory of the abusive bastard who had encouraged his mother to mingle tales of blood and witches into Severus' imagination at bedtime. His mother had cleverly – and subserviently - agreed and then had woven the story into pictures of her cousin Clementine's magic, pictures that had given her words their proper context. Not horror and death, but blood wards binding the magic and history of Chartwell Manor to the last of the Beverley line. To the last Prince child. To Severus.

"Thank you, mother," Severus murmured, his head bent. That he could have forgotten the provisions his mother had made for him churned his stomach.

The coach parked in its special area, next to six other tour vehicles of various shapes and sizes. The docent ushered the members of her little group through the ticket office in the old guard house and then released them to wander the grounds or museum exhibits on their own. "Half past two and we'll be pulling out, so please be back at the coach no later than two-fifteen."

Severus relished the feeling of Clementine's magic – it pulled at him as soon as he stepped off the macadam and set foot on the soil. Weighing and measuring, the magic rushed through him, making it difficult for Severus to walk on, seemingly unaffected. By the time he stood in the manor's entryway, just beyond the charmed and warded lintel, he was ready.

"I am Severus Beverley Prince, son of Eileen Beverley Prince." He threw back his head and let go of his glamours, his voice carrying to the edge of the property, singing along the warp and weft of Clementine's wards. "I call all spirits and magics herein to recognize the last magical child of Lord Beverley and confirm my claim."

Wand in hand, Severus gestured to each side, the magic taking hold, growing thicker, denser, visible as heavy smoke moving out from him to reach each corner, nook, blade of grass, layer of cellar or height of attic. He felt the muggle artifacts disappear, heard the creaks and groans of the house rejecting the renovations that had been made to turn it into a museum, and felt the rush of magic as each tourist, worker, and vehicle was immediately relocated to nearby Leeds Castle, every memory, recording, and piece of paperwork remade to eliminate all mention of Chartwell Manor in the muggle world.

When the echoes of the changes faded, Severus lowered his head. Three house-elves had appeared before him, clothed in miniature versions of wizard robes, the crest of House Beverley on the left breast.

"Master," they all welcomed him with various degrees of excitement and eagerness.

"See to the manor," Severus ordered them. He cast his shrunken belongings onto the floor and spelled them to take proper shape. "It has been in the hands of those outside the family for too long. Reawaken the wards, the connections to Gringotts, Hogwarts, the Ministry, and our cousins on the continent – messages only for now. I will take tea in the study. Make sure Lady Clementine's artifacts and those special items she hid here are collected and placed there."

By the time Severus had walked the rooms, reigniting their protective spells, removing any lingering glamours, and introducing himself to the portraits lining the walls, the study was ready for him. A fire in the fireplace turned brilliant green every few seconds, scrolls and parchments that had been Flooed in lining themselves up along the center table as they were received. A tray settled on one end, teapot and cups, savory bites, and sugar, milk, and lemon on offer. The elves would learn Severus' favorites quickly.

He crossed to the tall, featureless cabinet built between two floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Made of zebrawood, charmed with runes and spells in every plank and fitting and joint, it housed the most precious of House Beverley's possessions. Severus lay his hand on the plain front and waited. The wards tasted his magic and sampled his blood, leaving no trace of a wound. A moment later, iron fittings and handles appeared, seams and joins, revealing double doors above and slim drawers beneath. He slid the doors aside to reveal the Beverley family Pensieve.

He removed the silver-chased artifact and laid it on the desk before returning to the cabinet for three racks of tiny quartz vials. Before he could rest, before he could make any plans for a very different future from the one Dumbledore had insisted upon, Severus must reclaim his honor and the honor of his family. He set the tip of his wand to his temple and withdrew thick, argent strands, releasing them into the Pensieve. Again and again, he closed his eyes and organized his mind. Again and again, the strands of memory were placed into the bowl. Finally, he stirred the memories and whispered his spell to copy them six times. And hour later, he was ready.

At his call, the three house elves appeared.

"Your names?" Severus asked.

"Cypress."

"Sorrel."

"Saffron."

Each bowed and then stood ready, eager for an order.

Severus snorted in amusem*nt. His mother's family did love alliteration. "Are there owls in the manor?"

"Four owls and two falcons, my lord," the male elf, Sorrel, answered.

"Are they well? Trained for evasion and combat?"

"Yes, Master. Well trained and eager for flight."

Severus was pleased that the elves – hidden in stasis for so long, along with the birds – did not speak the colloquial elf dialect that had become popular among pureblood circles. The silly accents and pronunciations had belittled the craftiness and intellect of the magical race, instilling the foolish belief in pureblood circles that the small creatures were no more than children, inconsequential and easily dismissed. "I require four immediately – the four fiercest. Have them brought here in thirty minutes. I shall have packages and correspondence for them."

"Of course, Master."

"And see that six guest chambers are readied. Two couples and four singles."

The elves bowed and disappeared at his waved dismissal.

Carefully replacing his original memories, Severus packed the Pensieve away in the cabinet before he sat down at the desk. With a half-smile, he took out the postcards he'd purchased and a sharp quill. He wished he could see the look on Minerva's face when she received hers.

Chapter 6

Chapter Text

Chapter Six

The Weasley's wards sizzled across Harry's skin, searching for any deceit or darkness with more efficiency than gentleness. Bill, one hand still gripping Harry's arm, dragged him down the path, through the gardens and into the kitchen.

"Here, sit down." Molly had been expecting them. She set a chair at the end of the table closest to the fireplace. "Harry, you're shivering. Merlin, what happened?" She laid a hand on Harry's forehead. "I ought to send you straight to bed."

"No." Harry struggled against Bill's grip. "You can't just shut me away or continue to drag me around." He stumbled and grabbed the table for support. "I want to know what's going on." His mind was clear, but his magic was swirling dangerously under the surface of his skin. His arms and legs felt light, as if they moved by themselves without much effort.

"We wouldn't do that, Harry." Molly drew back, offended.

"You have," Harry shot back, "you all have, over and over again. You, the Ministry, Dumbledore – since my first trip to Diagon Alley with Hagrid, you've all kept me in the dark." All this time, all these years, ever since Voldemort had killed his parents, Harry's questions had been shunted aside. His need for answers had been stifled, he recognized that much – it felt very much the same as being tossed into a dark cupboard so that those around him could forget he existed for a while. Even after he'd proven himself, proven he could use magic – or the sword of Gryffindor – Harry had been kept like a senseless tool hidden in a shed until it was time for him to be useful. Tiny bits of information had been fed him – only when it seemed to be the only way for Dumbledore and the other members of the Order to keep Harry in line.

Bill interrupted before Harry could really get started. He took hold of Harry's shoulders and stared fiercely into his eyes.

"We did. We have. Every member of the Order." Bill's voice rose over Harry's objections. "I'm not trying to justify it, but it's all different now." He leaned in. "You may deserve a rant, Harry, a nice long furious fit about the way you've been treated, but we simply do not have time right now so SIT!" He shoved Harry into the chair and then patted him on the shoulder in apology. "Drink something warm. You're cold as ice."

Fred and George appeared with a pop behind their brother.

"We have missed those dulcet tones around here, Bill."

"Thought Fleur had tamed you for good."

"We've missed the sharp –"

"- pointed –"

"- bossy –"

" – a bit patronizing, if we're honest –"

" – slightly cold –"

" – and did we mention bossy?"

"Shut it!"

Ginny hurried inside, Hermione and Fleur on her heels. "The wards are as strong as we can make them, mum. Fleur's really good at warding – almost as good as Hermione."

"I wish we had time to sit down and compare notes." Hermione eyed the delicate-looking blonde, her gaze assessing. "We should have had classes together in Year 4; we could have compared magical education."

"Ron and Charlie?" Ginny slid around the table to help her mom spread out the teacups, plates of biscuits and scones, and meat pies. Her movements were sharp, without any waste. Once finished, she hurried to a pile of backpacks and boxes in the nearby lounge and began rooting around. There wasn't one flicked glance at Harry, no hidden smile, or embarrassed flush.

Examining his own feelings, Harry realized he had no desire to act that way, either.

"False trails," Bill stated, guzzling tea and grabbing some of the pies for his pockets. "I'm headed out to the Ministry to check in with dad. Scrimgeour used the code word earlier, so, of course, all hell is breaking loose." He grabbed his mother in a hug and then swept up Fleur into a fierce embrace. "I know where you're going." He narrowed his eyes at Fred and George. "You lot take care of her and Gin, you hear me?"

"Do not be long," Fleur dragged Bill's head down for a kiss before releasing him. "Or I will come looking for you."

Bill narrowed his eyes at his mother. "Don't take too long here. Leave it if it isn't already packed."

"We know, dear. As soon as Ron and Charlie return, we're off." Molly flapped her apron at him, chivvying him towards the door. "Go."

Harry didn't have time to demand answers. Or say good-bye. Or thank you. He swallowed his frustration and gulped down the tea, relieved that the awful feeling of icy cold was fading. Hermione settled beside him, tapping her wand on both of their plates until they were filled with food and the teapot refilled their cups.

"C'mon, Gin." Fred drew an olive-green top hat out of nowhere and set it on his head. "Fleur."

"Harry." George crouched beside Harry's chair. "Take good care of our brother – or let him take good care of you. And don't forget who your friends are."

Twisting around to stare at the twins, Harry frowned. Everything was moving so fast. "You knew this was coming – all of you?"

"It was Percy." Mrs. Weasley had her hands clasped to her breast, a look of teary pride on her face. "He's been working with the new Minister for Magic – Rufus Scrimgeour. Rufus realized, almost immediately, that the wards at the Ministry were not answering to his magic. At first, they suspected He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named," she sniffed, smiling down at Harry. "It was our Percy who figured out that the magical signature was Dumbledore's."

"Who knew that Percy the Prat had it in him?" Ginny shook her head, her mouth a grim line. "Or that he was smart enough to get dad's help to figure out what to do."

"The Headmaster's magic couldn't last long after his death," Hermione added. "They've been waiting for this for over a week."

"And you didn't tell me?"

Hermione's lips were white with strain as she turned to him. "Do you think you were the only one whose mind he'd invaded? Whose magic he stifled? The only one he'd manipulated into doing – feeling – thinking – the way he wanted us to think?"

Harry knew it was the truth. He'd seen that side of Dumbledore during their 'private lessons' during the past year. Harry been forced to ask no questions, just to follow blindly and do whatever Dumbledore told him to do. He'd been struck with Dumbledore's hex, leaving him motionless and voiceless while Draco and Snape attacked. He felt Hermione buzzing with anger – his own was deep and roiling, constrained beneath a thick covering.

He turned back to Ginny and the twins. "Where are you going?"

Ginny straightened, the strap of a large duffel on her shoulder. "Fred and George's shop on Diagon Alley. There are fantastic wards all around the place." Her eyes glittered with mischief. "Fred and George have been stockpiling every Wizarding Wheeze that could possibly be used as a weapon." She nodded towards Hermione. "She's got a bunch of specialized items packed away for you lot."

"We will be in touch soon." Fleur flipped a strand of hair over her shoulder. "Zey must get you to safety. Zen we can plan for ze last battle against our enemies."

He didn't like it, but Harry understood. If the magical bindings that Dumbledore had used to keep his allies under his thumb had dissolved, the thicker, stronger wards that the Headmaster had laid across their enemies would also have fallen. Privet Drive. Hogwarts. Even –

"Remus," he breathed, lurching to his feet. "Dumbledore was the Secret Keeper of –" his mind was suddenly clogged with grey mist.

"- Sirius' house, yes. But it turns out," George pulled his own garish purple hat from thin air and tipped it towards Harry, "Dumbledore had already chosen a new Secret Keeper before he died. We don't know who. We do know that we can't get there. Can't even think of the address."

"And Remus isn't there, Harry." Molly gestured at him to calm down. "He's gotten married and he and Nymphadora are honeymooning. All safe. I promise."

Sirius' house. Sirius' things – his books and his robes and his letters – Harry expected to be swallowed up by rage and regret and confusion. Sirius had left it all to Harry. And now it was lost to him. Dumbledore had hidden it behind more secrets that he didn't think Harry had any right to know. Strangely, that wasn't what hurt the most. "Remus – Remus got married?" His voice was hushed, barely audible, but not because of sorrow. Harry was finished being sorry. This was sheer utter disbelief.

A blinding silver curtain slammed shut over the emotions threatening to go off like a rocket, cutting off the black cistern of his despair and freezing over his rage. He blinked, his scowl fading to impassivity. Occlumency shields surrounded him so perfectly that his body pushed back from the table, leaving space between Harry and those around him.

Wouldn't that murdering bastard Snape be proud?

Wand in his hand, Harry straightened, every eye following his movements. At the edge of his awareness, the Weasley's heavy wards rumbled before they relaxed. "Time to go," he stated.

Mrs. Weasley was frowning. "Ronald and –"

The door slammed open seconds after Ron shouted. "Let's go! That won't hold them for long."

Harry caught Ron's gaze and nodded. "Should I bother to ask where we're going?" What could have been a scathing reminder of their silence and Harry's enforced ignorance became a simple question.

"The walls have ears, mate," Ron replied. He grabbed one pack and the basket Mrs. Weasley hurriedly filled with the rest of the food and jerked his chin towards the door. "C'mon. We don't know what Dumbledore's magic failing is doing to the other side."

Hermione was already moving, grabbing what looked like a small decorative bag. "Probably nothing good for us."

Harry followed his friends into the yard. Charlie caught the food basket and reassured himself of his family's well-being with a glance before Apparating. Ron and Hermione caught hands and followed. Harry turned to watch Mrs. Weasley fumble a scrap of parchment from her apron.

"Here, dear."

Andromeda Tonks invites Harry Potter to join her family at Tonks Manor, Kestle Mill, Newquay, Cornwall.

Harry nodded, feeling the magic of the Fidelius Charm take hold. He ignored Mrs. Weasley's outstretched hand. No. He would not be touching anyone, not right now. He needed this distance; he needed the refuge of his Occlumency. Underage or not, Harry fixed his destination in his mind and turned, Apparating with a hushed inrush of air.

Chapter 7

Chapter Text

Chapter Seven

Harry's forced calm stayed with him as he appeared within the gates of the Tonks' Manor House. His first solo Apparition should be a happy moment, filling him with a sense of pride in his accomplishment. Maybe it was the Occlumency that had swept all of his emotion aside, but he didn't think so. It just wasn't important that he'd achieved mastery of a difficult spell. Harry wasn't a school kid anymore showing off his grades to others. His eyes narrowed. School was over: no more rehearsals, no more adding up O's and E's to figure out his achievements – that had never really been important to him in the first place. There was only one rating system left: whether he and his friends lived or died. His hand clenched around his wand. True success could only be measured with Voldemort's death.

He ignored the little voice inside him that whispered, "And then what?"

The others had popped into sight nearby, but Harry was already walking towards the tall double doors. There were answers on the other side. Answers to questions Harry hadn't fully framed. He felt the others fall in behind him, as if Harry was leading a parade, or a military force. Shoulders back, head high, he felt the rightness of this moment. The truth of his position at the forefront. Dumbledore had told him, repeated it time after time: this fight was Harry's. He'd been marked as a baby, surviving his parents, Sirius, and Dumbledore himself, to face Voldemort. The prophecy was true.

He stumbled. No, that couldn't be right. His memories of the Headmaster's unassailable certainty mocked him, swirling into confused maelstroms. His mother's image rose up, her fierce protectiveness and comfort. Harry wasn't even of age. He was a young, untrained wizard, capable of great defensive magic, but pants at many charms and transfigurations. Not to mention Potions. He'd muddled through the TriWizard Tournament because Barty Crouch had paved his way forward. He'd had no defense against Umbridge's worst. And last year, he winced, last year he had done nothing but watch while Draco let in the Death Eaters and Dumbledore was struck down by someone who should have been loyal.

"Why should a boy be burdened with these things? With the destruction of a powerful Dark Lord? With leading an army?" That little voice was louder this time. He blinked hard – it sounded like his mum.

The manor's doors opened inward and Remus was there.

Harry stopped. Remus looked … different. He stood tall, not with the hunch to his shoulders that Harry remembered. No longer apologizing for his curse, trying to look smaller or less threatening to those around him, Remus' eyes blazed with life and power.

"Harry," Remus stated, keeping his distance. He didn't rush in for a hug or fling an arm around Harry's shoulders. He studied him for a long moment, concern darkening his gaze, furrowing his forehead into lines. "We have a lot to talk about."

Nodding, Harry met Remus' restraint with his own. "We do. You –" an anxious flutter tore at his inward calm, "you have some answers for me?"

Remus' eyes closed, his fierce mask giving way to a flood of regret and grief. "Some answers. Some questions." A smiled flickered to life as he opened his eyes and glanced at the others - the Weasleys, Hermione. "There have been so many changes. So much brought out into the light." He held out one hand – a gesture of peace and friendship and apology, all rolled into one. "Harry. Please. Let's start over. What do you say?"

"I – " Harry swallowed down the rising tide of sorrow, of the anger that still lingered beneath his cool control. Doubts doubled their efforts to steal away his confidence. To make him question himself. "I don't think – I might not know quite who I am right now, Remus." His chuckle was watery. "But I know one thing." He turned to look back at his friends. "I know you're my friends. And we need to figure it out together."

"Too right, mate," Ron agreed, blowing out a breath. He stretched out his shoulders, hands linked over his head. "I feel weird. Like I just woke up."

"Me, too," Hermione nodded, frowning, moving to join Harry on the doorstep. "Although for me it's more like I got down off a high wire – like I'm more relaxed, less likely to jump at anything someone says."

Harry nodded but didn't volunteer any details about his own confusion. "They're saying it's Dumbledore's magic. That he's the reason we're all –" He shrugged and shook his head. "Remus?"

"Yes." The word sounded like a snarl. "That much is clear. But let's take this one step at a time, cub. C'mon." He jerked his chin over his shoulder. "Hedwig arrived a few minutes ago. The Tonks and Dora are waiting in the Morning Room."

Molly bustled past him, a woman on a mission. "And I've got warm scones and meat pies here. Don't want them to get cold." She rushed away down the hallway as if she knew where she was going. Charlie headed off after her. Ron and Hermione caught each's other's hand and looked to Harry for his agreement before they headed inside.

When it was just Harry and Remus, Harry shifted awkwardly, the greater problems falling away until he was left with the hurt lodged in the center of his chest.

"You got married," he whispered.

Remus' eyebrows rose high. "I did. The woman is a saint," he added. "Because, believe me, not inviting you was just one of the monumental mistakes I made about the whole thing. No excuses," he held up a hand to keep Harry from jumping in with more questions, "but let's just say that the Headmaster had his hands in that, too. Bloody meddler."

Harry couldn't quite dismiss the hurt and confusion over Remus' distance that easily. "And Sirius' house?"

"You mean your house?" From Remus' tone, it was obvious that Harry wasn't the only one unhappy with the new Fidelius Charm that kept them away from … wherever the house was located. "I think we'll have access to the place very soon, now. That's one of the things we're going to have to talk about." He rubbed one hand across his forehead. "We're starting over, right? At least I am. Turns out the Headmaster wasn't quite as happy with a werewolf attending Hogwarts as I thought he'd been. He certainly weighed me down with enough bindings to keep me … safe."

Harry touched his own chest. "I think –" He breathed deep to steady himself. "Me, too," he managed.

Rage brightened Remus' brown eyes to flickering amber for a moment before he wrestled himself under control.

Harry stepped up beside him. One of his father's best friends. Sirius' friend. Harry's former teacher. "I know my childhood was … different. That the Dursleys –" he looked out, towards the distant forest, unable to voice the proper words. "But, after I got to Hogwarts, after I learned a little bit about my mum and dad, about you and Sirius, I didn't once wonder where you'd been." The Occlumency curtain rippled like it had been caught in a breeze. Harry was glad the hurt he knew remained wasn't leaking through. "When I met you, I didn't ask where you'd been all my life. Why you hadn't ever visited me, or even sent me a note. I never wondered, Remus. I never thought, 'Wow, he was best friends with my parents, but he couldn't be bothered to be in my life. To make sure I was okay. To tell me even one single story about when I was a baby, or when mum and dad were at school.'" He tilted his head. "It's all so unbelievable, now, that I never questioned it. Or you."

Remus moved slowly, telegraphing his intentions so that Harry could stop him if he liked. One warm hand tightened on the back of Harry's neck. "And I never questioned myself. Never considered turning up at Petunia's to take you out for the day. Never sent you a Christmas or birthday present. And, even when we were at Hogwarts together, I waited for you to approach me. And then I doled out scraps of information like it was rare and precious gold." The light behind his eyes smoldered. "Dumbledore has a lot to answer for in whatever afterlife he's chosen, Harry. But the bindings he laid on me and you – on so many of us – those are going to be the hardest to come to grips with, I think. I just hope you'll agree to examine the past with me. Let me finally be the friend – the mentor – that James and Lily wanted me to be."

"I think I'd like that," Harry whispered. "But, honestly, I'm not sure of much right now."

Remus slipped his arm around Harry's shoulders and led him into the house, the doors closing behind them with a splash of magical protection. "Welcome to Tonks Manor and to our new reality. Please come in and stay awhile. Burdens can be dropped anywhere you like, anytime you like." As they walked beneath an upper landing, Remus pointed to a motto hung above the doorway. It read, 'Temet nosce'.

"'Know thyself,'" Remus translated.

"That sounds like a good place to begin." The arm lying along Harry's shoulders felt right. The sound of voices, of plates and cups clinking, of Molly Weasley cautioning one of her sons to be careful were all welcome. The chill silver curtain was still in place around Harry's most tumultuous thoughts and feelings, holding them at arm's length for the moment. It was giving him time. Time to figure out who Harry James Potter really was. More than an orphan, unwanted and unloved by his closest family and friends. Not The Boy Who Lived, or The Chosen One of other wizards' imaginations. Maybe not even the one who was destined to vanquish Voldemort, as Dumbledore insisted. "I think I'd like to know Harry Potter," he said.

Remus pulled him close for a moment. "Me, too."

Chapter 8

Chapter Text

Chapter Eight

Harry sipped another unwanted cup of tea. The day that had started off bizarre had not gotten any more normal, that was for sure. He'd woken up from a mid-morning nap after finishing his early chores around the Dursley's house to a vision of his mother, and had then been spirited away by Ron and his family, only to end up with Remus and his new wife at Tonks Manor – he sighed silently. Harry still wasn't convinced that it wasn't one of the oddest dreams he'd had lately.

Ted Tonks was a healer. Muggle-born to a family of physicians, the man wore an old-fashioned dark suit that wouldn't have looked out of place in a muggle hospital. After the awkward introductions and a mostly silent lunch, Ted insisted that he be allowed to examine each of them. Harry stared down at his plate, uncomfortable with the idea of this stranger getting so close to him. The silver curtains protecting his thoughts stiffened. He didn’t like the infirmary at school. He'd always felt Madam Pomfrey didn't really care about the students, she just kept them moving, in and out, like a revolving door, offering the minimum necessary to get them back to class and out of her hair.

Maybe that wasn't fair. All alone, taking care of hundreds of students and teachers couldn't be easy. Harry frowned. Why was she the only medi-witch at Hogwarts? How could she possibly treat all of those students by herself?

Harry was relieved when Molly and Charlie volunteered to have their medical scans done first. Ron and Hermione agreed, too. Harry shrugged and reluctantly nodded. He hoped to get information from his friends, first, about the procedure. About how detailed an exam he should expect – and what questions Healer Tonks might ask.

Remus stood as the Weasleys were ushered towards the healer's private exam room. "C'mon, you lot. The library is this way."

Harry followed Remus and the others from the sunny, glass-domed Morning Room down the hallway into a large library. Hermione rushed towards the nearest bookshelf, hands clasped behind her back to remind herself not to grab, he figured. Smiling, Ron joined her, listening as she pointed out books she had heard of, or subjects of interest. Remus was escorting his wife, her hand tucked into his elbow while he leaned close and whispered in her ear. Tonks – Dora – Harry figured he should call her Dora, now. Dora was blushing, her hair cycling through white, pink, dark rose, and lilac until it settled on a deep violet, ringlets framed around her face.

She seemed happy. So did Remus. Harry was glad – glad for both of them. When he managed to drag his thoughts away from the situation for a second, he was relieved that two of his favorite people had found each other. Two more, actually. Ron and Hermione had lost all their hesitation and stood hand-in-hand as if they'd been dating for years. He moved on, giving the couples their space.

The library was beautiful. The whole house – what he'd seen of it so far – seemed a seamless combination of muggle and magical. The Tonks family had a history in the muggle world long before they found out their only son was a wizard. A line of shields and flags were hung above the bookshelves, a prominent coat of arms set in the center of the far wall above the fireplace. Harry moved closer, squinting up at the images. The shield was divided into three sections. On the upper left, a hand. In the bigger section on the bottom, three closed books. And in the upper right, a lightning bolt. History of Magic hadn't taught Harry or his classmates much, but he had loved the section on heraldry. A hand – faith and justice. Closed books – good counsel. And the lightning bolt stood for decisiveness.

Movement near the fireplace caught his eye. Harry had been avoiding looking at the other person in the group. Ever since he'd met her silver-grey eyes across the table, heard her welcome them and invite them to stay as long as they liked, Harry had been unable to look at Andromeda Tonks. Tall and slender, her hair was dark, with one wide streak of silver that swept up from her left temple. Her hair wasn't wildly curled like her sister, Bellatrix, nor stick-straight like Narcissa Malfoy's. Wavy and thick, it was caught up in a jeweled comb set on each side of her head to fall down her neck. Now, he caught her profile lit by the glowing fire she conjured. When she turned to look at Harry, he was struck by her wide, intelligent eyes and narrow face. She looked so much like …

"I was always happy that I resembled my favorite cousin rather than either of my sisters."

Harry's breath caught in his throat. Without realizing it, he'd followed Andromeda to the other end of the library, away from the others. He nodded quickly. "You – you do remind me of him. Of Sirius." She had the same build, hair, and eyes, but, even more, she stood with the same sense of presence, as if she had nothing to prove to anyone. Her brocade robes, dark blue thread on the same color background, were sedate. Practical. The end of her wand peeked from the sleeve of her right arm, she wore a dagger openly at her waist, and had an odd silver chain looped around one shoulder.

Three words came to Harry's mind. Accomplished. Powerful. Dangerous.

"I am sorry we've never had a chance to meet, Harry. Not since you returned to our world." She gestured to two chairs set before the fireplace before taking her seat. "I'm even more regretful that I didn't get to see Sirius before –" She closed her mouth, her jaw jumping with tension. "I wish I'd done more for him. Offered him sanctuary here. Unfortunately," Andromeda tilted her head, "Ted and I have remained blocked from any of the usual means of family communication since I left home and was disowned. And the press didn't exactly speak of Sirius' escape from prison as if he had been innocent, did they?"

No, they hadn't. Sirius had still been a wanted man when he fell in the Department of Mysteries. The only people who knew of his innocence were the Order of the Phoenix. "Weren't you in the Order?"

Andromeda's lips twisted up on one side. "It wasn't until Dumbledore's death that Ted and I were invited back to the Order." She took a deep breath. "We've been in close touch with Alastor Moody and Kingsley Shacklebolt since. We're eager to do everything we can."

"Tonks knew," Harry frowned.

"She did. But our daughter's oaths kept her from speaking to us about any Auror or Order business. It was the same with Remus."

"Why?" Harry began, perching on the edge of his chair. "Why would Dumbledore keep you away?"

The spark in her eyes turned bright and cold. "We all have many questions about Albus' reasoning, Harry. About how he rationalized what he did to so many of us. Hopefully we will get some of those answers from Ted's examinations. I believe we will have more success from putting our heads together, however." Andromeda crossed her legs and folded her hands in her lap. "Before you and your friends arrived, Ted began his scans with my daughter and me. Would you like to know what he found?"

"Yes. Please, ma'am," Harry answered, a little of his tension easing.

"Ted would do a better job of explaining the physical and neurological changes, but I think I can put it in a nutshell. Both Dora and I are recovering from various Obliviations. Especially our memories of Sirius have been tampered with. Memories of our friendship, of the trust we had in him. How dedicated he was to keeping your mother and father safe. We were also kept from questioning why he never got a trial but was sentenced to Azkaban with no witnesses and no evidence."

Andromeda shook her head. "It was so out of character. Sirius had been utterly ruthless in his pursuit of Death Eaters. And so very devoted to James Potter." Her smile was wistful. "Your father and my cousin were more like brothers than best friends, you know. Sirius visited us often after he left home at fifteen. He and Ted became very close – I think he enjoyed introducing Ted to James and Remus and expanding their very tight circle of friendship. He brought Nymphadora a stuffed puppy when she was born. Gave me no end of nonsense about her name. Oh, the man truly loved children." She met Harry's gaze. "Especially you."

Harry couldn't look away.

"We visited Lily and James after you were born – before they went into hiding." She glanced over at her daughter. "Dora made you laugh with her metamorphmagus abilities. Sirius was putty in your tiny little hands. He told me, later, that you called him 'Paffa' and he called you 'pup.'"

The scene grew to full color and life in Harry's memory. He sat on a kitchen floor, laughing and giggling, as a huge black dog shoved its wet nose into his belly. Harry's baby hands would reach out to grab and Padfoot would pull back, teasing, only to move in again and again, leaving wet nose-prints on Harry's onesie. "Paffa! Paffa!" baby Harry cried, screeching in excitement.

Andromeda was leaning forward, holding out a handkerchief when Harry opened his eyes. But there were no tears on his face. No excitement about returning memories or sorrow at the knowledge that he'd never get to share them with Sirius. His cheeks heated with embarrassment.

"Memories returning?" she asked quietly.

He nodded, lips pressed tight. Andromeda's gaze seemed to assess him, to look deeper than Harry wanted. He straightened, the curtain around his mind stiff like sheets of metal.

She bent her head as if agreeing to something before continuing. "Besides suppressing our memories of Sirius, Dora had been under a geas to dedicate herself to Dumbledore, to his agenda. To never question him or his plans. It – it interfered with her natural magic." Andromeda's lips were pinched and white. "The interference stifled her natural affinity with elemental magic. Turned a powerful metamorphmagus into a clumsy, underpowered witch. It will be weeks before she recovers fully."

An ember of anger burnt low in Harry's gut. He caught Remus' gaze from across the room. Was Remus all right? Had he been hurt, too? "What about –"

"I'll let Remus tell you about the – the assaults forced on his mind and magic. For now, I've asked him to give us a few minutes, Harry. I hope you don't mind." The fierce light in Andromeda's eyes faded to clear control. "There's something very important we need to talk about, the two of us. As soon as you appeared within my wards, I recognized it. You have a natural magical talent – you've probably had access to it since you were very small, but, I'm afraid it was … twisted by both forces within and restrictions set on your magic from without."

A spike of cold fear swept up Harry's spine. "You're talking about Voldemort. The Horcrux."

No signs of shock or fear showed on Andromeda's face. "When did you become aware of it?"

Harry closed his eyes, images of Dumbledore's 'private lessons' flicking past in his memory. "He never told me. He told me about Horcruxes, that Voldemort had made them – more than one. The diary I destroyed in second year held a piece of Voldemort's soul. The ring that cursed Dumbledore." He opened his eyes, his curtain keeping him calm and distant, withdrawn. "He told me there were more. Took me with him to try to find one. He wanted us," he gestured towards Hermione and Ron, "to go find them, somehow. But he never –" he shook his head.

"It's gone now." Andromeda tilted her head, a smile teasing her lips. "I believe your mother's magic would have dug it out long before now if she had been allowed to. I'm very happy that it's gone, Harry. But, because you've lived so much of your life with that constant internal battle, the damage left behind is severe."

"Okay." Harry believed her. If Tonks' magic had been stunted, if Remus had been rendered harmless, muzzled, and Andromeda had her memories and intentions towards Sirius disrupted, part of an evil madman's soul living inside him must have done worse. "So, what does that have to do with some innate ability I'm supposed to have?"

"You're a natural Occlumens, Harry."

He jerked, trying to throw off the remembered sensation of Snape clawing his way into his mind. "I know. I'm Occluding, now. But it doesn't make sense. Last year –"

"A natural Occlumens," she repeated. "You were one at birth, just like Lily. But the Horcrux coupled with Dumbledore's bindings twisted that ability. And now it's hurting you. I'd like to help."

Help? Harry shook his head. He didn’t understand.

"You've heard of Legilimens?"

Harry nodded.

"My skill is a little different. I can read thoughts, yes, but my greater gift is sensing emotion. Strong feelings. I've helped my husband in his healing work for years, using my gifts to assess those who are wounded in their spirits, not their bodies. And I don't have to look into your eyes or even stand nearby to do it." Wisdom and empathy shone in the silver-grey of her eyes. "I felt Charlie's concern for his family immediately when he arrived here. His worry for his young sister. Molly's fierce protectiveness for all of you." She smiled. "Ron and Hermione are discovering the flame of young love." Her expression darkened. "The problem, Harry, is that I don't feel anything from you," she added, "and that worries me."

"It's not supposed to hurt me. It's supposed to help. Keep me safe." Safe from the dreams, the nightmares. Safe from Voldemort's madness. From the trap he'd set for Harry and Sirius at the DOM.

"When performed with the wizard's will and intentions of shielding his mind from an attacker, yes. Occlumency is designed to guard our thoughts and memories. To keep what should be ours alone secret and safe." Andromeda shifted forward. "In approaching this skill, a wizard learns to calm his emotions, to settle his spirit. It can only be learned," she emphasized that word, "by mastering one of the ways of meditation. Learning to silence our emotions, to quiet our thoughts, builds the correct pathways for Occlumency and allows the student to develop inward discipline. But, in a natural Occlumens, in children - especially those who are exposed to abuse or neglect at home - these young ones often develop their shields in a twisted manner."

Abused. Neglected. Harry looked away. He didn't want to consider how those words related to him. To sleeping in a cupboard. Not enough to eat. Hearing slurs like 'freak' and 'not normal' and 'boy' instead of his name. To having a mad wizard's soul eating away at him.

"These children," Andromeda continued, "have a natural desire to protect themselves by shutting off emotions, not thoughts. It keeps them from feeling rejected. Or hurt. Afraid. From becoming horribly depressed." She opened her hands and folded them again. "Often, the magical children who live extremely difficult lives and are natural Occlumens use one or perhaps two emotions as safety valves, releasing their tight hold in moments of panic or rage. Like a kettle, letting off steam. If they didn't, the internal damage would become life-threatening."

Harry gazed down at his hands. White knuckled. Tendons straining. Harry knew about rage. About losing control. How many times had he shouted at his friends? Torn into them when he was at his wit's end? He'd destroyed Dumbledore's office. Beaten his knuckles bloody at the Dursleys. Blown up his aunt.

"Harry."

When he glanced up, Andromeda's expression was kind. "There is no one here, in my home, who will ever blame you for feeling. For feeling anything." She laid one hand on her heart. "No emotion is ever wrong. None of your emotional reactions – or anyone's - should be criticized or dismissed. There will be no judgment rendered here, as if one of us could sit as some kind of," she waved a hand in the air, "superior, some god-like figure with the right to determine which feelings are allowed to be felt. No matter what you've been told, no matter who insisted that a little boy shouldn't cry over his mum and dad, that he shouldn't feel hurt by horrible words, or confused by the strange scenarios he finds himself in, you are allowed to feel, Harry. You are allowed to mourn. To be happy or afraid or amused. To feel pain and regret and anger." She took a deep breath. "It is not our feelings that we must monitor, that we must control. It is our words and actions based on those emotions. Do you understand the difference?"

Harry could hardly breathe. Thoughts stampeded, twisting, racing through his mind. Two-year-old Harry had stifled his cries within his cupboard after Vernon had slapped him. He'd crammed his little fist into his mouth until he could stop. Until he could keep the tears from coming. Keep the sadness from hurting so much. His feelings for his mum and dad had become nothing more than a faint brush of grief. His depression over his loneliness, his hurt at Ron's rejection in fourth year, and Fudge and Rita Skeeter's nasty gossip after Voldemort's return – none of it had crippled him. He'd been able to shake it all off, suppress it, reject it and go on; to do what he needed to do.

It had been wrong to blow up at Hermione. To destroy Dumbledore's office. To chase down Snape's memories in the Pensieve. But it had not been wrong to feel frustrated. To feel the darkest, deepest sorrow. To be angry and hurt at Snape's assaults.

He swallowed. A natural Occlumens. Is that what had tripped him up with Snape? Snape hadn't even attempted to teach him meditation, what Andromeda had described as the first step in disciplining his mind. Was it because Snape sensed the natural skill in Harry and didn't think he needed it? Or did Snape truly not want him to learn, was he actually the monster Harry believed him to be? Harry should have been able to shield his thoughts, to keep the man from assaulting him, night after night. He'd been bound, Andromeda said. His magic damaged. The silvery curtain was still damaging him, she'd said.

Harry lowered his head. He stared at his aching fists, the skin so tight it should split, blood pouring out. Blood like his feelings, pouring out, never stopping, leaving its stain on the world. "I – I don't –" He stammered. "They're all here, inside. Emotions. Feelings. I feel like I'm drowning in them. But -" He didn’t know if he'd said it out loud or if the admission had been caught and held unspoken between his heart and his lips. "How could Dumbledore – why –"

Andromeda was kneeling before him, covering his hands with hers. Someone leaned close on his right – he recognized Hermione's grip on his arm. It must have been Remus behind him, both hands on Harry's shoulders. Ron stood nearby – Harry could hear him muttering under his breath.

"We've got you, Harry."

"You're not alone."

"We'll get through this."

"It's okay, mate."

Voices - kind, caring voices swept past the silver curtains still locked around Harry's heart. He knew those voices. Those people. He trusted them. Somewhere deep within, they were recognized as friends. Family. The curtains billowed as if in a high wind and then a pair of slim hands caught hold of them and opened them wide. A rush of fear, anger, sorrow, gratitude, grief, disappointment, dread, love – every emotion rose up in a black wave and swamped his senses, filling eyes and ears and mouth, coating his skin.

Strong arms caught him, held him. Harry's head fell back against Remus' chest, the rumble of a growl rising to comfort him. He'd been held like this when he was a baby, supported by the abnormally powerful muscles and cradled against the extra warmth of the wolf within. He should have felt ridiculous. Babied. But, instead, he felt cared for. Maybe it was okay for Remus and his friends to care for him again.

"I've got you, cub."

Andromeda let go of Harry's hands. He felt her magic swoop in to encircle him, to lift him from his chair. "Ted can help him, now. Let's get him to the treatment room."

Harry wrestled his eyes open to slits as he drifted towards the door. Hermione still gripped his arm, Remus' hands propped Harry's head and neck against his chest as he kept pace behind. He let it happen. Safe within their love and protection, Harry blinked, breathing deep, in and out. Maybe it was Andromeda's spell that was keeping him steady while his emotions fought each other for dominance. Maybe the overwhelming feelings were too much for him to identify which one won.

All Harry knew was that, when he touched down on the padded couch within Ted Tonks' private study, his muscles were limp and all he could do was watch while the others stepped back.

"'M'sorry," he murmured.

Remus cradled Harry's cheek in one warm hand. "Silly boy. Nothing for you to be sorry about. Now, let us take care of you."

"Okay." Harry sighed. That sounded good. He could trust Remus.

Harry slept.

Chapter 9

Chapter Text

Chapter Nine

The thump-bump, thump-bump of Mad-Eye Moody's characteristic stride echoed from the solid walls. Kingsley raised his head, his neck cracking from his tense hunch over the parchments laid out on his desk. His lips thinned in annoyance. Moody did not reflect the exhaustion Kingsley felt – the weariness that came from lending his magic to the new Ministry wards and the interrogations and investigations he'd been organizing all day. No, Moody looked ten years younger, fueled with adrenaline and the excitement of his favorite kind of chase – capturing Death Eaters.

There had been far too many. Too many who had been snatched up by the new wards and placed in confinement, wands stripped and magic bound. Many Kingsley and Scrimgeour had been sure were loyal. Co-workers. Colleagues. Friends. Familiar faces they'd seen around the ministry for years. Like part of the wallpaper.

It had been the best disguise.

Kingsley shoved down the feelings of personal betrayal. Three Aurors. Three from his own department – including his partner. Dawlish was free of the Dark Mark, thankfully. But his loyalty was suspect – his aims of high office and his ease with darker spells spoke eloquently about his character, or lack thereof. Kingsley had the report in his hand, but still couldn't quite believe it. As for the others – from the head of the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes down to the medi-witch in the Ministry infirmary, the Ministry receptionist, and two cooks in the canteen – well, he'd get to them all in due time.

Kingsley sat back in his chair to regard his visitor. "Mad-Eye."

The ex-Auror grunted, both hands atop his gnarled cane. "Come to assist. No reason for you to do all the dirty work. And this is some of the dirtiest."

Kingsley nodded, grateful and irritated at the same time. He stood and stretched. "Your help with Dawlish would be appreciated."

"Probably just stupid," Moody snarled. "Never was particularly clever, that one."

If only. "You can't imprison a man for being stupid. Or for a potential to act badly."

"A shame, that is," Moody chuckled darkly. "If only they'd come up with a widdershins Time Turner so we could see what these dunderheads would get up to in the future, we could stop them ahead of time."

"Future seeing is not reliable." Kingsley reminded the other wizard before turning to pluck his outer robe from the nearby hook. Just what he needed: a heap of grandfather paradoxes to resolve as well as murdering bastards to capture. "No matter what the DOM Visionaries insist."

He heard the smirk in Moody's voice. "'Visionaries.' Used to call them something else in my day."

They bypassed the first holding room – empty, now. Yaxley had been transferred to a cell when his Dark Mark was revealed. Rowle and Selwyn had yet to be processed, so they were still cooling their heels in rooms two and three. The holding cells were full – the remaining Aurors had transformed a row of small offices up on the third floor for the overflow. Kingsley had purposefully kept Dawlish down here. Nearby. Maybe it was instinct to protect the man he'd worked side-by-side with for five years. More likely, he didn't trust the man far from his point of wand. Any benefit of the doubt had faded from Kingsley's spirit during the long day.

Protocol, he reminded himself. Keeping to protocol was his only chance of examining his partner honestly. He waited, wand out, until Moody could cover him from beside the door. With a nod, he touched his wand to a certain spot on the door and the stones became transparent.

Dawlish had tipped his chair back on two legs, propped up by one foot on the central table, with his hands folded on his stomach. He stared straight at Kingsley.

Painting a stern, impassive mask across his features, Kingsley released the wards and he and Moody stepped inside. The wall behind them reappeared with a rush of air.

Dawlish didn't stand. Or scowl. Or react in any way.

"You missed a few." Dawlish spoke before Kingsley could open his mouth.

Behind him, Moody shifted to the room's left front corner so he could cover the lazy-looking Auror. Anger rode beneath Kingsley's skin, eager to erupt with spell or voice or even a thrown punch or two – he couldn't seem to decide which would make him feel better.

Discarding all of them, Kingsley clenched his teeth and raised his Occlumency shields. "So, you're admitting it."

Dawlish's expression didn't change. He uncrossed his arms and, moving slowly and deliberately, unbuttoned the cuffs of his robes and rolled back both sleeves. "I'm admitting, you idiot, that I was watching them. I've been watching them for years."

"Have you now." Moody was obviously unconvinced.

"Yaxley. Rowle. Chinn. Glozen. Fabricci. Selwyn. Nottingham. Umbridge."

The names hit Kingsley between the eyes, shifting his burning anger from Dawlish to the Ministry workers he'd named. Some were in the cells behind him. Some were not. "Death Eaters." It wasn't a question.

Dawlish nodded. "Some unmarked. I know the ward strike missed Umbridge and Chinn – they didn't come in today. Whether that means they had a heads-up about when Dumbledore's spells would fade or if it was just bad luck –" he shrugged. "And we've known about Selwyn's leanings for years."

"Are there more?"

"I'm sure there are more who would sign up with Voldemort if he threatened their families or their jobs. If it looked like he was going to win." Dawlish tipped the chair back to the floor. "Now that Dumbledore is gone, you know there will be more rushing off to join what they consider to be the stronger side."

"Stopping that drain is one of Scrimgeour's first priorities. The question is, what side are you on? You didn't take the loyalty oath," Kingsley pointed out.

"I didn't. But not for the reason you think." He tilted his head. "Have you asked Rufus about me?"

Hands flat on his thighs, Dawlish looked every inch the reasonable, patient man instead of a panicked Death Eater in enemy hands. But he'd always been strong under pressure. In fact, his enemies often misjudged him as harmless because of the general sleepy expression that hid his inner fire.

"The Minister has been a bit busy for chummy chats. Tell me," Kingsley commanded. He wanted to believe it. Wanted to believe that his partner was innocent. That he'd been smart enough to hold off from taking an oath to the Minister so he could keep a closer eye on those marked by Voldemort.

"You've brought Veritaserum? I'd like to be exonerated quickly and get back to work."

"Sure of that, are ya?" Moody snorted.

Dawlish's half-lidded stare was intense. "Yes, I am."

Kingsley made sure they followed procedures – every single one. He recorded the interrogation with the DOM's connection to Moody's eye. He set up the automatic-recording quill. He had Dawlish write out and sign his authorization for use of Veritaserum without legal representation. Protocol, he reminded himself, teeth clenched.

Three drops. Kingsley was precise. Dawlish's reaction was immediate, from the silly grin to the glazed expression. He was ready.

"Control questions," Kingsley recited, the quill scratching along. "Date of birth?"

"August 8th, 1962. My mum said I was late – should have arrived in July, but I took my sweet time. Said it was the story of my life." Dawlish swayed from side to side in his chair, beaming.

"And your mother's name and family?"

"Eugenia Myrtle Warrington Dawlish. Fourth daughter of Lord and Lady Warrington. She had the most marvelous singing voice …" The Auror began humming a familiar tune.

Kingsley continued before they were all tortured with Dawlish's singing which he knew the man did not inherit from his mother and could best be described as a shrieking bullfrog mating with a screech owl. "What nickname did you earn during Auror training?"

"Dawdling Dawlish, you remembered!" The Auror's smile grew even wider. "But you know I wasn't that slow, just very, verrrrry deliberate."

Moody harrumphed behind Kingsley, impatient.

"When did you become a Death Eater?" Kingsley began the important questions.

Dawlish's expression clouded over for a moment. "Never did, did I? Went to a couple of meetings when I was in school, tagged along with Corban. Listened to some speeches." He shrugged. "Never had a head for politics. Not like Rufus. Bloody Minister of Magic now, isn't he?" He shook his finger at Kingsley. "I knew him when, my friend, I knew him when!"

"You never took an oath to Voldemort?"

"Why ever would I do that? He was dead, well, we all thought he was dead by the time I was twenty. I knew Corban and his buddies still played dress-up and got together to drink and remember the old times, but I was busy. School. Auror training." He shrugged. "I just didn't pay much attention."

"Did you take part in any criminal activities? Target muggles or witches and wizards who had allied with Dumbledore?"

"Nope." Dawlish popped his P. He leaned forward as if sharing a secret with Kingsley. "I was in Auror training. The oath, the security investigation on each one of us – if anyone had found out that I'd done something like that I'd have ruined my career and my future."

"So, you were just concerned with someone finding out? You had no argument with those who chose to kill or torture?" Kingsley kept his voice level, but the nature of Veritaserum meant his questions had to be precise to provide the right information. And he knew Dawlish – even under the powerful potion's control, he was clever.

Dawlish sighed. "I'm not like you, Kingsley. Or like Moody, there." He eyed the other man with a half-smile. "I didn't become an Auror because I was on some crusade to cleanse the world of evil. On a good day, it's hard to tell evil from good – you can't see inside someone's brain, you can't judge his intentions, only his actions. Look at all that Dumbledore did – and he was the so-called leader of the Light! No, I was fine keeping the peace and arresting law-breakers on either side. But this job was supposed to be a stepping-stone. And Rufus knew it when he hired me. And then –"

"Then?" Kingsley prodded.

"Then the berk didn't take me with him, did he? When Rufus got the nod to be Minister, he turned his back on me! He'd promised me a role in his new organization! He'd promised me!" Dawlish's pale face was blotched with red. He blinked rapidly, the potion releasing his hold on his emotions. Tears filled his eyes. "So, I never took his bleeding oath." He crossed his arms and turned away. "Bastard."

Moody barked a laugh. "Honestly? Your entire reason for denying a loyalty oath was that you were pouting?" He thrust out his lower lip. "Oh, boo-hoo. The new Minister for Magic has priorities that don’t include making sure his friends all get the best new jobs. As if there was a war on or something."

"What about the names you gave us." Kingsley interrupted Moody's mocking. "Why were you watching them? On whose orders?"

Dawlish turned back, frowning. "Orders? It was a memo sent to me, oh, a year or so ago. Didn't mention names, just advised me to keep track of potentially dangerous individuals."

Kingsley met Moody's gaze. "A year ago. After Fudge admitted Voldemort had returned and Fudge was ousted."

"I thought –" Dawlish rolled his eyes, "fool that I was, I thought it was Rufus' way of keeping me in the loop. Making sure he could justify my advancement with actual evidence that I'd been helpful in identifying traitors in our midst."

"That was my memo, you idiot," Moody shouted. "Sent one to every Auror, didn't I?" He gestured. "We finally had evidence after that do-up in the Department of Mysteries. Saw their faces. Malfoy. Lestrange. Crabbe. MacNair. Jugson. Avery. Too many got away before we arrived to nail them all down, oh, but we knew there were more. Suspected some would have ties to the Ministry."

"Oh. Well," Dawlish laid his head down on his crossed arms and waved a hand in the air. "Didn't think of that. My notes are all in my office, behind my wards. Might be helpful."

His words were slurring. The Veritaserum was coming to the end of its usefulness. "One more question," Kingsley stated. "Will you take the loyalty oath, now, Dawlish?"

The Auror tilted his head up so that he could stare at Kingsley with one bleary eye. "Gonna give me my job back? Gonna let me out of here?"

"Answer the question," Moody insisted.

Dawlish harrumphed. "I'll take your bleeding oath, then. Better than rotting in Azkaban." He grinned. "We make a good team, Kingsley."

Leaving Dawlish to sleep off the potion's affects, Kingsley and Moody stopped outside the locked cell. "That could have gone worse," Kingsley admitted.

"Aye. Selfish prat." Moody sent a glare through the closed door. "Doesn't make him a Death Eater, though."

Kingsley set off back to his office. "Don't sound so disappointed," he threw back over his shoulder. "And go and retrieve that notebook before someone else makes away with it." The names Dawlish had given them were going to haunt Kingsley until he'd rounded up each and every one of them. He rubbed a hand across his head and grumbled. Missed sleep. Missed meals. He couldn't keep going like this.

Moody insisted on the last word. As usual. "Sleep is for the weak, boy. Get a move on."

Chapter 10

Chapter Text

Chapter Ten

Filius arrived first. The goblin was grim; he nodded to Minerva, bypassing the seating area she'd conjured in her office and stalking towards Dumbledore's portrait. For five very long minutes, Filius stared at the sleeping wizard, the hands clutched behind his back twitching as if his eagerness to use his wand couldn't be contained.

When his silence ended, Filius still didn't turn to her. "Are you really sleeping, Albus? Or are you hiding. Reluctant to face us, to face the world freed from your absolute control." Lips pursed, Filius continued. "I'm sure you would have explanations for us – you always did. I imagine you'd smile, looking over those half-glasses as if we were children and remind us that you knew best. That your power could not be matched. That you were older, wiser, with more information and more insight that we could imagine. That the strategies you'd set in motion were the best, the only chance to defeat Riddle once and for all."

Pomona and Horace entered quietly, not daring to interrupt. Minerva gestured towards the chairs and they slipped into their places, listening.

The sharp smack of one hand slapping against the other snapped Minerva's head around to stare at Filius.

"Let me be the first to tell you that I would not accept those explanations, Headmaster. That my oaths as a goblin and as a teacher, a protector of children, would demand that I challenge you. Whether my dueling skills could defeat you, I absolutely do not care. To not fight, to not demand you give me satisfaction for the invasion of your magic in both my goblin culture as well as into the very heart of me," Filius banged a fist against his chest, "would mean worse than death." He moved a step closer to the portrait. "My goblin heritage would win, you see. My oaths to the First Ones. Above any loyalty to Hogwarts, to you or your position. And I think," he pointed one claw at the canvas, "I think I could win that fight. I think I could kill you, Albus Dumbledore. Why? Because at the very heart of you, you will always, always, underestimate us."

Minerva felt herself nod sharply. Her colleague was speaking for all of them. All who had been bound and – interfered with. Sweet, soft Pomona's forehead was creased, and her eyes were thunderclouds. Horace, pale and trembling, seemed more alive than Minerva had ever seen him.

Filius spun on his heel but did not approach her. "Shall I incinerate this," he waved his hand over his shoulder, "this last remnant of his ego?"

"No," Pomona answered. "I think that would be too easy an end. When – if he awakes – I believe he should be made to answer for his crimes by those he has hurt the most."

Filius hesitated. In the end, he accepted Pomona's suggestion and climbed to his seat. "Thank you for your Patronus, Headmistress. What do you require?"

"First and foremost," Minerva huffed, "that you continue to call me Minerva. We are all friends here, I believe. And, no, I do not mean that in the sense that Albus used the term. Yes, Hogwarts has accepted me, has bound itself to me, but that does not mean that I am in any way superior in terms of power or insight or intelligence. Make no mistake," she raised a hand, "I will act on behalf of our students on my own if necessary, but only if there is a credible and immediate threat to their welfare. I will not hesitate to call upon Hogwarts to come to our aid – nor do I expect anything less from each of you. I will never require that you need to beg for my permission before doing your duty to the children."

Pomona sighed, tension draining from her shoulders. "That is very good to hear, Minerva."

"While we work to restore Hogwarts' initial intentions to protect her students, know this: Harry Potter is safe. He has been rescued from the utterly disgusting family Albus chained him to." Minerva rubbed her aching forehead. "Abuse and neglect, that is what the boy has been subjected to these past fifteen years. Because of Albus' orders." She continued through Pomona's moans and Filius' curses. "In addition, the Ministry is under the absolute control of Rufus Scrimgeour and those who have taken oaths of loyalty to the Light or vowed absolute neutrality. Whether that is revealed to be a positive note remains to be seen." She bent her head towards Filius. "The goblins?"

"The wards of Gringotts have been returned to their original state, with blood and bone. Dark artifacts have been removed and destroyed. The goblins have shut the doors until they perform an extensive accounting of each vault." He glowered. "They will brook no more interference. From anyone."

A goblin horde with its ire raised towards wizards could end very badly. Minerva trusted Filius to do what he could. Before she could voice her respect for him, Pomona spoke.

"Where is Harry?"

"Safe." It was all Minerva was prepared to say. "He is with a powerful family. Harry –" she swallowed a shout of rage, "- Harry's magic had been interfered with quite extensively. He is under the care of a healing team right now."

Horace had closed his eyes, his chin quivering. "He'd met with Dumbledore, just the two of them, so many times over this past year. But I suspect that the boy has been under the Headmaster's spell since his childhood." When Horace opened his eyes and cast a heated glance towards Albus' portrait, she remembered that the Potions' Master had been a most capable wizard, once.

"Indeed." Minerva clasped her hands together on the table. "I have received an initial report. Harry is on the road to recovery. But that road may be long and arduous."

"How could we have heaped such burdens on the boy? Our entire world was eager to press him into a fight with the Dark Bastard, to proclaim that this child, and only this child, could rid us of Voldemort." Pomona swore, teeth bared like a mother bear.

Filius' face was red. "We were fools. Dumbledore couldn't have controlled all of us, all wizards and witches. Not by magic alone. That was just one arrow in his quiver – a powerful one, yes, but only one. He used our fears, our horrors, our belief in the mythology of the wizarding world. Even our innate selfishness, our sense of loss from the last war. We wanted a hero, didn't we?" He snarled, shaking his head. "From the moment the Potters fell, and Voldemort disappeared, Dumbledore did not waste one moment. The press was only too happy to follow his lead. The Ministry laid down and let the Wizengamot trample justice. And here?" He snorted. "We fell right into his hands, believing in a Chosen One who would come to power and fight all of our battles for us."

Horace murmured a curse and pushed himself back from the table. "I suppose we should be grateful that Snape ended his reign of terror. Somehow, I can't quite allow myself that feeling."

"With that in mind, we come to the next order of business." Minerva fidgeted, one hand toying with a tendril of hair irritating her neck. "Considering the revelations about Albus' interference with so many of us, with the goblins and werewolves, the Ministry, more, I shouldn't have been surprised at the message I received earlier." She flicked a wrist towards the mirrored cabinet set against the wall and levitated Hogwarts' Pensieve from its place to sit on the table between them. "Two hours ago, I received a message. A message and a set of memories carried by an unknown falcon. Their contents …" Anger heated her blood. "I shall insist you draw your own conclusions after you've viewed them."

Horace narrowed his eyes. "Have you tested them? Made sure these so-called memories are true? That they aren't laced with more compulsion or obedience charms?"

For the first time, Minerva appreciated the man's paranoia. "Hogwarts itself tested them before they were permitted to enter the new wards. Accio memories," she stated. The glimmering crystal vial rose from her desk to travel to her hand. "Once you've seen them, I will allow you to read the note that accompanied them. But, for now, keep an open mind."

She poured Severus' memories into the Pensieve, twirled her wand in the proper pattern, and lifted the first scene to appear on the surface. Each of her colleagues leaned forward, peering intently at the image that coalesced into full color and sound. Yes, she had chosen this memory specifically. This very one would break any lingering sympathy for Albus Dumbledore and shock her colleagues into the right frame of mind.

Severus Snape, a youth of twenty-something, knelt at Dumbledore's feet. "He's targeting the Potters. Lily. You must protect them, Headmaster. Please. He's fixated on them. They must hide, at once. His power is great – and his mercy is nonexistent."

Dumbledore seemed an immovable block of granite before Severus' tearful groveling. "It was you who told your Dark Lord about the prophecy. You who took Sybil Trelawney's words and delivered them to the one who would kill Lily Potter and her family. And now you seek one who could undo this evil that you yourself have begun."

"Yes. I did. I was and am a fool." Severus readily agreed to Dumbledore's worst accusations, his head bowed, his hands empty. "I've put myself into the hands of a vile, murdering psychopath."

"Willingly. With no thought of those he would hurt or kill. With no interest in anyone but yourself."

Severus squirmed. "I was different once. Before I came to Hogwarts. My, my mother taught me to respect heritage. To respect our family's magic. To care for those less powerful, less protected." He shook his head. "And then, here…"

"Here you learned jealousy. You learned to hate those who would stand between you and what you most desired. And you gave that jealousy, that hatred, names. James Potter. Sirius Black. Remus Lupin."

The young Potions' Master flinched at the last name. "Not – not Remus."

Dumbledore took a step back, startled. Eyes narrowing, he pointed his wand at the trembling man before him, casting silently. He drew a sparkling web around Severus' form, energy crackling along its length. It shrunk until it lay along Severus' skin like a net. Within it, the young wizard collapsed, eyes half-open, his agony obvious in the twitching of his skin and the flailing of his limbs.

"Tell me," Dumbledore ordered.

The tale came out in fits and starts, through moans of pain and inarticulate babbling. Minerva found her hands clenched in her lap, her teeth grinding at Severus' revelations. Her Obliviated memory had returned when she'd first watched this, and she'd cursed Albus Dumbledore all over again.

"We took oaths. Remus and I," Snape admitted, panting, the words coming in fits and starts. "After Black lured me to the Shrieking Shack. After P-potter saved me. They stood with me before McGonagall and were witnesses to the oath. She – she was our binder. Remus and I pledged friendship, promised never to harm one another. He insisted. He – he wanted just to pledge to me, to assure me that I was safe at Hogwarts, but the – the Gryffindors wouldn't let him. Told him that he had to have my pledge in return, or he'd find himself sent to his death for nearly attacking me on the full moon."

"You and Remus Lupin took an Unbreakable Vow?" Dumbledore was furious.

"Yes. It was a secret. McGonagall was our Secret Keeper. The oath – it was more than friendship. It was a pledge to stand for each other. To act as sanctuary, to shield each other – and our families – from harm."

Dumbledore stood over the tortured wizard while Snape writhed. A stream of thought clouded the Headmaster's eyes. Minerva watched the telltale signs that the powerful, manipulative wizard was remaking his strategies in the face of this new information. Minutes later a flick of his wrist released his spell and he paced away from his victim.

It took a few minutes for Severus to pull himself back to his knees. "Will you save her?" he whispered to Dumbledore's rigid back.

When he turned, the expression on Dumbledore's face was intent. "What will you give me in return?"

"My life. My loyalty. I'd give my very soul to keep Lily safe."

"Oh, I will require more than that."

Severus scratched at his left cuff, ripping open his sleeve to reveal the Dark Mark. "With will and magic, with spirit and mind, with heart and soul, I, Severus Prince Snape do renounce –"

"Stop!" The force of Dumbledore's spell shut Severus' mouth with a loud clack of teeth. "Be silent!" Another spell swept across Severus' face, sealing his lips. "You are not permitted to renounce him," Dumbledore stated. "Not now. Not ever. Not until he has been defeated. Not until you earn your death, earn it with your utter devotion to my plans. You will return to him, fully aware that you have now two loyalties, tied inextricably together." The wizard's eyes twinkled, his smile cruel. "You are not permitted the luxury of driving the Dark Mark from your skin and your soul. First, you must pay for what you've done at that madman's will."

The spells released Severus and he rocked backwards. "How?" he cried; pain painted clearly across his features.

Dumbledore raised his wand. "You will forget you ever sought release from your Dark Lord's Mark. Oh, you will remember your grief, your rage, your guilt – yes, that will be your strongest memory. Let that fill up your mind when Tom travels there. Let it fill up your very being. Until I release you," Dumbledore said, "you will pay for your crimes with an inner darkness that rivals the darkness Voldemort would bring to our world." He struck. "Obliviate."

Minerva tore herself from the scene playing out above the Pensieve to take in the faces of her colleagues. Horace was pale and shivering, even his bulk looking small and helpless with his robes clutched tightly about him. Pomona's eyes were red and raw, tears leaking down her cheeks, but the set of her jaw and her clenched fists on the table revealed her inner revulsion at Dumbledore's words and actions.

And Filius … Filius' rage was incandescent.

"There is much more to see," Minerva murmured, unwilling to break the lure of the memories before the next set emerged. "Please listen and watch carefully. The old man needed someone to remember, someone to fulfill his awful plans if he was unexpectedly taken out of the picture. He chose Severus. For obvious reasons, Severus could not entrust these secrets to any of us, to anyone who Dumbledore was careful to warn against him. Severus' own bonds, his own tampered memories, and his foolish young choices made him the perfect stalking goat."

The memories swirled, Dumbledore leading a leashed young Snape through his plans for Harry, never explaining, simply laying out the strands of his intricately woven web as if there were no other way. He described Tom Riddle, orphan boy. Sly. Intelligent. Broken. So very broken in the depth of his spirit. Horace winced beside her as Dumbledore and Severus spoke of Horcruxes. Pomona gasped at the revelation of the prophecy that led to James and Lily's deaths. Memory after memory revealed Severus, kneeling at Dumbledore's side, pouring magic into the old fool's cursed hand and arm.

A ring. A cup. A crown. A diary. A locket. A snake.

A boy.

"Harry must die."

"You've bred him like a pig to slaughter while I've pledged to save him! Pledged my life and soul to keep him safe! And you ask this?"

"Still, Severus? Your bond to Lily is still so strong, after all this time?"

The Patronus was gleaming silver, so real, so bright. The doe flashed out in a circle and then stood beside Severus, head up, eyes filled with passion. Passion for her son.

"Always."

Dumbledore was unmoved. "You will kill me, Severus. To save Draco, you must agree to kill me." Blue eyes twinkled. "I'm dying anyway – neither of us can stop it. Use it. Use it to save that confused, frightened young man. And, more importantly, to cement your place at Tom Riddle's side."

As the memories emerged, Minerva caught herself staring at Dumbledore, examining the outwardly kind and slightly dotty old man with new eyes. Eyes wide open to the Headmaster's prejudices and strategies, his intricately constructed network of suppositions and the bindings and geassa he had strewn across some of the most powerful wizards and witches in Britain.

If the old man weren't already dead, she would kill him herself.

Chapter 11

Chapter Text

Chapter Eleven

Severus had done what was immediately necessary. The postcards and memories had been sent. The manor had been cleansed, its magic awoken. He'd toiled in the Potions' lab for hours, taking stock of supplies, renewing wards, and setting a few necessary potions to brew for those who might soon be joining him. Back in the study, he'd dismissed a house elf inviting him to dinner and had begun to make his way through the knee-high piles of correspondence before becoming distracted by the Quibbler's latest issue and news of the Dementor swarms across Britain. When he raised his eyes from the article, an ancient tome on one bookshelf drew his attention.

It was glowing.

A few hours later – with another dinner invitation brushed aside, Severus closed his eyes and rubbed at his aching neck. "Naturally," he sighed to himself. This … situation … must rise near to the top of his To-Do List. He straightened and began to turn the pages back to the beginning of his ancestor's memoirs. The pages refused to turn.

"Past time for dinner, Master Prince."

Cypress stood beside his elbow, a determined look on her face.

"You're quite a bossy elf." Severus had looked down his rather long nose at her.

"Cypress takes care of the family," Cypress had answered, not one bit apologetic. "Been doing that for ages. You're not the first stubborn wizard or witch I've taken in hand, Master. And I hope you won't be the last."

Following the tiny creature down the hallway, Severus' spirit lifted as he entered a dining room flooded with moonlight. The elves had swapped out the impressive banquet table for a more intimate oval one, set with homey dishes, a woven placemat instead of the pure white damask of formality, and had arranged a cluster of framed photographs and paintings as a centerpiece. Severus sighed and took his seat.

Clementine's photograph held pride of place in the center. Severus wouldn't describe his Great Aunt as beautiful, but as exquisite. Tall, athletic, with wide eyes and an expression that often straddled the line between reserved and darkly amused. The picture had been taken in her youth, while studying at Beauxbatons. Her thick, wavy hair was clasped behind her neck, but, from time to time, the autumn breeze swept it into the air like a flag. She wore school robes, her wand in her hand. The young witch suddenly grinned and her wand danced, her silent spell tossing light-winged butterflies to circle around her head.

The small formal painting of Lord Beverley sat to her left. He nodded regally towards Severus before retaking his pose – both hands grasping the lapels of his robe, his Roman profile pointed out into the distance. Severus' mouth drew up on one side. It was clear which genes had gifted him his nose. Sword on one hip, two wand sheaths on the other, Beverley was known as a politician, yes, but his reputation as a dueler, as the founder of the Auror Department at the Ministry, as a dangerous enemy and fervent friend was even more impressive.

Severus steadied himself before taking in the final picture – a candid photograph of his mother. Eileen carried much of her cousin Clementine's easy grace and quick amusem*nt. Before her malaise drew her down into her first severe depression at fifteen, Eileen had been talented, gracious, intelligent. She'd loved broom racing. Potions. The legacy of the Beverley's talent at spell-casting had allowed her to rise to high academic levels before … Before. When her older brother was murdered in a senseless pub brawl, leaving Eileen the only child of the current generation, the burden of taking his place, of leaving a life of learning to begin preparations for taking on the Beverley family's responsibilities hastened her descent.

Through her illness, her withdrawal from the family, and her insistence that she guard others from her dangerous ailment, Severus' mother had set herself to live in the muggle world. To learn its achievements and its faults. To become a master of its arts. Designer, painter, cook, Eileen had embraced the muggle arts and turned her back on magic. Her choice had quieted her sickness.

Until Severus was born.

The pregnancy reignited Eileen's symptoms. Brought them out in dangerous spurts of out-of-control magic. Alienated her from the muggles who had been her closest friends and comrades. All except for Tobias Snape. Somehow, the man's violence and temper managed to drown out Eileen's own. So, the father of her child became her husband, and Eileen Prince Snape lived in the safe shadow of Tobias' ugliness. And managed to build a world of safety and nurture for her son.

In the photo, her smile was dazzling.

"I'm sorry, mother," Severus murmured. "For forgetting. It was not my choice, but, my mind has not been my own for many years." He turned to Beverley. "My Lord." Severus inclined his head. "I regret taking the Mark and accepting any other but the founder of my family as my magical lord." Once more, Severus made his regrets to the third picture. "Lady Clementine. Thank you for securing this place for your family, for Eileen's son. Thank you for setting aside all that came between my mother and her family and allowing me to take on the family's magical heritage. I pledge that I will not let the family down."

He ate in calm silence, his mind and magic finally settled. It had been his last attempt at dealing with the past, with Dumbledore's interference, with his own sins and failings. Severus had disappointed many people and had been disappointed by others himself. It was time to move on. To move forward. He nodded to himself over dessert and coffee. The future should be determined by the survivors, by those who pledged to fight the darkness and build a better world, not by the wizards who had acted in the past.

Severus would not allow the story of his life, the story of the final defeat of Tom Riddle, and the success of young Harry Potter and the next generation of wizards to be written by Albus Dumbledore.

When he set his empty cup on its saucer, Sorrel appeared.

"Master, there is one who would come through the Floo and speak with you."

Severus touched the napkin to his lips. There were a small – very small – number of possibilities. "Who is it?"

"A Master Lupin."

Good. Severus rose and headed back towards the study. "Master Lupin prefers the Balvenie Portwood, 21 year."

The bottle of scotch and two Glencairn glasses sat on a silver tray on a side table near the French doors which the elves had opened to the still night air. Severus paused before the rolling green flames of the fireplace, touched his wand to the Wardstone set in the center of the mantle, and spoke the formal welcome.

"Chartwell Manor welcomes Remus John Lupin, and names him friend of the family."

The Lupin who stepped out of the flames was one Severus barely recognized. Strangely, his visitor echoed Severus' sentiment.

"Merlin," Remus exclaimed, straightening his robes, "I can hardly recognize you. You look ten years younger." His wide grin dissolved. A moment later he'd removed his wand from his sleeve and offered it, hilt first as if it were a sword, to Severus. "I stand foresworn and offer magic, life, and soul in recompense."

Magic heard and answered, gathering in silver and gold sparks that shivered into existence to form an ethereal bell jar over the two wizards. The static charge doubled with the power of their thwarted oath as Severus echoed Remus' actions, repeating the same words. "My magic, life, and soul are yours," he added.

The two wizards, gazes caught and held by the power that contained them, waited for whatever consequences their magic would demand. Severus was instantly caught up in a memory. The sensations – sight, sound, and scent – were so visceral it was as if he stood within McGonagall's private office as a boy once again.

Severus opened the door after his knock and stopped on the threshold. Instead of finding the Gryffindor Head of House, alone, Black, Potter, the werewolf had gathered in front of her desk.

"Come in, Mister Snape." Professor McGonagall's tone snapped across the small room, drawing Severus closer without his own volition.

The door closed firmly behind him – red and gold wards flashing around the room, encompassing floor, ceiling, and walls.

"Professor –" No. Severus planted his feet and refused to budge. He would not put himself at risk among a group of Gryffindors. Especially this group of Gryffindors. He released his wand from its holster into his hand and gripped it tightly.

"Peace."

Her word was more than a request for silence. It fell across the tense scene and smothered the worst of Severus' panic, tore the dark gleam from Black's eyes, and relaxed the hunch of Lupin's shoulders.

McGonagall continued. "I have asked you here, Mister Snape, on behalf of Mister Lupin. As a consequence of Mister Black's utterly idiotic, misguided, and potentially life-threatening actions, he put you at risk." Her voice cracked like a whip across Black's shoulders. The Marauder flinched; eyes cast downward.

Severus sneered. He didn't trust Black's reaction one bit.

"The possibility that Mister Lupin would be expelled, or worse, executed if he caused another student bodily harm apparently never occurred to Mister Black," McGonagall continued, a dangerous lilt in her voice.

Of course. Only a threat towards one of the Headmaster's favorite Gryffindors would make McGonagall act. Not, clearly, Black's attempt to murder a dirty Slytherin like Severus. The fools had barely received detention, the punishment mitigated by Potter's timely rescue. Severus snorted. He refused to feel an ounce of gratitude.

"Nor did he consider that your death or injury, Mister Snape, would bring about his own arrest and, very possibly, the closing of Hogwarts when it was revealed that the Headmaster allowed a werewolf to attend with other children."

McGonagall sighed, hands clasped before her. "As a teacher for many long years, I am not surprised by much in the way of teen-aged foolishness or shortsightedness, but this," she nodded sharply, "this is more than beyond the pale." She spun and faced Severus. "On behalf of my house, I do apologize, Mister Snape, and recognize a life debt owed to you."

When Lupin made to step forward to curb the professor's speech, McGonagall waved one hand in his direction. "You shall have your say in a moment, Mister Lupin. As your Head of House, and therefore acting as your guardian while you are here at school, this is my responsibility." She turned back to Severus. "Now, or at any time in the future, you may call on me for aid. And I will answer and comply. No matter the situation, my debt to you shall be repaid when you call for it."

Severus had felt his magic accept the powerful witch's vow. His thoughts scrambling to come up with a reply to the utterly unexpected acknowledgment of her part in the Marauders' sins, Severus could only nod.

"Now, Mister Lupin asks that he make his own reparations. Go ahead."

She stepped back and Lupin limped to stand before him. Severus forced himself to stillness. The memory of the werewolf's snarls, claws and teeth bared, red eyes focused on Severus' panicked form rose up, setting his knees knocking and hands trembling.

"Apologies aren't enough. Empty words don't mean much, especially spoken by people who have … not been kind to you, Snape." Lupin's words were direct, trembling with his obvious exhaustion.

"Huh. At least you are intelligent enough to acknowledge as much," Snape answered. He crossed his arms to hide his own shaking.

Lupin's gaze flicked towards his friends. Severus was surprised to see true anger and disgust in the look.

"To make up for my behavior, I'd like to pledge friendship with you, Snape. In fact, I'd be happy to take an Unbreakable Vow to never harm you in any way. To guard your secrets and stand between you and harm." He eyed his friends again. "Any harm."

"What?" Severus blurted. If McGonagall's pledge had been a surprise, Lupin's intentions seemed insane.

"I am ready to stand as Binder," McGonagall added. When Black stirred restlessly, she continued. "If you will agree to accept a similar oath to Mister Lupin. To keep his secrets and stand ready to help him in need."

"Why should I do that?" Severus demanded. "I was not at fault, here. I did not –"

McGonagall's stare shut him up. "Please do not feign innocence, Mister Snape. You suspected Black was leading you into some sort of a trap. Only a fool would believe otherwise, and you are anything but a fool. You hoped to catch him or Mister Potter in some rule-breaking. Hoped to turn their trap against them. Isn't that right? In fact, when you were confronted with a real threat you responded with a few very nasty, very dark curses that might get you arrested and expelled on that basis alone, didn't you?"

Chewing on his tongue to keep from cursing, Severus was forced to nod. He hadn't quite cast the death curse correctly, but even knowing the spell could get Severus sent directly to Azkaban.

"I thought you'd see reason," McGonagall stated. "This Vow would protect you from any future harm at the hands of Mister Lupin, would charge Hogwarts to become a safe haven for you both, and would keep both secrets."

"More than that –" Lupin opened his hands, the cuts and scrapes from his recent transformation still red and raw. "Whether you believe me or not, I am sorry that you were put in that situation. I've tried to be the voice of reason with these two." He jerked his chin towards Potter and Black. "Unsuccessfully, I'll admit. From now on, they would not be able to prank you, or target you in any way. Because I would stop them." His grin was sharp and white. "They haven't always appreciated my strength, but, believe me, they could not stand against me. Not in this."

It was tempting. Very tempting. To be able to walk down the hallways of Hogwarts without constant vigilance. To study in the library without fear. To hold his head up rather than skitter around the edges of school life, waiting for the next hex – perhaps Severus could truly live and thrive. But, the cost …

"And, one more thing I'll promise." Lupin's expression was stern. "I will talk to Lily on your behalf."

Chapter 12

Chapter Text

Chapter Twelve

"And, one more thing I'll promise." Lupin's expression was stern. "I will talk to Lily on your behalf."

Severus stilled; his eyes wide.

"I can't promise she'll agree to talk to you, but I will urge her to forgive your outburst. To look back on your friendship and try to overlook your verbal assault earlier this year."

He flinched. 'Verbal assault.' Lupin was right to describe it so. The one cursed word wouldn't have been enough to turn his best friend away. No, Severus hadn't been content to call her that racist slur – he'd gone on to describe her as a whor*, panting after Potter because of his good looks and Quidditch fame, dropping her pants for him and each of his friends at every opportunity. He felt his cheeks redden. None of his apologies had been enough to erase those hateful words.

Severus thought long and hard, considering Lupin's sincerity, McGonagall's patience, and Potter and Black's silence. He brushed off Black – Potter's bodyguard and doting sycophant. He was muscle, nothing more. Severus stared into Potter's eyes, weighing the boy's jealousy at the mention of Lily's name.

Lupin's promise would hurt Potter. That truth made up Severus' mind.

"I will take the Vow," Severus agreed.

The two linked hands; McGonagall touched the tip of her wand to the joining. Severus knew the spell – he knew he must stand in the role of initial questioner.

"Do you Remus John Lupin swear to never harm me, nor allow me to come to harm by another's intention, hand, or spell, as far as you are able and to keep my secrets absolutely unless I give you permission to speak them from this point forward? Do you swear to this friendship?"

"I do so swear."

A cord of red flame sped from McGonagall's wand to tie their hands together.

"Do you further swear to speak to Lily Potter on my behalf, to … suggest she accept my apologies in order to renew the friendship I broke?"

"I do so swear."

A cord of gold tied itself around their hands.

It was Lupin's turn. "And do you, Severus Prince Snape, swear to never harm me or allow me to come to harm in return, by your intention, hand, or spell, and to keep my secrets unless given permission to speak them from this point forward? Do you swear to this friendship?"

Severus swallowed all of his objections, every fear or suspicion about the werewolf's wording. Lupin had allowed more leeway in Severus' vows than Severus had allowed him. "I do so swear," he agreed.

Before the third cord, bright silver, linked with the other two, Severus felt his magic and spirit respond, to reach out to promise friendship beyond the simple words of the vow. Behind Lupin's eyes, he saw the same shadows, the vow deepening and spreading out to encompass two lives, tying them together for now and for future.

McGonagall lifted her wand and released them, and Lupin and Severus swayed, gasping in great lungsful of air as if surfacing from a deep pool. Hogwarts itself shook, fine dust floating down from the ceiling beams.

"It is done."

The next moment, Severus found himself taking the same deep breaths in his study at Chartwell Manor, Remus stumbling beside him.

The deep chime of a bell sounded once, twice, three times. Steadying each other through clasped wrists, Severus felt a new bond form where the frayed ends of the original oath had been. Remus and Severus locked gazes and chanted together.

"What was promised, let it be made double. More than ally, more than friend, now brothers. Brothers in spirit, in intent, brothers in war and peace. Let no one, wizard, witch, man or woman, creature, time, or distance seek to sever this link."

Severus swallowed in a dry throat. "House Beverley accepts Remus John Lupin as its son and brother." A cloud of silver mist billowed out from him to encompass Remus.

Nodding, Remus spoke. "House Lupin gladly welcomes Severus Beverley Prince as its son and brother." A matching gold cloud burst from Remus' skin to envelop Severus even as Remus frowned at the name that came to his tongue. He continued. "The Lupin pack accepts him as pack." Magic, red and writhing, joined the gold and silver.

The magic contracted into a three-colored braid, mimicking the binding of their original oath. When they were released, Severus felt renewed, charged with magical energy, strengthened in magic, spirit, and body.

Remus' smile had a hint of sharp teeth. "I've never had a brother," he said, his voice rumbling in his chest.

Severus snorted. "Neither have I. Especially not one as hairy as you."

They moved apart, Severus to pour them an ounce of scotch, Remus to pace the floor, shaking out his limbs. Holding out one glass to his newly discovered friend, Severus gestured them to the chairs.

"We examined your memories," Remus began.

Severus raised one hand. "We have had enough of memories, I believe. I sent mine to you, Minerva, and Moody so that you would all understand. Understand that, while I stood as Dumbledore's executioner, it was an end he requested and required. To save a child and to cement my place in his awful plan."

Remus sipped before answering. "Awful is too kind a word for it." His hand tightened and the glass creaked before he set it in safety on the table. "He'd been setting up Harry for death since before his birth."

Severus gazed at the angry wizard. "I will not seek to make excuses for the past – for either mine or Dumbledore's role in Harry's torment. I am resolved to go forward, Remus. I hope you can understand that."

"Yours weren't the only actions – and inactions – that hurt the cub. We all had a part in it. And, while it might be better for us to look only forward, I'm not sure it's the best thing to do for Harry."

Severus finished his drink and leaned forward. "He's with you?"

Remus nodded, grimacing. "I've sent a notice to Minerva and Moody. Not his location, but the fact that he's under my protection." He rubbed one hand across his forehead. "He's a mess, Severus. If you think Dumbledore manipulated us, our magic and memories, well," when he met Severus' gaze, his eyes were tinted red, "multiply that by a hundred and you might approach what the old fool did to Harry."

Severus poured them both another drink. "Have you shown him –"

"- your memories?" Remus shook his head, the motion resembling a wild animal shaking off the rain. "Ted Tonks has kept him in a healing sleep since earlier this afternoon." He rose, clearly unable to keep still a moment longer. Stalking out to pace the edges of the paved patio, Remus moved with the grace and danger of a predator. "Your memories cleared up most of the questions Andromeda had about the state of Harry's magic." He spun to face Severus. "A Horcrux. That maniac left a part of his soul within Harry. And then Dumbledore bound not only Harry's natural magic but, whether he realized it or not, Lily's protection as well. As soon as the bindings dissolved, the fight was on."

Severus forced himself to take a deep breath, to settle his mind and spirit. "Lily's magic remained within – what happened?"

Remus lifted his face to the glow of the moon. "Have you forgotten Lily's power? How fiercely she fought for her friends? For those she loved?"

Almost. Severus almost had forgotten the brilliance of Lily Evans. The sheer power of her spells and incantations, even before she'd had more than a few lessons at Hogwarts. Worse, he had forgotten receiving her forgiveness and the correspondence he'd enjoyed with her before they left Hogwarts.

He cleared his throat and his mind. "The Horcrux - it was destroyed?"

Remus made a curt gesture. "Of course."

"And the damage –"

"Andromeda hasn't left Harry's side."

Severus nodded. "She is a formidable mind healer." If anyone could put Potter back together again after the ravaging of his magic, it would be Andromeda Tonks. He had been aware of the Tonks' healing partnership through the complaints and foul suggestions of the Death Eater community. The Tonks had been targeted for years before Voldemort met his match in little Harry Potter. Thankfully, the two were powerful and their wards were second-to-few. Thinking of wards … "I've prepared the Manor for all of you." Severus stirred restlessly in his chair. "Are they willing to relocate here?"

Remus, hands in his pockets, tore his gaze from the sky and the clear crescent moon visible above the trees. "We've discussed it. But, until Harry awakens, we're not sure if moving him is the best idea."

Severus rose to join his friend. "And you're concerned that your condition would make you unsafe to be around. Need I remind you that my Wolfsbane potion would be available to you and would mitigate the worst symptoms?" Teeth clenched, Severus reminded himself to move on from the past, not to apologize – again – for being stingy with his potion during Remus' year of teaching at Hogwarts. Or the way he exploited the wording of his vow to supply blatant hints to the students which resulted in the man losing his position.

"Are you inviting the Weasleys as well? That's quite a brood for you to take in, even if the twins, Percy, and Ginevra are located elsewhere."

Lips pursed, Severus considered. "Ronald, at least, should go wherever Harry goes. And the Granger girl."

Remus glanced at him, a half-smile on his face. "They are all but inseparable."

"Please remind Andromeda and her husband that the Manor here is unplottable, and its redoubtable magic can provide the protection required as well as supply the needs of our new War Council without any difficulty. The elves are anxious to be put to work. And the Beverley legacy demands the Manor and the bloodline stand between Britain and darkness." He straightened his robes. "The house will expand to accommodate all."

"I will take the matter to them." Remus turned, his agitation growing. "I have to get back. It wasn't only my pledge to you that needed healing, Severus. Sirius and I made one over Harry's cot when he was a babe. That one is still frayed."

Severus bowed his head. "Will you and your wife join me for lunch tomorrow? I know you will not agree to move here until Harry is better, but we should put our heads together as soon as possible." He held out his hand. "I'll invite Arthur, as well."

Remus grasped Severus' hand. "Lunch sounds perfect. Shall I invite Charlie and Molly? Molly has asked me to deliver her apologies, but she is anxious to speak to you in person." He smiled. "And Charlie Weasley has, frankly, been a revelation. Smart. Cunning. It turns out that dragon wranglers come from all walks of life and every side of this battle. He's going to have insights we aren't expecting."

Severus agreed. "I'll expect you at one o'clock. Please send a message if something prevents your arrival." He lowered his voice to a whisper. "I'd hate to barge in, wand blazing, to mount a rescue when it's simply a case of your young wife trying to decide what to wear."

Adding his other hand to their handshake, Remus sighed. "It's good to have you back, Severus. The real you."

He could do nothing but agree.

Chapter 13

Chapter Text

Chapter Thirteen

It was two o'clock in the morning and Kingsley didn't think this day – this week – would be ending soon. His stomach grumbled at a lack of any real food besides canteen sandwiches and far too much tea. Refreshing spells only did so much on robes he'd been wearing for over 24 hours before the crisis began. He ran a hand over his head, the stubble there catching uncomfortably on his skin. Ten minutes – he'd kill to get ten minutes to himself. To eat. To sleep. To bloody shave. Glancing around at the four gathered here, he knew that was a pipedream. He had too much to do – and he'd better be about it.

Moody had searched Dawlish's desk, found the notebooks behind the man's protective spells, and used them to get the Auror released from his cell. Dawlish was back to work and one weight was off of Kingsley's shoulders. One of many. Once Moody received Snape's memories, that weight had multiplied.

"Horcruxes. Dear Dawn of the Goddess." Amelia Bones smacked both hands onto the conference table, the loud bang providing her with an exclamation point and Kingsley with a jolt of adrenaline. "Seven bloody Horcruxes. And Dumbledore told no one." She raised a finger. "No one but Snape. Well, that's bloody marvelous."

Beside her, Scrimgeour shook his head, his mane of thick hair rustling. "And the Potter boy. Dumbledore made him an accomplice in his stupidity."

"Laid the responsibility on a child's shoulders, you mean." Kingsley wasn't surprised by Amelia's outburst or the Minister's blame of Potter. Scrimgeour had gone from intense and focused to grim and furious over the course of the night. If he only knew…

Sitting two seats away from Scrimgeour, deliberately distancing himself, Kingsley figured, Moody harrumphed. "Dumbledore expected Potter to step up and die at the right moment to complete Voldemort's destruction. You didn't miss that little detail in Snape's memories, did you? How Snape was to tell the boy about Dumbledore's grand master plan at the last possible moment? After Potter had witnessed the destruction this kind of war causes – the loss of life, of good wizards and witches – men and women – children – at Voldemort's hand?"

Amelia deflated, the mother in her rising to the forefront. "All those years. All those horrible experiences the boy went through at Hogwarts. From his very first year, Voldemort targeted him. And Dumbledore let him, literally arranged the opportunities for the madman to confront the child. All while the Headmaster was grooming Harry to be his champion." She shook her head. "No, not a champion. A sacrificial lamb who would think so little of himself he would step under Voldemort's knife."

Kingsley agreed. The memories had made the Headmaster's strategy crystal clear. "Even on the periphery, I could see it," he admitted. "Didn't recognize it – oh, no, I was all too much Dumbledore's man to do so." He was disgusted at himself. A grown man, a trained Auror, eager to rely on a young boy to solve the problem of Voldemort.

Moody leaned in, his voice low and threatening. "Do you know what Potter learned at Hogwarts? That, if someone was in danger, it was his responsibility to save them. Eleven years old it began." His magical eye spun, telegraphing the wizard's stormy thoughts. "Dumbledore had the teachers in his firm grip, didn't he? Setting up a challenge so easy three firsties could get past it. A bloody sixty-foot basilisk the next year – you'll never convince me someone with the mind and history of Albus Dumbledore needed a couple of second year students to figure out what was petrifying students! Not to mention the boy's third year," Moody snarled, "Dumbledore sent two third year students back in time – back in time, let that sink in – to save an innocent man from a deadly Dementor attack instead of acting himself!"

Amelia swirled her wand in the air and a cabinet at the end of the room slammed open, a decanter and four glasses hovering to rest in front of her. She poured generous drinks for each one and waved her wand, so they distributed themselves around the table

Moody took only a second to gulp down a slug before continuing. "I spent most of the boy's fourth year in a trunk, getting my hair pulled out every week or so, but from what you've all told me of that bastard Crouch's TriWizard Tournament, Potter didn't just save his own friend under the lake, but waited to make sure the others were saved, too. And why is that?" His harsh bark of a laugh held no amusem*nt. "Because he'd been taught that the safety of his friends, of other children, was his responsibility."

"The safety of the entire wizarding world, you mean," Amelia corrected him.

"And that he could count on no one else." Kingsley added. "No one but other schoolchildren. We saw that when they rode thestrals from Scotland all the way to London to try to save Black from Voldemort at the Ministry." Granger, Lovegood, two Weasleys, Potter, and Longbottom. Four fifth years and two fourth years taking on fully trained and experienced Death Eaters. "None of us, not one, thought that through, did we? Didn't blink. What with Fudge's resignation and the news about Voldemort's return, did we even once consider that these were children doing what we were supposed to do?"

Amelia folded her hands on the table, her knuckles white. "I cannot believe that it was Albus' magic alone that kept our eyes so tightly closed. The blame cannot be laid completely on him. It may be easy to do so, now that he is dead and past caring about recriminations, but …" her words trailed off into silence.

"What the hell were we thinking?" Moody demanded of all of them. Including himself.

Kingsley rubbed at his forehead. Those new creases were never going to come out.

Scrimgeour leaned forward. "You have verified these memories, Alastor? Made absolutely sure that they are true? Not manipulated in any way?"

Kingsley hid a smile as Moody glared. "Wouldn't have brought them to you if I hadn't, you old goat."

Scrimgeour ignored the slur. "Well," he yanked down on his waistcoat, "we can be grateful that our eyes are truly open now. The good news is that we know that four of the Horcruxes have already been destroyed. The cup was in Gringotts, in the Lestrange vault – dragon fire took care of that one."

"The diadem was at Hogwarts. Minerva McGonagall has confirmed its destruction when she renewed the Hogwarts wards." Kingsley's conversation with Minerva had been revealing. The woman was taking over in the best way possible, her Heads of House united as they hadn't been in far too long.

"Potter took care of the diary in his second year. Destroyed it with a basilisk fang." Moody nodded. "Sixty-foot basilisk killed by a twelve-year-old," he mumbled, his eye spinning.

The Gaunt ring is what had, in truth, cost Dumbledore his life. The memories of Snape attending to the Headmaster's cursed and rotting hand had been painful. Even knowing how the old man had turned their world into his own battleground, where he stood as unrivaled commander over all who succumbed to his magic, hadn't made those memories easier to watch. Kingsley had stood at Dumbledore's side for years, had known the man and the wizard – and had respected, even loved, them both. To the end, apparently, Dumbledore had trusted Kingsley to follow his lead. He swallowed. With all of his faults, all of his maneuvering and interference, Dumbledore had met his end by his own self-serving methods, believing, with all of his heart, that he knew best. That only he could uncover Riddle's past and set Harry on the path towards his own destruction.

"What about this locket? The one Albus and Mister Potter recovered from the cave on the night of Dumbledore's death?" Amelia shoved the decanter to the side and took up a heap of parchment laid before her. They'd each received a transcription of Snape's memories, with each important item highlighted.

Kingsley pulled his own notes towards him. "I don't see it in Snape's memories. Nor in Minerva's notes. If it remained at Hogwarts, I'd imagine the new wards would have treated it the same way as the diadem." He wondered …

"Potter."

Kingsley looked up at Scrimgeour's dark tone, his own eyes narrowing.

Scrimgeour's face was set in an angry frown. "Wherever that child is, we must find him. We must take control of him immediately, debrief him, look into his memories. He knows where that damned locket is, I promise you. And we must figure out how to destroy the Horcrux within him before we can hope to defeat Voldemort."

"'Debrief him', eh?" Moody shifted, the chair beneath him creaking. "'Take control.' Sounds like you're either going to incarcerate the child or Legilimise him which are both, to the best of my knowledge, illegal actions when performed on an underage boy."

"He'll be of age in a few weeks." Scrimgeour smiled.

A cold shiver ran down Kingsley's back. "Perhaps Harry does know what Albus did with the locket. Perhaps Snape does and did not include that memory." He pursed his lips, keeping his expression even and unemotional. "I, for one, would rather Harry remain hidden for the moment. Debriefing Snape seems the first order of business. After the Ministry withdraws the 'Kill on Sight' order for him, of course, and clears up the murder accusation."

"These things take time…"

Moody interrupted before the Minister could finish. He shoved his chair away from the table, the wooden legs making an ear-splitting screech against the stone floor. "Sounds like something Fudge would say. Doesn't take any time at all to tell the truth, Minister." The title became an insult, laced with Moody's heavy sarcasm. "And if you want Snape's cooperation – and you do – you'd better act fast. That man has a bolt hole somewhere. A powerful one."

"Indeed," Kingsley agreed. "Keeping Snape's role in this a secret will only result in further confusion and miscommunication." He paused, glancing around at the nearly empty conference room. "Frankly, I expected you to have called all the heads of departments to this meeting. To have provided them all with transcripts of Snape's memories and Dumbledore's manipulations." He leaned back and folded his hands across his stomach. "Have we learned nothing from the Headmaster? About how keeping our own counsel can lead to great tragedy?"

"He's right. As head of the DMLE, I intend to send this information far and wide. To rescind Snape's arrest warrant, and to invite any others with information to share to contact me." Amelia's frank gaze seemed to pierce Scrimgeour's righteous fury. "I will print it in the Prophet as well as every other wizarding media outlet. It is time our press is presented with the truth."

"You can't!" Scrimgeour rose. "If we announce that we don't know where Potter is, it will mean chaos! And wouldn't you be announcing to the Death Eater community that Snape is a traitor to them? That he's been Dumbledore's man for years? You will be placing him in even more danger."

"He's given his permission, you fool." Moody clearly wasn't impressed by the Minister's outburst. "Says it plain as day." He shuffled the paperwork before him to come up with the ridiculous postcard Snape had sent and waved it in the air. "'I am not hiding anymore.' Can't be any clearer than that." He flipped the card over, grinning at the image of a blue police box photographed on a street in Edinburgh. "Bigger on the inside, who knew the Dungeon Bat of Hogwarts had a sense of humor under that greasy hair."

Fists clenched at his side, the Minister lifted his chin and stared down at each of them. "I want Potter found. I will make that my first priority."

"Do what you must, Minister." Amelia tilted her head to one side. "I believe we have a duty to offer Mister Potter our support, yes, but that support should come from a place of strength. Of trustworthiness. Towards that aim, we must secure the ministry even further than we already have. We must look into the notes Auror Dawlish has given us, trace those who have evaded our new wards and protections, and make sure we follow the law in trying and sentencing those we have already caught – I will not have another Sirius Black on my conscience. A strong ministry, seen as an ally, will appeal to both Potter and Snape, Minister."

"Not to mention," Kingsley cleared his throat, his gaze cool and sharp, "give us a banner under which to rally. We will be getting our own house in order. Something that is finally possible because Dumbledore's magics have fallen." He let his stare linger on Scrimgeour's face. "Something you and Arthur Weasley began when you set the new wards, Minister."

"What we don't need is business as usual around here." Moody waved a hand. "A ministry intent on secrecy, on manipulation," he added, "multiplying the mistakes Dumbledore made instead of making a way forward, united, will not endear us to others who would naturally be on our side in this fight. Think about that."

Scrimgeour gathered up his papers. "I will take your comments under advisem*nt. Until I contact you, please refrain from –"

Moody barked a laugh and rose to face him. "Decided to channel Fudge, have you? I don't think you're hearing us, Rufus." He leaned in, one gnarled finger jabbing at Scrimgeour's chest. "Get down off your high horse and work with us. You haven't been voted in as dictator, man. That's something Dumbledore never understood, either. Having power – any kind of power, magical or political – doesn't make you king. And it doesn't remove the mind or will from those you consider beneath you." He banged his staff on the floor. "Open your mouth. Ask for help. Admit you haven't got the answers. Or you'll find another call for a vote of 'no confidence' in this afternoon's Wizengamot session." He straightened. "Oh, you might go down in history, Rufus, but it will be for having one of the shortest terms ever."

Amelia was leaning her chin on one hand, her elbow on the table as she regarded the furious minister. "I've already called the department heads to meet me here. They are probably waiting outside." She cast a tempus spell to hang lazily in the air. "You may join me, if you wish, in putting the truth to them and asking for their help. Or," she smiled, "you may go. And we'll begin this fight without you."

Scrimgeour's internal debate made him look like an angry cat winding up to pounce. After a deep breath, the Minister took hold of himself and, with a regal nod, retook his seat.

Kingsley made himself comfortable in his chair. Sleep and food could wait. Dawlish could hold down the fort in the office. His other task had a built-in time limit, but he'd make sure to take care of it within the next few weeks. He was not going to miss a moment of this.

Chapter 14

Chapter Text

Chapter Fourteen

Harry sat sideways on the swing, the toe of his floppy trainers digging into the dirt of the playground. It had been a bad week at the Dursley's. Dudley had turned six and didn't get everything he wanted for his birthday. Of course, he took it out on Harry. Broke six of his green army men. Tore up two of the coloring pages Harry had hung in his cupboard. Spilled his eggs on the floor at breakfast and blamed it on Harry.

Vernon had yelled, his face getting redder and redder each time until Harry was worried that the man would explode. His big, rough hands grabbed and bruised, shoved Harry around. But it was Petunia Harry had learned to watch out for. Her slaps were brutal, snapping Harry's head back and leaving a hand-shaped mark and a headache that lingered for days. He squinted against the bright sun and hunched his shoulders. Summertime was always the worst.

Harry had looked forward to going to school last fall. Even if it was only half-day infant class. Half a day out of the Dursley house, with other children his own age – it sounded like heaven. Until his aunt got involved.

She'd insisted that Harry and Dudley had to be in the same class. Told the school that Harry was a terrible troublemaker and that only Dudley could keep him in hand. When the teacher had come on her pre-term visit, Aunt Petunia had dressed them both up, sat them on the sofa in the lounge, and warned Harry at the top of her voice that he was to remain silent and still during the entire visit, unless the teacher set him a direct question. He knew it had made him look sullen and angry. He knew the teacher had believed every one of his aunt's lies. And he knew, after only a week at school, that as long as Dudley and he were in the same class, Harry would never have any friends. Or an adult who cared about him.

Still, he'd got to color with whole crayons. To finger paint and play with toys. He got to read the classroom books over and over again when he had free time. To play on the swing-set and monkey bars without being shoved off more than once per week. To sing and recite. And eat snacks. If the Dursleys made up for it by refusing him his usual piece of bread or lump of cold mash for dinner, it was worth it.

Two months from now, Harry would go to primary school all day. And there, he knew from talking with other children, they would set he and Dudley into classes according to the tests they'd taken. The tests had been easy, letters and numbers that Harry had taught himself long ago. But Dudley hated learning and Harry knew he'd done poorly based on how many times he'd punched and hit Harry on the way home on testing day. So, maybe, just maybe, Dudley would be in a different class.

It wasn't only the tests that had Harry hoping for a better year. Something else was happening. Something weird – but wonderful. Over the past few weeks, Harry had been dreaming. Not nasty, scary dreams of tall dark men and ugly green light. Not dreams about a lady's screams and Harry crying. No, these dreams were about a beautiful red-headed Lady with a glowing stick in her hand. Harry thought she might be an angel.

Harry squirmed on his swing, remembering. When the Lady appeared, he felt loved. Cherished. He felt like happiness was normal, not something that happened to him very seldom at all. It wrapped him up like a soft, warm blanket while the Lady whispered sweet words in his ear. Words about home and love, hope and family. About how Harry was the most wanted child ever.

On the nights of his dreams and his days after, Harry's scar didn't hurt. His emotions weren't as stormy. He never once lost his temper or did strange, freaky things that his aunt would punish him for.

The dreams came almost every night, now. That's one reason his punishments today hadn't mattered – Dudley's tantrums and his uncle's shouting and his aunt's evil tongue slid right over Harry like they barely touched him. Harry had a feeling that she was close, now. That, soon, the Lady would appear not in dreams, but in the bright sunlight. She'd hold out her hand and she'd take Harry and fly away with him. And, wherever she took him, Harry would be safe and warm and loved. He wouldn't live in a locked cupboard. He wouldn't have to work day and night and he'd always get enough to eat.

Harry couldn't wait.

The sound of rustling grass had Harry turning sharply. Was it the Lady? Was it time? There – right at the edge of the thin trees that lined the path to the little park he caught the gleam of rose and gold. Of long hair shining in the sun. It was! It was her!

He climbed off the swing and hurried a few steps forward, hands clenched tight in front of him. The figure came closer, gliding from the shadows out onto the short grass and packed dirt. Around him, the birds stopped singing, the hum from the electric pole was silenced, the air became still, heavy. Harry's eyes widened. There was a long, colorful robe and a glowing stick, but -

"Hello, Harry."

No. Harry's face fell, tears leaping to his eyes. He blinked and dashed away the tears, frowning fiercely to try to hold them back. "You're – you're not the Lady."

"No, I'm afraid not."

It was a man. A strange man with long white hair and a beard to match wearing shining robes. The stick seemed like the Lady's, but that was the only similarity. This man didn't look excited to see Harry, or ready to hug him and take him away. This man seemed upset – frustrated. And sad.

"I know she's been coming to see you lately, Harry. And I wish, I truly wish that I could allow that to continue. But your mother's magic cannot be allowed to fight the darkness in your soul."

"The dark – my soul is dark?" Harry whispered, hands on his chest. "I'm dark?"

The man tilted his head and peered down through sparkly half-glasses. "Not completely. But the taint is there. And it is going to be very important going forward. Important to those of us who want to rid the world of evil. So," the man lifted his stick, "I'm afraid the Lady's visits will stop. And I will make sure she does not return."

"No. No, please," Harry choked, his tears coming faster and faster. "You said – she's my mum? The red-haired Lady? Please, I want to see her. I want her to come, to take me away."

"No, Harry." The man's voice turned cold and stern. "Your mother is dead. She cannot save you from your present or your future. That, I'm afraid, has already be written."

"But, the Dursleys. They don't want me. They don't love me. They're –" Harry knew – he knew – that his mum would never want him to be so unhappy. So unloved. "She wouldn't want them to hurt me."

"Now, now, I'm sure there are worse guardians than your family. And please allow that I may know more about what your mother would most desire than you would. After all, I knew her very well." The man straightened, his stick lighting up. "What she would want is for you to be protected here until it is time for you to begin training. Training to be the savior of the Wizarding World. Oh, Harry, believe me," the man shook his head, "you are going to be a very, very important person."

Harry didn't care. He didn't care what would happen when he was old. He didn't care that the man said he would be important. He fell to the dirt, defeated. All he cared about was the Lady – his mum. He just wanted his mum.

"Now, Harry. This is all for the best."

He sighed, defeated, and looked up at the old man.

Apparently, it was what the man had been waiting for. He thrust out his stick and whirled it around in the air, his blue eyes twinkling. "Veto mater magicae. Religius spiritus. Spiritus obedientum."

All the warmth, all of the love and hope that had spread through Harry's spirit since the Lady's dreams began were torn away, leaving him cold, angry, and empty. His tears dried on his cheeks and his hands gripped the dirt, wedging it beneath his broken fingernails. He was alone. Harry had always been alone, and he would always be alone.

"That's right. You must stand on your own two feet, my boy. Rely on no one but yourself. Until we meet. Until we can stand together."

Harry's exhausted gaze was caught and held by the old man.

"Obliviate!"

Andromeda dragged her thoughts from Harry's mind, filling in the boy's wounds with calm, healing energy. The memories were ragged, rough, overflowing with a small boy's longing for warmth, for love, for a mother he barely remembered. Andromeda murmured comforting words, true words that Lily Potter would have said to her boy in the night.

"It's all right, Harry. I'm here. I'll always be here. Nothing can keep us apart. You are loved. You are safe."

As she watched, Harry's stiff posture beneath the covers relaxed, his pale skin warmed, and the teenager took in a slow, deep breath. The returning memories faded into the background, Dumbledore's interference losing its bright, sharp edge, thinning until it became the shadow of a memory. She wouldn't take Harry's returned memories – no, Andromeda would not become her own kind of Dumbledore, wishing only for Harry's peace of mind. Instead, she bled the horror of its jagged edges, turning it from searing newness into something strange that had happened to a small boy many years ago.

After running one more diagnostic, Andromeda set her wand down on the side table and bent her head. Ted's fingers stroked her neck lightly before beginning to work on the knots in her shoulders.

"Mmmm," she sighed.

Behind her, Ted chuckled. "Better?"

"Yes. Both of us are a bit better." She took Ted's hand and drew him to stand at her side. "I think he's managing a normal sleep, now."

Her husband waved his wand and nodded. "That's a relief." With a silent 'Accio' he summoned a Nerve Restorative Potion and then spelled it directly into Harry's system, vanishing the empty bottle. "That should help."

A battle had raged within Harry's body and spirit. The wounds, the spattered shots, the bloody gashes, and fried nerves were like a map of the boy's life. Bones vanished and regrown. A basilisk bite. Dragon fire burns. The slash of a dagger. Harry's mind had been invaded over and over again. Harry's body and soul bore the scars of curses and hexes no child should be subjected to. There were more mundane injuries lining his past as well. Broken bones. Head injuries. Bruises shaped like adult hands.

Deepest of all, there was a silent, empty place where evil had taken hold when Harry had been a baby. It still throbbed, red and raw, where the Horcrux had been yanked out by the roots. Competing magics had ravished him, stealing energy every child needed to grow and every wizard needed to stabilize his control. Andromeda renewed her silent pledge to heal this child and felt her husband's matching vow wrap all three in love, in hope, in the nurture of family.

Andromeda shifted to the right and Ted squeezed onto the small sofa beside her. His gaze never left the sleeping child. "Such a heavy weight he's been carrying."

"The weight of the world," Andromeda answered. She sighed. "Lily would be … extremely angry."

"Understatement. Angry gingers always scared me." Ted sent her a quick smile. "Angry mothers, doubly so."

"Don't think I've forgotten what Dumbledore did to our Dora." Pinning a 'trust' geas to their daughter had interfered with her natural growth almost as profoundly as the fool's meddling had hurt Harry. "I may not be a ginger, but I'd dearly love to dig the man up, resurrect him, and kill him over and over again."

Ted held her hand in both of his. "My dear, may I suggest that, in this house where we've gathered some of the most injured by that … old man's manipulation, that you and I remain steady and stalwart. Remus' curse brings his protective nature to the forefront – his anger would rival Lily's own at the cub's treatment let alone his wife's hurt. The children," Ted motioned towards Harry with his chin, "including Hermione and Ronald, are young, their emotions volatile. And, speaking of gingers, Molly especially wears her heart on her sleeve." He pressed Andromeda's knuckles to his lips. "Our oaths as healers may assist us in keeping ourselves – and our guests – on an even keel."

She nodded. "I agree. They all need safety and steadiness right now." She leaned against Ted, their connection strong and comforting. The window at the end of Harry's bed was lightening, announcing that the dawn of a new day was not far off. "I take it Remus has returned from his visit?"

"He has. Severus has invited us all to take up residence in his safe house." He continued when she would have lifted her head from his shoulder to argue, "After Harry has recovered, of course. Remus and Dora and the Weasleys will take lunch with him today. I believe Arthur may be free to join them and add some insight on the ministry's actions."

Andromeda relaxed. "I believe we should leave the decision to join with Severus up to Harry. Harry hasn't been allowed to make many of his own decisions in his life. He's been yanked and pulled here and there, shoved into others' strategies, commanded to obey, and told there is no other choice. Told that others knew better. Healing him is just the first step, Ted. Treating him like a person, a wizard with a good mind and heart and spirit must be our next. He deserves respect. Not because he is The Boy Who Lived, but because he is any young man, any person."

She felt his agreement humming in his chest. "Severus was not kind to the boy," Ted cautioned. "He cannot brush that aside with the memories of Dumbledore's interference."

"He cannot. But I believe there could be healing there, too. Eventually."

"Eventually," Ted echoed with a sigh.

Chapter 15

Chapter Text

Chapter Fifteen

Voldemort did not indulge his vanity often. After all, what had he to indulge in recently? A wraith, an unbodied spirit, barely hanging onto a wretched, painful existence due more to his years of preparation rather than any magical strength or superiority. He had been reanimated for more than two years, now, and had nearly gotten used to his eerie form. He peered into the mirror. Yes, should have expected something to go wrong with the spell and potion. He'd had to rely on Pettigrew, after all. A simpering coward with a history of shadowing more powerful, more skilled wizards in order to survive. He allowed a moment's rage to color his thoughts bright red before he settled his spirit. It was a marvel that Lord Voldemort's return to physical form had been half this successful.

Of course, Pettigrew had been the first to escape from Malfoy's manor and find his way back to his Master's side. The pale slash of his mouth pulled to one side. Thankfully, the rat had not been the last to return. The meeting Voldemort had called this morning of his most trusted slaves would shore up any faltering courage – and tempt his Death Eaters with the taste of their coming victory. At least with his Animagus form, Pettigrew was not precisely useless – Voldemort had sent him off to do some of the dirtiest of his dirty work.

He stepped back, examining himself in the full-length mirror. Yes, it was a fearsome image. Skin, stark white. His face reptilian, hairless, with a narrow flickering tongue, piercing red eyes, and two nostrils where his patrician nose had been. He lifted his arms. Skeletal, with long, narrow fingers, his gauntness remained hidden by the voluminous robes he'd taken to wearing. He had taken on more of his familiar's manner and form than he'd imagined. He rarely felt cold and became drowsy at the sensation of too much heat. He preferred simple meals of the rarest meat accompanied by the darkest wines and cool, crisp water.

Horrible. Inhuman. No mere man or wizard, but a being out of nightmares or warning tales told to children. Voldemort smiled, satisfied. He did not mind those descriptions. Inspiring terror and dread had become so much easier with this form. Besides, he reminded himself, his days of seeking followers through charisma and beauty, through his effortless mastery of spell-casting and his deep knowledge of the darkest arts had been over for some time.

He ran one hand across his bare skull. He had been beautiful once. His face screwed up into an ugly scowl. Handsome and tall, every girl's dream of a prince coming to sweep her off her feet as his hated, muggle father had done to poor Merope. Oh, Tom Riddle had learned how susceptible even powerful witches and wizards could be to a pleasing form, arresting words, and promises to fulfill their deepest desires.

His eyes narrowed. The need for pretty speeches ended when he'd created the Dark Mark. When he assured the arrogant purebloods that, tied irrevocably together – for protection, of course – they could multiply their power. From then on, their souls and magic were bound, submissive. And Lord Voldemort was no longer interested in telling others what they wanted to hear. Or wasting his time and effort on something as weak as persuasion. Lord Voldemort demanded obedience.

He turned from the mirror to return to his desk. What had once been Dolores Umbridge's bedroom suite had been turned into his inner sanctum, his command post. The bed had been transfigured from the sweltering mass of silks and pillows to a thin mattress laced with slight warming spells. The woman's tasteless decorations had been obliterated, leaving comforting stone walls and a floor laid with one hand-woven carpet of the deepest green. Nagini's basket sat beside the open French doors that led to a wide balcony now walled and roofed in glass and filled with plants from her native land.

Voldemort's wide desk was neat, uncluttered. His impressive memory served him well, allowing him to do away with the heaps of notes and missives that others would require. Reports that came to him were read and destroyed, leaving only the necessary maps and messages for his most trusted followers lying on the polished wood. There would be no spying here. No intercepted messages for those he contacted. His Dark Mark had made that type of interference impossible for him, unlike his enemies.

He lifted his head at the knock on his door. Silently, he released the wards and invited his followers inside.

Followers. Such as they were.

Lucius Malfoy, his white hair straggling across his shoulders, his face lined and lacking all color. Dolohov. Selwyn. Travers. Nott. The ruffian, Scabior. Twin Carrows. Rodolphus Lestrange. Umbridge. Prison couldn't hold his followers. Not these chosen few, nor the others gathered in secure locations, reporting on foolish people who chose to oppose him. Voldemort seethed at the loss of Greyback, but the werewolf's unbound hunger and violence had already robbed him of Bellatrix's mad skills and Goyle's talent for violence. Let loose by the release of Dumbledore's spells, the werewolves would terrorize both wizard and muggle world, even without Voldemort's leadership. Yes, they were still his, in the way that every dark creature that killed and maimed ultimately did Voldemort's work.

Hands folded across his chest; Voldemort considered Lucius through half-closed eyes. His months in Azkaban had done damage – but the loss of his wife and heir had ripped away the man's smug arrogance. Lucius had had no knowledge of the bindings that had kept his wife biddable. Neither had Voldemort, he admitted to himself. Who knew that the formidable old fool had considered Narcissus Malfoy some kind of restraining leash on her husband and son? Worse, Dumbledore could have set Narcissus in Lucius' path in their youth at Hogwarts, sure that, in the end, the woman would betray her husband – or her husband's Dark Lord – to protect any weakling children.

Whatever the reason, Voldemort had a plan, a way to use Lucius' bitter rage, his wounded manhood, to fuel his agenda. He resisted a smile. Tying Lucius' pursuit of vengeance to Voldemort's own highest priority – capturing Potter – would ensure both wizards' victory.

Fingertips resting lightly on the desk, Voldemort spoke. "We have many of our friends back. For that, we can be grateful." He bent his head towards Lucius and the others. "However, we have also lost many. Many who had been faithful servants. We do not take the time to grieve in the midst of battle. Oh, but our enemies will pay. They will pay dearly."

"They have hidden themselves well, our foes. Those who dare to stand against us. Even now, they gather in secret, mimicking our own actions, the actions of their natural betters. Oh, how the wheel of time has turned, my friends." His smile faded to a scowl. "The hypocrites. They've secured those we seek behind powerful wards while they attempt to turn others to stand with them. They use the Fidelius Charm bound by powerful family – pureblood family magics that so many had previously turned their backs on or dismissed as too dark. Well," he chuckled, "we shall teach them that we are their true masters in those magics, in all magics, won't we?"

Agreeing murmurings were accompanied by bows and curtsies.

"Dolores, my dear, what can you tell us?"

Her smile simpered as she flicked a proud glance at the others. He'd called on her first, after all. Rewarding her loyalty with this tiny gift was simple enough.

"The boy's owl is already distinctive in both the wizarding world and the natural environment of Britain. While at Hogwarts, doing your will, my Lord," she bent her head, "I placed several tracking charms on the bird. Some have broken, but at least three are still active. When the bird leaves its hidden place, we shall know it."

"Did you not track the creature from Potter's muggle home? Or was that too much to ask?" Lucius growled.

Dolores stiffened. "Of course, I tracked it – to the Burrow. That was not much of a revelation. We knew Potter was most likely to fly to those blood traitors, you fool –"

Voldemort interrupted. "And the state of the boy's muggle home?"

Scabior fidgeted. "My team investigated, my Lord. The muggles are gone. The room we know the boy used was destroyed. We tested the blood found there – it was Potter's." His ruddy cheeks paled. "None of my team did it, I can assure you of that. We know my Lord's orders."

Nodding, Voldemort waved a hand in dismissal. "No. It was a clumsy attempt at misdirection. I am sure the boy's keepers devised the destruction as a way to throw us off their scent." Fools. Perhaps the ministry would believe the boy to be kidnapped, even killed, but Voldemort was smarter than that.

The rough-clad man breathed a sigh of relief.

Voldemort turned back to the loathsome toad of a woman. "Go on. When the bird left the Burrow?"

"We tracked her south, my Lord. But a Fidelius snapped into place after a few miles. A powerful one."

Lucius banged one fist on the desk and stalked away.

"Calmly, Lucius," Voldemort advised, a dark bite in his voice. Ignoring the wizard's drama, Voldemort continued. "Powerful wards somewhere south of Devon. There are a few wizarding families I suspect." He pointed a long finger at the witch. "As soon as the bird leaves the protection of whatever wards Potter is hiding behind, take her. Go. Prepare your team. No excuse will be accepted for your failure."

Umbridge pulled in her neck like a turtle, a self-satisfied gleam in her eye, before she hurried away.

"And what of our spy." Voldemort turned to the Carrows expectantly.

"Snape? Coward is hiding," Alecto snarled, her ugly face made even less attractive if possible.

A silent Crucio reduced the witch to a writhing mess. Voldemort reined in his temper and turned to her brother. "Not Snape. He is mine, as he has always been mine." Oh, yes. Severus Snape had torn himself from Voldemort's hold, somehow reclaiming his soul from a bond that should not have been breakable. The wound in Voldemort's spirit was raw, a gaping, oozing hole where his trusted spy had once claimed the spot nearest his heart. Severus would not be forgiven. But, alas, vengeance must wait. He smiled to himself. The wait would make the wizard's utter destruction that much sweeter. "Leave Severus to me. I mean," he flicked his gaze from one twin to the other, "the other spy."

Amycus licked his lips. "Safe. For now. Says he'll report in when he can."

"I shall not jog his elbow." Voldemort tilted his head in acceptance. "Our spy is one of our greatest resources. And vital to our undertaking." His gaze lingered on Lucius' stiff back. "Now, we come to the … crux of the matter. Removing Harry Potter from his protection. From those who would keep the boy locked up." His tone grew overly sincere, mockingly caring. "Thankfully, the boy will not be alone. He cannot possibly be separated from his little school friends without damage to his lonely soul." He waved a finger back and forth. "Those children have been coddled, groomed, brainwashed by Dumbledore and his minions all these years. We have a duty to rescue them, don't we? The children?"

He turned, circling the desk, forcing the others to step back to watch him. Of course, they stared, eager for more, for a hint of this new strategy. "The Weasley boy and girl. The mudblood Granger. Disappointingly weak Mister Longbottom. The lovely Miss Lovegood. They followed Mister Potter to the Department of Mysteries, did they not? Children pressed into service, children on the frontlines of a battle they could not possibly understand. Who would do such a thing? These supposed light wizards have put wizarding children at risk over and over again! Have hidden behind these young ones as if they are shields." He folded his hands, shaking his head. "And, now, Lucius' son, stolen away from his father's strong, guiding hand. I believe these children have been gathered around the Potter boy. Forced to train for war. It is abominable." He met the gazes of each of his followers. "They need us, my friends. Magical children have been kept from a proper wizarding upbringing. Taught only the pablum those at Hogwarts deemed acceptable. Hidden behind walls and wards not of their own making. And they are expected to die in the place of their adult 'protectors'."

Voldemort spun on his heel, facing Lucius. "No wizarding child should be so thoroughly cut off from those who could open the magical world to him." He placed one hand on Lucius' shoulder. "My friend, I believe it is time to liberate Mister Potter – and the other children. To protect them with our power. To show them the truth of our magical heritage that has been denied them."

"Draco – you think he's with Potter?" Lucius' eyes were rimmed with red, his lips white with tension as he spat out the boy's name. "You believe my wife took him, took him there?"

Voldemort met Lucius' fierce stare. He'd taken the bait quite quickly. "But, of course. Where else? Where else but into the very heart of our opponents' stronghold? Draco would be a powerful asset, but, unfortunately, is more likely to become another child-warrior, another pawn standing at Potter's side. A target – a victim. "

Lucius had taken one step towards the door before Voldemort stepped into his path. "Going somewhere?"

"My Lord." Lucius bowed. "I must go. I cannot allow Draco to be … to become cannon fodder for the other side. Please. Let me search the area. Research those wizarding families with estates in the south. I can work with the Umbridge woman. Please," he fell to one knee, head bent, hair falling forward. "I will find them for you."

Voldemort laid one hand on Lucius' head. "I know you will, my friend. And, when you do, we will take the children. Free them. They are our future, the future of the wizarding world. They should be cherished, not placed directly in harm's way." He raised his once again loyal follower. "Lucius, my friend. Find them. We shall have no mercy on any adult who tries to stop us."

Chapter 16

Chapter Text

Chapter Sixteen

Harry floated to the surface, eyes closed, his body buoyant and relaxed. The lake was warm and calm, and the bright sun above it drew him upwards. As his face broke the surface, he drew in a breath and opened his eyes. He wasn't surprised to find a ceiling above him, white and pale rose, with elegant scrolling around the edges. Or light blankets holding him gently against the soft mattress.

"Hey, good morning."

He turned, a smile already on his face. "Morning, Remus." He would always be happy to see Remus. He took in the wizard's grin, the easy way he lay across the small couch, one knee bent, foot propped on the opposite armrest, gripping a thick white mug. Harry shoved himself upright, leaning against the headboard. "You didn't stay here all night, did you?"

After another sip of – Harry sniffed – coffee, Remus shook his head. "I took over a little while ago when Andromeda headed off for a shower." He shifted and set his mug on a side table. "Feel okay? Headache?"

Harry did a quick mental assessment. "Not a headache, exactly. It feels more like I've been asleep for a week." He stretched, life flowing back into his arms and legs. "I guess my head is a bit … cloudy."

"'Cloudy?' That's an odd description. You expecting a storm?"

Ducking his head, Harry rubbed at his scar. "Maybe. Or maybe one just passed." He dropped his hand. "It's just – it feels full. Full of memories that weren't there before." Or, maybe, the memories had been there all along, waiting, eager to escape their chains. Harry closed his eyes, a new mental clarity chasing down facts from his studies, snippets of conversations overheard, summer reading and odd sentences from books Hermione had shoved his way over the years. "Obliviate doesn't destroy memories. It destroys the chemical links inside the brain that tie memories together." He looked up. "That makes sense. Otherwise there would be brain damaged wizards and witches filling up St. Mungo's."

A low growl shook through the room, Remus' lips pulling back. "It was brain damage, Harry. Assault. If Dumbledore had been a muggle, it would have been like he'd injected us with drugs or took a spanner to our heads, time after time. Don't let the textbook explanations take away the horror of what he did."

Harry shivered. "Maybe I need to take away a bit of the horror right now, Remus." Dumbledore's figure – the tip of his wand pointed at Harry's face – loomed up from behind better thoughts. "Andromeda told me my emotions were messed up. Trapped? Behind some natural Occlumency?" He shook his head. "Is that why I'm not shouting down the rafters and," he lifted his hands and let them drop onto the blanket, "generally furious?"

Remus' own anger seemed very near the surface. "I don't think so. From what little she had time to tell me, Andromeda believes your natural outlook on life is, well, a lot more contemplative, more thoughtful, than your behavior at school would lead us to believe. Part of Dumbledore's strategy, apparently, was to train you to jump in with little provocation."

Harry didn't think Remus had that exactly right. Dumbledore might have tied Harry's magic up in knots, but Harry wasn't as impulsive as everyone kept accusing him of being. Ron was far more likely to run off in all directions. Hermione had a lot of confidence in her own magic, her brilliance, to overcome obstacles. Harry had almost always asked for help. With that bloody Tournament, for example. He'd talked things over with Ron and Hermione. With Neville. It hadn't been Harry's idea to go back in time to save Sirius in third year. He'd tried to get Snape to act before he and his friends rushed off to the Department of Mysteries. His eyes narrowed. McGonagall. Lockhart. Remus. They'd all refused to believe Harry about needing help at one time or another. Whether that had been interference from Dumbledore or their natural dismissal of a child's strange stories – he shrugged. Maybe it didn't matter anymore.

"Maybe that explains the Sorting Hat," Harry mumbled.

"Come again?" Remus shifted forward.

Harry half-smiled. "The Sorting Hat. It wanted to put me in Slytherin."

Remus' mouth fell open.

"I talked it out of it." Harry wondered – nor for the first time – what the Sorting Hat had seen inside his mind. Had it seen Voldemort there? Recognized the Horcrux? Or had it seen through Dumbledore's control? Had its assessment of Harry been of Harry's true self? What had it said? Hidden desires to prove himself. A good mind. Greatness. He still didn't want greatness – not fame and fortune. His thoughts tumbled. Perhaps his definition of greatness needed some work.

Remus eventually found his voice. "Slytherin? Why? And why did you talk it out of putting you in Slytherin? You couldn't know much about the houses on your first night at Hogwarts."

Why had he? "Hagrid. He told me that dark wizards were from Slytherin. That the one who'd killed my parents was one of them."

"That's an interesting tidbit to share with a boy who's just been told he's a wizard."

Harry considered his trip to Diagon Alley with Hagrid. To Gringotts. The crowd of people who wanted to shake his hand in the Leaky Cauldron. Ollivander's remarks about his wand. "Looking back, there were a lot of 'interesting tidbits' shared with me while I was with Hagrid. Thoughtless remarks made to an eleven-year-old kid whose parents had been murdered. Just how far did Dumbledore's power stretch, Remus?"

Remus sighed. Harry could almost watch the anger in his eyes recede. Remus might be angry, but he was also intelligent.

"We have to ask those questions eventually. Examine the extent of his power. But, you're right. How far can we take this blame? How far should we?" A muscle in Remus' jaw jumped. "What Dumbledore did – as much as I resent it, as much as I hate the wizard for his arrogant selfishness, for the damage he's done to you, to Dora, to so many others - I don't believe his intent was to hurt us."

A memory leaped to Harry's mind. A life-sized chess set. Three eleven-year-olds looked like tiny tots compared to the looming stone figures. Ron, bright red hair above a firsties' cherub face, climbed up onto a knight, an eager light in his eyes at the challenge. Just a game of chess – should be simple for a strategist like him. And then, all of sudden, it wasn't simple anymore. The Queen's huge sword moved, the knight exploded, and Ron crashed to the board, huge blocks of stone cascading around him. Harry remembered the way his friend's body flinched as a sharp stone fell against his cheek, leaving a trail of blood. Harry swallowed thickly. Ron could have been killed. It was a wonder they weren't all killed.

"He hurt us anyway," Harry replied evenly. "Over and over again. He hurt me when he left me at the Dursleys. He hurt my friends by placing ridiculous 'challenges' before us, hoping to train us up for battle, I'm sure. He hurt Sirius when he didn't insist on a trial or help him clear his name at the ministry. He hurt Tonks – Dora – by binding her. It didn't need to be his intent for it to happen." Harry had been tripped up by his best intentions before. Apparently, age and experience didn't remove a person's capacity for short-sightedness.

Remus flinched. "I'm not trying to excuse him –"

"I know that." Harry threw the covers from his legs and sat sideways on the bed. "But I don't want to keep chewing on his. Talking about Dumbledore's intentions. Examining every last thing he did or didn't do to prepare us – to prepare me – to face Voldemort." He took a deep breath and let it out. "I appreciate your thoughts. And I know you're upset that you weren't there for me. But, looking backward?" Harry caught and held Remus' gaze. "Yes, maybe I need to deal with Dumbledore's … assaults. Maybe that would be the healthy thing to do." He allowed a spark of his anger to color his voice. "I don't particularly care. I survived. And, frankly, it's none of your business how I deal with it."

Harry's words impacted Remus like a volley of arrows. Remus straightened. "I appreciate your honesty."

"I don't –" Harry pressed his lips together, frustrated with himself. "I'm sorry if I hurt you. But, right now, truth is important."

Remus swallowed hard. "We all could use a little more truth. Here's a promise. I won't lie to you – I won't refuse to answer any question you ask me - not any more. No one here will keep information from you. You can only make decisions going forward if you have access to all the facts." He took a deep breath, calming himself. "One more word about Dumbledore and then I'll stop. The word I'd like you to consider in thinking about his actions is ruthless. He was ruthless in his pursuit of what he believed was the Only Way of Defeating Voldemort. He could see nothing else. Not you. Not me. Not as human beings – or," his eyes narrowed, "partially human beings."

Harry heard Remus' capital letters, the headlines. "Ruthless. That sounds about right." Harry had believed Dumbledore cared about him. Really cared about him. He'd believed the Headmaster had kept a lot of things from Harry because he didn't want to overburden a child. Because he wanted Harry to be free to make his own decisions. He rubbed at his forearms as the icy curtain floated around him again. "Dumbledore didn't want to risk anyone making any decisions that would screw up his plans. That might give Voldemort a chance to win. I can almost understand that."

"Almost. But we plan to change that attitude immediately," Remus added. "In his mind, Dumbledore knew best. He could see the farthest; his wisdom and experience trumped our free will every time. While I agree that we need a leader, a general, that leader cannot become a dictator, no matter how good his intentions."

Harry looked away. He was destined to be that leader. Or – he tilted his head, considering – was he? Thoughts tumbled. Rearranged themselves. History had never been his strongest class at Hogwarts, but he remembered smuggling books from the school library at primary school. He'd watched muggle war films at the Dursleys from a hidden spot peering through the banister. Last year, he'd gone to an actual theatre for the first time. The movie, Independence Day, had intrigued him. Taught him that leaders came in all shapes and sizes. And ages. They had different roles. Not everyone was President Whitmore. Someone had to be General Grey. Captain Hiller. And the computer guy, David. He snorted. He reminded Harry of Hermione.

Prime Ministers. Presidents. Generals. Strategists. Spies. Small strike teams. Huge invasion fleets. Space armadas. His friends – Ron, Hermione, Neville, the Weasley twins, Ginny, Luna – they fell into roles within his mind as if they'd been made for them. He glanced back at Remus. Thought of Mister and Missus Tonks. Dora. Kingsley. McGonagall. Flitwick. Mister and Missus Weasley. Their strengths. Personalities. Weaknesses. Maybe Dumbledore had it all wrong. Maybe trying to organize the Order of the Phoenix the same way Voldemort organized his followers was a mistake. One leader, pulling everyone's strings. Hoarding information. Reserving his true strategies and plans for himself alone. Maybe Harry's 'Order' could be built another way.

A movement at the edge of his vision caught his eye. Across the room, a shaft of light streamed in through an open window. Hedwig stared at him from the perch next to it, wide awake, her feathers ruffled. She clacked her beak and raised her wings, leaving them extended for a few seconds. With the rosy light reflecting from her feathers she seemed huge and intimidating. A creature from another world. Inside, Harry felt their connection expand and realized Hedwig was making him a promise. A promise of safety, of devotion – a reminder that she wasn't just a post owl. Harry was hers. Her wizard. Her friend. And Hedwig was his warrior.

He couldn't help smiling at her.

"Harry?"

"Just thinking."

"It's okay." Remus withdrew back in his chair. "This is a lot to take in. And we've barely scratched the surface. Ambry?"

Harry turned back at the puff of displaced air. A house elf stood at Remus' elbow.

"Breakfast for two, please, Ambry," Remus ordered. "And please let the healers know that Harry is awake."

"Wait – " Harry stood, relieved to find his legs ready to take his weight. "Breakfast is fine," he added quickly, reassuring the hesitant elf, "but I'm not up for more company right now. Let me eat and have a shower and get dressed. And, I think I want to see Ron and Hermione, first. If that's okay."

Remus shot him a look. "I should have asked. Yes, that's another thing we should talk about. How me – or any of us – ordering you around is going to stop. You're just about an adult." He snorted. "An argument could be made that you've been an adult for quite a while now."

"You're not wrong." Harry straightened his shoulders and met Remus' gaze without flinching. "I've been an adult for a long time, Remus. Especially since the graveyard. Since Pettigrew killed Cedric. That's when everything changed."

"It did." Remus was grim. "Or, it should have."

Harry paused. Maybe he should try that honesty thing Remus was talking about. "Some people will always see me as a child. Some will look at me and only see James – some Lily. A baby. The Boy Who Lived. A chess piece. A Gryffindor. A weapon. Something in their way." His eyes narrowed as his thoughts turned inward. "I do the same things. I saw certain people only as enemies. As obstacles. And maybe they are – but they are people, too." He tugged down on his t-shirt. "I heard something in muggle school once. They had an author come in to read to the class and answer questions. She told us that even the worst villain is the hero of his own story. Do you think that's true? Even of Voldemort?"

Remus blew out a breath. "That's, that's pretty deep for me, Harry. But I get your point. We all saw Dumbledore as our hero, infallible, when he was just one person, after all." He jerked his chin at the still motionless elf. "If Harry doesn't mind if I join him for breakfast, just the breakfast, then, Ambry."

"I'd like that." Harry motioned towards the door. "Bathroom?"

Remus pointed him in the right direction and Harry hurried off.

Staring up at the showerhead, eyes wide open, the falling water felt like sharp pebbles stinging Harry's skin. Thoughtful. Contemplative. Remus had suggested those adjectives would describe a Harry Potter who hadn't been subjected to Dumbledore's control. Harry agreed. He added some of his own. Quiet. Watchful. Careful. With a fierce hatred of bullies. His childhood at the Dursleys had taught him well. Maybe his dad had been loud and brash, confident. Maybe his mum had been a friend to everyone, leaving those around her with happy memories of their encounters. And, maybe, if Harry had been raised by his parents, he might have naturally become the boy Dumbledore made him to be.

But, he hadn't. His parents had been murdered in front of him. His mind and magic had been invaded by Voldemort's Horcrux. He'd been called a freak, slapped around, tormented by Dudley and his gang, abused and neglected and forced to live in a cupboard. Of course, he was watchful. Of course, he'd been quiet. He'd learned not to talk back, to endure unbalanced punishments, and to expect no one to be his friend.

Of course, Harry couldn't stomach the thought of a bully – like Voldemort – hurting people that he loved.

Free will. Was there even such a thing? There had been a prophecy with Harry's name on it in the Department of Mysteries. His mum poured out her magic to protect him and Dumbledore smothered it with his own. Voldemort stuck a fragment of his soul into Harry. None of those were Harry's choices, but they'd led him here. To this moment. To freedom.

The Horcrux was gone. The image of his mum glowing against the dusty boards of Dudley's second bedroom rose up and filled him with warmth. She'd wanted to fight for him. For him, Harry. Not for the future slayer of Voldemort, or the hope of the wizarding world. Just for Harry.

It was time for Harry to do what he'd talked to Remus about when he'd walked beneath the Tonks' motto. To figure out who Harry Potter was. Brave Gryffindor. Cunning Slytherin. Hybrid of both. Maybe his was a different kind of bravery – one that didn't rush in, unprepared, but, instead, made very sure that he was prepared to win his battles.

He closed his eyes. No matter what Dumbledore had done, the prophecy was still in place. Harry had a lot of training to do. It was time to take both parts of himself, the Gryffindor and the Slytherin, and put them together. To embrace his power, his legacy, and his responsibilities. And it was time for the adults around him to stop getting in his way.

Remus was right. Harry should start making his own decisions. After a cursory wash and rinse, Harry stepped out of the shower and met determined green eyes in the mirror. He wondered where he'd be sorted now.

Chapter 17

Chapter Text

Chapter Seventeen

After breakfast, Remus led Harry around a corner and down a long hallway to a small study tucked into a nook between a bedroom and a narrow back staircase. He gestured through the open door to the few bookshelves, an L-shaped desk, and a small sitting area near a floor-to-ceiling window. Before Harry could step inside, Remus touched his shoulder to stop him.

"Take a look at this, first."

The bedroom beside the study was smaller than the one Harry had awoken in. It held a wide single bed, wardrobe, and a chest of drawers. The curtains and bedcover were light and airy, multi-colored like thin patchwork quilts. When Harry looked closer, he realized the colors were changing, the patterns moving across the surface of the material in a slow dance. A fancy top hat covered in purple netting that was perched on one of the bedposts gave him the last clue he needed.

"This was Tonks – I mean Dora's room? When she was little?"

The fond expression on Remus' face answered him. "Her teen-aged room, actually. Placed here at the other end of the house from her parents' room by mutual agreement. The room they put you in last night is a sickroom. The walls and bedding are laced with monitoring charms, even the bath won't give you a moment's real privacy. Dora thought you might want to move in here – for as long as you stay. And, don't worry," Remus grinned, "we can change the colors to something more manly, if you wish."

Harry chuckled and stepped inside. The room felt warm. Happy. He stepped to the window and brushed one hand down the length of curtain. The sunlight brightened the muted colors until they looked like they were sprinkled with jewels. "Don't change a thing. I love it." He turned back to find Tonks standing at Remus' side, tucked up under his arm. "Thank you."

She laughed and hurried across the room to hug him. "I'm glad you like it. I will warn you, though," she held him at arm's length, frowning," there might be some girly things leftover in the drawers. Or the cupboard in the bath."

Harry widened his eyes comically. "Oh, dear. My poor innocent self will be appalled." He made a face, one finger to his chin. "Although the blackmail material might just make it worth the shock. Any old diaries laying about? Stories of pub crawls that ended badly? Had to chew your arm off to get away from the bloke you picked up –"

"Hey, now!" She gave him a clip on the shoulder. "Cheeky bugger." Her expression darkened, her hair drawing up from her shoulders into a short pink bob. "I'm sorry about you missing the wedding. For some reason," she rolled her eyes, "we decided you were too busy or in too much danger or something stupid to invite you. Oh!" Her frown was dramatic. "While I'm thinking of it, don't you dare start with the whole 'Missus Lupin' or 'Madam' or any other ridiculous thing. I've always been Tonks to you and I always will be. All right?" She jerked her head towards her husband. "Remus and Tonks. Has a nice ring to it."

"Yeah, all right." Warmth curled in Harry's gut.

"So, want to move in? I think Hedwig's perch would fit here." Remus stood beside the window, one arm stretched out. "And, frankly, your lack of clothing is shocking so we'll have to make sure to get more to fill up Dora's old wardrobe or it might feel unfulfilled." He leaned closer. "Girls, you know. Who needs more than two pairs of shoes?"

Tonks turned her nose into a short elephant's trunk and blew it at them. "Thank heavens Molly and Hermione arrived to give me some female companionship that was not my mother." She slid an arm around Harry's shoulders. "Seriously, this end of the house is pretty quiet. It's far away from dad's exam rooms, has its own bath through there – small but adequate." She pointed to the door next to the head of the bed. "The study can be accessed behind that tapestry. And," she spun in place, lifting her arms to the ceiling, "you'll never guess what else."

Harry scanned the room again. Four walls. One window. Door to the bath, another leading to the hall. Tapestry. He glanced over at Remus and let his wand fall into his hand. "Revelio," he tried. Nothing. He closed his eyes and let his magic reach out, let it lay across his skin like it had back at the Dursleys.

The headrush left him reeling.

"You okay?" Remus had a firm grip on one shoulder when Harry opened his eyes.

"Is it always like that?" Every hair on Harry's body seemed to be standing up.

Tonks' frown was epic. "It feels different, now. Magic. We've got that in common I think." Her lips twisted. "It feels very present, yeah?" She laid one hand on her chest. "Like it wants to explode. That's because it was stifled for so long. Mum and I have had a few training sessions – she said she expected to do something like that with me when I was a teen, living in this room. Teen wizards and witches, coming into their power sometime around puberty – quit giggling, Remus! – can easily overwhelm their spells if they don't learn to discipline their magic."

"Since your magic, especially your defensive magic, has always been above average, Mister Performed a Corporeal Patronus at Age Thirteen," Remus rubbed a hand through Harry's hair, "we're all both excited and terrified about your potential now. Which brings us to Dora's surprise."

Tonks winked and then lifted her wand to point at the ceiling. "Scalae Camera."

The movement of her wand reminded Harry of stirring a cauldron, but the magic – the barely visible glow of the spell - swept upward, becoming a thick-branched tree, growing roots in the floorboards below into a silver-grey trunk that reached to the ceiling. All along the stretch of the trunk, steps and a handrail grew from the tree itself and a large patch of ceiling dissolved into clouds that hid anything above.

"Come on."

Tonks scrambled up the steps, her casual outfit of fitted jeans and a flowing, embroidered blouse that resembled the top half of a witch's robe made sense, Harry realized. Not just for an Auror at work who didn't want to constantly trip over long skirts, but for any witch who wanted to be able to move quickly. Sometimes he wondered about the wizarding world. Talk about stuck in the Victorian era. He followed her up, Remus bringing up the rear.

The attic room was huge. It had a pitched ceiling and was dotted with dormer windows up and down its length which must run the entire length of this wing of the Tonks' house, Harry figured. But it wasn't the size that had his heart beating hard with excitement – it was its contents. From the practice dummies, to the potions lab, to the bookshelves, the dueling area set around with wards and shields, and the obvious signs of hexes miscast and cauldrons destroyed – it was clearly a Training Room. And just what Harry and his friends needed.

"Brilliant!" Harry exclaimed.

"We thought you might like it." Remus' eyes glittered with pleasure. "In fact, Dora and I, along with Charlie and Andromeda, intend to put you and your friends through your paces up here. If you'd like."

"Harry?"

Hermione's voice emerged from the room below.

"Bloody brilliant!"

Ron's exclamation barely beat him up to the attic room, his loud, clomping footsteps familiar to Harry from visits to the Burrow. His red hair burst through the clouds, wide eyes and sturdy frame following. Hermione was right on his heels.

"So this is what Charlie was talking about." Ron, hands on his hips, surveyed the Training Room.

"Potions, too." Hermione hadn't lingered by the stairs but was poking into the laboratory's corners. "We never considered adding potions to our studies in the DA." She frowned, meeting Harry's gaze. "Rather short-sighted of us, wasn't it?"

"It couldn't be because we'd all been primed to hate and reject anything associated with a certain bat-like Potions' Master, now could it?" Ron grumbled.

"'Primed?'" Harry sought out Remus for an answer.

The wizard sighed. "Yes. Primed. Frankly, Harry, I'm saving a stunning anvil of information to drop on your head later. And, no," he held up one finger, "I haven't let Ron in on anything. I'm sure you've all figured out that your friend Ron is a chessmaster that could have given Albus a run for his money. Now that the Weasley family is out from under the geassa and binding spells of our former headmaster, Ron's going to be way ahead of the rest of us in strategic planning." Remus focused on Ron. "As a favor to me, please wait until you three have had a chance to watch some Pensieved memories that I've acquired before making any future plans about that greasy Potions' Master." He shook his head. "And with that last cryptic tidbit, Dora and I – and your mum and brother, Ron - have plans for lunch. We'll leave you three to yourselves."

Tonks joined Remus by the stairs. "I trust you lot to know what to do with these things. The dummies have difficulty settings built it – you'll probably want to start off low. Oh, and there are extras in the cupboards at the end there." She pointed. "Don't worry about anything you accidentally destroy – the wards up here were built to dispel any excess magic. My mum is a witch with shield spells. And this -" she flicked her wand at a strange device that looked like a roll-top desk with switches and buttons, "- is how you program them and set the room to clean up."

Ron hurried over, head bent, to touch the switches. "Seems pretty straightforward." His eyes were bright when he looked up. "This is gonna be good."

Tonks' giggles echoed from the rafters. Before she'd moved out of sight beneath the cloud cover, her' hair was long, black, and had a fringe. She shouted down to Remus, "He could do with a fringe, don't you think??"

Remus' laugh was loud and long.

Harry, Hermione, and Ron were left in the silence. They stood close, looking at each other, glancing back and forth. Harry wanted to say something. To thank Ron for coming to get him. To tell them about the strength of his Occlumency and explain why he'd been withdrawn. Distant. He wanted to give them a chance to tell him about what had changed with them both since Dumbledore's magic faded.

He had no idea where to start.

Did they even know each other anymore? Did the Ron and Hermione of Harry's memories really exist? Had their friendship been calculated, put in place by a dead wizard's strategies? Had any of it been real?

Hermione's hands moved, as if she wanted to grab him. Or maybe she was reaching for Ron. Ron took a half-step towards them both. Harry was pretty sure he was the one who closed the distance and dragged his friends – his first friends - into a fierce hug.

There were tears before it ended. Before he let them move back so they could all breathe. Tears and snot, embarrassing sobs, a few pounds on the back that were too hard, that all spoke of hurt and desperation, love and loss, devotion and loyalty. Friendship.

Hermione had tissues, of course. "Always prepared, our Hermione," Ron murmured with a look so soft and loving that it nearly set Harry off again. He had no idea where the laughter came from, but that was contagious, too.

He let himself fall backwards, lying on the floor of Tonks' Training Room and staring at the ceiling, willing his abdominal muscles to stop aching. Ron and Hermione sat together, propped on each other's shoulder. And, all at once, he found the words. "There was a Horcrux inside me. Without the bindings, my mother's magic rose up and destroyed it."

Ron was cursing under his breath. "Percy came home a week ago. Just showed up and hugged mum and dad. Told them about Scrimgeour – he's the new Minister of Magic, in case you didn't catch that – how he couldn't get the wards to accept his changes. He and dad and Charlie figured it out."

"I –" Hermione cleared her throat. "I Obliviated my parents. Made them forget all about me and sent them to Australia."

Harry was up and had his arms flung around her again before she could finish. He stared at Ron's agonized expression over her back. "We'll get them back," he found himself promising. "It's okay, Hermione, we'll get them back and fix their memories, won't we Ron?"

"Bloody right we will. Charlie has connections there – we'll take care of it this afternoon. Okay? You okay?" He brushed his cheek against her hair.

"Why? Why would I do that? How could I think that, that assaulting them like that was the right thing to do?" Hermione was breathless, gasping, mumbling to Ron's shirt. "They're adults. And I treated them like they were children, sending them off to bed."

"You had an excellent role model," Harry grumbled. It had been very Dumbledorish of her. When her tears stopped, she raised determined eyes and a stubborn chin in the most Hermione-y like expression Harry could imagine. "You're the brightest witch of your generation, Hermione. I think Dumbledore saw that in you." He tried to soothe his words with a grim smile. "I wouldn't be surprised if he saw you as his successor. Spectacular witch, smart, you figure out the underlying meanings of things, of Umbridge's words at the Welcoming Feast, for example, much quicker than anyone else." She could be ruthless, too, but Harry didn't want to mention that. "You could be Hogwarts' Headmistress or rule the Wizengamot, just like him."

"He sure let you get away with a lot," Ron agreed. "Time turner in third year. Brewing Polyjuice in a girls' lavatory. Letting you into the Restricted Section of the library pretty much every week."

"No, that's ridiculous. Of course, you were to be his successor, Harry." She shook her head, her curls bouncing.

"No, Harry's right," Ron continued. "Harry – sorry, mate," he shot Harry a frown, "Harry was set up in the back row of the chessboard and kept there. Visible. Obvious. Voldemort knew about him, recognized him as an enemy. Harry's the King – protected by the other pieces. Not really all that powerful. Not until his other pieces have done their jobs and taken out most of the opposing force. Then he has a straight shot at his enemy."

"Well, if Harry's the King, then he is Dumbledore's successor," Hermione insisted.

Ron made a face. "Dumbledore isn't a piece, Hermione. He's the player. He's not on the board at all. In the Endgame," Ron met Harry's gaze, "the King is the most important piece. A great player – and I think we can agree that, no matter how else we feel about him, Dumbledore was a great player – he'll activate his King then. Use him to draw the enemy out from behind his protectors. To expose him."

Harry nodded. He would never be the chess player Ron was, but he'd watched enough of his games to understand how effortlessly Ron understood strategy.

"What does that make you, Ron? And the rest of us?" Hermione asked.

"It doesn't matter." Harry got to his feet and brushed off the seat of his jeans. "Because it's not a chess game anymore. Not in the sense that Dumbledore wanted it to be." He gazed down at the wand in his hand. "That doesn’t mean we don't need your expert strategy, Ron. Or that we shouldn't assess our allies' strengths and weaknesses before going forward. But acting like Dumbledore, standing back and treating others like they don't have minds and hearts and wills of their own, like they're stone or wood or plastic, that they can just go back in the case when we lose – I don't want to think that way. I won't think that way." There was a matching light in his friends' eyes. "I think we've all had enough of being yanked around, haven't we?"

Ron and Hermione stood and joined him.

"We're all in this together."

"Exactly, Ron." Harry nodded. "At least, that's how I want it to be going forward." He scratched at his shoulder, suddenly a little sheepish. "It's not like I'm in charge, though."

Ron shrugged, hands in his pockets. "You could be. I know," he kept going, cutting off Harry's automatic denial, "I know, it's what Dumbledore wanted so, right now, we don't want any part of it. But, give the man some credit. Even if he went about it in a completely insane, tyrannical, nasty way, the man knew the score. One," he counted on his fingers, "there's the prophecy. One of you has to kill the other. That's a given. Two, he's made all these Horcruxes so we've got to get rid of them before you can kill him. Three, he's had plenty of opportunity to kill you before and you keep living." Ron's grin was all teeth and no humor. "Maybe the old bastard Headmaster had something."

"Maybe Harry is destined to somehow kill Voldemort," Hermione added. "But, sending off the three of us to hunt Horcruxes when he had an entire Order and Ministry to help was ridiculous." She turned to face Harry, taking his hands. "Ron is right, though. You need to be part of the leadership, Harry. If this fight is about you squaring off with Voldemort, you can't be on the outside. You know him – better than anyone."

"Yeah." Ron moved closer. "You've shared a head with him for fifteen years. There's nothing Remus or dad or the minister can you teach you about the way he thinks. Spells, charms, hexes, yeah, they're gonna be a big help with those. With finding the Horcruxes that are left. But, mate," he laid a hand on Harry's shoulder, "Hermione and me, Neville, Ginny and the twins, the rest of the Hogwarts lot – it's you we're going to follow."

Harry swallowed hard. He had to tell them. "I'm – I'm pretty well messed up, Ron. Between the Horcrux and Dumbledore – Andromeda has been working with me. But I don't think I'm healed. Not yet."

"So, we'll help train up your magic and strategy – and ours - just like the DA," Hermione gripped tighter, "with Remus and Tonks and the others. And you'll work with Andromeda and Ted on the other stuff. You know," she assured him, "we're all probably going to need some help. There's nothing wrong with it."

Gratitude nearly choked him. He nodded and the three stayed close for another minute before moving off to explore the room. Ron went right for the training dummies, testing each setting with some basic spells. Hermione studied the different devices lining one wall. Harry headed for the brewing area. The book he'd used last year had been fascinating – he could admit that it had made Potions' class interesting for the first time, even though he'd found out in the end that it had been Snape's book. He'd packed it in his backpack. Maybe there was something there …

"These are great," Ron shouted from the other end of the room. "I wish we could get some of the DA here to train with us this summer."

Hermione dusted off her hands. "Why can't we? If this manor is as protected as … Sirius' house was," she frowned and shook her head at the new Fidelius' charm's restrictions, "they'd be safe."

"Neville would come. And, if Charlie and your mum stay, do you think Ginny could come?" It's funny how Harry's feelings for Ginny had turned from passion into something like an older brother's regard.

"Why not?" Ron shrugged. "Getting prepared sounds a whole lot better than sitting around waiting for Death Eaters to come and kill us."

"Always the optimist, Ron," Hermione laughed.

"I could send Hedwig. She's usually irritated and bored in the summers." The others nodded. "Okay, so the DA carries on with whoever is willing to come." He grabbed some parchment and a few quills from the bench and flung himself onto the rug. "Let's get started on some lists. DA members who might come. Spells and hexes we want to work on. Horcruxes and where they might be."

"And questions we want to ask the adults," Hermione added. "We should get the Tonks' permission, first, don't you think? Before we start sending owls?"

Harry's gut cramped. Getting started on something – anything – had made him feel better. "You're right." The other two stared at him until he dropped the quill and stood up. "And I guess that's what I'm going to do right now while you two make the lists."

Ron's voice followed him down through the clouds. "Oy, and order up some lunch!"

It was nice that some things hadn't changed.

Chapter 18

Chapter Text

Chapter Eighteen

The Pepper-Up potion had done its work. Andromeda bent over her knee to fix the last buckle on her boots, happy that her head no longer swam, that her vision didn't grey out when she raised her head. It had been a long night – a long afternoon and evening before the night even started. Thankfully, the magic that Lily had left within her son had rushed to help her mend some of the worst gouges in the boy's mind and spirit. Andromeda touched the edge of a silver frame that had rested on her vanity for years. A photo of Lily and James, holding hands on Andromeda's wedding day.

"You gave him so much, planned well for his future," Andromeda sighed, meeting the red-head's eyes. "I'm sorry no one noticed that Albus interfered. That he sealed you off, kept you away. That he hurt Harry so deeply." She touched the hilt of her wand, tucked into her right sleeve. "I promise, I will hold him. I will stand by him. I will help him find his feet, to grow strong, and, with all my heart and will, I promise to help him survive. More," she nodded to herself. "Help him thrive. To live for more than the death of another."

If she imagined a swirl of glittering magic scented with hemp and ginger embracing her, that was her business.

Sighing, Andromeda turned from the smiling woman in the photograph. Hands on her waist, she considered her reflection in the mirror. Since Dora and Remus had moved into the manor, her daughter had been insistent that Andromeda update her wardrobe, that she abandon heavy robes and skirts, insisting that the wizarding world make some effort to join the twentieth century. Fashion had never been one of Andromeda's passions – not like Narcissa who would have made a fortune as a clothing or jewelry designer if she hadn't married that white-haired idiot and been shoved into pure-blooded subjugation masquerading as 'manners.'

She did quite like the look Dora preferred. Tightly fitted trousers allowed freedom of movement no skirts could. The bodice fit well, resembling the fit of one of her favorite dresses. The material of the sleeves was thin and voluminous, captured at the wrist with long cuffs that hid a multitude of weapons. She finished her preparations for the day, choosing to twist her hair into a complex knot on the back of her head. Andromeda sniffed. It would be half down by noon. There was something in the genetic make-up of the Black hair that defied taming. Metamorphmagus did run in their blood after all.

The sudden bone-chill of the invisible charm she wore at her neck stole Andromeda's breath. Her eyes widened. In the mirror, the notch at the base of the throat glowed violet.

It had been fifteen years since the three-part charm had signaled one of her sisters' presence. Inseparable as girls, they'd made the charms themselves. Narcissa designed and crafted the tri-part pendants, using each sister's magic to create three separate images that could be interlinked when brought together. Bella's was the symbol for power: from a center point, an outward-moving spiral, widdershins, ending with an open eye. Andromeda shivered. Bella always wanted more. More power. More magic. Open to any power from any source, she had drowned her true soul in dark things. Narcissa's was the symbol for life. From a center point, an outward-moving spiral, deisul, ending in an opening leaf. Growth. Harmony with nature. Her youngest sister had an affinity for earth magics.

Andromeda touched the pendant at her neck, releasing the invisibility charms. Her symbol was different – as the middle sister, it had been her role to hold the center, to give her two very different sisters a foundation, a foothold. A place to reconnect. Three circles set atop each other, a sword piercing from top to bottom. Healing. Protection. Connection.

With another breath, Andromeda released the wards that kept the pendant inactive and silent against her skin. Deaf. Blind. Dumb. It had lain there like a piece of muggle jewelry since … Now she allowed it to speak in her sister's voice.

"I need you. I can only wait here for a few minutes. They must not find me. Please, sister."

Narcissa. An image came to Andromeda's mind. Her sister's hair was mussed, straggly, unkempt. Her cheek was stained with blood and dirt, her robes torn. In the background, Andromeda recognized their favorite place to play as children – broken, now, abandoned to the elements, the family's descent into madness and murder seemed to take on physical form in the blackened beams, the twisted metal, and the lethally broken panes of glass.

Andromeda's wand moved almost of its own will, her lips moving soundlessly to conjure her Patronus and send the kestrel to Ted with her message.

"Narcissus calls me to the summer house. One way or the other, I will be back soon."

Wand in one hand, dagger in the other, she Apparated.

Andromeda cast the binding spell before she'd fully appeared in the ruins. With another word, Narcissus' and her son's wands lay at her feet. She placed one foot on the wands in case of wandless summoning spells.

"Careful, please, Andy. Leaving us wandless at a time like this would be tantamount to murder."

Andromeda could not tell a thing from her sister's expression. Narcissa could have set a trap – she could have a dozen Death Eaters waiting to pounce, or she could be eager for a hug and a large cup of tea - her face would never give her away. Years of living with Lucius Malfoy had stripped her of any trace of the usual Black family dramatics.

Andromeda would rely on her magic to tell her the truth of the situation.

She stooped and took up the wands, tucking them into her belt and securing them with sticking charms. Then, wand and dagger crossed, she turned in a full circle to assess the danger. There were wards here – hastily thrown up, bearing her sister's signature. Wards to keep out anyone who did not bear one of their linked pendants. Interesting. She glanced back at her sister. "You made sure no one could come with me. I'm not sure I like that."

Narcissa shook her head as much as her bonds allowed. "I haven't seen you for years, but, still, I knew you'd come alone."

Still casting revealing spells, Andromeda answered. "And dear Bella? Will she be joining us? Or is she already waiting nearby?"

"Bella is dead."

Andromeda did not drop her guard, but it was a near thing. When she'd assured herself of her immediate safety, she slid her dagger back into its sheath and, after a single assessing gaze shot at Draco's silent scowl, she faced her sister. "Explain."

Narcissa raised one eyebrow. "In short – when the bindings holding me in subjection to Lucius Malfoy were broken, I took my son and fled. I ask for sanctuary."

Dumbledore's magic held her sister? "Why on earth would Dumbledore bind you to Lucius?"

"Perhaps he felt me to be a calming presence, someone to mitigate Lucius' more violent, cruel tendencies. Which makes me angrier than I have ever been in my life." Nothing of that anger reflected on Narcissa's face, but Andromeda could hear it in her voice. "Imagine being used as if I had no spirit or dreams or mind of my own, without a thought for my safety. Used, like a tool, to muzzle his enemy. But this is guess work. I honestly have no idea what all these fallen bindings are about, Andy. I do know that, for the first time since my schooling at Hogwarts, I find myself suddenly able to think for myself and I have no intention of bowing and scraping to Tom Riddle one moment longer. Nor subjecting my son to his evil."

Andromeda turned to her nephew. "And you, Draco? Have you taken the maniac's Mark? Are you eager to kiss his feet and turn your wand on friends, family, anyone who Voldemort believes could stand in his way?"

Draco's coloring could not hide his reactions. Pale skin turned bright red over his cheekbones, his lips pressed so tight they were bloodless. "I – I had to take it! It's not like I had a choice, did I? He said – he said it was a 'gift'. That he marked me for great things. Then, when I failed to kill …" His gaze darted to his mother.

"I know all about your task on the Astronomy Tower, Draco. And who stepped in to complete the kill." Andromeda tapped her wand on her knee. "I would extend sanctuary to my sister in a heartbeat. You, however –"

"You preened under the madman's regard, Draco. Do not deny it, to yourself or to me," Narcissa snapped. "I will accept any limitations you desire to place on my son, sister. Petrify him. Send him into a healing sleep. Turn him to stone if you wish – as long as you know the counter-curse. Until he sees the error of his ways and renounces the Dark Lord completely, none of us will be safe in his presence."

"Mother! How dare you!"

"Silencio." Andromeda flicked her wand at the boy without turning. "Cissy, I believe I have someone who should talk to your son. Explain things to him. Until Draco renounces Voldemort and tears that mark from his own skin, we cannot trust him. But I will safeguard him if that is your wish."

Narcissa sighed and closed her eyes. "Take out his teeth, then. And mine if you like. If I have any left."

Andromeda touched the pendant at her throat and watched Narcissa's pendant reveal itself, glowing green against her skin. "Where there were three, there are now two. I grieve for the Bella that was. Big sister. Instigator of play yard schemes. Her hearty laugh always brought a smile to others."

"I loved her once. But that was long ago." Narcissa opened her eyes. "Her madness took her, and she died beneath a werewolf's claws and teeth. It was as messy a death as was her life. Fin." Narcissa closed the book on their sister with one final word.

The manor would hold Narcissa and her son if Andromeda acted with care. And she intended to be very careful. She moved to Draco, annoyed when the boy's eyes opened comically wide. "Calm down. You know of Healers' Oaths? You learned that much at school?"

The boy's eyes narrowed but he nodded.

"You'll sleep under my control, young Malfoy. And, while you are asleep, you will learn certain truths. I will not assault your mind, but I will share memories – my own, your mother's, as well as one who once wore the Mark you do." She lifted her chin in challenge. "This will be easier if you don't fight me. Can you do that?" She ripped away the Silencio spell so that he could answer.

He licked his lips. "My mother says you're a mind healer."

"I am," she bent her head. "You will come to no harm under my care. My oaths forbid it."

Draco searched her gaze for the truth. Finally, he spoke. "Mother? Do you want me to do this?"

"We will both be safe with the Tonks. But, Draco, hear me," Narcissa insisted, "I will not bring danger to my sister and her family through the mistakes you've made. You will accept this sleep and you will do your best to overcome the lies that your father has fed you all your life. If you do not, I will release you from my protection here and now and you may crawl back to the madman you claim as your Lord."

Temper and pride glazed the boy's eyes for a moment, but Andromeda noted the change when Draco's muscles relaxed. Hopefully, he was smarter than he looked – and less corrupted. "I need your verbal agreement." She prodded him as she would any other mind-wounded child.

"I agree to accept healing sleep from Healer Andromeda Tonks, and to listen to those who would seek my good. I pledge to bring no harm to her or any who reside under her roof." Draco took the oath through clenched teeth, but it was sincere.

His magic rose, green and gold, summoned by the truth and power of his oath. Andromeda's magic rose to answer it, grey and violet, surrounding Draco's. The cloud of green and gold paled, submissive before Andromeda's greater magic. Grey and violet surrounded and encompassed his.

Andromeda spoke. "I accept the oath of Draco Malfoy, and pledge to cause him no harm, to leave his thoughts and memories intact, without manipulation, and to release him to his own choices when it is safe to do so."

Together, they spoke the trigger words. "Omnium consensu."

The entangled magical fields were sucked towards Draco, Andromeda's magic taking control. In a few seconds, Draco was deeply asleep. She tested his bonds, leaving them in place for the moment, cocooning the boy in her Healer's Knot - the magical equivalent of a straight-jacket. He would be safe – and those in her manor would be safe from him.

Andromeda released her sister's bonds and stood before her. Narcissa was pale, cold. Beneath the icy beauty, far down in the depths of her grey-blue eyes, Andromeda thought she glimpsed the girl she'd loved all those years ago. The little sister she wanted to protect.

"Will you take my oath, too?" Narcissa held out both hands. They trembled.

Andromeda took them – her fingers were frigid. "I don't need any oath from you. If you step inside my wards, you'll do so freely."

Narcissa smiled. "You've come into your power. I'm extremely proud of you. I only hope that you can say the same of me some day."

"One warning," Andromeda stepped between Narcissa and her son, gripping both tightly. "There are others safeguarding beneath my roof. If there is darkness between you or your son and these others, I will not take your side. And I most definitely will not take his. The control you learned during your life with Malfoy will serve you well. Your son?" Narcissa would know what she was asking.

"If you will safeguard him from these others as he sleeps, that will be enough. When we allow him to awaken, well, we shall see."

Andromeda Apparated them all to an empty sickroom in the manor. "Berry," she called.

The elf arrived silently, as she'd been trained so as not to disturb a patient. "Mistress?"

Wand moving, Andromeda shifted Draco to the bed, undoing the binding hex but not the Healer's Knot. "See to my patient's needs, make sure he is comfortable. He will require a 24 hour watch." Anyone under this type of spell had to be watched to make sure the patient didn't injure himself. "Make sure to spread the watches out so that none of the elves makes themselves overtired."

"Yes, Mistress," Berry sighed. She hurried to Draco's side and her ears perked up until they stood nearly straight up. "Oh, my. Blood of the Mistress!"

Andromeda smiled at her. "No, you may not adopt him, Berry. Please assure my sister that you will take good care of her son."

"Oh, I will, I promise." Berry laid both hands on her chest, over the Tonks crest on her robe. "Leave him to me, Missus."

Narcissa gave a lady-like snort. "I see my son can charm all women of any race, even when he's asleep."

"Perhaps especially when he's asleep," Andromeda added with a twist of her lips. She straightened, looking to the door. "Hurry. I don't want him found here just yet."

Sensing her sister's concern, Narcissa held out a hand. "My wand?"

"Not just yet. Come." She ushered Narcissa into the hallway. "You need treatment yourself, and rest, but I'm afraid this cannot wait."

They'd barely closed the door behind them when Harry turned the corner and stopped dead in his tracks, wand in his hand.

"Stupe –"

"Avert," Andromeda called, making a sweeping motion with her wand, and sending Harry's curse to impact the ceiling. She raised her eyebrows as the entire house shook and plaster and molding rained down. "Overpowered, Harry, please be careful."

His eyes were filled with rage. "She's –"

"My sister," Andromeda stated in a level voice. "And protected by my wards – as are you and your friends. I'd appreciate it if you'd let us explain."

Chapter 19

Chapter Text

Chapter Nineteen

Severus had expected more awkwardness. Hesitation. At least a few moments of anxious glares and a demand for explanations. He had not expected Nymphadora Tonks Lupin to stride, with a lithe, athletic grace that had never been hers before, from his Floo and take him up in a hug. Nor to have Molly Weasley move in for her own as soon as the Lupin woman let him go.

"If you try to hug me, Mister Weasley," Severus snarled over Molly's auburn head, "I shall hex you."

"Sounds like I'm safe, then," Remus replied, eyebrows wriggling.

"You I would turn into a cub and then set you out in the garden to chase nargles."

Remus shrugged. "I might not even object. Sounds like fun."

"We could use a bit more fun." Tonks slipped her arm through her husband's before turning back with a stormy gaze. "To balance things out."

Molly clucked her tongue before easing back towards her son. "You need feeding up, Severus." She squeezed his arm as if checking her roasting chicken for enough meat. "Although, I will say, the way your magic has mended the nerve and muscle damage from years in service of that madman is impressive."

Charlie snorted. "Which madman are you referring to? Voldemort or Dumbledore?"

"Indeed," Severus agreed. "Believe me, the Beverley House Elves seem to be making it their mission to feed me until I am roughly the shape of Horace Slughorn." He tipped his head towards the quiet fireplace. "Are Arthur or the Tonks joining us?"

"Ted and Andromeda are exhausted after hours tending to Harry," Remus stated. "But he's awake and alert this morning, and they are considering your offer."

Molly spun her wand in a Tempus spell. "Arthur should be here by ten past. He won't be able to stay much after lunch; the Ministry is in a snit, as you can well imagine."

A snit was probably the best description. Severus adjusted his Floo ward to accept Arthur Weasley and no other and led the group to the Sun Room. "I thought to take advantage of the sunny English weather while it lasted," he explained.

Charlie held a chair for his mum. "You heard about the Dementors?"

Severus glanced at the bright blue sky and gentle breeze. London had not been so lucky. The creatures were breeding, out of control. Their presence not only sucked the warmth from the world, it would heighten the level of anxiety and depression in muggle and wizard alike. Severus wrapped both hands around the back of his chair. "After the attacks at the school and on Potter at his muggle home, we were foolish to believe they would remain under control in Azkaban. Their nature is dark; they were bred during one of the darkest times in our history." The creation of the creatures was short-sighted – and the squeamish reluctance to utterly destroy them after their original purpose had been twisted was worse. He met each of his guest's eyes as he stood at the head of the table. "That is one more tale I have to tell you all."

He took his seat as the chilled soup appeared on each plate.

"Just to bring you up to date," Remus said before picking up his spoon, "your memories have been watched by all the adults at Tonks Manor. Obviously." He smiled at Molly across the table. "Or your greetings might have been very different."

Hurrying footsteps from the hallway interrupted his answer. Arthur Weasley – windblown and wearing robes at least two days old, hurried in, shook Severus' hand, gave his wife a kiss on the cheek, and plunked down at the other end of the table. "On that note, Amelia made sure that the head of each department has seen them, as well. Over Scrimgeour's objections, apparently. In fact," he grabbed a set of scrolls tied together with blue ribbons from his pocket and levitated them across the table to Severus, "the Kill on Sight order has been rescinded and we're making all efforts to get the word out about your changed status. Oh!" He grabbed his spoon and slurped up a few mouthfuls. "That's delightful. After two days of prepacked sandwiches and weak tea, this hits the spot."

Severus vanished the scrolls to his study and refilled Arthur's glass with sparkling water.

"What were Scrimgeour's objections?" Remus voice was low and rumbling.

"That's something we are definitely going to have to talk about. The Minister, while more forward thinking than Fudge, is still acting a hide bound idiot. His need for control seems to equal someone else's we've recently lost." He looked up from his empty dish to lock eyes with Severus. "He wants Harry. He is, right now, sending out owls to each wizarding family to demand he be produced. Rufus claims," he grimaced, "that he wants proof that the boy is safe and well."

"Well, he's not getting access to Harry, and that's final."

"Please, remain calm." Severus made the statement to the entire table but meant it mostly for Remus. The wolf's claws had extended and his teeth were bared. "No one here is going to expose Harry to the Ministry's tender mercies. Are they." It wasn't a question.

Molly slapped her hand on the table. "Of course not. I thought Rufus was smarter than that. I mean, is he going to arrest the boy?"

"How could he possibly justify forcing Harry out into public?" Tonks added. "There's no law on the books that I'm aware of that can force a wizard to appear at the ministry. Not unless he's been accused of something."

"Well," Arthur wiped his mouth, "he is still underage – for a few weeks. If the Minister gets the Children's Welfare Department involved, I can see them requiring a home visit to assess his living conditions. But," he raised a hand to forestall Remus' reactions, "I believe Rufus is going down a different path. It seems," he sighed, "that Dumbledore made a few personal bequests in his will. One to our son, Ronald. One to Miss Granger. And one to Harry. With the assistance of the Heritage Department, I believe Rufus could use that legal document to find the children."

"Great Hecate, are there no ends to Dumbledore's machinations?" Molly demanded. "Even in death he's bloody well interfering!"

Severus nodded, his muscles tense. "And this is one instance of meddling that we may not be able to undo. A wizard's will is traditionally sealed by goblin law. They will brook no interference with the performance of their duty."

"True." Charlie looked grim. "Bill's explained as much over the years."

"Bill is working on it." Arthur added. His eyebrows rose in appreciation as the second course of flaky white fish and salad appeared on his plate. "He's in meetings with Abhagard, Broadknip, and Zeldim, the goblin firm that put together Dumbledore's will. We know the goblins were none too pleased to find out the wards at Gringotts had been manipulated by the Headmaster – whether that will change their attitudes about the will –" He shrugged.

"Considering this new information, I believe it even more important that Harry and his friends be moved to this location. Not even goblin blood spells could locate this house. Among some circles, the Tonks are quite famous even if their Healer Oaths have kept former patients from speaking about the manor's location." He narrowed his eyes. "With the resources of the ministry behind him, I do not think it would take much for Scrimgeour or the goblins to find them." Severus ate quickly – there was not much time.

"And if Scrimgeour can …" Tonks' straight hair curled up against her neck, black turning to grey.

"My thoughts as well," Arthur agreed.

Remus took his wife's hand. "Harry's safety is paramount, of course. But continuing to shift him from place to place without giving him all the information he needs to make an educated choice?" He shook his head. "I promised him we wouldn't do that anymore. That the adults in his life wouldn't keep things from him, wouldn't make all his decisions for him and force him to accept them."

"He's been hurt, Remus." Molly added. "Physically, emotionally, all that plus his magical core has been wounded." Her eyes were bright. "He needs a place of rest and recovery – that would certainly be at Andromeda and Ted's in other circ*mstances." She huffed. "These are not other circ*mstances. This is about survival."

"But he's just found his footing, Molly. We showed him the Training Room, the bedroom and study I used to use. He was genuinely excited, and I haven't seen Harry really happy, excited about anything in a long time." Tonks turned to face her husband. "How can we just rip that away from him when we've just given it to him?"

Severus folded his hands. "It is difficult timing, but his protection is paramount." He closed his eyes and forced himself to take a deep breath before continuing. "That statement sounded very much like something Dumbledore would say, didn't it?" Rage tangled with regret in his gut. His magic reacted to his surging emotions, pressing down on each of them as if a storm was about to appear above his dining table. He turned to Remus. "You are right, my brother. We cannot go on as Albus did."

Arthur co*cked his head, echoing Severus' posture from the other end of the table. "Even if it means putting Harry and the other children at greater risk?"

Tonks gasped and covered her face with her hands. "I hear it. I hear it now. Dumbledore's voice in my head. I can see his damned concerned gaze, those words so bloody reasonable -" Her voice shook, her tears clearly audible. "'It's for his own good.' That's what he would say. 'It's for his own good.'"

It was as if Dumbledore's ghost stood beside them, twinkling eyes insistent.

Remus broke the startled silence, dispelling the image, and swept his wife into his arms. "Damn it. I'm taking Dora home."

Before Remus could move, Molly stood. "No. I'll take her. Andromeda and Ted should know about Scrimgeour. And Dora needs her mum." She pointed. "You stay, Remus. You lot need to come up with some alternatives that do not turn us into the worst kind of interfering busybodies but don't hobble us, either. We have to help Harry. We cannot, however, act as if he's incapable of making decisions." She swept around the table and Remus reluctantly transferred his wife to her strong arms. "It's a tall order." She caught Severus up in her glare. "I expect you to make it happen."

"I shall do my best." Severus rose and bowed, standing until Molly's comforting chatter to Tonks died away and he felt the two leave through his Floo. When he turned back to the others, they all seemed to have lost their appetites. "Sorrel. Clear the plates and bring the Ogden's if you please." At this rate, he should raid a distillery somewhere.

The table shrunk, the four men gathered in close and wearing matching expressions of frustration.

"First, let me assure you that this manor can become whatever we deem necessary." Severus opened his hands above the suddenly smaller table to demonstrate. "It can copy the rooms of Tonks' Manor that Nymphadora described, down to the last detail. It is the same magic that created the Come and Go Room at Hogwarts, the one the students used for their Defense Club. If comfortable – familiar – surroundings will help Harry, we can achieve that. Size, shape, contents, even the view out of whatever windows exist there. But," he steepled his fingers in front of his face, "we must be careful. I agree that we should not use this power to fool the boy. To convince him that he has not moved locations. That would be betrayal of the highest order after what he's already experienced."

"We'll convince him, then," Arthur suggested. "You did intend for Harry, Ron, and Hermione to watch your memories, Severus? They should be exposed to the truth, yes?"

"It was my intention. It will not solve all of the history between us." Severus looked down at his hands. The knuckles were less gnarled, less like a man of double his age who had seen a lifetime of hard manual work. The fingers were still long and slim, stained here and there by potions. Severus had changed – thank the gods – but most of Harry's hatred of dark magics had taken on the persona of his Potions' Teacher and chief tormenter. He closed his hands. "I am not foolish enough to believe that Harry will look back on his treatment at my hands and forgive all." Severus turned to Remus.

His eyes were rimmed with red, but, in Remus' case, it was not from tears. Seeing his wife's continued difficulty, hearing about the Ministry's intentions had brought the wolf very close to the surface. "Initially, I thought we should wait. Wait until Harry's healing had progressed. Now?" He nodded at Severus. "The sooner the better."

Arthur rose, his whiskey untasted. "I suppose there's no time like the present. As long as Ted and Andromeda are there for him, we can't in good conscience delay any longer. We don't know how long it will take for Rufus to succeed in finding the children."

"All of us, then?" Charlie asked awkwardly. "You want me here? Bill and Mum, too?"

"We value your insight. And, as I said, the manor was built for such a time as this." Severus felt the hum of magic in his blood and its echo through the very floorboards beneath his feet. "It is anxious to put itself to use against British wizards' enemies once again."

"Anything you and Bill can do to slow Rufus down," Remus added to Arthur, "would be beneficial. In the meantime," he shoved back from the table, "I should get back to Harry."

"One moment." Severus conjured the heavy tome from his study and levitated it above the table, the pages falling open to the spell he'd discovered last night … earlier this morning, actually. "I believe I can offer a solution to the Dementor problem."

"Really?" Arthur leaned in, studying the spell upside-down through narrowed eyes. "That might relieve some of the pressure on the Ministry."

"How?" Charlie demanded, standing.

"I was unaware until recently that the creatures were created by my family. Henry Percy, oldest son of Algernon, engineered them during the muggles' Great War. They were originally intended to cleanse the air of the deadly mustard gas used by our enemies, but the gas itself turned out to be a European wizard's invention and by ingesting it, the Dementors were genetically altered." He grimaced. "As they changed, they began to ingest more than gas. First the very air we breathe, then magic, leaving wizards and witches they encountered as helpless as squibs. Finally, after ingesting large levels of their targets' magic, they gained the power to absorb souls."

"Merlin." Arthur turned pale. "And you think you can, what, create a potion that would neutralize them?"

"No. Using my ancestor's notes, I believe I will be able to dismiss the magic that holds them together entirely. To destroy them all." Severus straightened. "It was my family's error that created them; it is my responsibility to fix it."

Chapter 20

Chapter Text

Chapter Twenty

Harry stood between a window and a tall bookcase, wedged into a corner of the Tonks' library, denying his back to any threat. Maybe he was paranoid. Maybe he was overreacting, not accepting Hermione's invitation to sit beside her on the small couch by the fire. Ron seemed to get it, though. He'd taken up a position between Harry and the others, wand in hand, held against his leg and pointed to the ground. He was just to Harry's left, outside of his line of fire, and was shifting back and forth on his feet as if he were preparing to either attack or retreat.

Narcissa Malfoy appeared unconcerned, sitting primly in a chair across from Hermione. Andromeda sat beside her, pouring tea into six cups on the conjured table while Ted leaned over Narcissa, whispering spells.

The bruises faded from her pale skin as Harry watched, the cut on her cheek thinning to a pale pink line before disappearing. The Healer's wand hovered over her ribs for a long moment, his brows knitting before Harry heard a soft click and Narcissa winced.

Sighing, Ted straightened and then performed a freshening spell on his sister-in-law. "Good enough for the moment. But you need warmth and rest." He sent a sharp gaze towards Harry as if reminding him that he was not the only one wounded.

Harry nodded sharply but refused to budge. Andromeda had already demonstrated that her sister's wand was under her control, locked in a warded box in her desk. She'd explained that the manor's wards prevented those inside from harming one another and did not allow any outgoing messages without her knowledge and agreement. Harry's skin still crawled knowing that Draco Malfoy lay in a Healing Sleep upstairs. Malfoy might not have been up to finishing the job, but he'd betrayed Dumbledore, he'd let Death Eaters into Hogwarts, and he'd put every student and teacher in harm's way.

The bloody scene in the lavatory burst into raw, red life in Harry's memory. His heart hammered, his breathing quick and gasping. He'd used a spell from the potions' book – Sectum Sempra. For enemies. He'd left Malfoy bleeding, huge gashes in his chest leaving pools of blood to mingle with the water on the floor.

He clenched his jaw, refusing the sick rushing up his throat. He swallowed. Again. No. He would not spew out his guts here, in front of these people. His grip on his wand tightened painfully.

Andromeda half rose from her chair, frowning. "Harry?"

He shook his head, denying that he needed any help. Not now. Not in front of that woman.

Narcissa – and Draco – arriving at the manor wasn't the only reason Harry was on edge. Andromeda's explanation of her wards had left him reeling. He should have realized he was trapped here. Even if the Tonks had been nothing but nice to him, healed him, and helped him, he did not like the feeling of being locked up. Of not being able to send a message with Hedwig. He'd just met these people. And, one thing that hadn't changed since Dumbledore's interference had broken was that Harry did not trust adults.

He wanted Remus back. Right now. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, reaching inward for those silver curtains. He didn't care if the Occlumency shields hurt him – he wanted them back. Filmy and lightweight, they fluttered out of reach. He tried again, letting the conversation around him fade. Eyes still closed; he turned his head – there was a presence beside him. Close, but not touching.

Andromeda.

He flinched, and the silver curtains were suddenly there, unfolding around him, thickening and strengthening. Harry reached for them again.

Andromeda's image stood in his way. "No, Harry. Please. Not yet. You're safe – you're safe here. You don’t need them."

"Am I?" He sent the question towards the healer like a spear. "You've brought the Malfoys here. You tell me I'm safe, but I can't leave or send a message." He imagined Hedwig locked up in her cage at the Dursleys. "How is that different from keeping me in prison?"

Andromeda's presence drew back. "Where would you go?" she finally asked. "That is an honest question, not a challenge," she explained. "Tell me."

Anger, fear, frustration – no, Harry didn't want all these emotions. They were too much. Too hard. In his mind, he turned his back on her presence. "I don't know. But having a choice – having any choices – is better than constantly being told what to do."

"I asked you yesterday to let me help. If I can modify your Occlumency shields, give you some relief from these disturbing thoughts and feelings, will you listen to Narcissa? Just listen?"

Harry didn't know what to do. Was she meddling with his mind like Dumbledore had? How could he possibly know the difference? "Remus," he muttered through clenched teeth. "Where's Remus?"

"He'll be back soon. And Molly."

A warm breeze moved around him. It was tempting to let her help, to give in. But –

"Harry? You okay?"

Ron. Harry opened his eyes and yanked his gaze from Andromeda's concerned stare. She was still in her chair, halfway across the room. "No. I'm not." He grabbed his friend's elbow. "I can't –"

"C'mon." Ron shifted one long arm around Harry's shoulders. "Let's get out of here."

Before they'd taken a step towards the door, Hermione was beside them. Ron ducked his head.

"Can you stay, Hermione? Find out what's going on? I'm going to take Harry out into the gardens." Ron's piercing gaze flicked towards the Malfoy woman. "He needs some air. And he doesn't need this, not right now."

"Of course." She touched a hand to Harry's cheek before taking her seat again.

"I'll come, too." Ted laid a hand on his wife's shoulder, as if asking her to stay seated. "Ladies only for the moment, yes? We men shall absent ourselves and I'll take the time to check Harry over. And," he continued when Harry would have objected, "we can send a message to Remus if you'd like."

Harry reluctantly nodded and let Ron hurry him away.

HP HP HP HP HP

Hermione watched them go. Ron was right – someone had to get the truth from Draco's mother. She didn't like it – didn't like not being with Harry when he was so upset. She set her jaw and tried to relax her tense shoulders. It was fine – Ron would be there for him. And, even if they weren't happy with Mister and Missus Tonks right now, Ted was a Healer. He'd taken oaths and wouldn't hurt Harry.

She pasted a cool expression on her face and turned to take the offered cup from Andromeda. She took a sip to give herself time to think. It didn't seem fair that Healer Tonks had to explain herself to three teenagers in her own house. Then again, vowing to keep Harry safe while welcoming Draco and his mother into the same home seemed ridiculous. Hermione watched as Narcissa received a cup from her sister and took a sip. Her hands were shaking.

Interesting.

The woman had been injured, that much was clear. But how? And by whom? For all Hermione knew, Narcissa and Draco had taken part in some Death Eater activity, targeting muggles or muggle-born witches or wizards, and had been injured. Maybe they fled from the DMLE, or other members of the Order. She remembered Harry's last confrontation with Narcissa Malfoy last summer – how the woman had threatened to send Harry along to 'be with Sirius,' cutting the wounds of guilt and grief Harry was already bearing even deeper into her friend's soul.

Hermione set her cup on the table and folded her hands in her lap, reaching for her magic to raise a silent, invisible shield spell between her and Narcissa. She could shield from the woman's magic – maybe – but Narcissa had other weapons. Words. Threats. Information on all of them she would no doubt be gathering. Hermione kept her cool expression fixed as her mind whirled. If Hermione could perform a silent, wandless shield spell, who knew what kind of magic Draco's mother could access while her wand was locked up.

If Andromeda was any kind of ally to Harry and the others, she must have thought of that. Hermione glanced at Andromeda; eyebrows raised in question.

"While it's true that locking away my sister's wand doesn't guarantee that she won't perform magic under my roof, it is very significant, nonetheless. This is one of many things they do not teach at Hogwarts." Andromeda pointed to her desk. "I won her wand – and her son's, in an undeclared duel. Those wands now answer to me. Magic understands the implications, that Draco and Narcissa's magic is submissive to mine." Beside her, Narcissa nodded. "My sister will not be able to perform magic in my house, within my wards, that works against me or against those I have vowed to protect. The same is true of Draco." She smiled at Hermione. "Your shield spell is unnecessary."

"Interesting," Hermione said, lips pursed. "So, you're saying that if I win a wizard's wand in a duel, he can never harm me again? I find that hard to believe."

"No. You're right, young lady. That would be absurd." Narcissa shook her head. "Wizards have been dueling for ages. If that were true, few in our world would be able to raise a wand against another. It is Andromeda's wards that make the difference, here. This is her domain, the manor is filled with her magic and recognizes her as its mistress, its liege. All magic answers to her. Here, no one who has lost their wand to her can act against her. Out in the world?" She tilted her head, considering. "If she returns my wand, it will work, but it will not work as effectively against her as it once did."

Hermione's hands ached from clenching them so tight. She tried to relax, drawing in a deep breath. "I'm afraid I don't know much about dueling magic. Lockhart tried to begin a dueling club at Hogwarts in second year, but it didn't last. Probably because the man was a total fraud." Yet another subject their classes hadn't covered.

"I'm sure if Albus wanted his students to learn the art and science of dueling, he would not have eliminated those classes during my school years." Andromeda tipped her head towards Hermione. "Filius was very disappointed. He was a master dueler, you know."

"Why –" Hermione sighed. There were far too many questions she'd like to ask her former Headmaster. "Sirius taught Harry a little. I wonder if he knows about the consequences of losing one's wand." Her gaze slid up and over the woman's shoulder. Duels. Harry's go-to spell was Expelliarmus, one that Hermione had always thought was much too weak to be very effective. Perhaps that was short-sighted. She turned to look towards the door, frowning. Who had Harry disarmed in the past? Whose wand might not be effective against him?

"Remus is an excellent dueler. You and Ron and Harry will enjoy his teaching. He's very hands-on."

Hermione's attention snapped back towards Missus Malfoy. The wands really weren't the problem, were they? "Are you a Death Eater?" Hermione dropped the blunt question into the woman's silence.

"Miss Granger. Raised in the muggle world, I imagine that you do not know much about betrothal or marriage magics? And the oaths they depend on?" Narcissa set her trembling hands on her skirt, steadying her cup. "I doubt even young Mister Weasley, as pure as the Weasley blood has been for generations, has spent much time thinking about them."

Hermione's cheeks turned pink. "You really haven't answered the question."

"Allow me to explain. Apparently, Professor Dumbledore observed my infatuation with Lucius Malfoy at school and, for whatever reason, decided to … encourage … our relationship. Once I had accepted Lucius' proposal, binding magics kept me faithful – but I believe it was Dumbledore's added spells that kept me biddable. Submissive. Unwilling to consider leaving the man even after he was clearly guiding Draco deeper and deeper into darkness." Her cool eyes lit with inner fire. "During my husband's imprisonment last year, the marriage bindings frayed, giving me hope that I could be free. That I could save my son from further darkness. And then –" her mouth snapped shut, her teeth clicking together. "And then that madman set my son an impossible task, setting him up to be killed."

"But he wasn't killed, was he? Dumbledore was. And Draco let a dozen Death Eaters into the castle." Hermione folded her arms across her chest. "Or was Draco under some spell as well and therefore has no responsibility for what he's done, just like these 'marriage bindings' somehow made you blameless?" It was one of the things that bothered her the most about their situation. The wizarding world could blame everything – literally everything that happened – on a dead man and pretend none of it was their fault.

A flicker of something reflected in Narcissa's bland gaze – anger or sorrow or pride, Hermione had no idea how to interpret it.

Narcissa set her cup on the table. "Blameless, I am not. But, to answer your question, the Dark Lord has only a few uses for women." Carefully and slowly, Narcissa unbuttoned her cuffs and rolled both sleeves up to her elbows. She turned her arms back and forth, examining her own pale, unmarked skin. "Few are … gifted with his Mark. Our sister is one. The horrid Carrow twin. Fiona Eddings. The Fabricci matron. Those four joined him willingly, long ago, their spirits already dark and twisted within them before he put his cold hands on them. After," she looked up and Hermione was caught in the fierce hatred gleaming in her eyes, "after he had them, after he bound them to his magic and took them to his bed, their minds and spirits could never be redeemed."

"My son took the Mark in a reckless hope to save me. He set himself between Voldemort and me. Yes, Draco was foolish, ugly in his pride and arrogance, swallowing down his father's worst ideas, his fanaticism and racism, without thought. But Draco could not, in the end, kill Dumbledore."

Hermione swallowed hard. Unfortunately, it was easy to imagine Voldemort's dismissal of women – even powerful women like Narcissa Malfoy. He had little regard for anyone he considered 'weaker' – muggles, muggleborns like herself, other races like goblins and giants, even the purebloods he touted as a 'superior race' were tortured and murdered under his wand. Women? Why would they be any different? Harry had told her the story of Tom Riddle, junior. Of Tom's mother who had tricked his father into marriage through a love potion. Her gaze flicked towards Andromeda. A muggle psychologist would have a field day with Riddle's background. She wondered if a mind healer like Andromeda would come to the same conclusions. Sociopath. Psychopath. Malignant Narcissist. Cult leader.

Hermione knew about cults. As soon as she'd heard of the Knights of Walpurgis in history class, she'd studied. Researched. It might be annoying to others, but the anxiety that Hermione had always struggled with could only be tamed by study – by knowing as much as she could about everything. That information was easy to obtain in the muggle world; the media splashed up headlines about Jim Jones and Waco, Texas. Cults in Canada and France and Brazil. Those men had claimed superiority, had convinced others, and had abused and sexually dominated the women – and often the children - among their followers. In the largely backwards wizarding world, there were two names associated with the same kinds of horrors: Gellert Grindelwald and Lord Voldemort.

It was hard for most wizards to remember that Voldemort had been a living man, once. A boy named Tom Riddle. At school, she'd learned that he'd been quiet, reserved, earning the praise of teachers and the respect of students with ease - something Draco Malfoy with all of his whining and pride never could. People followed Riddle for not just his words, but because of his charisma. Riddle had appeared charming, handsome, but underneath, he'd always been a monster. He'd created other monsters – Bellatrix. Lucius Malfoy. Greyback. Umbridge. Crouch, junior, Draco. They might not have the power of Lord Voldemort, the charisma, or the skill, but they'd swallowed down the cult leader's psychopathic rants whole and couldn't be absolved of their own multiple crimes just because they were 'following orders.'

"What's changed?" Hermione asked. "Maybe Draco was forced into obeying, afraid for you, for himself. But I've known him for six years and I can't see how anything he's said or done has shown any indecisiveness about following Voldemort. In second year, he was practically drooling about the monster from the Chamber of Secrets possibly killing mudblood children. He hoped it would be me, said it quite clearly. And now? You want me to believe that the same boy wouldn't happily turn us all over to that madman for torture and death?"

Andromeda leaned forward. "In second year, Draco was twelve. Are you seriously suggesting that his childish hero-worship of his father would have left him with any possibility of thinking any other way?"

Hermione acknowledged the fact with a sharp nod. "Fine. Draco was brainwashed. He took the Dark Mark to save his mother. He's a child. Are you actually telling me that he has no responsibility for what he's done? That he is completely innocent?"

"That is a question for the ages," Andromeda shook her head slowly back and forth. "Not for me. Or you."

"Draco has agreed to allow Andromeda to heal his mind. He's agreed to listen. To accept knowledge and memories shared by others while he sleeps." Narcissa's skin was as white as cotton, the circles under her eyes like twin bruises. But her eyes burned. "As a mother, I hope that he is changed by this process. That this 'brainwashing' you mention can be reversed." She stared at Hermione, all of her chill control replaced by passion. "As a mother who knows his pride and his weakness better than any, I hope I have the strength to neutralize him if he is not."

'Neutralize him.' Hermione heard the deadly promise in Draco's mother's voice. "You'd do that? Kill your own son?"

"Do you not yet understand, Miss Granger?" The witch radiated fury. "Killing my own, my only son would end in both our deaths. But allowing that monster to continue to manipulate, torture, and use Draco? That would be far worse."

Chapter 21

Chapter Text

Something happened when Harry stepped outside, when he and Ron and Ted left the stone path and wandered among the flowerbeds. Harry brushed his hand against the bark of the trees, let his fingers drift among the tall stalks of grass. His dark thoughts receded, his fear seeming to bleed down through his fingertips and out. The sun on his shoulders lifted his spirit from the shadowy pits that threatened to swallow him.

Ted directed them to a small gazebo, already set with tea. After Harry had a few cups and some sandwiches in his belly, the shivering stopped. Ron must have noticed the change – he didn't hover quite so close or eye his surroundings with such suspicion. Ted relaxed and offered to go send a message to Remus. When he'd gone, Harry begged some time to himself from Ron with one look and headed out into the gardens.

Why did it seem so long since Harry sat in the summer sun and did nothing but soak it up? He settled down in a copse of small trees with distinctive black bark and full heads of white flowers. He lifted his face, eyes closed, and reveled in doing absolutely nothing. Thinking nothing. Feeling nothing.

Harry took a deep breath and let his awareness of his surroundings fall away. The heat of the sun. The line of sweat on his neck. The musky scent of the boxwood hedge to his left. The buzz of bees in nearby flowerbeds and the song of birds in distant trees. There was water somewhere – a fountain or a creek. Ron's footfalls paced a circle around him – far enough away to leave him in peace and close enough to be protective. The tension that always seemed to gather in Harry's jaw lessened and his chest expanded as he took in a long, slow breath.

With a rush of comforting magic and a low bark, Hedwig arrived, flying in just above Harry's head to ruffle his hair before she took off to perch in a nearby yew. He had a lot of monitors and protectors today, he smiled to himself. Faithful friends.

Harry was aware enough to know he wasn't falling asleep. Or falling beneath the control of one of Voldemort's dreams – Voldemort's dreams were never this peaceful. Ted's Calming Draught had helped Harry back from the ledge of paranoia and panic, but he didn't think this eerie feeling was a direct result. This felt … different. Homey. Comfortable. Like a visit from childhood friend.

Harry's memories lapped in calm waves within him, drawing close enough to be recognized before slipping away. Emotions were tied to each one, but they remained soft and blurry, not rushing aggressively to fill him up, to demand Harry respond. A voice whispered to him, not in words he could make out, but the sound itself warmed him. From above and beneath, from sky and soil, the tree behind him, the hedge and stream, other voices murmured.

A series of memories offered themselves. Harry was a tot, sitting on his mattress in the cupboard under the stairs. A much too large t-shirt slipped down one shoulder. His bare knees below roughly cut-off denims were scraped and bruised. There were dried tears on his cheeks, but his eyes were closed and his expression peaceful. Around him three wooden blocks hovered, circling so slowly they barely moved. Instead of letters in bright, primary colors, the blocks glowed with magic, each one gleaming with a wizarding portrait. His mum, red hair caught in a breeze. His dad, the sun reflecting from his glasses. Sirius, his head thrown back in laughter.

Another memory rose to replace it. He was riding in the backseat of the Dursley's car, staring open-mouthed at the night sky above him. Harry was rarely let out at night – and even more rarely was allowed to ride in the car. Tonight, the Dursleys were headed off for a weekend visit to Aunt Marge – and she'd insisted they bring Harry. Harry knew she'd make him do chores, take care of her nasty dogs, and she'd smile when they chased and bit him while constantly insulting him and saying evil things about his parents. But it didn't matter. He was looking at the stars – and they were twinkling at him. The moonlight and the starlight seemed to seep in through his skin and feed something deep inside. While Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia shouted rules and threats at him, Harry wasn't listening. He was listening to the stars.

A few years later, Harry was running. He ran until his chest ached and his head pounded. Dudley and his gang had already blacked his eye and broken two of his fingers. He ducked behind the school, knowing this was a dead end. He knew the door in front of him would be locked – it was always locked in the summer. Why had Harry run to the school? Still, after all this time, deep down, Harry believed that school would be a safe place, a place he could find friends and help, warm food, and all the things he'd always missed.

The handle didn't turn, of course. Harry put his back against the building and watched Dudley and his gang laugh and shove each other as they crept closer. A scent of herbs brushed against his cheek and a soft sigh ruffled his hair. He closed his eyes, his muscles relaxing. When he opened them, he was on the roof, the heat of the asphalt tiles comforting through his thin trainers.

In his memories, Harry wasn't afraid.

He sat on the school roof, hugging his knees, and raised his eyes from the frantic shouts below to the drifting clouds above. He laughed as the clouds became rabbits in top hats, dancing, before turning into a friendly giant with a huge bushy beard and then a scraggly dog, leaping and playing. Finally, a great stag appeared, its brown eyes soft and caring. It leapt from the sky to the schoolgrounds and chased the bad boys away before it took its place among the clouds again.

Footsteps crunching along the gravel path lured Harry from his inner world. Ted was watching him, a look of surprise on his face.

"Harry – you're doing better," he remarked, laughing. "I guess that's an understatement."

Harry smiled. "I used to do this all the time as a kid. Go inside." He touched his chest. "Remember my mum and dad, Sirius. Find a happy thought and let it fill me up." He co*cked his head to one side. "Sometimes the world around me seemed to help. The stars. The clouds. The grass and trees. My toys."

Ted folded his legs and sat on the turf opposite him. "It sounds like your natural Occlumency is returning – not the solid metal that keeps you separated from your emotions, but real Occlumency. A sense of yourself as a part of the world around you, touching and linked, but truly yourself. That's very good."

Ron had drifted closer when Ted returned. He examined the trees around Harry, one hand on a nearby trunk. "This is a blackthorn, isn't it?

Ted nodded. "Most of our trees and flowers serve double duty. They're beautiful, of course, and these, particularly are favorites for caterpillars to nest in that turn into lovely butterflies."

"But blackthorn bark is used in potions." Ron gestured. "And the flowers and fruit."

"You're right, Ron. The fruit is used in many healing potions, especially mind healing. And the flowers."

Harry leaned back against a slim trunk. "There's something – something else about the bark." He closed his eyes. "It's thorny and rough but feels …" he opened his eyes and frowned. "Loyal? Protective?"

"Interesting." Ted nodded. "Blackthorn wood is used in wand making. Some have made a connection between blackthorn wood and dark magic, but, thankfully, Ollivander doesn’t agree." He removed his wand from his sleeve. "My wand is blackthorn." With a considering expression, he held it out. "Here."

Ron took a step forward as if to stop Harry from taking it.

"No, it's all right. Go ahead," Ted urged.

Harry reached out. As his fingers neared the blackthorn wand, they slowed, his own magic surging to the surface of his skin as the magic of the wand reached out to him. It didn't feel dark – not at all. The sense of Ted's wand was powerful, alert, as if it was constantly looking out for its wizard. The natural wood was rough and bumpy, but not because it wanted to catch your fingers or hurt you, more because it valued its wizard and wanted him to be able to hang on, to hold tight.

Another magic joined the wood's. Sensitive. Caring. "Unicorn horn. Its core is unicorn horn," Harry murmured.

Ted chuckled. "You're right."

Ron blew out a breath as Harry pulled back his hand. "That's a powerful talent, Harry. You can sense elemental forces? The magic in nature? And wand lore - why didn't you tell me?"

"I – I didn't know." Harry corrected himself. "No, I didn't remember. And before you ask, no, I don't think Dumbledore did anything to me. I think," he caught Ted's encouraging gaze, "it feels like the battle between my mum's protection, bound as it was, and Voldemort's curse took up a lot of my natural magic. My magical core was being drained, year after year, by the struggle. That's why I could sense things when I was little, but it went away. Right?"

"That sounds like a reasonable explanation. Now that the battle in your spirit is over, your magic is recovering. In fact," Ted smiled, "it is rushing back to life." He slipped his wand back into his sleeve and took Harry's wrist, all Healer again. "How do you feel?"

Harry searched himself. "Good. Really good." He shifted, laying one cheek against the rough bark behind him. "Like I belong here. Here in the garden. Outside."

"Like it's welcoming you?" Ron crouched beside him. "Affinity to nature. Sensing magic in living things. Sensing other people's magic. You've always had a connection to magical creatures, too. He jerked his chin towards Hedwig in a nearby tree. "I'll bet you're listening, too. Like the plants are whispering to you? Like the animals are welcoming you?" Ron seemed to be counting things off on his fingers.

"What does it mean?" Harry asked.

Ron grinned. "Harry - there hasn't been a master wandmaker in the UK for decades. Not since Ollivander. I think we're about to get a great one."

Harry blinked. "I could be a wand maker?" More memories flipped through his mind. Up to his elbows in the rich black soil of his aunt's garden. The Dursley's flowerbeds were always the brightest on the whole street. The trees in his neighborhood had seemed to help him climb high in their branches. His thoughts always grew unfocused, scattered, when faced with a table full of different ingredients in potions' class. He remembered the lure of the unicorns and thestrals in the Forbidden Forest. Fawkes healing him. Buckbeak.

Could Ron be right? Could he have a talent that had nothing to do with destroying Voldemort – with fighting and life-threatening battles and chasing down Death Eaters? Could Harry's life have a goal – a future – beyond seeing another wizard dead and his friends safe?

"I haven't made anything in my life, Ron." Harry shook his head. "Is it like carpentry? Wand-making?"

Ted's smile was kind. "Not at all. From the little I know about wand lore, the trees and animals are part of the process. The wand maker asks and nature answers."

Harry blinked up at the heavy crown of white flowers above him. That made sense.

"Here - try mine." Ron held his wand close to Harry's face. "C'mon." He nudged his shoulder.

Harry chuckled. "Fine, just don't stick it up my nose." He took a breath and raised one hand until he could feel the wand's magic against his. His eyes opened wide. Power. Dark red and muted gold – a young lion pacing, stalking, lying in wait. Learning. Young leaves and thin branches ruffled by the wind, but a strong, faithful trunk holding steady. He met Ron's eyes. "It's … it's you, Ron. Willow, unicorn hair." He crooked a half-smile. "You're going to do great things with it."

"Cool," Ron breathed, staring at his wand.

The sounds of the garden rose up during their extended silence. Bees buzzed. Grass rustled. Harry's spirit drank it all in.

Ted finally rose and offered his hand to Harry. "How about a tour of the gardens?"

"Okay." Harry knew he was avoiding talking about Narcissa and Draco. About his frustration at the lockdown here at Tonks' Manor. His Occlumency. But, right now, walking through the Tonks' garden seemed to be the best plan he could come up with. He let Ted haul him to his feet and, with Ron at his side, trailed after the healer.

Twenty minutes later, Harry felt like he was covered in a blanket of pollen deliberately aimed at him by the exotic flowers and shrubs they passed. Bees hovered close by. Even the trickling stream seemed to babble louder and with more enthusiasm as they passed.

"Neville would love this." Ron chuckled. "I can see him now, racing between plants, covered with mud."

That reminded Harry of the question that had sent him off to find the Tonks' earlier. "Neville. Luna. Ginny and the twins. Maybe some others from the DA – from the school club we formed under Umbridge to actually learn defensive spells. I was wondering if we could invite them here. If they could train alongside us."

Ted looked thoughtful. "Interesting. I don't think Remus would have any objections to a larger class. But, I'm not sure how their families would feel about giving up their children for the summer to us, to people they don't really know."

Ron waved a fat bumblebee away from his face. "I'd limit it. Fred and George are probably too busy, for one thing. Training three more leaders – Luna, Ginny, and Neville – would take the pressure off of you, me, and Hermione. Then those three could train another three each." He spread the fingers of his right hand out like a fan and touched each digit. "Luna could train three other Ravenclaws, like Cho, Anthony, and Michael. Ginny could work on the other Quidditch players. And Neville knows a bunch of Hufflepuffs from working with Sprout. And then those three train three others." He shrugged. "It's a cell system. Smaller groups within a large group organization. Makes communication easier in both directions."

"They wouldn't have to live here, either. We could set up a schedule of training, maybe spell some Portkeys so they could travel safely?" Harry liked Ron's idea. It had been hard to organize the DA meetings with all of the students' schedules even when they were all at school together. He glanced over his shoulder at Hedwig - she'd been shadowing them as they wandered through the garden. "Hedwig can take messages. If I'm allowed to send them."

"If their parents are willing, I see no problem with that," Ted agreed. "But, I think you should wait to send Hedwig until Remus returns. I almost forgot –" he reached into his jacket and retrieved a parchment. "I was coming to give this to you. He sent it through the Floo."

The bold slash of Remus' writing was unmistakable. Harry broke the seal, noting the release of magic that indicated it had not been broken before.

Harry,

Events are moving us forward more quickly than I imagined. I'm sorry I wasn't there when the Malfoys showed up, but I believe you can trust Ted and Andromeda to put your health and welfare above anything else. Even so, I'll be there in a few moments, with that information anvil that I promised you earlier. I believe the memories you'll see contain a solution to this situation. If Andromeda wants her sister and Draco under her roof, there's another place for us. Maybe a better one.

But you'll have to view these memories before you'll consider it. And, frankly, I'm not sure what your reaction will be. I can only assure you that the choice will be entirely your own. Stay with the Tonks. Go to the new safe house. Or, if you wish, Dora and I will travel with you and your friends wherever you'd prefer to go. I have contacts on the continent and in Canada. Your choice.

Wait for me before you do anything, please.

Remus

Harry handed the note off to Ron with a grunt before he addressed Ted. "A new safe house?" Another move. Another adult setting a new set of rules. "What about the Training Room? I mean –" he threw up his hands. "This is crazy." His stomach churned. "I mean, it's not like I belong here, I get that. And you and Andromeda probably want your manor back and wouldn't appreciate a bunch of teenagers stomping about, but –" He turned away, ready to head off alone into the garden when Ron grabbed his upper arm.

"I'm with you, mate. Hermione and I are both with you. Wherever we decide to go."

Harry appreciated the sentiment, but his frustration was boiling over. "If only I had access to Sirius' house. That was mine, a place that really belonged to me – Sirius made sure to leave it to me in his will. Said I needed a bolt-hole where no one could find me. Where I felt at home." At least when Sirius was there. No, it wasn't the cleanest or the most welcoming. Sirius' mum's portrait screamed and there were hexes and jinxes and dark creatures hiding in dark corners waiting to pounce. But Harry had been happy there. For the short time he'd had Sirius in his life, he'd had a home.

Ron ducked his head, catching Harry's gaze. "You're right. We need to find out who the new Secret Keeper is."

Something niggled at the back of Harry's mind. Something about Sirius. About his house. He almost had it when a loud laugh from the direction of the house startled them.

"Dora is back." Ted smiled "I'd bet Remus is with her. Shall we?" He held out an arm, welcoming Harry and Ron to walk ahead.

Harry sighed. "Fine." He'd see these memories that Remus thought were so important. He'd talk with his friends and these new 'advisers' who seemed so anxious to help. He flicked a weighty glance at Ron who caught his intent and nodded back. But Harry would keep his own counsel – his and Ron's and Hermione's. And the three of them would decide where to go next. After all, if Dumbledore had trusted just the three of them with the search for the Horcruxes, he must have had faith that they could do it. Maybe it was stupid to expect; maybe, with everything he'd learned about Dumbledore he shouldn't put any faith in it. But a part of Harry still believed that this fight would be theirs – his, Ron's, Hermione's, Ginny's, Neville's – the Hogwarts kids', the DA's. Not the adults'.

Chapter 22

Chapter Text

Chapter 22

It would not be an exaggeration to say that Lucius Malfoy could easily kill the pink toad. Easily, quickly, and without an ounce of regret. He would take whatever punishment the Dark Lord felt was necessary afterwards and still only regret his own momentary pain and debilitation. He could live with pain – he'd learned that much.

Azkaban prison had taught Lucius a lot about himself. That Voldemort had allowed him to linger there for the better part of a year had done more. It had shaved off his pride and self-importance, emptied his reservoirs of muscle and fat – physical and otherwise - and readjusted his mindset. Lucius finally recognized that he had never been a valued confidante and insider, a key player to be respected and admired just one place away from the Dark Lord himself, but he was a mere minion – discardable and easily replaced. Just like every one of the Dark Lord's followers.

It was a very different Lucius Malfoy who had returned to Malfoy manor: outwardly cowed, but inwardly sharp. His mind had cycled and recycled through the history of Voldemort's rise and fall and new resurrection. He'd remembered the loss of hundreds of not just muggles and muggleborns, but pureblood witches and wizards, and then calculated the odds of any meaningful victory taking place under the madman's leadership. What would victory look like beneath the Dark Lord's boot, he'd asked himself. Having returned to a Manor stripped of elegance, of the warmth and comfort of his heritage, the love of his family and the respect of others having been replaced by dread and fear, Lucius had a fairly good idea.

Rich clothes, bright colors, and the perfection of Lucius' outward image was no longer important. If his looks now reflected his new inner steel rather than the wealthy pureblood pampering he'd once enjoyed, perhaps that was better. He sneered. The Dark Lord's outward form certainly reflected his cold-blooded, monstrous soul – Lucius could proclaim his own appearance was an homage to his master.

Master. No, not anymore. While Voldemort might have the power and skill to force Lucius' submission, he could no longer claim Lucius' heart. Lucius' heart burned for one purpose, now – to get his son back. And to get him, somehow, to safety.

Lucius had expected the Umbridge woman's uselessness. Draco had told him stories of her heavy-handed and utterly unsubtle maneuverings at Hogwarts. How the woman could have been sorted in Slytherin in her youth was quite without explanation. Slytherins knew the fine art of manipulation, of seeming to be a follower while being the true power in any situation. Umbridge had a Slytherin's ambition – in spades – and enough arrogance to wrestle with Lucius' own for first place, but her power grab at Hogwarts had been bound to fail. Torturing students, really, even if none were Slytherins. He shook his head. Nothing could turn every adult wizard against her as quickly.

He studied her through narrowed eyes. She had learned nothing since.

Wearing the Dark Lord's locket around her neck as if it was a badge of office, Umbridge had dragged Lucius around the countryside of Devon for hours, boldly Apparating to wizarding homes and demanding census information for the Ministry, making little tic marks on her ever-present clipboard. Lucius had remained silent and looming, knowing that his face was infamous and the wizards who were brave enough to open their doors wouldn't dare lie to him about who resided under their roofs.

A few minutes ago, they'd left yet another wizard family quaking in their boots. Apparating, the two had taken the first step towards their next victims, stopping at the western edge of the oak woodlands in Dartmoor Park – once a haven for those witches and wizards in hiding. The rowdies Voldemort had given to Umbridge had rounded them up, imprisoning women and children to act as hostages for the behavior of their husbands and fathers. Now the woodlands were riddled with her minions - she'd stationed them in likely forests and on hillsides nearby, waiting for any sign of the Potter boy's owl.

Lucius scanned the nearby surroundings through narrowed eyes, sending out a wordless spell to make sure he and Umbridge were alone. Honestly, the woman had no sense of stealth whatsoever. A few paces inside the thick trunks, sheltered in deep shadows, he considered the witch. Yes, it was time to speak. To act. To make sure he did not fail in his mission.

"Dolores, this is pointless. By insisting on these 'interviews' you are merely advertising to any and all that the Dark Lord is seeking someone here. If Potter and Draco were hidden nearby, they would have flown as soon as our mission," he seethed through clenched teeth, "reached their ears." Just speaking those two names in the same sentence caused him pain.

"The Dark Lord has put me in charge, Malfoy –"

Lucius interrupted. "Yes, yes, I am at your command, Dolores." One hand on his chest, Lucius bowed, calling up whatever remained of his once devastating charm. "I would ask, however, as you have this … situation firmly in hand," he gestured at the empty countryside around them, "that you utilize your resources more shrewdly."

Her nostrils flared as she adjusted the squat, nubby hat that rested on her bland curls. "Such as?"

"We are wizards, are we not? I have many incantations at my disposal. Some very powerful charms that, possibly, you are unaware of." Of course, she was unaware – Umbridge had pursued politics, not the Dark Arts. She was, in some ways, no better than a muggle bureaucrat herself. Her idol, he reminded himself, had been Cornelius Fudge, Merlin save them all. He set his mind back to his purpose. "I believe we should return to that ridiculous Burrow. I can –"

"It has been searched quite thoroughly. There is nothing to be –"

Lucius forced himself to touch the pink hag, laying one hand on her sleeve. "I have no doubt that you and your minions searched it well. What I am suggesting is that the lingering magics of the blood traitor Weasleys as well as Potter himself will aid my efforts in finding them. Not to mention," he lifted his chin and stared into the distance, "my blood connection with my son will allow me to use certain spells that would not avail others."

While the woman clucked her tongue and murmured to herself, Lucius prepared himself to Apparate. He would not take another step at Umbridge's side. He would not be dragged all over the countryside like a traveling salesman. He regarded her down the length of his nose and let his wand drop into his hand inside the fold of his cloak. Obliviate would be the appropriate spell to use. Or the Imperius Curse. No, Lucius did not have the patience for either. If she didn't agree –

"Very well. You are of little use to me as it is, looming there silently." Umbridge seemed to be standing on her tip-toes in order to look Lucius in the eye. She waved a hand. "I will summon Angliss and Foster – they will escort you back to the Burrow, and," her beady eyes nearly disappeared behind her cheeks as she grinned, "keep watch. I expect hourly reports, with explicit details as to what spells you are using, what results you've obtained, and –"

"Sectum Sempra." Lucius drawled the spell, executing the precise wand movements to slit the woman's throat. The look of utter shock on her face as she fell to the dirt was extremely satisfying. Lucius leaned over her, applying the spell again and again, directing the slashes to appear as the claw and teeth marks of animals. He smiled. Of wolves. Let the Dark Lord's minions take her bloodless corpse back to their Master. Let him gnash his teeth at the werewolves' destruction of yet another of his trusted lieutenants.

He crouched, completing his last touches on the witch's body before grabbing the locket and tearing it from her ravaged throat. As the blood-covered locket touched his skin, Lucius was slammed onto his back with a sudden rush of magic. Pain exploded, frying each nerve, deafening noise rose in a tempest and tossed him like a ragdoll. The locket – the locket screamed. Lucius was swept from side to side, dark magic biting into his skin through the blood smeared across his palm, gnawing its way inside, fastening to him, body and soul.

Lucius cried out, desperately reaching for his magic, for some control. He dragged himself to one elbow and spoke, teeth clenched, directing his magic - his self-protection wards - to fight, to thicken and then to attack, to cleanse, to keep the dark curse from seeping through his skin. The Latinate words sent a shield of visible green outward from his core, rippling across his skin and clothes, up his chest and down his arm. Faster. He must work faster. His voice shook, the pain doubling. His hand curled into a claw around the locket, the gold ring he wore on his middle finger searing hot, melting, fusing with his skin.

"No!" Lucius struggled to his knees and raised his wand, incanting the most powerful freezing spell he could remember. It poured from his wand in icy waves, the fingers of his right hand freezing. Teeth clenched, he hissed the spell, turning his wand to an icicle, sharp and glimmering, the ice turning from frosty white to pure, thick blue. When his right hand was numb down to his wrist, Lucius shouted the last spell and shoved his icy wand between the locket and his left hand to pry it away.

The connection broke with a crack, the locket tumbling to the grass, silenced. Lucius panted and heaved, not allowing himself a moment to recover before continuing his incantations. He purged the blackness. Healed himself. He shook off the ice, ignoring the blackened skin of his fingertips and fought. Again and again he fought against the curse in his left hand. It clung, seeping beneath his skin, searching for his inward channels, for space to grow. He could not let it reach his core; if he couldn't eliminate it, he must contain it. Lucius placed the tip of his wand against the inside of his left wrist and spoke his bindings. There. He tapped his wand to his wrist once, twice, three times, using the form of an oath to wrap skin and blood and muscle in a braided magical tourniquet. It tightened, inside and out, until it looked as if Lucius wore a thick metal cuff of gold and green. He paused, watching, wand poised, to see if the tourniquet would hold.

Shoulders drooping, Lucius took in long slow breaths, his violent shaking easing. Yes. It would hold. For now.

He stared at his bloody left hand. The Malfoy signet ring had fused to his skin, the stone cracked to fragments peppering the gold that had leaked to the fingers to either side before it hardened. Now it looked like a diseased gold splint sealing his first to third fingers together. The shocking pain had lessened, fading towards numbness. Lucius wiggled his fingers and gasped. Perhaps not all numbness. He'd take care not to try to move his fingers again – not just now. The stiffness would grow, he supposed, as the magical cuff cut his hand off from not just magic, but blood as well.

Lucius glanced around at the nearly silent forest. His struggle with the locket had not disturbed a thing. The bees and birds seemed unaffected; there was neither animal interest in the dead body at his feet nor a panicked rush away from the noise.

"Unaffected," Lucius murmured. "How ironic." He would certainly never be the same. This was no simple curse – this was a Blood Binding; only the darkest of objects could transfer its evil to a wizard or witch through violently spilled blood. There were books in the Malfoy archives that described such things. Quickly and painfully, his left hand would die, it would blacken and shrivel, and, eventually, the curse would push past the barrier on his wrist, travel further up his arm, and nest in his core, taking him over.

"Well, I suppose I this will tighten my timetable," he snorted to himself. His right hand a fist around his wand, he considered his plan. There was truly nothing that Lucius would permit to stand in his way. If his life was measured in weeks, then those weeks would not be spent kowtowing to Voldemort. Pretending to be a slave. Being careful of other Death Eaters. Lucius' time would be spent doing nothing but finding and safeguarding his son.

He stood over the stained locket, considering. There was a presence there – a personality. As if a dark wizard had been caught inside. There were very few curses that would result in such a feeling. Eyes narrowed, Lucius raised his wand, a Scourgify on his lips. Strange. The face of the locket was already bare, the gems unsullied, gleaming in the dappled sun, as if the locket had sucked Umbridge's blood inside. Lucius performed the cleansing spell carefully, beginning on his own skin, his cloak and sleeve, the knees of his trousers. Only then did he cleanse the locket and create a series of thick wards around it. He tore shreds from Umbridge's clothes and knitted them into a Wardcloth to wrap the thing in. He would not touch it again until he could set it within a charmed sigil.

Levitating the thing to his pocket, Lucius shuddered at the locket's power. Even now, warded and wrapped in protective spells, its power hummed. It sounded … gleeful. Anticipatory. Hungry.

Lucius allowed one more glance at the dead witch. He stepped closer, grinding her wand into dust with his boot heel. "Goodbye, Dolores."

With a loud crack, Lucius Apparated. A few minutes later, the bees and birds resumed their hovering. A vole, scenting the air crept close to the torn corpse. Three ravens perched in a nearby tree, wings flapping nervously. A possum lumbered towards the body only to stop dead a meter away. Nothing approached and, a scant quarter hour later, the meadow was empty of life.

The Weasley's Burrow looked as it always had to Lucius – cramped, awkward, dirty – a tawdry example of a wizarding home. He would have razed it to the ground with a word only a year ago. Now … now, perhaps, it could be of use to him.

"Malfoy."

The bright green of Lucius' Avada Kedavra dropped Llewylln as Lucius strode past the Death Eater. His lips twisted as he surveyed the Weasleys' kitchen, lounge, and mudroom. Umbridge's ham-handed fools had made a mess of the place. Very well, he straightened his shoulders and drew in a deep breath.

"Treguna Mekoides." He cast, his wand whipping back and forth. "Satis Quisque. Seorsum Magicus."

As he moved through the house, from floor to floor and room to room, he repeated his incantations, the Weasleys' belongings obeying. Books, clothes, parchments, Chocolate Frog cards, everything flew into separate piles, based on the type of object; each item that contained magic levitated to the wide, plain kitchen table. In half an hour, Lucius had moved on from the house to the outbuildings – chicken shed, broom shed, and Arthur Weasley's workshop. Finishing in the garden, Lucius caught a gnome as it sailed past, canceling his spell's effectiveness against living creatures. He sneered into the gnome's saucer-like eyes. "We can't have the odd hippogriff and baby dragon cluttering up the house, now can we?" He banished the gnomes with a word.

Before he made his way back to the kitchen to determine how much of the detritus was useful, Lucius raised his wand, lifting his chin and closing his eyes. Wards were summoned, thick and tight, beginning as a glowing halo beneath the clouds and expanding into concentric rings that expanded to circle not just the Burrow and its outbuildings, but enough of the surrounding countryside to ensure Lucius' privacy. He murmured his spells, deepening the protection, setting up alarms, and locking the wards to his own magic, allowing only his in and out.

As the spells took shape, Lucius felt his left hand tremble, the curse returning to scalding heat beneath his skin. Lucius forced himself to continue, to finish his work, as the pain grew. Tying off the wards with a final flick of his wand, he bent, right hand propped on one knee, panting for breath.

The curse remained trapped behind his cuff. But it lapped at its bonds, testing them, frighteningly powerful. Magic. His magic was feeding the magic of the curse.

He stared at his cursed hand. "Very well. I suppose we'll soon find out who is stronger."

Lucius rose and made his way back into the house. "First things first." He'd barely glanced at the magical items on the table on his way into the lounge. He banished the furniture, the rug, the dust that had gathered in corners and the spiders and bugs in their nests. When the room was cleansed and his left hand throbbed in time with his beating heart, Lucius cast off his cloak and knelt on the bare floor. He'd found the broken head of a nail sticking up from the floor and used it to slice open the tip of his right index finger.

No verbal spell was necessary. Lucius drew the diagrams, setting each with the proper rune, recutting his finger or beginning with another when it began to clot. He did not let one drop of sweat that lined his brow drip onto the figure. Blood only, painted thick and precise. Finally, he stood, the last rune finished. He groped in the pocket of his cloak, drawing out the locket wrapped in its Wardcloth and dropped it into the center of his sigil. One word set the magic to life.

As Lucius fell, unconscious, safely outside the wards he had drawn, the edges of the sigil flared to roaring, fiery life. In the center, the Wardcloth dissolved and the locket hung, still and dormant, locked behind the protective barrier.

Chapter 23

Chapter Text

Chapter 23

When Harry was four, he had a high fever. He remembered being hauled out of his cupboard and shoved towards the garden to do his chores – freaks didn't get sick days, his aunt had reminded him. But she hadn't let him touch their food, either, so he couldn't contaminate them with his germs. Harry had stumbled around, squinting in the weak sunlight, not really accomplishing much, until he'd finally collapsed against the rough wood of the shed, eyes closed, his head against his knees.

He remembered the feeling of separation – as if the world around him was hidden behind a hazy pane of glass that deadened sound and feeling. His head had felt big, heavy, the left side from his temple down his neck to his chest thick and aching, his hearing blocked except for the sound of his heart beating. He'd found out later that it had probably been an ear infection – that a lot of kids got them. But, at the time, Harry hadn't thought about the cause much at all. Thinking was hard when your head felt like it would either float away or come crashing down off his neck because it was made of stone.

In the Tonks' study, his head bent as if he was back in that garden, his back against the shed, Harry stared at his hands. After hearing – seeing – taking in the memories from the Pensieve, he felt the same. Half-numb, half-aching, all unreal, his heart beat hammering until he thought they all should be able to hear it. His thoughts were still, caught in some kind of shocked stupor.

Snape. Snape … wasn't who he'd seemed.

Snape hadn't murdered Dumbledore. Snape had loved Harry's mum. Snape had an oath of friendship with Remus. Snape had tried to renounce Voldemort before Harry's parents died. Snape had saved Harry's life. Snape was on his side.

"That's – " Ron cleared his throat and started again. "I mean, I get it. I figured he couldn't be the loyal Death Eater we'd assumed he was and still be trusted to be in the Order. Still …"

Harry was tempted to glance across at his friend. Ron sounded equal parts furious and reasonable, like he couldn't quite decide whether to shout a traditional Ron-type rant or sit down and discuss the situation with an adult's casualness. It was good that the old Ron was still in there somewhere, eager to leap to Harry's defense. But Harry could get used to the level-headed intelligence and sharp insights.

"Snape and Dumbledore made bloody sure we'd never trust him, didn't they?" Ron continued.

"I know. His history with you three – with all of us – won't make this easy." Remus stirred on Harry's left. He reached out and gripped Harry's wrist. "Setting things right, sharing the truth about all of us, Severus included, is important. You understand, don't you, Harry?"

Remus' hand felt heavy. It felt like a demand that Harry put aside everything he'd ever thought about Snape right this minute and agree to take the man's offer. To go live with him. In an instant Harry was back in Umbridge's office, his neck aching, cheek stinging at the woman's blow, Snape standing in the doorway with a smirk on his face, eager for the opportunity to see Harry hurt. To do nothing while Sirius was trapped by Voldemort.

"Of course, Harry understands." Hermione's voice was sharp and cutting, slicing through the horror of Harry's memory. "What you need to understand is that, just because this is true doesn't mean we – that Harry – can simply wipe away every evil, nasty, hurtful thing Snape has said and done over the past six years. That he can stand up, smile, and give the bastard a hug."

"Hermione!"

"Shut it, Tonks."

On Harry's right, Hermione shifted. Harry still couldn't seem to lift his head, but he knew her well enough to know she'd crossed her arms, her cheeks pink with fury, and her eyes aglow with passion.

"Clearly, Dumbledore acted terribly towards Snape. Equally clearly, you are all expecting us to ignore everything we've experienced in the past with not just Snape, but the Malfoys, too. Like that."

The snap of her fingers made Harry flinch. Remus' hand tightened on his wrist.

"We should leave," Harry murmured. His words surprised him – he hadn't realized he'd made a decision until he heard himself say it. He raised his head to search out Ron – who was already on his feet, ready to follow Harry – follow Harry who knew where.

"Harry –"

"Remus." Harry interrupted him, shaking his arm from Remus' hold. "You said you'd accept my decision. Are you taking that back?"

His face pale, Remus faced him. "No. I am absolutely not taking that back. But I also don't think you should act without thinking." He raised a hand to try to take back the accusation. "I mean, without considering your options. And letting all this," he jerked his head towards the Pensieve still sitting on the table, "sink in."

Harry was grateful for the numb feeling. He didn't want to be angry, to rage and throw things as he had done once at Sirius' house; in Dumbledore's office. It would make him look even more like a tantrum-throwing kid than he already did. And he wanted – no, he needed the adults to listen. To hear him.

He stood, Hermione rising to stand beside him in a slow, decisive way. "You've all said you want to help me. Help us. You want to train us, find the Horcruxes, figure out how we can all defeat Voldemort together. And I appreciate that. We need training. We need information. We need allies. What we don't need are another bunch of adults who want to control us. Who are anxious to tell us what to do."

Staring at Andromeda, Harry squared his shoulders. "I'm very grateful for your help. But I won't be hidden away, held here without a way to talk to my other friends. Kept behind wards that I have no way of countering. Told to trust Draco Malfoy and Severus Snape." Okay, maybe Harry wasn't as numb as he had been. He turned to Remus. "And I'm not jumping into anything. But I also don't see how I require your permission," the word seared across the space between them, "to discuss this with my friends and to act."

He bowed his head to Andromeda. "I'll be sending some letters. I'd appreciate it if you would respect my privacy – and my independence – and allow Hedwig to take them without reading them or interfering with them." He held her gaze until she nodded, her lips thin and tight. "Thank you. Now, if you'll excuse Ron and Hermione and me, we have a lot to talk about."

"Harry, dear –"

Molly Weasley hurried to stand between Harry and the door. Harry side-stepped to avoid her outstretched arms. She pulled them back, clasping her hands together in front of her chest.

"Mum, please," Ron began, "we're not taking off for parts unknown. We're just going upstairs to talk things over."

Her eyes were bright, but she sighed and stepped aside. "One thing," she said as they moved forward. "I want to assure you that we understand. Severus himself said it this afternoon. It would be easy for us – any of us – to take over Dumbledore's role, to set ourselves up as the Adult Who Knows Better." She shook her head slowly back and forth. "As parents, it's our go-to attitude. We need to protect our children. All children. And, as parents," her smile was small, "the hardest part of our job is letting go. Letting our children make their own decisions. To see them as adults." Her eyes locked with Ron's. "The greatest gift I can give is to tell you this: I trust you. And I trust you to ask for help and advice when you need it."

Ron's eyes shone with tears. "Mum." It seemed to be all he could say.

Molly lay a hand against Ron's cheek for a second. "Go on, then," she urged.

Upstairs in the small study, the secret staircase visible through the propped open tapestry, the window wide open, Hedwig was waiting for them.

HP HP HP HP HP

"That … could have gone worse. But I don't know how." Ted rubbed at his temples with both hands.

"They could have left immediately without telling us where they were going." Remus felt all eyes digging into his back. He turned from his pacing to stare at the group. "What? You expected their reaction to be different? You thought they'd hear Andromeda's explanations about the Malfoys and Severus' memories and say, 'Oh, well, then, best friends, let's all have tea'?" He snarled, his anger at himself curling his lip.

Remus bit back his rant and stopped in his tracks. No, anger was useless right now. What he needed was to listen to his own bloody advice. He moved behind his wife's chair and settled his hands on her shoulders. "Feel like packing?"

Right hand gripping his, she half-turned in her chair. "You think it will come to that?"

He kissed the top of her changeable head. "I think we should prepare ourselves, all of us," he stared at the others, "for Harry moving on from here. We've made a lot of mistakes, quite a few false starts – and before you begin to argue with me," Remus leveled his glare at Ted, already rising from his chair, "yes, I know we've been dealing with an impossible set of circ*mstances. We've all done our best for Harry and the Order, for the fight against Voldemort, but Molly has the right of it. We have to trust Harry sometime."

Molly had abandoned her post by the doorway and poured herself a cup of tea, absently stirring it with the end of her wand, her expression dark. "They're both legally adults, you know. Hermione and my Ron." She seemed to be talking to herself. "Nearly forgot to celebrate Ronald's coming of age birthday this year. I really believe Ron didn't give it a second thought, he was that caught up in the horrors going on at Hogwarts. In Harry's fight."

She held the other adults spellbound, her voice barely more than a whisper, her gaze distant and shadowed.

"Harry shared most everything with Ron and Hermione. His strange outings with Dumbledore, how the Headmaster was, little-by-little, introducing Harry to Tom Riddle, to the boy who became Lord Voldemort. Those meetings were awful for Harry – and almost as bad for Ron and Hermione. You see," she shook her head, "after each of these meetings, Harry felt as if Dumbledore was telling him that, if it weren't for a few changed circ*mstances, Harry could have been exactly like him. Exactly like Voldemort."

Magic and rage pulsed out in a wave from each of the wizards, the candles barely lit in the summer afternoon flaring into blue-white flames. Remus let go of Dora's shoulders for fear he would hurt her. Andromeda had turned her face away, both hands against her cheeks, visibly trembling.

"Riddle was an orphan, too, you know. Lived in a group home where his treatment echoed Harry's. We all know he's a Parseltongue. Gifted in magic. But, unlike our Harry, Riddle turned inward, became focused on vengeance and hate. He found his accidental magic early and managed to use it. Used it to hurt, to control. And, when Dumbledore invited him to come to Hogwarts, he used the cunning and guile of a born Slytherin to hide his black soul."

"Imagine, just imagine," Molly sighed, "telling a young man like Harry, who had lost his parents, his godfather, watched Cedric Diggory murdered, endured torments from Umbridge and hateful rhetoric from the press, who'd been tortured by Voldemort himself, imagine telling him that he could be another Voldemort – another Dark Lord." She made a face. "He already knew his wand was a twin to the monster's. That he was also a Parselmouth. Harry knew the monster's rage and fury through his dreams."

Dora had both hands over her mouth, tears filling her eyes. "Why? Why?" she mumbled.

"I'm sure Dumbledore thought he had a reason. Something about the 'greater good' or such like." Molly continued. "But, when we owled Ron to tell him we'd be coming up to Hogwarts to take him out to celebrate the day, he wouldn't have it. Used the Floo to tell us not to come. Said he wanted to stay with his friends – that he'd wasted enough time already with … with a girlfriend and needed to be there for Harry. He was that upset."

Remus remembered the story. Instead of going out with his family on his birthday, Ron had been poisoned. First with a love potion meant for Harry and then with Slughorn's mead. If Harry hadn't shoved a bezoar down Ron's throat –

"We nearly lost him that day. And, I'll admit, I looked at my little boy with new eyes in the Infirmary. Took a good look at him and Harry and Hermione and realized they weren't children anymore." Molly turned and met Remus' gaze. "Harry was quiet. Reserved. But, oh, you could see the burden on his shoulders and the … the black despair behind his eyes. I believe –" Molly stopped, her lips pressed together, and shook her head, unwilling to say the words out loud.

Andromeda rose from her chair and met Molly in the center of the room, grasping the witch's cold, shaking hands. "You believe that Dumbledore had been priming Harry. Tearing at his self-worth. Preparing him to sacrifice himself, just as Severus has said."

"Yes." Molly dropped her cup and grabbed Andromeda as if she was a life preserver. "If Ron would have died that day, I don't think Harry –"

Andromeda crushed Molly to her, her magic rising up around the two women in swirls of light. Protective. Comforting. Fierce. A cry went up from the doorway and Remus turned to find Narcissa Malfoy standing there. No longer the ice princess he had believed her to be, Narcissa was crying, great sobs torn from her throat like the sounds of an animal in distress, her eyes red, her nose running. Draco had been wounded, too. Compelled past his conscience and strength because of a madman's threats to his family.

Andromeda lifted a hand and her sister joined the other two mothers' embrace, her magic braided with theirs.

Dora and Ted stood with Remus, watching. Three witches. Three mothers. Three who had seen their children hurt, who knew their children were not safe and that there was little they could do to shield and protect them. Remus' rage turned to a sort of painful joy when a slim, red-haired figure shimmered to life next to Molly. Another mother. One who, even in death, would not stop trying to protect her son.

"Lily," he breathed.

Her voice seemed to come from everywhere – inside and out. "A mother's love does not end when our children grow up. It grows up, too. Grows up to embrace them and those they join lives with, in love, in friendship, in commitment. It grows to trust, to be confident in the young men and women who were, for a time, placed into our hands. And it grows large enough to grieve their adult hurts, their awful decisions, and their enlarged losses. It grows able to step back. To release them so that they will look forward to their future, knowing we are here, behind."

Before Remus noticed she'd left his side, Dora was walking towards the others, and the magic swirled into an opening, welcoming her in. Lily Potter kissed her on the forehead as the image disappeared leaving three – now four mothers.

Remus stumbled, catching himself on the back of the chair. "Dora?"

Her face was shining with joy when she looked up from her mother's arms. "Surprise."

Chapter 24

Chapter Text

Chapter 24

The alarm on Severus' Floo had been jangling for fifteen minutes when he finally reached a stopping point. He set the last rune, the entire sigil glowing blue/white with waiting power, and lurched to his feet. Even with the removal of years of spell damage, kneeling on the stone floor of the ritual room did little for his joints.

Hands on his hips, Severus considered his work. Rarely, in recent years, had he attempted magic of this magnitude, magic that did not utilize his potions' skills but called on the deeper, more ancient magics of the elements, of runes, and arithmancy. The work had both challenged and invigorated him, forcing him to call up resources long untouched and eager for use. It had also reminded him how very small the box he'd been compelled into living in had been. Potions' Master. Teacher. Slave to two masters. He drew in a deep breath. Living as himself left Severus feeling more euphoric than any potion could.

He tested the sigil once more. Yes. The runes were correct and the balance of energies pure. It could wait in this state for a week, if necessary, while Severus recharged his strength and mastered the wording of the spell to dismiss his ancestors' creations. It would not take a week, he promised himself. This time tomorrow, the Dementors would be no more.

Saffron met him outside the door with a potion. "Wardstone is humming, Master."

"Yes, thank you," Severus replied before drinking the muscle soother. He sighed as the tightness dwindled and then rolled his shoulders in relief. "I'll see to it."

"And?" the House Elf jerked her pointed chin towards the locked room behind him.

"Tomorrow. If I can keep from being interrupted." He eyed her accusingly.

"After rest and a good meal, of course."

He smiled. Saffron was his most insistent nag of an elf. "Of course. Please bring tea –"

"Already done, Master." She bowed her head and Apparated.

Tea – and a variety of tidbits – were waiting for Severus in the study. He forced himself to drink an overly sugared cup and eat a few slices of fruit to stave of dehydration before examining his wards. With a tap of his wand on the Wardstone he recognized the wizards requesting entrance. Interesting. Not completely surprising, but he had thought it would take longer for any response from the Ministry. Severus adjusted the wards to his visitors' magical signatures and uttered the password.

A few minutes later, Shacklebolt and Dawlish appeared in the flames and stepped to the hearthrug.

"Gentlemen." Severus lifted one eyebrow, his hands at his sides, his wand hidden in his sleeve. Chartwell Manor would not allow any harm to come to him. Even if he hadn't had Arthur Weasley's assurance that his arrest warrant had been withdrawn and his name cleared by the Ministry, Severus would have felt no need to protect himself.

"Snape." Kingsley moved first, offering his hand. "We appreciate your memories – and your insights as to You-Know-Who's plans."

Severus gripped the Auror's hand, recognizing the gesture if inwardly cringing at the name. "This manor is fully warded – you may speak the madman's name here." He regarded the other man. "Dawlish."

"Snape."

The Auror nodded, then took a step to the side to scan his surroundings. Careful – that had always been Severus' observation of Dawlish. He made no quick judgments, no hurried motions. While others in his position had been eager to jump to conclusions about wizards and witches, Dawlish had been content to watch and wait – allowing criminals to reveal themselves with little to no effort on his part.

Severus gestured towards the tea things – which had immediately expanded to include cups and plates for three. "Can I offer you refreshments?"

Kingsley appeared to want to decline, but Dawlish grinned and helped himself. At his partner's glare, the Auror shrugged his shoulders, his cheek bulging with scones and cream. "Haven't you learned anything from Moody? 'Eat, sleep, and go to the toilet whenever you have a chance. You don't know when the next opportunity will come.'"

Snorting, Severus refilled his cup. "How is the old paranoid? I was initially afraid he might have a heart attack watching my memories."

"You've made a staunch supporter there, Snape."

"Severus. I no longer use my father's name. Severus Beverley Prince."

Kingsley bowed his head. "Severus."

Lowering himself into a chair, Severus gestured, inviting the others to sit. "I imagine you have questions? You need clarifications on some issues?"

Dawlish groaned. "That's part of it."

"First and foremost - the locket. Slytherin's locket." Kingsley set his elbows on his knees. "There's no mention of it in your memories. Did Dumbledore and Potter fail to retrieve it?"

Ah. Severus had ended his memories just after he'd sent Dumbledore tumbling off the Astronomy Tower. His confrontation with a grief-stricken, furious Harry Potter out on the school grounds was not something he desired to share. The boy had done his best to stop Severus' escape, flinging hexes at his back. Turning back, hurling the boy into the dirt, and sneering down into his face had been … painful. The boy had been overwhelmed with grief and rage, tears streaming down his face, his magic a tempest of uncontrolled emotion. No, he would not share Potter's undoing with the Ministry. It would be a betrayal beyond anything Severus had already done to the boy. Utterly unforgiveable.

"They retrieved the item hidden in the sea cave." Severus steepled his fingers. "The difficulty of overcoming Voldemort's traps had weakened Dumbledore to near death without need of a spell. However, it became clear when Potter dropped the locket that it was a counterfeit. There was no hint of darkness surrounding it, and the only content was a note. I regret that I did not have time to read it." Severus tilted his head in curiosity. "Surely Harry could tell you?"

Dawlish answered. "We haven't got access to him. Hoping you do."

"'Access,'" Severus drawled, irritated by the Auror's tone. "I can get a message to him. Would that be enough?"

"Now, look –" Dawlish leaned forward but Kingsley interrupted.

"A message would be fine. We trust you to ask the right questions." He reached to an inner pocket of his robes and handed Severus a scroll. "This is from the Minister. He's trying to find the boy. Convince him to come in to the Ministry."

Severus met Kingsley's steady gaze before he raised his wand to scan the scroll. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Dawlish narrowing his eyes, but the Auror did not threaten him. Good. Severus would have hated to clean up what was left of him by Chartwell's wards.

The scroll revealed faint tracings of power. A location spell. A few minor charms to ensure that the only one able to open it was Potter and that he read it immediately. Severus met Kingsley's amused stare before disarming all spells and charms and rendering the message harmless. He snatched it from the Auror's fingers. "I will be happy to send it along."

Kingsley chuckled, warm and deep, before rubbing his eyes. "Another item off the checklist, John," he murmured to his partner.

Severus blinked and then took a second look at the Auror sitting before him. His skin was nearer grey than black, the circles beneath his eyes the size of saucers. Both men wore robes that refused to take another refreshing spell and, by the slump of their shoulders, might step out Severus' Floo into who-knows-where if they attempted to travel in such a state of exhaustion.

"How long has it been since you slept, Shacklebolt?"

The Auror shot a weary expression towards Severus. "What day is it?"

Severus was startled to realize that he didn't immediately know. He set a Tempus with his wand and allowed his surprise to show. "I must say that the hours have gone by so swiftly I did not realize. Dumbledore's magic fell only two days ago. It is July 15, 1997, five o'clock in the afternoon."

"Feels like it's been months," Kingsley muttered.

"For Merlin's sake, you should rest. I have plenty of room here and House Elves would be overjoyed to serve. Can I offer you two a hot meal, refreshment, showers, and some uninterrupted sleep?" He waved away Kingsley's immediate denial. "You will be no good to anyone if you slump over in exhaustion during an interrogation or facing a Death Eater. Or, more likely, leave my Floo in pieces scattered around Canary Wharf instead of at the Ministry."

"That – " after sharing a glance with Dawlish, Kingsley sighed, folding back into the chair, "that would be appreciated. Let me notify Amelia –"

"I shall do so. Please." Severus rose, gratified that someone had deigned to accept his hospitality. "I shall also notify Arthur Weasley – he and his oldest sons should be arriving at Gringotts soon to discuss Horcruxes with the goblins. Bill believes goblin magic can locate the remaining items with little difficulty."

Dawlish blinked. "Huh. Never would have thought of that."

"Another reason to see to your rest. Intelligence wanes when exhaustion rules." Severus hauled Kingsley out of his chair, steadying the Auror as he wobbled a bit on his feet.

"And Charlie Weasley?" Kingsley asked. "What good is he going to do at this meeting at Gringotts?"

Severus' smile was sharp. "It seems the goblins have a dragon that has taken up occupancy of their roof."

"Well, well, well." Kingsley's deep chuckle eased some of the lines around his eyes. "Seems like we've got something the goblins want."

"Indeed." Severus led the two towards the stairs and the guest rooms. "How very lucky for us."

Chapter 25

Chapter Text

Chapter 25

First, they sent letters. All three wrote, passing their letters around to check it for wording, and then spelled the parchment to be read by the intended recipient, only. Neville. Ginny. Luna. Those three, first. They'd been with the trio at the Department of Mysteries. Along with the twins, they'd been the first members of the DA. They shouldn't be kept in the dark, wondering what was going on.

They worked mostly in silence, each one caught up in his or her thoughts, trying to put aside the confusion for a while, to let things settle before they brought up what they'd really come up to talk about. The House Elf brought lunch – or maybe it was dinner. Harry had lost track of the time – not just what time of day it was, but what day, week, month, even. Over heaping plates of bangers and mash, salad, juice, water, and strawberry pie, Ron had answered his question.

"Fifteenth of July. Around six o'clock." He'd shrugged, taking another sliver of pie. "I've been getting the Prophet and the Quibbler in the morning at home. Trying to keep up. Here, Ted and Andromeda have them in the library."

Mention of Luna's dad's paper brought Harry's mind back to the letters. When the three letters were finished, including the summary of events from their perspective, written by Hermione and edited by Ron, they rolled them tight and Harry called for Hedwig.

"Ginny and the twins first, Hedwig, in Diagon Alley. Then Neville. Then Luna. Ron tells me the Lovegood house is not far from the Burrow. That should put you on your way back here."

The owl jerked her head up and down, wings out to steady herself on Harry's arm.

Harry tied the letters to one leg and then looked into Hedwig's wide eyes. "I don't have to tell you to be careful, do I? To watch out for yourself?" He brushed the back of his hand down her breast. "I don't know what I'd do without you, girl."

Hedwig clacked her beak, obviously insulted that Harry could think she wouldn't come back to him.

He struggled to his feet and headed for the window. "Okay. Okay. You're a big girl. A powerful owl. You can handle yourself. But," he held her feet firmly against his arm for another moment, "still. Be careful."

Hedwig closed her eyes and rubbed her head against Harry's cheek. With a bark, she lifted her wings and sped off into the evening sky. Harry watched until she dwindled and then vanished.

Ron and Hermione waited in the doorway to the bedroom. "Training?" Ron urged. "Frankly, Harry, I feel like I've got to do something or I'm going to go balmy."

"Me, too," Hermione said.

Relief coursed through Harry. He didn't want to talk – not right now. Not about Voldemort. Or the Malfoys. Definitely not about Snape. Prince. Whatever he was calling himself. They wouldn't know if their friends were willing to come to them for training until Hedwig came back with their replies. Whether Ginny, Luna, and Neville would help set up a group like the Order of the Phoenix, but with Harry, Ron, and Hermione at the head and split up into cells like Ron suggested. If the three would accept their co-leadership positions and help identify more Hogwarts' students – even those who had graduated – who might join.

"Let's go," Harry agreed, leaping between them and up the tree-stairs ahead of his friends.

They began with the basics. Stupify. Petrificus Totalis. Expelliarmus. Confundo. Reducto. They put the dueling dummies on a beginner's setting until they warmed up, then, without a word, Ron set six of them to moderate. Harry nodded and the three separated, communicating silently as they always had.

Ron's Protego was the thickest, set at an angle to make sure his opponent's spells didn't ricochet into his friends. Hermione had a way with flames, leaving two dummies enveloped by blue fire within a few seconds. Harry, his eyes narrowed, felt his magic as he never had before, felt it gathering beneath his sternum, ready, eager to be released.

He flicked his wand in neat patterns, mouth closed tight, and willed the spell to strike. The dummy closest to him burst apart, metal and wood exploding like cannon fire that punctured the one next to it. Harry waved the backlash into a controlled tempest that whipped around the room, targeting Ron's dummies, sweeping the shrapnel away from his friends.

In the hush that followed, Ron and Hermione didn't praise him, or shoot him suspicious glances. All three merely took in the damage and nodded grimly. In the heavy silence, Ron set up the next round. Twelve attackers this time. When they'd reduced the dummies to splinters, he chose twelve again, set to difficult.

Harry gritted his teeth as the dummies began to move in a wide circle around the three. This looked familiar. Black robes. Masked faces. When the first dummy Apparated behind Harry, he shot it with a hex without turning. He'd seen Sirius do that in the Ministry battle. Ron's Accio bewitched a chunk of fallen enemy into the head of another. Hermione had flattened two with a powerful Aguamenti. By the time the twelve were defeated, Harry had a broken and bloody nose, Hermione was limping, and Ron had a gash across his back.

Sweaty and breathing hard, the three gathered in the middle of the carnage, smoke and scattered pieces of the attack dummies surrounding them.

"Time out. We should find some healing potions –"

Harry touched Hermione on the elbow to stop her. "No. There won't be time in battle. Spells only."

Her mouth set in a grim line, Hermione nodded. They healed each other. Half-healed some deeper cuts. Took the sting away. Managed the pain.

Harry nodded at the others and they readied themselves for the next round. Yes, he thought. This looked like war.

Two hours later, Ron called a halt.

Hermione was down. She'd been firing spells curled up behind a couple of broken dummies, the blow she'd taken to the head leaving her dizzy and nauseated. Ron had stationed himself behind her to protect her back while Harry had drawn their attackers away.

They'd managed sixteen opponents set at 'difficult.' This last set – eight set at 'advanced' – had been impossible. Unhealed wounds, broken bones, and exhaustion had taken their toll. Not to mention their limited spell knowledge, Harry admitted to himself. He was grateful Ron understood their limitations and had known the code word to end the attack.

While Ron hurried off to the potions' cabinet at the other end of the room, Harry incanted the few healing spells he'd memorized over Hermione.

"Good thing you recommended we learn these last year," he told her as she closed her eyes and laid her head down on the padded floor.

"Should have learned more," she whispered.

Harry nodded, setting his wand aside and staring at the blood on his fingers. The cut over his left eye still dripped and he'd resorted to swiping at it with his sleeves to keep his vision clear. "Should have learned a lot more attack and defense spells, too."

"But –" Ron stepped over Harry to crouch next to Hermione. "We learned a lot while we were still in school and were expected to go to class and do homework." He gently eased Hermione up so he could pour a potion into her mouth. When she opened clearer eyes and smiled up at him, Ron seemed to breathe freely again.

"Now's our opportunity to learn more from people who've experienced battle. Who have been doing magic decades longer than we have." Ron handed a bone repair potion to Harry. "And we've got to do it fast. We don't know when the Death Eaters are going to attack – or where."

Harry downed the chalky stuff and felt two ribs click back into place. He winced, rubbing at his aching side. "So, you're saying we should stay here. Learn from Tonks and Remus. Your mum and brother." Harry's stomach twisted – the decision he'd been putting off rising up to confront him.

"I don't know about living here," Ron answered, "but training here seems right. If Neville and the others agree –" he shrugged.

"I'm with Ron." Hermione propped herself up on her elbows. "Let's look at the facts. None of us want to live with Snape – Prince –. But we know we need help from the Order, from Aurors like Tonks. We need Ted's physical and Andromeda's mind healing." She raised her eyebrows at Harry as if inviting him to disagree.

He couldn't.

"Snape himself would probably be a pretty ruthless trainer," Ron chuckled darkly.

"I'm sure he would." Hermione sighed. "But I also think we'd feel better – more in control – if we had a place to live apart. Apart from the Tonks. From Snape. I mean, it's what we were planning before all this happened."

As usual, Hermione made a lot of sense. So did Ron. Harry racked his brain, trying to come up with a plan – any plan. "The Burrow isn't safe, nor is Privet Drive. I guess we could take to the woods like we'd figured we would do before all this happened. Keep moving."

"Even if it wasn't particularly comfortable, we'd survive," Hermione agreed.

Ron clambered to his feet and gazed out over the carnage of the training room. Dust and debris from the destroyed dummies, chunks of stone from the walls that were peppered with holes from spells gone astray were everywhere. Magic swirled and the automatic repairs brushed the dust into a pile while walls were patched, and dummies reassembled themselves. Harry offered a hand to Hermione and the two boys steadied her between them as they stared silently at the scene.

Ron chuckled. "Reminds me of the time we cleaned the doxies out of the curtains at Sirius' house." He wrinkled his nose. "The smell. The dust –"

"It's only missing Kreacher complaining and whining the whole time about how we were 'ruining the Mistress' house, horrible, nasty mudbloods and half-bloods.'"

Hermione's mimicry of the ancient House Elf was nearly perfect. Harry shook his head, remembering … remembering ….

"Wait." Harry stilled, an idea building up in his mind, images stolen from moments in Sirius' house. The tapestry. The library. The kitchen – His jaw set, Harry snapped his fingers.

"Kreacher!"

With a crack, the droopy-eared, scowling House Elf appeared perched on a dummy's broken leg in front of them. "The nasty wizard calls for Kreacher. Kreacher is forced to obey."

Chapter 26

Chapter Text

Chapter 26

Griphook and Gnashrend unlocked the main doors and stepped onto and stone landing. The evening was settling into night, clouds obscuring the stars and casting the moon into a blurred half-orb that provided little light. Diagon Alley still swarmed with wizards and witches, half of them giving the steps of Gringotts a wide berth, the other half joining with the milling few who continued to shout up at the bank, demanding entrance.

Two goblin guards, armored and armed, stood at the top of the stairs, obviously ready to keep everyone out. Since the bank had been closed two days ago, since the Ministry for Magic had made their formal request for information and been ignored, wizards and witches had become increasingly annoying. Demanding fools. As if the goblin nation had any intention to be swayed by those who had nearly destroyed the Accords with their interference. Griphook sneered down at the few lingering idiots.

No goblin had any intention of answering, of explaining itself. The bank would reopen soon – perhaps as early as tomorrow morning. Until then, all with vaults had access through the goblins' Conveyance System, tied to the owners' vault keys. Any wizarding merchant could take a magical impression of the owner's key and receive a receipt from Gringotts, allowing transfer of funds. No one would be without funds – within reason. Closure or complete draining of accounts would be denied, of course. Griphook's grin was sharp and wide. Those who attempted it were immediately flagged. Their vaults were the first to be audited.

Beside it, Gnashrend lifted its chin and pointed a long claw at three wizards waiting silently at some distance from the others. "I believe our guests have arrived."

Ah, yes. The red-haired Weasleys had gathered near the stairs but away from the others. Griphook nodded in their direction. "Those three." It identified the wizards to the guards and then gestured for them to approach.

"Griphook, Gnashrend," William Weasley bowed with the perfect angle of neck and head, "may your gold gleam true and your clans prosper." He did not take his eyes from Griphook as he continued. "My honored father, Arthur, and my lower brother, Charles. We pledge magic of clan and family to honor the Accords."

"Well said." Griphook tipped back on its heels, examining the three. Thick leather waistcoats and breeches. High boots. Close-fitting shirts. Well-made gloves of tanned lamassu skin. No silly cloaks or trailing robes. "Gringotts welcomes the Weasleys. May your family's actions and words be on your honor, William, Friend of Goblins."

"I accept the stricture," William responded. He pulled a dagger from a sheath on his hip and offered it hilt first to Griphook. "Will you accept my word, or is Seal of Blood required?"

William had learned well. He had been named 'Friend of Goblins' a year into his 10-year employment contract as a curse breaker for Gringotts. Respectful of goblins' nature and heritage, he rarely put a foot wrong in his dealings with Griphook's race. And, when he had, largely out of ignorance, William had accepted punishment and made retribution immediately.

"Your word is enough, Friend of Goblins." Griphook finally made eye contact with Charles and Arthur. "You've vowed that these know the law. That they respect the Accords that govern and define us." It laid one hand on its heart. "I speak for the goblins: if you will do as you claim, if you will heal it, release its bonds, and make peace between it and our kind, the goblins will find the dark things you seek."

"Blood and bone," Arthur Weasley stated. "The Weasley clan shall do our best for the beast – and for the goblins."

"Blood and bone," Charles echoed. "My calling is to heal dragons. I'd be honored to tend to yours."

"Not ours," Griphook denied. "A witch set it here and turned goblins into zookeepers and torturers. Another wizard twisted our wards and sealed it in. We will not be forsworn, even to a beast." It snarled. "It is powerful – or once was – and has set itself watchbeast up above. If," its smile curled from side to side, its pointed teeth gleaming, "wizards can fix this one thing, goblins will find your Horcruxes."

Horcrux. Griphook spat the taint of the word from its mouth onto the stairs. Soul Wraiths – it was the best translation from Gobbledygook. Dark, tainted things. Oh, yes, goblins knew all about them. In the dark times, long ago, some foolish, ignorant goblins had torn their own souls, hoping to make themselves invulnerable. Goblin clans had risen up against them, found the Soul Wraiths and destroyed them, but not before the fools had let their secrets fall to dark wizards. Griphook curled its hands into fists, its claws piercing its own skin. Let the shedding of its blood renew the goblins' pledge: never again.

It peered at the wizards. "I'll have your pledge, Friend of Goblins and family. Blood and bone. Goblins shall find the … things. You shall destroy them. If," Griphook raised one claw, blood dripping, "if you can deal with the dragon."

"On our clan and magic," the three Weasleys spoke in unison. "May it be so."

"Very well. We've put on enough of a show for these others." Griphook spun on its heel and led the Weasleys through the doors and into Gringotts.

The lobby was empty. Every goblin had descended to the vaults to perform their audits. Holding the record books within each vault and performing the simplest accounting spell would reckon the figures, identify fraudulent magic, and summon purloined monies and items back from wherever they'd been taken. It was a tedious task, but necessary. Thousands of vaults; thousands of reckonings. Griphook gnashed its teeth. No wizard would be able to lay a charge of misfeasance against the goblins.

Gnashrend led the wizards through doors and down hallways, silencing the wards as it moved through and past them. Griphook brought up the rear, watching the wizards carefully. It nodded as all the Weasleys kept their wands hidden, empty hands in plain sight, and their eyes straight ahead. William had taught them well.

Behind the offices and meeting rooms, Gnashrend led the group into the bones of the building, the spaces between the walls that reached from outer roof to subbasem*nt, housing staircases, lifts, secret passages, and stores of ancient documents. The surface of the outer walls was laid with runes and sigils, goblin magic strengthening and securing the building. Goblin mages were working here, reinforcing the magic with fresh blood and long chants. Hurrying past, moving as silently as possible, the group approached the spiral staircase that rose to the upper reaches of the building, twisting up into the darkness.

Wizards and goblins began the long climb.

An hour later, they reached the top and stepped onto the flat metal trolley that would carry them along the invisible track into the center. While Charles Weasley gazed around him in excitement, William reached out to steady his father's wobble as the trolley lurched out above the great open atrium.

The glass dome in the center of the atrium had not been repaired, leaving the bank open to the sky. Gnashrend stood at the trolley's controls, waiting for the much taller wizards to sit down before it sent the trolley shooting upwards and out through the jagged opening.

Sitting above Diagon Alley, the night wind picking up to pluck at them, the wizards caught their first sight of the white dragon.

Charles spoke first. "He's the last, isn't he?"

Gnashrend answered. "Might be more out there, hidden away. No one knew of this one," it jerked a claw over its shoulder, "until the wards fell."

"True." Charles stared at the beast, eyes narrowed at its emaciated frame, the thin wings, a length of broken chain still dangling from the collar around its neck. The wizard rose slowly and stepped from the trolley to the rooftop.

"Great Hvitur," Charles began, "Lord of the North. I greet you." He bowed, hands extended to the sides.

The dragon lifted its head from where it had lain on its foreleg. It peered down its snout at the wizard.

"Lord of Dragons. I stand as healer-mage. Pledged to serve your kind. May I approach?"

The dragon's head tilted, as if listening. Its yellow eyes glowed dim in the night, brightening as Charles made his way closer. Griphook stirred, uncertain. If the wizard met his death atop Gringotts, even with mutual oaths in place, there may be an outcry.

The dragon's gaze snapped from the wizard to Griphook. The goblin froze as a curl of light appeared before the dragon's wide nostrils.

"None here will harm, Great Hvitur. All here seek only your peace and healing. Hear my pledge, feel the power of my oath through my magic. Test me, Lord Dragon," Charles insisted, drawing the dragon's gaze back to him, "try my spirit. I stand open and ready."

Griphook, not daring to move, kept its breathing slow and steady as Charles' magic pooled across his skin, dark red, shot with gold. It lay, restive, rippling in slow waves, as if anxious for testing. The dragon snorted, claws scrabbling against the roof tiles as it shifted, bringing one great eye closer to peer at the wizard. The beast was old, thin, battered and wounded from its years in the dark prison of Gringotts. But the swell of its magic was unmistakable as it reached out to measure the dragon mage's spirit.

Charles bore up well under the onslaught. Kept his feet. His shoulders relaxed and head unbowed, the wizard's magic rippled and flowed around him, protecting while allowing itself to be tested.

When the dragon backed away, its eyes were clearer, its wings beating once as if to clear the air around them of leftover magic. It nodded, neck arched to watch as the wizard approached, his wand alight.

"Good job, Charlie," the Weasley father sighed. "Do you need any help with the diagnostics?"

"Not sure you'd understand the readings," Charles murmured, his wand moving across the huge hide. "Dragons' anatomy is much different from humans'." He sighed. "This might take a while."

Chapter 27

Chapter Text

Chapter 27

Kingsley sat up from a sound sleep. He blinked, wand pointed, his surroundings blurry and unfamiliar. Single bed. Tall chest of drawers. Heavily shrouded window. No light escaped from around the edges of the curtain. A House Elf appeared, standing on the foot of the bed, its soundless arrival ticking a box in Kingsley's memory.

Chartwell Manor. Severus Sn – no, Severus Prince's place.

"There's a disturbance, Master." The elf clasped his hands together. "Can Sorrel help?"

Disturbance was right. Kingsley grunted and slid backwards, nodding as the elf conjured more pillows and plumped them behind his back. This wasn't a disturbance in Severus' wards, or the knowledge of an imminent attack – this was internal. An alarm within Kingsley's own magic. "You can sense it?" Just how powerful were Prince's elves?

"We sense any magic touching Chartwell." The elf sat on the footboard of Kingsley's bed. "The Master is away - should Sorrel summon him?"

Kingsley had been pinching the bridge of his nose, concentrating, but now waved the elf off. "No need." He let his arms drop to the bed. "I apologize for disturbing Chartwell."

The elf tilted his head, accepting Kingsley's word. "Will you require assistance? Food? Drink?"

Frowning, Kingsley breathed deeply, trying to dismiss the unsettled feeling in his gut. "What time is it?"

"Master's guests have only been sleeping for a few hours. Not long enough," Sorrel snorted, crossing his thin arms.

"No, I agree." He'd fallen into the bed Severus offered, unconscious before he could chide himself for going to bed before dinner. Instead of refreshing Kingsley, the few hours of sleep seemed to have robbed him of the rest of his energy. He blinked up at the ceiling, considering how to respond to the internal alarm. "Well, I don't think I'll be getting back to sleep before I deal with this. Tea, please, Sorrel. And privacy." He wrestled his legs from the warm blankets and set his feet on the floor. As the elf stood, Kingsley had another thought. "Can you ward this room from sight, sound, and magic? Keep whatever I do here separate from the rest of the Manor?"

Sorrel looked Kingsley up and down. "I can. But I will remain." Before Kingsley could disagree, the elf was levitating a silver samovar onto his side table accompanied by a tiny porcelain cup. "Wizard Shacklebolt will drink and Sorrel will see that Master's home is not compromised. That Wizard Shacklebolt's magic is not interrupted – and it does not interfere with Chartwell."

It was the darkest, sweetest tea Kingsley had ever tasted. Sharp on his tongue, bitter in his nose, it awoke his senses and his mind. He allowed himself two tiny cups before proceeding.

Wand in hand, Kingsley closed his eyes and sank beneath his Occlumency shields. His magic was still sluggish – exhaustion of body drained a wizard, often requiring 24 hours of sleep and a series of potions for full restoration. Thankfully, the alarm that had awoken him did not have its source in Kingsley. He traced it to the source – a link in his magic cemented by the Fidelius Charm. He nodded to himself grimly. He thought so.

A sparkling cloud of foreign magic drifted close, encircling the heart of Kingsley's magic. Startled, Kingsley's shields shuddered. The magic tightened, closing off any gaps that Kingsley's inattention had let open.

"Wizard Shacklebolt is safe. Sorrel is helping."

The words drifted from within and without, brushing lightly against Kingsley's awareness. Deliberately, Kingsley stepped back from overreacting. He forced himself to examine the elf's magic. It was bright. Glittering. Stunningly beautiful, like ribbons of colored jewels woven into a net that was strong enough to hold the deepest spell or most ancient magic. The force of it – the power and beauty – so at odds with the outward appearance of a common house elf.

Kingsley forced his awareness away from examining the magic more fully. He had work to do.

The Fidelius Charm that Albus had turned over to Kingsley was chiming. It had not been broken, no dark spell or physical attack had been aimed at 12 Grimmauld Place. In fact, the nature of this alarm was the passing of a magical being from inside the wards to outside. A magical being that's nature was similar to Sorrel's.

"House elf magic." Sorrel commented.

"Kreacher," Kingsley whispered.

Somehow, Sorrel's disapproval was communicated through the glittering magic. "He has been called." Sorrel's magic slid into the knot of the Fidelius Charm, encircled the gap made by Kreacher's exit, and then expanded to cover the opening in the Black house's wards while, at the same time, it seemed to scent out Kreacher's magic and follow it to its source.

Kingsley followed. There was only one person who could summon the Black house elf. The Heir to the Black name and magic, the only one mentioned in Sirius' Black's will.

Harry Potter had summoned Kreacher. And now Kingsley could find him.

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The watcher in the woods waited silently. High in the branches of a Scots Pine, the golden eagle was motionless, awaiting the return of the snowy owl. Dierdre had been scanning the air for days, taking few breaks to fall on the small prey that scurried in the field nearby before returning to her perch. She had her orders: Umbridge was the Dark Lord's darling, for the moment, and she'd earn a great reward if she brought the bloody body of Potter's bird to lay before her Master's feet.

She'd missed the owl's flight north. Watkins had spread the news a few hours ago – had told the other watchers that he'd tried to bring the owl down but failed. He'd attacked at once, firing spells from the ground, eager for the same prestige that Dierdre desired. Fool. A bird like Potter's could dodge most spells – she had been a wizard's bird for years and had gleaned the magical strength such a bond brought with it. But let the owl try to dodge a predator like herself. Let her attempt to fight with beak and claw. Dierdre's Animagus form had a seven foot wingspan and eight-inch talons – the owl did not have a chance.

There. Her eagle vision found the flicker of white against the night sky, far in the distance. She launched herself up, climbing fiercely to take up a position above the heavier-bodied owl. As the snowy glided below, Dierdre fell, talons extended.

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After raiding the Weasley's fridge and pantry and putting together enough food to refuel his lagging energy, Lucius had taken his new possessions out into Arthur Weasley's emptied and cleaned workshop. The few Summoning Spells he'd used to gather his materials had not drained him – they were easy, third year spells any student could perform. He had not needed to use his own blood to power them. Thankfully, the warding sigil remained bright and active, keeping the cursed locket safe from working its dark magic against him anew.

Lucius' left hand was one massive ache, the curse throbbing against the magical cuff that imprisoned it, but Lucius had felt worse. It would not inhibit the Scrying Conjuration that he was about to perform.

He wouldn't let it.

First, he laid out the map of England that he'd found in the Weasley father's desk – among an assortment of other muggle artifacts and devices. Those Lucius had Banished, but this – he smiled – this saved him from the need to use his magic to draw the map. He was only required to enlarge the thing until it covered most of the dirt floor of the out building. He did not want to have to cast his spell again and again to pinpoint the location.

Lucius had found the crystals in the child's room. "Silly little witch," he scoffed, recognizing the items as heirlooms that must have been handed down from Molly Weasley's Pruitt and Peverell ancestors. Most of the girl's collection had been toys, colored glass cleverly cut to resemble true crystal, but among them he'd plucked these three beauties. One rose, one citrine, and one darkest amethyst. He pocketed the rose and amethyst and held the citrine between thumb and forefinger. Citrine was most useful for finding. "Thank you, little girl, this will work wonderfully."

He conjured a neutral gold chain and affixed the crystal to one end. Then he examined the other items he'd laid out at the foot of the map. A broken quill. A toothbrush. A hastily discarded bandage. A sharp splinter of wood.

The quill showed one drop of dried blood on the shaft. It could come from any of the Weasley brood or even a visitor. There was no guarantee that using this blood would give Lucius' Ronald Weasley's location and he would be foolish to assume all of the Weasleys were huddled around the teenaged saviour. He set it aside.

The toothbrush carried the same problem as did the splinter. Both contained life-energy, but of whom? They joined the discarded quill.

The bandage, however… Lucius frowned down at the thing. It was small – a tiny gauze pad with two pink adhesive strips, one on each end. It was not a wizard's bandage, not anything that Lucius had seen in St. Mungo's, or the school infirmary, or even his own healing supplies. No, this was a muggle item. This bandage, he imagined, had been worn by Hermione Granger, Potter's favorite mudblood. He imagined that whatever small injury she'd had when she arrived at the Burrow, Molly would have insisted upon healing and the mudblood witch would have foolishly discarded the bandage instead of Banishing it.

A mudblood would hardly consider that even that tiny spot of wizarding blood could be dangerous in the wrong hands. In Lucius' hands, it could be an invitation. A veritable welcome.

First, he freshened the blood. Then he transferred it to the tip of the crystal. A single drop of his own blood joined it. Finally, looping the end of the chain around his wrist, Lucius let it hang over the map and began his incantations.

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Scrimgeour had had enough. He slammed his office door, shutting out the riffraff. The press. The low ranking clerks shuffling papers here and there. The gossips who had nothing better to do than spread the word of Snape's innocence and Potter's disappearance, all the while eying Scrimgeour as if he were some sort of useless idiot meant to be coddled.

Between Bones' high-handed treatment of what should have been closely held information, Moody's threats, and Arthur Weasley's sudden change of heart, Scrimgeour had few he could count on. Few in the ministry who seemed to understand that the Minister's agenda should be first and foremost and that his word should be the last word on every subject.

He straightened, releasing the tight fists of his hands, the clench of his jaw. His panting breaths under control, Scrimgeour could feel the dark heat of his cheeks lessening, the deep grooves around his mouth smoothing out. "This will not do," he reminded himself. "You are Minister for Magic. You do not wait for others to act. You do not follow. You lead."

The charms and spells Scrimgeour had set on the message to Potter had been broken. He'd felt them dissolve a few hours ago, his plans thwarted yet again by other wizards, wizards who insisted that they 'knew better.' Wizards who never intended to follow him, no matter their loyalty oaths. His eyes narrowed. At least one had renewed his pledge, had contacted Scrimgeour directly to deliver information and intelligence on those who acted behind the Minister's back.

With a swish of his wand, he sent the papers on his desk back to their folders and stacked them neatly on the corner. Paperwork. Bureaucracy. The million tiny-minded missives awaiting the scrawl of his signature could rot. With smooth, determined movements, Scrimgeour plucked his working robe from his back and exchanged it for his dress robe. High-necked, fitted, with a row of gold buttons shining against the blood-red fabric, the minister could not have looked less like that ineffectual, Fudge. The swallow-tail cut in the back gave him freedom for his long stride and the tight dueling sleeves allowed him to hide both a wand and a stiletto.

The goblins had yet to act. The law firm was still 'considering' if Dumbledore's will could be set aside. Scrimgeour chuckled, sneering. Well and good. Let them consider, let them dither and simper and consult their ancient scrolls. The Minister would act – as he should have when the wards fell and the will asserted itself. He stepped forward, leaning over his cleared desk and summoned the will and the three bequests.

Laying the bequests out, he selected the snitch. This was for Potter. No matter that Dumbledore had thought a Quidditch snitch was a proper gift for the Boy Who Must Save The World, it was, through the legal document, linked to the boy. The other two items were shrunk and fit into Scrimgeour's inside pocket. He breathed deeply. Time to begin.

Scrimgeour touched the tip of his wand to the goblin's seal on the legal document, letting his magic spool down its length to identify himself as Minister for Magic. "Officium de bonis non administratis," he chanted. The seal lit with the pure blue of recognition. He drew his wand away, careful to keep the magical glow attached until he touched the snitch. "Invenire," he continued. "Invenire et volant." The glow surrounded the snitch, the magic engulfing the common item, turning it into exactly what Scrimgeour needed.

Wand in one hand, the Minister reached for the snitch. For the newly created Portkey.

The invisible hook caught him behind his navel, and he was gone.

Chapter 28

Chapter Text

Chapter 28

" … while I understand your reluctance to get involved, I don't want to leave Draco in my sister's healing sleep for an extended period of time."

Severus had not expected to be holding a conversation with Narcissa Malfoy this evening when he'd called up the Tonks' Manor to hand over the Minister's message. Remus had requested his help. The arrival of the Malfoys had, apparently, complicated matters concerning where Harry and his friends were willing to live – and under whose wards. Suspicions had been raised. Severus had sensed his new brother's frustration – not at the teens, but at the entire situation. There were a multitude of safe houses offered to Harry, but the teen was chafing under any restrictions placed on him.

Severus' shared memories had been viewed in the Pensieve, but Harry and his friends' reactions had been far less forgiving than Molly Weasley's or Dora Tonks'. Not that Severus had expected anything different. Harry and his friends' wounds were more recent, and, if he was honest, more cruel. None of them should have expected a quick reversal of attitude towards the 'greasy git' so that the three could be moved here.

Remus told him that he was awaiting the teens' decision, holding himself in readiness to leave the Manor while still trying to mitigate Harry's suspicions of the family because of their welcome of the two Malfoys.

The last encounter Severus had with Narcissa Malfoy had been just before Dumbledore's fall. She'd cornered him after a Death Eater meeting, insisting that his Unbreakable Vow should not allow him to ignore Draco's plight. Depressed, anxious to the point of illness, Draco had become a shadow of himself, haunting the hallways and classrooms of Hogwarts and rarely communicating with anyone. His mother had been frantic. Severus, well aware of the situation, could only assure her that he was trying to get through to the stubborn teen, trying to get Draco to lay the burden of his murderous assignment on Severus' shoulders.

He'd failed. Failed to find a way for Draco to trust him. Failed to realize that Dumbledore could not keep a suspicious Harry Potter from confronting Draco – with Draco far too exhausted, physically and emotionally, to refrain from hexing the other boy into retaliation. Severus had knelt over a Draco bleeding out on a bathroom floor, healing the horrific wounds left by a spell he, himself, created, and had known it had not done a bit to heal Draco's spirit.

"Severus? Are you listening?"

"Forgive me, Narcissa." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "This request is unexpected. Allow me to restate what I've understood you to be asking. Since Draco agreed to the Healing Sleep and the acceptance of others' memories, you would like me to … share my memories of serving Voldemort. To let Draco experience the horrors I've witnessed at the madman's side. To speak the truth of Tom Riddle's half-blood nature and his descent into totalitarian psychopathy."

"Exactly." Narcissa's image in the green flames lifted one hand. "I do not expect you to cloud any difficult issues or add anything in order to convince him. I believe the unvarnished truth will be much more effective."

"And what do your hosts think?" Harry and his friends were still at the Tonks' Manor – Remus had told him as much. "Welcoming me to the Manor right now may prove the last straw for the other young people in residence."

Narcissa's face did not reveal frustration or alarm. There was, perhaps, a shadow of dismay behind her eyes, but parsing anyone's true feelings from the green-tinged Floo was difficult. "They are agreeable. My sister's husband has already sat with Draco, sharing his experiences as a … muggleborn … faced with Death Eaters. Remus is willing to do the same. But, Severus, you know the facts from the other side. The side Draco was forced to swear allegiance to. He has known you since he was a small child. He will be much more receptive to your memories than these others."

"I agree. It is the timing that causes me to hesitate."

"This Floo is connected within Draco's chamber. The door is warded. You would not be able to access the rest of the Manor without Andromeda's approval."

"Ah," Severus sighed. "So, she will be keeping my presence a secret from Harry and his friends. Do you think this is wise?" Another secret. Another 'enemy' harbored by the Tonks. He shook his head. "This could end quite badly, Narcissa."

"For whom?" Her words were caustic – a mother wolf snarling over her cub.

Severus couldn't really blame her. He rose. "Very well, move aside and I'll come through."

Much later, Severus released Draco's mind from his Legilimency. The boy could absorb no more – not at the moment. The sluggish state of Draco's thoughts was both a reaction to so many shared memories as well as the normal side-effects of his healing sleep. By the next morning, Severus should be able to assess any changes made to his thinking. To slide within Draco's mind and watch as the seeds planted by Ted Tonks and himself bore fruit.

"Perhaps Andromeda will agree to release him for discussion tomorrow afternoon." Narcissa seemed to be following Severus' deliberations. She sat on the bed beside her son, holding his hand in both of hers. Leaning forward, she brushed an errant lock of hair from his forehead. "He cannot stay in this state forever."

"Many have slept for far longer. I would not jog your sister's elbow without cause." Severus sat back in the hard chair he'd positioned beside Draco's bed, twisting the stiffness from his neck. His gaze traveled across the paneled walls and heavily curtained windows. Andromeda Tonks' impressive wards gleamed beneath the surface, sheltering the room from within and without – allowing nothing to penetrate in either direction without her will. He'd had little to do with the Tonks family – they had not been major targets for Voldemort's interest, nor had they been particularly trusted by Dumbledore. Perhaps those two facts were tied together. If one could be grateful for Albus' disregard it would be because it made one inconsequential to Tom Riddle's anger.

Narcissa sighed and laid her son's hand beside him. "I suppose you're right." She brushed imagined dust from her skirts. "You've heard about the Potter boy and his friends? How they've objected to our presence here? And to remaining 'trapped' behind my sister's wards?"

Severus rubbed at his aching forehead. "Indeed. Although I cannot help but understand their arguments –"

Rising abruptly, Narcissa interrupted. "Well I cannot! They are made safe here, locked up for their own good! What more do they want? I would kill if Draco –" Her teeth clicked as she clamped her mouth closed on her words.

"To keep Draco safe, you would kill," Severus finished for her. "And that is why they don't trust you."

Her eyes were twin fires. "They have no idea, no idea, Severus. What he will do if he catches them – what he has done to his foes –" She waved a hand, her face pale. "You must convince them."

He rose to meet her. "You actually sound as if you care."

"Is that so hard to believe?"

Severus lifted his eyebrows. "I've known you for years, Narcissa. I've heard the filth you spewed – and not just when you were in Voldemort's presence. You cannot claim that Draco's attitudes can be laid completely at your husband's feet. Did you teach him any differently? Did you drop the occasional truth in his ear?" When Narcissa made to move away, Severus grabbed her shoulders. "Or did you smirk and laugh when muggleborns and muggles were tortured? Did you threaten to tear other children from their parents, to flay them or poison them if they dared look at your son wrong?"

She snarled and tried to tear herself away, but Severus held on. "We both have much to answer for. I am struggling to open your son's eyes – but who will open yours?" He let her go abruptly and she stumbled back a step, steadying herself on a chair. "And you are a blind fool if you believe Harry and his friends have no idea of Tom Riddle's cruelty. Of his capabilities. Did you know the boy remembers his mother's death? That he hears Lily's screams in his nightmares? Harry has faced Voldemort, has opposed him in some form year after year. Harry conquered Quirrell's possessed body with his bare hands when he was eleven," Severus spat the truth at her. "At twelve, he fought a sixty-foot basilisk and defeated Riddle's first Horcrux. Your husband was a witness in the graveyard when the Dark Lord rose again, when he sliced open Harry's arm, tortured him with the Cruciatus curse, and forced him into a mockery of a duel. Lucius and his cronies attacked these same 'children' in the Department of Mysteries where Voldemort actually possessed Harry for a few unholy minutes."

"So do not speak to me of these young people as if they have no idea what they're about. Even while Dumbledore kept some of the most important, most useful information from them, they still acted – they acted not to save themselves, but to save us all. That is far more than you or your son have ever done."

Narcissa opened her mouth to shoot back some curse, but, before she could speak, the Manor around them trembled. The walls shook, the floor rippling against powerful magics. Severus spun to face the door, his wand in his hand, just in time to see the sparkling glare of Andromeda Tonks' wards fall to shining pieces.

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Kingsley knew it was a mistake as soon as he let the connection form. He hadn't been able to resist tracing Potter's location – even if he hadn't been ready to approach the child, to intrude through whatever wards had hidden Harry, Kingsley's need for information overruled his better judgment. Sorrel's magic had amplified the connection Kingsley had to the Black house elf, and, riding along that connection, Kingsley had been able to Apparate directly to Kreacher's side.

It wasn't until he arrived that he felt the tug of another's presence. A Tagalong spell had been attached to him. A stowaway wizard. Somehow, Kingsley hadn't even noticed it.

"Go! Run, Potter, it isn't safe!" Kingsley spun, barely taking in the scene before him. Three young wizards, an ancient house elf, an attic training room that looked vaguely familiar. His wand in one hand, Kingsley reached for his charmed dagger and realized that he was still wearing pajamas. "Kreacher – take them!"

The elf's mumbling voice was loud in the shocked silence. "Kreacher does not have to listen to nasty Auror…"

The wizard who had followed Kingsley appeared with a loud crack. The floor and walls shook, wards blinking into visibility all around them as they strained to keep the invader out. His magic still amplified by Sorrel – still back at Chartwell - Kingsley felt only a rush of heat across his skin and heard a clanging of alarm bells. The other man – masked and hooded – shuddered, flinching backwards. The wards would be far less forgiving of him.

Kingsley snapped off a disarming spell, but the Death Eater's jerky movements sent it wide. He followed with a leg-locker, and then a stunning spell. By that time, the other wizard had recovered and sent a Protego to stand between him and Kingsley. With another word, he sent an over-powered Petrificus towards the young people. It was the Weasley boy who stepped forward and flung his wand up, sending the Death Eater's spell careening towards the ceiling.

Potter was on his feet by that time, his face pale with fury. He snapped out a spell and a full size, fully corporeal Patronus stag raced from his wand to clatter along the floor towards the Death Eater. It spun the wizard into a cabinet, rattling him further, before it disappeared through the wall.

Kingsley didn't let himself get distracted but hammered at the Death Eater, sending off spell after spell without a breath. The hooded wizard managed to twist away from the first round, his Protego taking the brunt of the pounding. He slapped out a wide, shallow stunner and sent Kingsley and Potter back a step.

With a burst of energy, the Granger girl levitated herself, shooting up towards the high ceiling. Once above the Death Eater's Protego, she flicked her wand and shouted, "Levicorpus!"

With a cry, the hooded wizard was yanked up by one foot, robes falling down in a curtain around his head. He shot out spells, aiming wildly. One caught the Granger girl a glancing blow, leaving a long slash across her upper arm and ending her levitation charm. Kingsley heard Potter snap out a cushioning charm, but he kept his eyes on his enemy. One more spell should take him down.

Potter beat him to it.

"Expelliarmus!"

The Death Eater's wand tore itself from his hand and leaped across the room to smack into Potter's outstretched palm. Weasley, kneeling at Granger's side tore off a follow-up. "Incarcerous. Reducio." Thin black cords wrapped around the dangling wizard, pinning his arms to his sides – at the second spell, they tightened, muffling the Death Eater's voice inside the tied-down robes.

Kingsley tested the spells and found his magic forcefully rebuffed. He couldn't touch the man.

"Leave him alone," Potter commanded through clenched teeth, his wand leveled at Kingsley's chest.

Shaking his head, Kingsley lifted his hands in a silent plea for the chance to explain. "Listen, Harry."

"No, you listen. You brought this man here. You'd better explain, or we'll happily Petrify you and let the adults clean this up."

Shouts and running footsteps from below told Kingsley they were about to have visitors. "Kingsley Shacklebolt, Auror –"

"I know who you are." Weasley glanced up from the witch's side, his wand held steady, energy pumping from its tip as he ran it along the bleeding gash in her arm. "How did you get here? And why did you bring a Death Eater?"

"I didn't realize he'd Tagged me until I materialized." Kingsley offered nothing more. Adrenaline was running high and there was no reason for these young wizards to stand still long enough for a better explanation.

Remus Lupin was first to the top of the steps, leaping up the last few to throw himself between Potter and Kingsley.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Remus snarled, his red-eyed stare flicking between Kingsley and the Death Eater. "Put down your wand – now!"

"Kingsley!" Tonks appeared next, her Auror training cutting in to avert the spell that had already been tripped from the end of her wand. The Stunner flipped over and impacted a tall cabinet, blasting it to wooden shards.

Kingsley dropped his wand and kept his hands raised. "As I was telling Harry, this one," he jerked his chin towards the squirming Death Eater, "managed to Tag me and was pulled along by the magic that connected me to Kreacher."

"…that connected you to –" Granger waved away Weasley's offered hand and sat up. "You are the new Secret Keeper to Sirius' house?"

"And when I summoned Kreacher, you knew it? And could find me through house elf magic." Potter answered his own question with a nod, drawing closer to Weasley and Granger. "Kreacher –" he ordered.

"Wait, please." Remus laid a hand on Potter's shoulder. "We've contained the threat, Harry. We can talk about –"

Ted and Andromeda Tonks had arrived by that point. The mind healer was quivering with rage. Wand in one hand and a dagger in the other, she raised both hands straight up, sending her magic out in a wave that impacted with the walls and then broke into jagged shards.

"No. We have contained nothing." Andromeda lowered her gaze to catch Kingsley's. "The enemy is here."

HP HP HP HP HP

The wards shuddered again beneath Lucius' hand. The Scrying Spell had brought him to the edge of the Tonks' Estate, dumping him outside the formidable wards, but within sight of his goal. He smelled Andromeda Black Tonks' magic in the air, in the bitter taste of the blood of his cracked lips. Narcissa's sister had married badly, but the power within the muggle-lover had never diminished.

Lucius did not relent. No matter that the witch's wards had forced him to his knees three times, that they had flung him six feet backwards, landing face down in the dirt twice, he would not give up. Behind those wards, Lucius would find both his son and the mudblood witch – and therefore Potter. The Scrying did not lie.

This time, Lucius laid his cursed hand against the wards as well as his wand. This time, he swore under his breath, the wards would fall. Magic called to magic, the more powerful, the more closely tied. His heart thumped, straining, as the curse embedded in his blood and spirit fought to the surface, drawn to the potent wards as if by muggle magnets. His head jerking backwards, Lucius' voice became a scream as the two magics fought for dominance. Blood vessels burst, the tips of his fingers blackening as a crimson curtain fell across his sight.

"Insufflo!" he shouted. "Patefio porta!"

Yes. YES. Alarm bells rang, deep and loud, and the wards shivered into visibility, the magic rattling like links in a fence. It brightened, struggling to remain intact, to hold together.

"Patefio porta!" Lucius shouted again, slamming his cursed hand against the wards.

They shattered.

Blinking away the blood from his eyes, Lucius clenched his teeth and Apparated.

Overhead, beyond Lucius blood-burst sight, two large birds tumbled together in a swath of white and red. The snowy owl fought loose from its predator once more, barked hoarsely, and strained towards her master, towards safety. The predator righted itself, primaries broken in one wing, and surged onward fueled by its magic. At the edge of the wards, the two collided, spinning through an opening suddenly wide enough for more than the owl.

HP HP HP HP HP

Rufus Scrimgeour found himself in a deserted bedroom, standing before a magical construct that resembled a growing tree. He stumbled, grabbing hold of one branch/step to keep himself from tumbling to the floor. The entire house seemed to shake, the floor rolling beneath his feet.

The snitch still clenched in one hand, Scrimgeour spun, startled, as a mass of blood and feathers burst through the open window. A snowy owl – Potter's owl – screeched, grabbing onto the nearby perch. It flapped its wings, slamming them against the eagle's head as it dived.

Scrimgeour stuck out his wand. "Protego!" A shield sprang into place between the two birds, knocking the eagle to spill backwards against the wardrobe. It landed awkwardly on one side, shrieking in pain. Scrimgeour's eyes widened as it shimmered, magic unfolding, and a tall, tawny-haired witch stood before him. Her left arm hung uselessly at her side, the same side of her face a bloody mess.

"Dierdre Fabricci," he breathed, recognizing the Ministry witch. A Death Eater - one that his renewed wards had missed catching. He growled, lips pulling back from his bared teeth. "You won't get away this time, my dear."

"Too late, as always," she sneered. She touched the tip of her wand to her left forearm as Scrimgeour's wand slashed through the air.

"Diffindo!" the Minister cried, slicing through her neck.

Just before the spell caught her, she hissed. "Morsmordre."

Chapter 29

Chapter Text

Chapter 29

Severus struggled to conjure a set of wards across the door to replace Andromeda's. A sheet of chain mail appeared, gunmetal, edges sharp and deadly. Narcissa stood behind his right shoulder, between Severus and the bed. She mumbled her own spells, doing her best, he knew, to raise some kind of barrier between her son and the threat, even without a wand.

He sent more magic into the wards. It wouldn't hold. Not against a determined onslaught by Voldemort's Death Eaters. Severus' magic would not knit with Andromeda's – not effectively. It took a concerted effort on the part of both wizards to link their magics.

"Cypress. Saffron. Sorrel."

Two House Elves appeared before him. Taking in the scene, they struck out their hands and Severus' wards slammed into focus, the elven magic solidifying them, plugging every hole.

"Take them," Severus snarled, gesturing to the Malfoys. "Take them to the Manor."

Cypress narrowed her eyes. "Not without you, Master."

"Yes, without me. You have your orders." He did not know where Sorrel was, or why he didn't respond, but that didn't matter.

The House Elf nodded, unable to disobey a direct order. She hurried towards the bed.

"Saffron will stay and help Master." She raised both hands and readied herself, creeping closer until she stood at Severus' side. Severus knew that, orders or no, in an emergency, she would grab him up and send him back to the Manor within the space of one breath.

A crack of dispelled magic sounded from behind him, jerking Severus off balance. He risked a turn, wand ready.

Draco was sitting up in bed.

"No." Narcissa paled, one hand straining towards her son, the other caught by Cypress. "Andromeda –"

"She lives," Severus snapped out. "But her power is needed elsewhere."

"Draco – come – what are you –"

The young man had scurried from the bed on the opposite side, distancing himself from both his mother and the Elf. "No, keep that thing away from me!"

"Draco!"

"Calm yourself!" Teeth clenched, Severus snarled. "Cypress – go!"

"No!"

In the midst of Narcissa's screaming denial, Cypress grabbed her and the two vanished.

"Saffron – take Draco –"

As soon as the House Elf turned, Severus felt his wards quiver as a barrage of spells attacked from outside. Just as Saffron reached for Draco's arm, pain erupted across Severus' back, knocking him to the floor. He fought against the blackness and silence, his head ringing, and shifted his elbows beneath him to try to turn over. Splinters of wood and plaster fell to the ground around him. Dizzy, head hanging, he gripped his wand tight and wordlessly raised a shield across his back.

A snarling, sneering voice behind him dragged a chill hand up his spine.

"Traitor! Filthy spy - turncoat! Worse!" Spells slammed against Severus' shield, hammering at him with each word spoken.

Lucius. Severus tried to toss off whatever was weighing him down so that he could aim a hex at the intruder, but his legs refused to move.

"You shall not hurt Master Prince."

It was Saffron. She was standing on his legs. "Get – " Severus coughed, closing his eyes against the pain and light-headedness so he could order her away. "- aco." He tried again.

"'Master Prince,' is it? Well above your station now, aren't you Severus? How in Hecate's name did you acquire a House Elf?"

Lucius' voice was sneering and vicious, but Severus heard the hesitation – the caution in the face of a loyal House Elf. Although the race was under-regarded in the pureblood world, Lucius had come to know their power. Saffron's presence might give Severus the time he – and Draco - needed.

Severus let his weight fall on his right side. Eyes tightly closed, his Occlumency, the internal discipline of an ordered mind, helped him access his power. His magic moved sluggishly, weakened by his physical wounds. Brow furrowed, he forced open broader internal channels, directing his magic to bypass the mess on his back and gather in his empty left hand.

"I shall simply leave you here, then, shall I? On the floor? Wallowing in dirt and grime? That does sound appealing." Floorboards creaked, announcing Lucius' movement towards Draco's location. "What a waste of an opportunity, however. I'd prefer to leave you in a pool of your own blood, hopelessly broken, of no use to anyone."

"You don't have the stomach for it – you never did," Severus taunted. He did not want Lucius to fly off with his son where Severus couldn't find them. He'd just begun to work with the youth – to tell him certain truths about Voldemort as well as his father. Draco's mind would still be raw and vulnerable. If he were confronted with Voldemort's Legilimency, Draco would reveal his new doubts, his uncertainty about the Dark Lord's actions and philosophies. Draco wouldn't survive.

"Don't I? Well, I've changed, Severus. Changed quite a bit."

Lucius' reply was too quiet, too steady for Severus' liking. He readied himself. He would have one chance. He reached for the link to his House Elf, using the magic of their bond to send her an image of what he desired. Legilimency propelled the image into a single, irresistible command.

Now Severus needed Lucius to speak again.

"Does the Dark Lord not want to kill me himself, then?" Severus offered. He clucked his tongue. "Haven't you fallen far enough away from his regard yet? At this point, disobedience will get you killed, Lucius."

Another floorboard squeaked. "It doesn't matter," Lucius muttered, his voice fainter as if he'd turned away. "Draco – obey me. Come here. Now."

Now. Severus sent the command and released his spell at the same time.

The Stunning spell, centered on the wizard's voice, knocked Lucius back into the splintered wall. In his next breath, Severus sat up and flicked his wand towards Draco, a pale-faced shadow frozen in place. "Accio Draco," he spat. The magic hurled the boy across the bed to land in a heap against Severus' left side.

Saffron Apparated all three.

Untangling himself from Draco, Severus rose, stepping back to give the Chartwell wards room. A curtain of energy fell from the ceiling, surrounding Draco. Across the study, Severus saw that Narcissa was similarly pinned in place. Straightening, Severus swept the hair out of his face, hand shaking.

"Fine," Severus snarled. "Keep them here. Keep them out of trouble," he addressed his Manor. He turned, anxious to get back to the Tonks'. Andromeda's wards had fallen – it was unlikely that Lucius Malfoy – on his own – had succeeded in bringing them down. He needed to get to Remus – to find out if Potter and his friends were safe. He had no time to argue with Chartwell about the possible risks of housing the Malfoys here.

Saffron stood between Severus and the Floo. On a wooden tray she held bandages, potions, and salves, and was eying Severus with a daunting stare. He didn't bother to argue.

"Work quickly," he hissed. He tossed his robes over his head and plunked down on a bench, ignoring the tearing pain in his back and the blood stains on his clothes. "We must go back." It would take him a few moments to create what he needed – that's all the time he would allow her healing efforts.

HP HP HP HP HP

Harry dragged Hermione and Ron to their feet and shoved them behind him, towards Kreacher. Teeth clenched, he studied the adults through narrowed eyes, his magic surging towards his skin.

Andromeda was frozen at the top of the stairs, her eyes wide open, the whites stark and gleaming around grey-blue centers. Her arms were outstretched, her wand and dagger pointed in opposite directions, and waves of magic rippled through the air out towards the walls. Her image seemed to flash in and out of visible sight, as if she were attempting to Apparate. Behind her, Tonks had spun, putting her back to her mother's to face the captive Death Eater hanging still and silent.

Ted took a step towards the trio, but Harry's stance warned him to stay away.

"Are you all right?" The healer's gaze swept across Harry's skin.

He nodded back automatically, unwilling to spend any time assessing.

Remus stalked towards Shacklebolt, his anger lifting the hair on his neck and darkening his expression. "What. Have. You. Done," he snarled.

"Stand down, Remus," Shacklebolt stated. "Can't you feel it? We must evacuate – immediately."

"Oh, I feel it. Someone just set off a Morsmordre over this house – over my house. The house that shelters my wife, my unborn child, and my godson." Remus' grin was feral. "And you brought a Death Eater here."

"He had a Tagalong charm on Kingsley," Tonks shot over her shoulder. Her wand made pointed prods and jabs towards the Death Eater. "I've broken it." She whispered another spell. "There's no Dark Mark on this one – there are Auror spells to reveal that."

"Then who –" Remus was interrupted when the house rocked. He caught himself on Kingsley's shoulder.

Harry glanced down at his feet. Someone was downstairs in the bedroom beneath them. The flash of magic had him stumbling backwards into Ron and Hermione. They clutched at him to keep him upright. Whatever Andromeda was doing had the wards flickering into and out of existence. One moment, he knew he could Apparate – get himself and his friends out of there – and the next his searching magic slammed back into him, the wards refusing him exit.

"They're here."

Andromeda's voice was thin, barely loud enough to be heard in the suffocating atmosphere of the Training Room. Her eyes rolled back in her head as she struggled to control the magic that buffeted her.

Harry heard it then. A hoarse bark. He took a hesitant step towards the stairs. "Hedwig –"

"Harry." Ron tugged at Harry's sleeve.

He turned, catching his friend's grim expression. "It's Hedwig, Ron. She's hurt. I can't - we can't just leave them –" Harry stammered, flinging a hand out towards the adults. Allies. Friends. Tonks and Remus. Andromeda and Ted. Kingsley.

"Death Eaters. Six. Eight. More." Andromeda gargled the words out of throat that seemed clogged with blood. "Go. Go now."

"Harry, we have to go." Hermione slipped one arm around his waist, the other around Ron's and pressed the three together.

Harry couldn't do it – he wouldn't. He had to make a stand, didn't he? The prophecy said it was up to him. If the Death Eaters were here, Remus and the Tonks would need them. And Hedwig …

Vicious mumbling on his left caught Harry's attention. Kreacher's expression was sneering – disdainful as ever, with a light of rage behind his huge eyes. With a snap of his fingers, he was gone.

"No!" Ron lunged for the empty space where the house elf had stood. "Call him back, Harry. We've got to get you out of here. You're not ready – we're not nearly ready for this."

Now that his escape route was gone, Harry realized Ron was right. They'd barely trained – they didn't know where the other Horcruxes were so, even if he did manage to defeat Voldemort right this minute, the evil son of a bitch would only come back again.

With a roar of magic, everything happened at once.

The floorboards erupted, hurling splinters and chunks of wood into the air. Harry, Ron, and Hermione were slammed backwards towards the far end of the attic room as Andromeda, Tonks, and the others were swept in the other direction. Remus crouched, somehow hanging on to his position by driving his claws into the floor. A flurry of white and red flew upward, righted itself, and flapped awkwardly towards Harry.

"Hedwig," he whispered, flinging out one hand to catch her against his chest as she tumbled past.

Six robed and hooded figures levitated through the hole, wands out, already casting. Remus shouted and leaped, knocking the closest enemy into two others like they were bowling pins. The house shook with the sounds of curses and spells, fire and hail, walls and doors and roof smashed, destroyed, the sounds of destruction echoing.

A loud crack sounded near the middle of the Training Room and another dark robed figure appeared, one hand held by a House Elf.

Snape. It was Snape.

The wizard took in the situation with a hurried glance and then Harry found himself trying to catch something hurled in his direction. A lumpy envelope slapped against his chest and stuck there. Snape nodded once and then turned his back and began casting, knocking two of the Death Eaters away from Remus. Beyond him, Ted was holding an unconscious Andromeda in his arms as Tonks re-hexed the newly freed Death Eater they'd already captured before she threw herself into the fight.

Two more loud cracks announced more arrivals, but Harry couldn't see who or where through the uproar. Ron cast over Harry's head, his Protego glimmering like a thick sheet of ice between the trio and everyone else. He pulled Hermione to her feet, then met Harry's gaze. Harry had never seen Ron so focused – so determined. "We need to move. Blow it up," he growled through a locked jaw, holding his shield steady.

Hermione understood. She aimed her wand at the wall behind them, the first syllable of a Bombarda on her lips. Before she could finish, a putrid-looking hand grabbed her forearm and she shrieked in pain.

"I don't think so, my dear."

Lucius Malfoy had Apparated in behind Ron's shield. Before Harry could raise his wand, Ron lunged for him, sending a hex across Malfoy's chest and clutching Hermione's arm to try to drag her away. Malfoy didn't flinch – he smiled. With a turn of his head, Malfoy winked at Harry and then Apparated, pulling Ron and Hermione with him.

They were gone.

"NO!" Harry's magic erupted in gouts of flame rippling out to engulf two of the Death Eaters, singeing Snape as it sped past. With one arm full of his wounded owl, Harry didn't spare a second trying to control his magic or to deliberately cast. Anger and fear mixed in equal amounts in his center and then raced outwards in waves, tearing up more of the wooden floor before it impacted the two standing Death Eaters.

Harry locked eyes with a startled Snape who had turned to face this new threat. "He's got them," Harry shouted, "Lucius Malfoy has Ron and Hermione."

Snape risked a glance at Remus who had finished tying up the last conscious enemies. The six Death Eaters had been taken care of, and Tonks and Kingsley stood ready if there were any more. In two long strides, Snape was at Harry's side, his wand moving, unfamiliar spells sending out wafts of magic into the place where Ron and Hermione had stood. Before he'd finished casting, a House Elf appeared, dragging a struggling, biting Kreacher behind her.

"Harry, order your elf to remain until he is dismissed."

"Kreacher. Stay here!" Harry's rage fueled his spell and Kreacher snapped into a full body-bind.

"Cypress. Can you follow?" Snape asked, gesturing at the cloudy silhouette his magic had raised – a silhouette of three figures – one tall and lanky, one shorter with a mane of bushy hair, and the sleek dark figure of Lucius Malfoy.

The Elf skipped close enough to the misty figures so that she could lay both hands against the glittering cloud. Eyes closed, she inhaled, drawing some of the magic into her lungs. Harry watched, frozen, caught between terror at the thought of what was happening to his friends and hope that Snape's Elf could find them. The Elf seemed to expand, the edges of her body becoming transparent, as if she were dissolving before his eyes. The transparency ate its way towards the center, until her body was as difficult to see as the misty figures.

"Cypress follows." The words echoed, filling the space where the House Elf had stood.

Harry's heart thumped painfully against his chest. The hand on his shoulder sent him flinching backwards and Hedwig's feathers fluttered restlessly.

"Calm yourself," Snape murmured. He moved his wand over Harry's owl, his dark eyes narrowed in concentration. As he chanted, Harry could feel Hedwig relax, and the great gashes on her chest knitted themselves closed.

Harry blinked tears from his eyes, resisting the urge to shift Hedwig away from Snape, to shield her from Snape's attention – from everything. Hedwig had been brutally attacked, Ron and Hermione were in Lucius Malfoy's hands, the Manor was being invaded and destroyed, and Remus and Tonks were fighting for their lives. And Harry was left holding the battered body of a victim, unable to help. Like Cedric. Like Dumbledore. Maybe it was part of his destiny – part of the prophecy. That Harry would always be left standing while others around him were hurt. An image of Sirius floating backwards through the veil struck him. While everyone he loved died.

The sounds at the other end of the room dimmed, turning from frantic spells to hurried clean-up, Kingsley's deep voice gave orders as Harry focused all of his mind on the tip of Snape's wand drifting across Hedwig's mangled wing. Her feathers straightened, the finger-bones snapping back into place with loud clicks. It couldn't have taken very long, but Harry stumbled, nearly lightheaded from holding his breath as his professor worked.

"She'll be all right," Snape assured him, his words breaking through the fog encircling Harry's thoughts. "Why don't you place her down there, on the cushion." A suggestion, soft and low, from a man who had only ever snapped insults or raged at Harry before. Harry followed his pointing finger. A chair, toppled on its back and spewing stuffing, looked like a protected nest. Harry gazed down at his owl and realized she'd fallen asleep, the worst of her wounds healed, her breathing deep and even.

He jerked his gaze back up at Snape. "Thank you," Harry whispered, his throat thick. He made sure Hedwig's healing wing was propped up comfortably and left her, returning reluctantly to Snape's side.

The professor, lips pursed, searched the other end of the room. "All seems to be in order. For the moment."

Harry stared out over the Training Room. Four Death Eaters were either dead or unconscious. Harry swallowed. He'd done that. His exploding magic had done that. Two more were bound and Silenced along with the original captive. Andromeda was sitting up against the wall, awake and fully visible, one hand caught in Ted's as the two cast spell after spell into the air. Harry caught Remus' red-eyed gaze where he confronted Kingsley, Tonks at his side.

"This isn't the end – Ted and Andromeda are rebuilding the wards, but –" Remus shook his head. "It's going to take time and we don't how many more will be following this lot." He jerked his chin at the captive Death Eaters.

"First things first," Kingsley growled. He stalked towards the Death Eater who had followed him. He gestured with his wand, righting the figure, and dissolving the mask and hood. "Dawlish. I should have known."

Harry didn't recognize the wizard. He looked more like a tired hound dog than a crazy cult member.

Tonks cursed. "I thought he was cleared!"

Dawlish smiled, his eyes half-lidded. "Didn't you wonder why Rufus took my oath himself? In his office, away from prying eyes? Sorry, Kingsley, but he's been under my control since you let me out of that cell."

Snarling, Kingsley swept a hex at the man, tightening his bonds. "Silencio!" Dawlish's smile didn't waver. He closed his eyes, a smile on his lips.

Kingsley dropped his shoulders and faced the others. He should look ridiculous, barefoot, and wearing pajamas, but Harry recognized that look of cold anger on his face. This man was the Head Auror. A man dedicated to fighting evil, who insisted on justice, who had fought next to Sirius and Dumbledore and the other members of the Order of the Phoenix.

"My short-sightedness might have brought him here, but Dawlish alone couldn't have done this kind of damage to Andromeda's wards." He stalked towards the unconscious and bound Death Eaters. The masks dissolved with a wave of his wand. "Dolohov. Selwyn. Anyone recognize this witch?"

"Fiona Eddings," Snape drawled. "These three are members of Voldemort's inner circle. As for the other three," he removed the masks from Remus' captives. "Minions. Snatchers. Unimportant. However," he faced Harry again, his voice crisp and sharp. "these were troops sent in first to assess our strength. If Voldemort believes he can overcome us, he will not be far behind."

"We don't have much time." Remus said. He stared at Harry. "We've got to get you out of here."

Chapter 30

Chapter Text

Chapter 30

"We don't have much time." Remus said. He stared at Harry. "You've got to get out of here."

Harry's jaw hurt from clenching. "We have to find Ron and Hermione –"

"Don’t be a fool –" Shacklebolt began. "You cannot throw yourself into their hands, Potter."

"Harry – use Kreacher. Get away from here," Remus insisted. "You know where to go."

"I won't," he began, but Tonks interrupted.

"Apparition block," she shook her head.

"Lucius Malfoy managed to get around it." Snape remained by Harry's side. "And it will not stop House Elf magic." He frowned down at Harry. "I agree that you should get to safety, but I don't believe you can trust Kreacher."

Harry managed a deep breath and fought to stifle his feelings of rage and betrayal. "I thought you were all going to stop treating me like a child."

"Harry –" Remus took a quick step towards him.

Harry would have moved back, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him. He looked up at Snape.

The wizard seemed to be doing what Harry was – deliberately keeping his voice down and his emotions under control – but there was a tempest in those dark eyes. "I believe your friend Mister Weasley would tell you that, in the middle of a battle, a less experienced soldier should defer to his commander. He may present his arguments and defend his reasoning during a lull, or within a sheltered, safe place and be listened to. This is not such a time."

Harry's head was already shaking. "I'm going after Ron and Hermione. You can't stop me."

"Don't be a fool," Remus cried out to Harry. "Lucius doesn't care about them – he wants you to follow!"

Through tears of anger, Harry choked on his reply. "I don't care. I won't leave them –"

"Harry."

Snape's quiet use of his first name cut off Harry's furious answer. He blinked up at the man.

"We can follow them. Remus and I. Far more easily, quickly, and silently than you can. Remus is far stronger than you, and I am well acquainted with Lucius' magic. We are better trained and know hundreds of more spells." Snape's eyes narrowed. "Can you put aside your emotions and acknowledge that I am right?"

"You – " Harry couldn't help looking back and forth between them. These two men who he'd always believed were enemies. Remus – so much more wolf than Harry had ever seen him – and content that way, and Snape – tormentor, murderer, the one who had made Harry's life miserable for years. Snape was right. They were stronger. Better. But -

Snape tilted his head as if thanking Harry for his consideration. "My trust must be earned, I know that, Harry. But you cannot allow yourself to fall into Lucius' hands. He is not interested in patience or in following Voldemort's orders to hand you over to him – he will simply kill you to get you out of his way. Or he will torture you to find his son. That is his only goal - to find Draco and remove him from danger."

Harry wanted to argue, to insist that he follow Ron and Hermione. But if he'd learned anything over the past few hours it was how much he and his friends didn't know. An image of a long grey-haired and bearded wizard, blue eyes twinkling, rose up in Harry's mind. Dumbledore would insist that this was Harry's fight. He'd make sure that Harry threw himself between his friends and danger. It was what Dumbledore had raised him – trained him – to do. Half-trained. Left ignorant of what was really going on. Harry should go – should jump – should Apparate out of here and scour the world for Horcruxes and weapons and allies. He shook his head sharply, trying to dislodge it, but the vision persisted, Dumbledore's expression sad and disappointed at Harry's delay. At his hesitation to leap into battle alone, without thinking.

Swallowing down his grief, his dread of what Lucius Malfoy might be doing to his friends, Harry mentally shut down the image, raising inner defenses that smelled of earth and loam, of the flowering blackthorn trees outside. His new Occlumency shields vibrated with the buzz of bees and the chuckle of a stream. Made up of ground fog and the sparkle of light on the edges of leaves, Harry's shields held him safely inside his own mind. Whole. In control. The image of Dumbledore dissolved, taking some of the shame and guilt with it. Finally, Harry straightened, breathing deep, and nodded once at Severus Beverley Prince, accepting the sense spoken by the man he'd recently met in a Pensieve.

"Kreacher can take me to Sirius' house," Harry suggested. "It should be –"

Remus approached, sharing a long glance with the former potions' professor. "Severus – " he hesitated, shoulders slumping, "is right. You saw how Kreacher left earlier. We shouldn't trust him."

"Oh, he'd take you to Black's house, but he may then leave to spread the news among the Death Eaters. And you'd be alone there," Snape – Prince added.

His forehead creased, Remus reached out. "I don't think you should be alone." When Harry didn't flinch away, Remus laid his hand on his shoulder. "Please," he added, "I may not be able to follow you there. To check on you. To help. To even send a message. And I don't want to lose you."

Harry narrowed his eyes at the motionless house elf. Where had Kreacher disappeared to earlier? Why had he gone just when Harry needed him?

"My Elves can take care of Kreacher. And you."

Snape – Professor – Harry took a deep breath and focused. Prince. He could call him Prince. Prince was a new man, different from the Death Eater who had gotten Sirius killed, who had bullied Harry, torturing him with Occlumency. He blinked up at the familiar face. Yes, the man even looked a bit different.

Prince waited through Harry's deliberations before continuing. "You will find everything you need at Chartwell Manor. A Training Room like this, books, a potions' lab, parchment for letters. He jerked his chin towards Hedwig. "I have an Owlery where Hedwig will be taken care of."

"The wards …" Harry tried. "If we can't Apparate and I can't trust Kreacher –"

Prince smiled, pointing to the envelope still stuck to Harry's chest. "I enchanted a number of Portkeys earlier. No one will be able to follow you, no hex or spell or curse can possibly get through Chartwell's wards. Not even the Ministry can find you there. I admit that Narcissa and Draco are under my roof, but," he held up a hand to keep Harry from hurling questions, "they have been imprisoned – you shall not even see them." He hesitated and then reversed his wand, holding it out to Harry. "Please, allow me to prove myself to you."

Harry stared at the wand. A Wizard's Truce, that was what Prince was offering. It wasn't a command from a teacher to a student or from an adult to child. A Wizard's Truce was the way adult wizards pledged mutual friendship to each other. Harry felt his new Occlumency shields ripple and then strengthen. He stood straighter, felt lighter, his spirit quieting, no longer thrown into chaos. He could either accept Prince's word, accept his reasoning and his shelter or he could refuse it. He could take off, right now, on his own, and try to find Lucius Malfoy and his friends.

It wasn't hard to decide what was best. What was best for Ron and Hermione. Even if it ate at Harry's soul like basilisk venom.

Swallowing, Harry reversed his wand and touched the end to Prince's. He dipped his head in a sharp nod. "Okay. But," he added quickly, "I want to know what's going on. You can't just shut me out and treat me like a child."

"No. I've learned that lesson," Remus said with a grim expression. "No more talk of children or students. You're an ally, Harry, and a powerful one, we've all seen that." His grimace turned into a smile. "You won't be alone there. Severus has offered shelter to the entire Weasley family. And others."

"You do better with more information – that is something that the Headmaster could not seem to understand." Prince agreed with Remus. "Remus and I must follow my Elf before the trail grows cold. And we will find ourselves acting with greater clarity and resolve if we are first assured that you are safe."

"We'll get them back. I promise." Remus tugged Harry into a fierce hug.

"We will," Prince added. "I will return with Mister Weasley and Miss Granger, on my magic and my life." Prince put his wand hand on his heart, "I pledge this."

Harry turned away, moving to Hedwig, unwilling to meet the gazes of either man. They were right. Harry would be a distraction – useless – confronting Malfoy. Hedwig would never get better at Sirius' house, not with Harry there alone. He crouched by the ruined chair and gathered his owl to his chest. With a flick of Prince's wand, the brown wrapping came away from the Portkey stuck to Harry's chest and Harry was staring down at a chess piece. A black bishop. Swamped with feelings of dread and hopelessness, Harry nodded and clutched the Portkey, the familiar feel of a hook behind his navel rushing him from Tonks' Manor into the unknown.

HP HP HP HP HP

Ron came out of Apparition with a hex on his lips. He threw a Stupefy at Lucius Malfoy and yanked hard on Hermione's arm. She stumbled out of Malfoy's grip, but knocked Ron off-balance so that his spell went wide, causing two hanging pots above the table to clang together like cymbals. Hanging pots… dented hanging pots …

"What the bloody hell –" It was his house! Malfoy had brought them to Ron's house!

Malfoy swayed, half collapsing against the kitchen table. Ron didn't think twice. Snaking one arm around Hermione, he took off for the door, throwing one last hex over his shoulder as he struck the thin door and popped it open.

"Expelliarmus!" The sound of a wand clattering to the tile floor sent a wave of pride through him. If it was good enough for Harry -

That might give Ron the time he needed.

"Ron – stop – what are you –"

"It's the Burrow, Hermione," Ron shouted, "Malfoy brought us home!"

She stumbled, but Ron picked her up in both arms and kept on, headed for the shed.

"Ronald Bilious Weasley, put me down!"

He heard the door slam open behind them. "Sorry, sorry, just, hold on –"

A whiplash of fire curled around Ron's side, digging down through his clothes to his skin and yanking him off balance. He hung on to Hermione, prompting a squeak from her as he tightened his grip. Suddenly her wand was aiming back over his shoulder and the whip released him – doing as much damage on the way back as it did when it hit him. Ron dropped to one knee and Hermione cast again. Malfoy screamed behind him, fueling Ron to drag himself to his feet and keep going.

A blast of heat narrowly missed him on the right and Ron veered, dodging as best he could with that white fire playing along his ribs. With one further hex from Hermione, Ron gained the shed. Careening off of the door frame, he man-handled Hermione through and fell onto a pile of feed sacks, somehow managing not to crush her beneath him.

Hermione scrambled to her feet and rushed towards the door, closed it, slid the six bolts across, and touched the Wardstones on either side of the doorframe. "Weasley Incolumitas!" she shouted. Blazing orange light leaped into sight, weaving tightly across the door, the wall, growing to encompass the entire shed.

Teeth clenched; Ron lowered his head until his forehead rested against the feed sack. "You remembered," he moaned. "Thank Merlin."

"Of course, I remembered. Your mother and your brothers were insistent that we all knew about the Wizard's Hole and the Wardstones." Hands on her hips, Hermione's back was to Ron as she assessed the strength of the wards. "Although why they thought the chicken shed was the ideal location, I'll never know."

She turned, a grim smile on her face. Mouth dropping open, she hurried towards him. "Ron!"

"Uh." Ron tried to smile, to tell her it was okay – that he was okay. Somehow, 'uh' was all that came out. He closed his eyes.

"Oh, no you don't, Ronald Weasley."

Hermione moved closer. Ron could tell because of the scent of her shampoo – lavender. He liked lavender. It always reminded him of her since they were first years together. Funny, he'd have to thank Neville – didn't remember doing that – Neville had known right off what plant was in her shampoo. He didn't have the heart to tell Hermione that lavender didn't interact well with wizards and witches – that the scent that calmed muggles tended to irritate a witch's skin. "Pro'bly the reason your hair is, you know," he mumbled against the feed sack. "But I like it. It's you."

"Sh."

A cool, wet trail dragged across the pounding heat at Ron's back and side. Throbbing. Like a toothache in his skin. He snorted. And then gasped. Hermione's spell was good – all her spells were good – but it didn't take it all away, the pain. But it helped. He managed to follow Hermione's prompting and maneuver onto his side, letting her get a look at his chest. He didn't need her indrawn breath to tell him it was bad.

"T's okay." Ron tried to wave his hand in the air but only managed to wiggle his fingers. "Mum hid stuff."

"Right. Of course."

Hermione's clipped tones were her way of trying to pull herself together. Ron smiled. He liked that he could tell quite a lot about what Hermione was feeling just by listening to her voice and feeling the touch of her hands on his skin. But then they were gone. "Uh," he repeated. Don't go.

One hand came back, brushing the hair off of his forehead. "It's okay, Ron. I'm still here. I'm going to look for the medical supplies, okay? But stay awake. Keep talking to me. Tell me more about this place."

Oh, good. She could hear his thoughts. That would help. Never could say what he wanted to.

"Please, Ron. Talk to me."

He frowned. Her voice was getting farther away. Maybe there was a limit on this thought-hearing stuff. "Mum put it in after fifth year. Department of Mysteries," he explained. "Even the Prophet admitted he was back. And stupid Crouch. Knew he'd come for us – Harry's best friend. Blood-traitor family." Was he rambling? Felt like he was rambling.

"When you got attacked by the brain. Your mum and dad must have been horrified."

"Not as bad as with Ginny. You know…" Ron's voice slurred. It was harder to move his lips, to move anything. He was shivering. So cold. He wanted to tell Hermione about how his mum practically wrapped Ginny up in spells that summer after second year to keep her safe. "G'nny d'nt like th't."

"Okay. Here. Drink this."

Bottles clanked and Ron found the rim of a vial pressed against his lips. "'Kay." As soon as his mouth opened, Hermione tipped the vial up so the potion ran into his mouth. Ugh. Tasted like boot leather. And dried mud. "Nasty."

"I know. There seems to be a direct relationship between a potion tasting terrible and how effective it is. Maybe Professor Snape could explain that."

"Greasy git." Huh. Ron's mouth seemed to have gotten the message. He opened his eyes. Hermione's face was right there, the darkness behind her eyes lightening as he smiled. "Hey there."

"Hey, yourself." She laughed, dashing away her tears. "Now, this might sting a bit."

A cold wet sensation washed across Ron's chest. "That's not ba – ah – AH!"

"Sorry, sorry, I know," Hermione stammered, keeping him flat with one hand against his shoulder.

The ice-cold pain stabbed Ron straight through and then faded, leaving him feeling light. Like he could breathe again. Like he might fly. He flopped back against the sacks.

"Better?"

He smiled; his eyes half-closed. "Mmm. Better."

Hermione dropped down next to him, tucking her head into his neck. For a minute, he didn't realize she was sobbing.

"Hey." He managed to get his arm out from beneath her to wrap her up against him. "I'm okay. We're okay."

"You're hurt. Badly hurt. It might feel better, but …"

Ron buried his fingers in her hair and pressed close. He knew. He was going to need more than the few potions his mum had squirreled away. And something was niggling at the back of his mind. Something important.

"We're safe here," he murmured against her forehead.

She pulled back to look at him. "But for how long?" Fear. Her voice was full of it. It wasn't just for Ron – or for herself. "Do you really think your mum's wards will hold against Voldemort and his Death Eaters? And, worse yet, you know Harry's going to come after us. He'll be a sitting duck."

Adrenaline shot up Ron's spine, bringing back the pain, rolling right over the image that was trying to come into focus. "Bloody hell." Teeth clenched, Ron fought the confusion, the dizziness. Hermione shouting his name was the last thing he remembered.

Chapter 31

Chapter Text

Chapter 31

Cypress' magic left a trail – a tether. Eyes closed, Severus felt the tether wrap around him, giving him an Apparition point. Another tether gripped his left wrist – Remus. The connection of their vow would keep them together. Cypress' magic led them, pulled them from the Tonks' Manor to appear at her side in a gradual wash of magic and color. It was a strange way to travel, House Elf Apparition. Somehow, Severus could see and hear, all his senses were sharpened even before his body was little more than sparkling atoms dancing in the air.

A swampy landscape under a night sky, a sweep of stars overhead, an awkward building in the distance. Severus knew it. Remus' tight grip announced the same realization. They were at the Burrow, the Weasley's abandoned home. On the near side of the garden, beyond a set of thickly-cast wards, they caught the gleam of Lucius' bright-white hair in the moonlight.

Cypress tugged them back into the world of flesh and blood, drawing the two wizards to her side without disturbing a single leaf. Silently, Severus scanned the only figure visible, trusting Remus to watch his back, to make sure that they were safe from any other Death Eaters.

"Just him," Cypress noted. "No one else, Master."

"The children?" Severus murmured. "Where are they?"

"There." Cypress pointed to the shed Lucius was circling. "There are strong wards."

Severus' eyebrows rose. Of course. Molly and Arthur's powers were formidable. They would have provided a safe place for their children to hide in an emergency. The Burrow might have fallen to Voldemort's followers, but they would not have had time to discover all of Molly's secrets. He stifled a laugh. And if the twins were involved … If he knew one thing about the Weasleys, it was that there was far more beneath their bland appearances than anyone suspected.

"So, for the moment, Ron and Hermione are safe." Remus had returned from his scouting and now crouched beside Severus.

"Safe. Hurt, badly hurt," Cypress added. "The boy."

Teeth clenched, Severus nodded.

"And …" Cypress lifted her head as if scenting the air. "Others come." She blinked large eyes at Severus. "Bad ones. Good ones."

"Lucius may have raised an alarm," Remus growled.

"I don't think so." Severus considered his confrontation with Lucius. "For the moment, those two are his prisoners – his only connection to Harry. He would not want to lose that source of information to his … colleagues."

"We don’t have time –"

Severus spun to face his brother. "I can offer Lucius what he desires. He knows that Draco and his mother are under my protection. He will give up his interest in Miss Granger and Mister Weasley if I give him a better chance to find his family."

"Master will not –"

"You will obey me in this, Cypress." Severus didn't try to tear his gaze from Remus'. His House Elf would obey – reluctantly, but she had accepted Severus as Master and would have no choice. It was unlikely, however, that Remus would be as easy to convince.

"You're going to offer a trade. You for Hermione and Ron." Remus' eyes glowed red; his lips pulled back from his teeth in the parody of a smile. "Very brave. Very foolish."

"You heard Cypress. Mister Weasley is badly injured. More Death Eaters are on their way. We must take care of this situation before they arrive or, I fear, we will be too late on both counts. I believe Lucius to be as eager for a resolution as we are." He tilted his head. "And just how long do you think Harry will wait before trying to find his friends for himself?"

"I'm not leaving you here to face Malfoy and his minions."

"I certainly hope not. I'm rather counting on you staying, actually." Severus chuckled at Remus' confused expression. "I am not a hero, Remus. I do not throw myself into situations without thinking. That much has not changed. The Death Eaters will have to destroy Lucius' wards before they can attack. I leave them to you."

Remus' eyes narrowed. His curse might make him unmanageable for one night a month, but it also responded to his emotions, flooding his body with wild magic and hormones if he felt threatened or if his loved ones were in danger. Fenrir Greyback might be a monster – one that Severus would happily kill on sight – but he'd made it obvious that a werewolf's inner wolf was accessible every day. It was a tool, a weapon, and Remus would wield those weapons to save Harry and his friends. To save Severus.

Crouching, his fingers curled into claws, Remus snarled. "If you die, Severus, I'll kill you."

Severus turned back to face Lucius' wards. "I have no plan to die. Make sure you are as careful with yourself. If you aren't, I'll turn your carcass into a throw-rug for my office at Hogwarts."

A hushed conversation followed. Her instructions clear, Cypress vanished. Remus gave Severus one more glare, commanding he look out for his safety, before he faded back into the brush under Severus' Disillusion spell.

With a deep breath, Severus straightened and approached the edge of Lucius' wards, purposefully flinging a stinging hex against the barrier to get the wizard's attention. Lucius spun to face him.

"You."

Severus raised one eyebrow.

"I could kill you where you stand." Lucius' chest was heaving, his face screwed up in a grimace that spoke of pain and desperation.

"And then you would never find your son."

Lucius sneered, flinging one hand towards the small shed. "They're children. Do you think they have a prayer of keeping me out? I will tear their walls down and then skin them alive."

"Perhaps. But Molly Weasley's wards can block your spells for long enough for your former friends to arrive. And then, do you really believe the Dark Lord will allow you to keep your prisoners? That he will not snatch them from your hand and leave you scrabbling in the dirt, utterly unable to find your precious boy?"

Lucius swung his arms wide, snarling. "Where is my son, Severus Snape?" He shot a Bombarda strong enough to break bones towards Severus.

Severus barely moved, his Protego wavering but holding against Lucius' attack. It was then that Severus saw the withered hand, blackened and useless, Lucius' skin puffed and red around the magical cuff that was straining to hold off the curse that was crawling in veins of red and black up towards Lucius' elbow.

He frowned. "What have you done, Lucius?"

The wizard's laugh was unnatural, high-pitched and mad. "Something unwise, but necessary." He tilted his head. "Did you know, Severus? Did you know what the Dark Lord had done to his soul? Why he was able to survive? To return?"

Severus forced himself to stillness. His Occlumency shields rose up to block the emotions that rushed through him. The eagerness to stride forward through the wards and find the item Lucius was talking about. To destroy it. He could not allow this man to recognize his interest, his fervor to have the Dark Lord's Horcrux destroyed.

"I have seen that type of curse before. Without treatment, it will kill you quickly," Severus added. "Perhaps in the next few minutes."

"You have –" Lucius stepped towards him. "Where? Who –" The light of sanity returned to Lucius face for a moment. "Dumbledore. Was he already dying when you killed him, then? Was it an act of mercy?" he grimaced, part pain and part disgust. "Oh, how you fooled us all, Severus."

"I was able to impede the curse for nearly a year. Would you care to have more than five minutes with your son when you finally find him, Lucius? Or are you happy to leave him in the hands of the Ministry after your inevitable death?"

Teeth bared, Lucius panted, bloodshot eyes staring into Severus'. Severus' Legilimency read the roiling emotions as if they were flashed across the night sky. Hope. Fear. Rage. Panic. Impatience. Pain. Desperation. At the heart of him, Lucius had not changed from the arrogant, self-important wizard Severus had known most of his life. The inner monster had been covered over by aristocratic sleekness and disdain. After Azkaban, after Narcissa's abandonment, that monster had been released, dark and ugly and thirsting for blood. Lucius was reveling in it.

"Let me in, Lucius." Severus spoke evenly. Without hurry, without a taste of victory coloring his voice or his expression. "Let me in before your friends arrive to steal your prizes."

"You've just confirmed that I have no reason to trust you, Severus."

Wrestling down his impatience, Severus did the only thing he could think of. The last thing he wanted to do. Slowly, his movements deliberately not threatening, Severus tucked his wand back into his sleeve and then held his arms out to the sides.

"Hex me or not, Lucius. I am the only one who can unlock the wards that keep you from your son. I am the only one with intimate knowledge of the curse that is killing you, as well as the skill and potions to prolong your life."

His chest heaving, Lucius faced Severus across the glimmering wards, his lips turned up in a snarl. Somewhere behind him, Severus felt the first rush of Apparition, distant, but jumping closer with every moment that passed. Lucius' gaze snapped over Severus' shoulder. Yes, he'd felt it, too.

With a gesture, a framed door appeared between them. Severus recognized it. It resembled a door in Malfoy Manor, one that led to Lucius' private study and laboratory, the place he researched and practiced the darkest of arts. Wooden, painted the green of young leaves, the handle was sculpted into a twisted serpent, fangs extended. Severus did not hesitate. He gripped the handle, expecting the prick he felt in his palm, the introduction of the poison into his blood. He stepped through Lucius' wards, allowing the door to close and disappear behind him. He waited.

"Poisoning the potioner. How satisfying. You'll need the antidote within twenty minutes," Lucius preened.

Fool. As if Severus had not been preparing himself against Lucius' poisons for decades. He kept this knowledge buried, allowing Lucius to see only the disgust on his features.

Lucius lunged forward, grabbing Severus' collar, and yanking him in close. "Tell me," he spat. "Where is Draco?" His grip tightened, cutting off Severus' air. "Tell me before you die, traitor."

Severus maintained his calm façade, choking back the urge to curse Lucius, to spread a wave of silent warding out from his center to slam the Death Eater to his back in the dirt. The Death Eaters behind the wards were close – shouted curses and the flickering light of spells declared their presence. A high-pitched scream followed by unrecognizable gurgling set Severus' teeth into a clench. Remus had caught one. He could not be left to fight them all on his own for long.

Instead of using his wand, Severus stared into Lucius' crazed eyes and sent his mind deep, tunneling into Lucius' thoughts and memories. With no subtlety or regard for Lucius' health and sanity, Severus shaped his Legilimency like a jagged blade and tore his way through the few barriers Lucius tried to erect. He hacked at wards, ripped false memories to shreds, following the glimmers of truth that Lucius most tried to protect. Ward passwords, charmed links that, once destroyed, would dissolve the spells Lucius had surrounded himself with. Voldemort's location appeared, bright and clear, the snake dozing in the sunshine. Umbridge's dead eyes staring up at dazzling leaves. Rage colored Lucius' thoughts with blood; desperation flooded him with adrenaline and scattered rational thought.

There. Deep beneath and surface, Severus found it. Slytherin's locket. The source of the curse on Lucius' hand. The Horcrux Regulus Black had stolen. It was here. In the Burrow. Hanging motionless behind an eroding runic sigil.

The brutality of Severus' Legilimency struck Lucius to his knees and Severus stepped back, adjusting his collar, considering the broken man before him. Blood streamed from Lucius' aristocratic nose. His arms hung loosely, hands twitching in his lap, his wand forgotten on the ground beside him. Head bent, Lucius muttered threats, choked out petulant barbs that had no teeth. Severus retrieved his wand, rolling it against his fingers.

"I could kill you. End your suffering. It would be a kindness," Severus hesitated, "a 'mercy,' I believe you said." He flicked a glance to the horizon. Sounds of fighting, of frantic spell casting, and animalistic howls filled the air. "Or I could bind you and leave you for your colleagues' mercy."

"Do it. Kill me. Or, I swear –" Lucius snarled, his muscles quivering as he tried to get his feet beneath him. He failed, falling onto one side to stare up at Severus through tangled locks of silver hair. "I'll find you. Make you pay."

"However," Severus continued, ignoring Lucius' threats, "I don't think Draco would thank me for executing his father. In fact, knowing how devoted your son can be to those who would kill him without a thought or qualm, he might try to mount a stunning rescue mission to release you from captivity." He leaned close. "He has been at school with Harry Potter for six years and has gathered some rather interesting habits, don't you think? Heroic, almost."

Lucius flinched.

"I do not have time for this." Severus shook his head, drawing on his hard-learned discipline. He straightened as the first flicker of a Patronus appeared in his peripheral vision. A coyote, head low, slunk around the back of the Weasley's shed. Severus took one last look at the defeated wizard at his feet and snatched Lucius' wand from the ground, securing it in his pocket. With his own wand, he summoned thick black bindings before Stunning Lucius. "Your mind will be a great challenge for Andromeda, and your body one for her husband." He reached into his pocket to remove another chess piece, one that he had retrieved from Andromeda's stockpile. The white queen – the witch's own symbol - one of many she'd enchanted that could be used to transport a patient. He tucked it into Lucius' sleeve and spoke the charm.

In a few hours, Lucius might find himself surprised to be waking up at all, let alone in a tightly sealed treatment room for the criminally insane in St. Mungo's.

"Severus! Hurry up!"

Remus stood at the edge of the wards, disturbing sprays of blood decorating his robes and splashed across his face. Lucius' wards were already flickering, responding to the caster's defeat. Severus spun, intent on the shed, but was stopped in his tracks by a rearing silver horse.

"I must get to the house," he explained to Ginevra Weasley's Patronus, his words clear and distinct. It would not do for him to have defeated Lucius Malfoy only to fall under the youngest Weasley's abnormally strong Bat Bogey hex. "Your brother is in the shed with Miss Granger. He is hurt. Harry is awaiting word at my home with your mother." The horse stamped, snorting a mist of cold droplets across Severus' face. "If you can help Remus and my House Elf hold off the Death Eaters, we will all escape there."

The horse shook her mane, dancing eagerly, the sharp edges of her hoofs digging gouges into the Weasley's garden. Another child strong enough to produce a corporeal Patronus. Severus marveled. What a force Harry had gathered around him.

"I shall take that as agreement."

Severus left the Death Eaters to Miss Weasley's Patronus, Ron and Hermione to whichever twin trickster had sent the coyote. Half-running, half-flying, Severus sped towards the Burrow and Slytherin's locket.

Chapter 32

Chapter Text

Chapter 32

"Harry!"

The Portkey dumped Harry into a sitting room decorated in deep blues and greens accented by the bright red of Weasley heads. Charlie lunged for Hedwig, his hands gentle, cradling her before Harry could drop her. Bill and Molly steadied Harry, firm hands setting him upright and leading him to a chair.

"All right, Harry?"

He nodded, trying to catch his breath. "Death Eaters," he stammered, suddenly chilled to the bone, "Death Eaters attacked Tonks Manor."

"We know, it's okay, Harry, we know." Bill crouched next to him, one hand on his knee, while Molly busied herself at the table before forcing a hot cup of tea into Harry's shaking hands.

"Ron. Ron and Hermione." He stared into Molly's soft brown eyes. "Lucius Malfoy somehow got through the wards and took them. Took Ron and Hermione."

The Weasleys all froze before turning to each other. Charlie straightened from his examination of Hedwig, his hands still carefully gentle. Bill tightened his grip on Harry's knee. Molly's gaze sharpened, her mouth a grim line.

"Remus and Sn – Prince are going to rescue them. They're following a House Elf." The words kept coming. Harry wanted to explain, to tell them why he was here and not chasing after his friends. He wanted that cold focus to leave Molly's expression and give her some hope, to tell them anything that might help. "They told me to come here and wait. Said the two of them were the best chance to get them back because Prince knows Lucius and Remus is, Remus is –" he shrugged. "they're both more powerful than I am. I wanted to go – I should have –"

Bill shook Harry's knee. "You did exactly the right thing. We can trust those two to get Ron and Hermione back. Or die trying."

Harry flinched so hard the tea cup shattered in his hands, pouring hot tea over his lap.

"William," Molly chided, cleaning up the mess with a flick of her wand. Slowly and deliberately she took Harry's hands and turned them palm up. A few shards had shoved in beneath his skin, blood trickling from the tiny wounds. She banished the porcelain scraps and cleansed and healed his wounds before frowning and trailing her wand across Harry's arms and up his chest. "You've been hurt. Let's take care of this before anything else."

Muscles relaxed. Aches dwindled. The sharp snap of small bones in Harry's fingers relieved pain he'd been ignoring. After the first wave of relief, guilt followed. "I'm fine." Harry gripped the arms of the chair. "Tell me what we can do. How we can help."

"I'm going to take Hedwig to Severus' Owlery," Charlie announced. "She'll be –" He snapped upright, his mouth open with no sound.

Molly and Bill moved towards Charlie at once, the three Weasleys reacting with the same frozen expression and the light of hope flaring behind their eyes. "The Wizards' Hole at the Burrow," Molly stated. "Someone's activated the Wardstones."

"Hermione. It's Hermione," Charlie breathed.

"And –" Molly put both hands over her mouth.

"Ron's there, too." Charlie blew out a breath and turned back to Harry. "Mom and I created a safe place for family and friends to hide at the Burrow. We enchanted it, wove the wards, and set the Wardstones. Our magic responds when someone activates it."

The hope in Harry was buoyant, bringing him up out of his chair. "So – they're okay? They got away and they're at the Burrow. Brilliant!"

Bill shook his head. "Malfoy will be following. And Ron is badly hurt; Hermione might not know what to do."

"Charlie – take Hedwig to the Owlery and make sure she's comfortable. Bill," Molly snapped off orders as if she was a commanding general, "send a message to the twins. They can check out the situation - with Patronuses first, tell them! Lucius Malfoy will have no idea who they belong to." When her sons charged off, she took Harry by the shoulder. "I've got to get word to Arthur and Percy at the Ministry. If Severus and Remus are following one of the Manor's House Elves, none of our communication is going to reach them. Unless –" She set her hands on her hips. "Saffron! She was here just a moment ago."

The small creature appeared without a sound. She nodded to Molly and then turned to face Harry, hands clasped on her chest. "Harry Potter. The Master and the Manor have prepared for your coming."

"Um. Thank you?" At least she hadn't dropped to her knees or started kissing Harry's robes like Dobby tended to do when overexcited.

"Saffron has your house elf, Kreacher, secured. Would Harry Potter wish to see him?"

"Not – not right now, please, Saffron," Molly interrupted. "Severus has gone with one of your friends to rescue my son. Can you track him?"

The Elf tilted her head, her large eyes gleaming. "Saffron is listening. Master Prince and his brother are well. Cypress is obeying Master's orders."

"Can you take me to them?" Harry blurted out. Fists clenched, he cursed silently. So much for letting better wizards charge into the fight.

A ripple of magic swept through the room, flexing the walls in and out. Saffron's eyes narrowed. "Master's orders say Harry Potter stays here. Chartwell Manor agrees. There is much to tell him, much he should understand."

Molly had already gripped Harry around the arm, anxious to keep him in place. "That's right. I'm calling in reinforcements from the Ministry, Saffron, can you direct them to help Severus and Remus? Can you take them there?"

"Saffron could."

The answer was enough for Molly to sprint for the door. "I'll Floo Arthur – be ready, Saffron!"

Harry remained, facing the House Elf. "You didn't really agree," he stated.

"Saffron did not." She watched him, unsmiling.

"You're not going to send help to Remus and Professor Prince?" Harry took a step backwards, alarm bells ringing in his mind. Kreacher, the house elf that was supposed to obey Harry, had run off when he needed him. Now this one, even after the creepy greeting, seemed to be lying to Molly Weasley and refusing to help her Master. "Why – why wouldn't you want to? Do you want them to be hurt?"

"The Master does not need our help. Others have promised. Others are Called." She traced the outline of the crest embroidered on her robe. "Trust Chartwell, Harry Potter. Do not fear."

He shook his head. "You're … very different from the other house elves I've known."

"We have served the Masters and Mistresses of Chartwell for centuries. Magic was laid down with the foundations of the Manor, tied up to the land, the family, the government. When Chartwell sleeps, we sleep, when it wakes," a flicker of fire brightened Saffron's eyes, "we wake." She lifted her hands and a shimmering veil of magic rose up around her, all colors swirling. "In the beginning, there were many more – House Elves such as us, wizard and witch savants, apprentices and students. Most were lost to time, some to enemies. These house elves today –"

Harry heard the disdain, the lower case letters she assigned the other beings.

" – are less. But the magic of Chartwell lives on through us, and we live on through it."

She was old. Older than any house elf Harry had ever met. Older, maybe, than Dumbledore. The magic dimmed, drawing back inside not just the Elf, but the walls and floor, the furnishings, the air. Harry blinked. He could see it lingering there, just beyond his physical sight. Something inside Harry reached out, eager to touch, to share, to be a part of this ancient magic. He heard his mother's laugh.

"You, child, are a part of us," Saffron stated before Harry could open his mouth to ask. "A part of those who built Chartwell. Not by wizard lineage - we are not of Potter or Evans. But by all the age-old rites and rituals, by the vows and oaths taken under dark moons and beside glimmering pools. Through the long memories of powerful women, joined in heart and intention, laying spells of protection and guidance over their children since the ancient days. By Lady Clementine and by the magical creatures that helped her."

As Saffron spoke, images rose within Harry's mind. They weren't destructive or aggressive like Voldemort's visions, or like the Leglimency attacks of his potions' professor. They didn't fill Harry with dread or fear or an alien glee at others' pain. They weren't even uncomfortable or controlling like Andromeda Tonks' presence in his mind. Harry caught a sob trying to bubble up from his throat.

He saw his mother.

In a loamy green forest, barefoot and cloaked in silver, his mother saluted the moon beside a still pool. Other women appeared beside her, women Harry recognized. Alice Longbottom. Andromeda Tonks. Marlene McKinnon and Emmeline Vance – Sirius had pointed them out in a picture of the Order. Teachers at Hogwarts - Minerva McGonagall. Pomona Sprout. Charity Burbage. A very pregnant Molly Weasley. More he didn't know. A misty-eyed witch with long white-blond hair and a necklace of radishes around her neck. A severe woman with short dark hair.

Among them stood smaller figures, cloaked in the same fashion. Goblins. House elves. A Mermaid lay half-in and half-out of the pool. They moved as one, drawing into a circle arranged near the pool so that the mermaid could join in. Bare arms raised, their faces radiated peace, serenity, power, and, over everything, love.

From the edges of the trees, creatures appeared. Unicorns. Thestrals. A pair of hippogriffs. A phoenix trilled from a branch perched between two owls. A group of centaurs stood close in a drift of moonlight. Watching. Protecting. The creatures somehow shared in the magic and the solemnity of the gathering.

Beyond the circle of power, other images flickered into sight, misty and insubstantial. Not ghosts, not like the Bloody Baron or Nearly Headless Nick – these were more vibrant, full of color and life. Harry stared, hardly able to breathe. Rowena Ravenclaw. Helga Hufflepuff. A tall witch with a familiar twinkle in her bright blue eyes. Another woman with pale skin, long, straight hair, and a nose that Harry couldn't help but recognize - she could only be Prince's mother. And, next to her, a woman with a regal bearing, her hair in an old-fashioned style, wavy, caught at the neck in a butterfly clasp. She was holding the hands of two smaller figures, one on each side. Two shimmering House Elves. One was Saffron.

"Hand and heart, mind and soul, sisters and mothers, born and adopted." Saffron's voice didn't disturb Harry's vision, but wove in and out of the figures along with the bright drifts of magic. "Our power is rooted in the earth, in trees and water, sunlight on leaves, the pollen on insect legs, the creatures of hoof and claw. This power resides within all of our children, in some form. But in two or three of each generation, it becomes more."

In his vision, Molly and Alice each slipped an arm around Lily Potter's waist. The other witches and beings circled them, chanting, touching a brow or a hand, sharing magic, weaving strong cords of love. Helga Hufflepuff stepped forward, binding the magic and love into a shimmering net. Smiling, she wrapped it around Harry's and Neville's and Ron's mums, her voice for their ears only.

"Me and Neville and Ron," Harry whispered. "My mom – our moms – they're pregnant?"

"Yes," Saffron answered. "A blessing ritual, for our sisters. For those who carry the future."

Tears obscured Harry's vision. He'd been tied with Ron and Neville before he'd even been born. He wondered; if Hermione's mum had been a witch, would she have stood there, too?

"Your friend is the Binder - the Binder stands outside," Saffron whispered.

Helga's glittering form was still whispering over the mothers-to-be, a great sadness replacing her joy.

"Did they know? The prophecy…" Harry barely managed to get the words out, his voice cracking.

"They read the signs. They listened to the songs of the stars. They numbered the magics. They knew this much: there would be darkness. War. And three babies - three powerful wizards. Each would be tied to the earth. The three would come into their power late, their magic strangled by good intentions and grief, by love turned to control and criticism, by poverty of body and spirit. We vowed to protect – to teach – to renew the bindings pledged on that night and many nights before it."

"It could have meant either of us. The prophecy," Harry added wistfully. Not Ron – he'd been born a few months earlier. But, what if it had been Neville? What if Harry had lived in the wizarding world his entire life and Neville came to Hogwarts from a muggle home. What if Saviour of the Wizarding World hadn't been carved on Harry's forehead? No, he closed his eyes, he wouldn't wish that on Neville. He couldn't.

"The Dark One chose his enemy."

The vision faded, leaving Harry and Saffron facing each other in the homey sitting room, Weasley voices raised in the distance. "Voldemort chose me." Harry lifted his chin, the mantle of prophecy – of expectation – falling lightly on his shoulders. It didn't hunch his back or grind his soul so harshly as before. Not when he knew he had two other wizards who would help him carry it.

"He did," Saffron agreed. "The power to vanquish the Dark resides in you. Chartwell can help – Chartwell will help."

Harry found his wand in his hand. Holly. Phoenix feather. It warmed, as if greeting an old friend. A moment later, the warmth turned into something like the memory of a loving embrace. That bittersweet, lingering moment just before two friends said good-bye.

"Chartwell will help you, Harry Potter, Wandmaker. All of its magics, all of its resources, its Master and his friends will show you the way to your power. By the power your mother passed down to you – the power other mothers passed on – by our vows and pledges, by the ancient rites and mother earth herself." She moved closer, offering her hands. "Three boys, three powerful wizards."

"Neville will come." Harry nodded. He knew it.

"And the two chosen from the previous generation," Saffron added.

"Severus." The name came easily to Harry's tongue. "Severus and …"

"His brother."

"Remus." Harry breathed a sigh. It felt right, as if a circle closed or a circuit was completed.

Chapter 33

Chapter Text

Chapter 33

The sigil glowed with Lucius Malfoy's tainted blood magic, its colors dark and sickly. Severus circled it, maintaining his distance, both his wand and his open hand testing the power of Lucius' control, the edges of the stasis, the strength of the spells. Just because Lucius had been neutralized didn't mean his spells would be automatically broken. His death would have caused that, and, if their confrontation had occurred when Severus was under Dumbledore's control, that may well have been the outcome. Severus grimaced. He was not so eager to kill, now.

It was not a fault, he insisted to himself.

The raised voices from outside didn't help Severus' concentration. It was easy to pick up Remus' spells, his shouts lacked the manic pitch of the attacking Death Eaters. Severus' connection with Chartwell's House Elves locked him onto Cypress' location, where she circled the thin forest where Remus stalked his prey. He'd ordered her to maintain an outer guard, to trap the converging Death Eaters between herself and Remus. Severus' trust in Remus' abilities was absolute – and Cypress would make sure that none escaped to carry any tales back to their master.

The introduction of Ginevra Weasley's Patronus had been an unexpected advantage. After her brothers had rescued Harry's friends, she had arrived in the flesh, stationing herself just behind the strong wards of the Wizard's Hole while she directed her corporeal Patronus to trample every Death Eater that she spied through the foliage.

The child was ruthless. Severus was impressed.

Now, if he could just unwind Lucius' spells while at the same time keeping the darkness of the Horcrux contained. Severus raised his wand, steeled to withstand any backlash as he began the charm to disarm the powerful sigil.

"Master Prince."

Severus averted his movement, sending the spell to splash harmlessly against the ceiling before turning. He straightened.

"Warmaster Bogrod."

The ancient goblin bowed its head. Clothed in armor forged in ancient times, the goblin had never looked less like the financial manager façade it had once hidden behind. A tall sword was slung on its back, a brace of daggers across its broad chest, and its claws were tipped with metal caps. Bogrod raised its head - its face twisted up on one side in a perpetual sneer. With a start, Severus realized that scar tissue pulled the muscles that way, not disdain. A claw or sword stroke had ruined the muscles along the right side from eye to throat.

"Master Prince." Bogrod gripped the hilts of two daggers. "The goblins have pledged, and so I come." It jerked its chin towards two taller warriors who appeared on its flanks. Armored in gleaming plate mail, the two wore rounded helmets, the face-plates solid enough to obscure all parts of the warriors faces except their eyes. Eyes that were solid black, with no color or white. "The Erechtheidei will destroy your enemies. Speak. Command. They know only to fight, to protect."

Severus folded his hands against his waist in an unconscious echo of Bogrod's posture. Erechtheidei. Legendary warriors, the result of goblin and wizard mating. He had thought them a myth, stories wizarding parents told their children to scare them into obedience. Memories of a particularly odd meeting with Dumbledore swam up through his mind, the Headmaster gesturing towards the sculpted gargoyles and stone warriors lining Hogwart's walls and spires.

"They are very lifelike, except for their small stature," Severus had remarked to the Headmaster.

Dumbledore had chuckled. "Indeed. They look like they are ready to spring from the walls to defend us, don't they?"

Returning his attention to the present, Severus spoke. "Another apology seems to be in order. I assume the Erechtheidei trapped at Hogwarts also fell to the old man's spell?"

Bogrod snarled. "No apology can mend the evil done by the one I will not name. Time turns and goblin and wizard blood has pledged anew. Wizard and goblin magic have forged new treaties, made new bonds. The wizard Weasley has healed our dragon – the goblins will not delay our help."

Severus nodded sharply. "Very well. Warriors," he addressed the two, continuing seamlessly when they drew their swords and saluted him, "there are those marked by Voldemort outside. Those who answer to his call and are pledged to his darkness. Target them. Protect the werewolf, the witch girl, and the House Elf."

The goblin/wizard warriors turned to Bogrod. It growled in Gobblydegook and snapped its fingers. The Erechtheidei's forms wavered and disappeared. The next moment, the screams from beyond the Burrow grew louder, shriller, each one ending in gurgling a moan.

"Now, to the Soul Wraith." Bogrod strode forward, pulling a long, straight dagger from its sheath on its chest. The blade had no edge; the point was like a needle, a needle that had been dipped in some black venom. It smoked, the scent acrid, searing Severus' nostrils.

Severus murmured a spell and drew a Bubblehead charm over his face. He stepped back as the goblin circled the sigil, examining the blood-drawn runes. From time to time, it dragged a claw along the magics then laid it on his tongue, its eyes narrowed. On its fourth trip around the circle, it paused and faced the locket. Its left hand touched the edge of the magic barrier, claws sinking into the substance of the spell.

The barrier quivered, visible energy radiating from the point of penetration. Severus felt his magic rush along his skin, eager to protect him as the locket inside the breached sigil awakened. It thrummed with dark power, black energy oozing from its trembling golden clasp to drip like oil on water, gathering into small pools on the rune-work laid on the Weasley's floor.

Sweat beading its brow, Bogrod clenched its teeth and, slowly, calling on all of its strength, opened its hand. Its claws, caught in the curtain of magic, created a tiny hole in Lucius' barrier. The tendons in the goblin's neck stood out, the skin of its face red with effort as it dragged the magic apart.

An unintelligible voice rose from within the sigil. Muttering curses, dark spells, threats, the darkness from the locket grew into a bubbling flood, covering the blood-red runes, destroying the magic that kept it contained bit by bit.

Cypress appeared beside Severus. "Master! There is danger here!"

Severus shook his head, unwilling to be Apparated to safety. He must know – he must see the thing destroyed.

"Bogrod!" Severus shouted over the unholy shrieking of the Horcrux, forcing himself forward against the waves of energy. "Let me help!"

The goblin did not respond. Instead, it shoved forward, its claws moving the barrier before it inward until it nearly collided with the locket's dark power. A single arm's length from the foul thing, Bogrod thrust, stabbing its dagger through the opening it had made. The sharp, venom-coated point pierced the locket through.

The Horcrux screamed, magics lashing out in all directions. Bogrod yanked its claws from the barrier, letting the tattered curtain close around locket, the remaining runes, the dagger, and all, and stumbled backwards.

The explosion was blinding.

Severus picked himself up from the wooden floor, one hand on his chest. It felt as if he'd taken a punch from a giant. He sat heavily, his head over his knees, and reached one trembling hand out for his fallen wand. Cypress crouched before him, both hands still raised to hold her protective shield over both of them. She lifted her face, her skin grey with exhaustion.

"I am sorry, Master."

He laid one hand on her back to comfort her. "I'm all right, Cypress. Thank you, that was –" he shook his head. "That was an unbelievable amount of power."

The House Elf's expression crumbled. "Cypress is happy that the Master is well. But –" she tilted her head towards the scene before them.

The Weasley's floor was burned and broken, all sign of Lucius' blood runes obliterated. The locket lay open amidst the wreckage, a golden pendant, lifeless, charred, the precious stones cracked. The dagger's needle-like point was gone, the hilt split in two.

Bogrod's hand lay a few inches from the broken hilt, blackened by the release of energies. Severus crept closer, kneeling beside the still form, and turned it over.

"Warmaster is dead," Cypress keened, tears streaming from her eyes. "So ancient, so filled with magic. Honored and empowered by its mother, born to fight the darkness."

Severus laid his left hand on the goblin's chest and bowed his head. "And so it did. It fought the deepest darkness of all, and it was victorious." He lifted his wand, summoning the last honor he could give the fallen hero. An honor worthy of a wizard. "Lumos." The pure light of magic fell across Bogrod's lifeless features, turning them from scarred ugliness into nobility – the nobility that had always lived deep within its spirit.

He remained there, comforting his exhausted and sorrowful House Elf, holding a silent vigil for the fallen hero. Remus found him there and collapsed beside him, letting his wolf-hunger for battle fall away and drawing his true nature – his wizard's spirit – back around himself. The two Erechtheidei, battered, one spouting blood from a severed arm, the other's armor rent across its back, fell to their knees beside the Warmaster's body.

The last to arrive was Ginevra Weasley. A sharp indrawn breath was the only reaction the young witch allowed herself. When Severus looked up, she met his gaze unflinchingly.

"All done? Time to go, then?"

Severus and Remus snorted at the same time. "Yes," Severus drawled, dragging himself to his feet. "All done."

Chapter 34

Chapter Text

Chapter 34

Saffron backed away a second before Molly and Bill came rushing back into the sitting room. Harry swallowed, trying to regain his balance, to put everything he'd seen, all of his new knowledge aside while he dealt with the current situation.

"Arthur can't come – the Minister is missing! He vanished from his office hours ago and no one can find him." Molly stopped abruptly and took her wand in her hand, her expression fierce and determined. Before she could speak, Bill laid one hand on her arm.

"Mum, Ginny and the twins are at the Burrow. They'll let us know as soon as their Patronuses return. We shouldn't rush off – "

A silvery coyote slinked through the wall and spoke in George's voice. "We have them. Ron's hurt. We're coming to you."

Relief rushed through Harry like a hot desert wind, warming him from the inside out. The coyote dissolved into bright sparks. "How will they –"

Molly interrupted. "Portkeys. Severus made sure the children each had one." She collapsed into a chair, fanning her red face with a conjured handkerchief. "He knew He Who Must Not Be Named might target your friends, Harry. Children of Order members or Ministry people." She nodded towards Saffron. "He had his House Elves deliver them earlier."

His frantic heartbeat returning to normal, Harry eyed Saffron. "All my friends? That's a lot of Portkeys."

"Chartwell provides." Saffron bowed her head. "Those hurt will be transported to Master's infirmary. Those in danger will be given a choice, as the Master gave to you. Saffron will take you to the infirmary if you wish."

"Go on," Molly urged Harry as she vanished her handkerchief and got to her feet. "Charlie will meet you in the infirmary. He has a lot of experience with healing charms." She smiled. "You'll need to see Ron and Hermione with your own eyes, I've not doubt, before you can relax. Now," hands on her hips, she turned back to the House Elf, "I imagine you are going to tell me that Severus and Remus don't need our help."

A knowing smile brightened Saffron's face. "Master and his brother have the help they need, Missus."

Molly snorted. "Of course they do." She mumbled something that sounded like 'men' and 'too proud for their own good' and 'serve them right.' "In that case," she began again, "Bill and I should go to Andromeda. Make sure she and the others can reinforce the Manor's wards." Molly frowned down at Harry, uncertain. "You'll be all right here? Until Severus gets back?"

"I'm safe here." The truth of his words came from deep within Harry's soul.

Molly rested one hand on Harry's shoulder before catching her son's gaze and nodding firmly. "Let's go, then." She squeezed. "Send us a message via Saffron if you need us, Harry."

As soon as the two Weasleys had hurried back towards the Floo, Saffron held out one hand. "They come. Will you greet your friends?"

Harry took the Elf's hand. The journey wasn't like any side-along Apparition Harry had ever experienced. It wasn't nauseating or disturbing, but like his body had been turned into a swarm of fireflies that had disappeared in one room and appeared in another. Harry almost regretted becoming a flesh-and-blood wizard again. Almost. The slim figure that slammed into him, bushy hair blinding him to his surroundings felt pretty great.

"Hermione," he breathed. She was trembling. "Are you hurt? What happened? How did you get to the Burrow?" He swept his hands down her arms, feeling for wounds, for blood, for broken bones.

She shook her head against his shoulder. "Fred and George got us out. They brought us here, but they went back. For Ginny. Harry," she pulled her head back to stare at him, tears in her eyes. "Ron's hurt – really hurt. I should have listened, done more –"

"It's okay, you got him to safety, that's what Bill told me. Did Malfoy hurt you?"

"No, no, not me. He never touched me. But, oh, Harry –" She stepped back, one hand over her mouth as she turned.

Charlie was already murmuring spells, his wand moving along the ugly wound that circled Ron's torso. Hands clasped with Hermione's, Harry watched Ron's brother hold himself together with sheer determination as he treated the oozing gash, while Ron moaned, his hands gripping the bed frame until his knuckles were white.

"Malfoy did it. I've never seen anything like it. It looked like a whip made out of fire, but the wound isn't blackened, more like an attack with acid …"

Hermione was rambling, using words and knowledge like a shield against her fear. Harry squeezed her hands and let her talk. He hadn't noticed Saffron leaving and then returning, resolving into shape at Charlie's right hand.

She held out a tall bulbous vial that seemed to be filled with smoke. "Excorria Acere. An ancient dark curse. Use this."

Charlie's spellcasting trailed off. "I'll try anything - this isn't working, that's for sure." Ron's breathing came in short pants, sweat lying like a thin coating of oil along his skin. The red, raw color of the wound had dimmed, but it hadn't closed. "Some dragons breathe acid – but I've tried those spells and –"

"Saffron will help." The House Elf looked to Charlie for permission.

"Tell me what to do."

She set the vial into Charlie's hand, her long, clever fingers fiddling with the stopper until it changed from a standard cork into a strange spout. She pressed Charlie's hand towards Ron's chest. "Squeeze. Lay the potion along the wound. I will chant."

Harry expected the House Elf's chant to be high and squeaky – like Dobby's voice when he got excited – but her words were like music, her voice just at the edge of hearing. The music moved through the room, through Harry, lifting his heart, making him want to stand on his tip-toes or sing along or do a hundred other things. Ron's breathing eased, his hands relaxing and his eyes falling shut.

Charlie noticed his brother's relief and sighed, Ron's shoulders dropping from their tight hunch. With a long, fluid motion, he laid the smoky liquid along the wound from the deep gouge beneath his collarbone down and across towards his right side. He murmured a spell and brushed his left hand through the air, maneuvering Ron onto his side so the potion could reach his back.

The music fell against Ron like glitter shaken onto a child's drawing, coating the line of potion before sinking down deep. And then, like an answering song, magic lifted from Ron's form, a golden cloud of sparks, and it joined with the House Elf's magic, each strengthening the other, folding together into a thick bandage that unrolled across his chest.

"Oh," Ron breathed. He opened his eyes, turning his head to follow the music.

"Okay?" Charlie laid a hand on his shoulder.

Ron only had eyes for the House Elf. "That's brilliant." He grinned. "Feels like sunshine and mum's cookies and Hermione's hair. Can you teach me that?"

Beside Harry, Hermione squeaked, a giggle erupting from behind lips pressed thin.

Saffron's answering smile was kind and motherly – almost like she was looking at a sweet puppy. "Few can learn this magic, young wizard." She tilted her head, her gaze following the trail of the spell. "But your magic listens and learns already. Saffron has not had a wizard student in many, many years. Perhaps you will be that one."

"'That one?'" Charlie asked, his glance flicking between Ron's suddenly closed wound and the House Elf. The horrible gash had faded from bright red and oozing to a pale pink line. "This is amazing," he murmured.

"One of this generation," Saffron continued. "One that heals. One that holds firm against the Darkness by mending what others would tear apart."

Ron shoved up onto his elbows. "I never thought about being a healer."

Saffron's hands hovered over Ron's chest. "It is deep within you – this need to stand between others and danger. To protect. You would give up your life, your well-being, to help those you consider more important." She glanced over at Harry and Hermione. "Those you believe to be smarter or more vital to the battle. Those you love."

Hermione's grip was nearly crushing Harry's fingers. It was true – everything the Elf said.

"The magic is within you. A splendid well of power you have barely touched," Saffron added.

"In me?" Ron looked over towards Harry and Hermione, eyebrows high. "How about that?"

Harry's grin felt ridiculous, pulling at the muscles of his face, but he didn't care. He remembered a boy surrendering himself during a game of wizard's chess. Heading into a forest filled with acromantulas with his best friend. Fighting off a maniacal brain in the Department of Mysteries. Tugging Harry behind him and producing a thick, steady Protego when the Death Eaters would have hexed him. "Nobody's surprised but you, you idiot."

"I don't know." Ron looked down, running one hand along his new scar. "Maybe after this war – when the Dark Git is dead. Until then –"

"There is more than one way to fight, Ronald." Hermione rushed to him and plunked down on the side of his bed. Her voice trembled. "There are liable to be other injuries on our side, you know. There's no way to avoid them." She laid one hand on Ron's cheek. "There may even be deaths. If you could help, if you could keep our friends, our families, alive, that would be an amazing gift. An amazing gift to give the rest of us."

"You think?" Ron breathed. "It's just," he glanced towards his brother, his cheeks pink. "It sounds stupid."

"Probably no stupider than a lot of things I've heard you say before, Ron." Charlie rolled his eyes. "Something along the lines of not wanting to miss the fun, or worried about your friends fighting battles for you, am I right?"

"More like, when we were kids, I don't remember anyone wanting to play the part of the healer who stayed behind and never got into the fight," Ron answered.

"Who said healers do not fight?" Saffron asked, hands on her hips, her expression clouded. The House Elf glanced between them, each wizard staring at her. "Healers fight. Healers' hexes are deadly."

"Um," Hermione spoke up what Harry was thinking, "what about their oaths? Their oaths to never do harm?"

"Healers swear to never harm their patients. To expect any wizard or witch to stand by while they or those they love are targeted would be foolishness." Saffron huffed, crossing her arms. "Healers are not the saints of muggle tales. Deadly fighters. Sharp thinkers. Fierce protectors. Have none of you heard of Merlin? Of Helga Hufflepuff?" She turned to stare at Harry. "Lily Potter?"

"My mum – my mum was a healer?"

"Strong and fierce." Saffron nodded. "She would have been an excellent student if I had been awake during her lifetime."

"But I saw you, in the vision," Harry blurted out. "You were there in the forest."

"What vision?"

"What are you talking about Harry?"

He ignored his friends' questions. "You were there with the others."

"My spirit was with the others' spirits, Wandmaker. As my body slept here at Chartwell, my spirit walked with my sisters, sharing power and magic for the witches' ritual." Saffron bowed her head. "If the manipulator had not deadened my Master's magic, bound his memories, he would have awakened Chartwell when he came into his power and many, many things would have been different." When she lifted her head again, her eyes were blazing. "Children would not be motherless. They would not have been left without guides and mentors, forced to make their own ways through terrible trials and against wizards far more mature."

Glimmering figures appeared all around the infirmary. Some were small, like Saffron, others were tall and straight, witches in many styles of dress. There were goblins, fae, giants who sat or crouched, two werewolves caught in the midst of their transformations.

Harry recognized Helga Hufflepuff from the portrait in Dumbledore's office. Silver gleamed from the dark braid that hung down the front of her gown, the colors of yellow and black faint but visible. She stepped to the center of the room, taking in Ron and Charlie, Harry and Hermione, before facing Saffron.

"House Elf," Helga said, her voice less a sound and more a shiver of feeling that swept up Harry's spine. "Your Order awakes. Stay vigilant. Speak truth. Heal and help our children." She gestured with one hand and a swirl of golden magic curled around Ron. "You've found the Healer," another curl of magic circled Harry, "and the Wandmaker." With a smile, she gestured one more time, to include Hermione. "Our sister joins us in my role as Binder, but," she warned, "one more must come. To perform the ritual, to reignite the flame of truth and vanquish the darkness, there must be three. Not three objects, as others falsely determined, but three wizards." She smiled. "Three friends."

Harry nodded. Neville. They needed Neville.

The other silvery figments raised their hands and their voices joined together. "Healer, to stand against death. Wandmaker, to wield the earth's power, and the Veil, who will strike unseen from beneath a cloak of shadow. The three shall be bound in friendship, love, and loyalty. Bound in sacrifice, loss, and grief. Bound in hope, mercy, and yearning for peace."

The figures dwindled, but Helga remained. In two long steps she stood beside Ron's bed. "Your friends have already tasted their losses; yours, I'm afraid, is yet to come. I am sorry." She bowed her head, but not before Harry saw the line of tears on her cheeks. "I would change it if I could. But the manipulator has touched so many lives." As her form faded, Helga laid one hand on Ron's chest. "Your brothers and sister will help you – do not turn away from them."

"I won't."

Ron's promise followed the witch into the ether, echoing all around them before it faded away. He climbed off the cot and grabbed Charlie. "Who? Who's in danger?" he demanded. "You're the family's lodestone, Charlie. You're tied to all of us. Can you –"

Charlie had paled, his face losing all color so that his dark red hair and freckles stood out. "Fred and George went back to get Ginny. Mom, dad, Percy, and Bill are rendezvousing at the Tonks'." He shuddered in Ron's grasp. "They're all in danger."

Chapter 35

Chapter Text

Chapter 35

Andromeda stalked around the front her home, murmuring under her breath. She felt Ted's answering magic from the garden and Dora's inside the walls, their spells linking up without seam or gap. She pushed the churning sorrow down deep – this was a stopgap effort at best, and they all knew it. The Manor would never be the same. It would never be a home, a place of safety and comfort, a shelter from life's storms, or a place to raise happy children. The wards had been shattered – shredded by darkness and tainted by the vilest curses.

The Aurors had arrived as soon as Kingsley's Patronus reached them. Andromeda had tolerated their interference in her home and had been relieved when they hauled the Death Eaters – and Dawlish – back to the Ministry. Kingsley had wanted to stay, to offer his help in rebuilding, but, by then, her skin had been crawling, her nerves on-edge at all the unfamiliar magical signatures crowding her.

On the heels of their exit, the Weasleys had arrived. She allowed herself a smile at Molly's corralling of her husband and boys. She'd put Percy to work with her gathering the Tonks' possessions, Ted's notes, and Andromeda's books and magical instruments. Arthur and Bill took to brooms and rode in widening circles around the Manor's boundaries, shoring up what wards and protections they could, making sure there weren't any lingering threats waiting for them to let their guard down.

Molly's family magic acted as a balm for Andromeda's heart. Sisters in magic, the two instinctively knew what the other needed. Andromeda needed time and space to perform the cleansing rites and Molly needed distracting. Andromeda would not be able to rest until the Manor bore no trace of darkness, no link that their enemies could use to follow the family away, not the tiniest hint of power that Voldemort could siphon off and swallow down. Molly's nerves would fry to shreds if she were forced to sit and wait patiently.

Andromeda had to move quickly. Not just for herself and her family, but for these devoted friends who willingly put themselves in danger. Andromeda swallowed her fear and let anger fuel her. Lucius Malfoy's signature felt like a black, thorny vine, choking the Tonks' magic, and tearing bloody wounds that refused to close. She didn't know how he'd done it, what spells from the pits of hell he'd accessed, but her sense of her own wards, linked so tightly to her spirit, left her retching.

Nearly tripping, Andromeda stopped her rush at the largest breach. Here. This is where Malfoy had stood. This is where he'd worked his black spell. She dropped to her knees, forcing her stomach to settle, her mind to clear in the face of the putrid scents, the lingering darkness pressing its claws into her spirit. With deliberate mind and clear conscience, she set her wand into its sheath, and reached for her family.

"I need you."

Dora's bright, always-changing presence soothed her nerves. Ted, strong and steady, felt like a cool breeze against her overheated skin. She saw them behind her closed eyes, took comfort in her husband's smile and her daughter's fierce love. Her family. Safe. Well. Complete. It sparked a joy so deep that Andromeda barely needed to speak the words of the Patronus charm. Her kestrel hovered above her.

"Klee-klee-klee. Klee-klee-klee," it repeated, agitated.

Dora's sleek wolf loped into view, shimmering, head hung low and tongue out, scenting.

Ted's bear ambled in from the other direction. Andromeda couldn't help laughing. He was such a silly-looking thing, big-bellied and often humming or mumbling under his breath, just like her husband. An onlooker might be tempted to overlook the danger of his sharp claws and huge jaws – the protectiveness cloaked in soft fur and a gentle nature. Just as many disregarded Ted's strength.

The three Patronuses gleamed in the night, the joy of their conjuring, the family ties of love and acceptance expanding into a silver halo of light. Andromeda felt herself able to breathe more freely, her nerves steadying in their presence, her spirit healing, the glow fighting off the darkness to fill every inch of her. Her magic surged back under their influence, healthy, eager for use, for victory.

She drew both daggers from their sheaths on her waistcoat. "Veni magicus," she chanted, coaxing her magic from her core to flow across her shoulders, down her arms. It rushed into her hands until it met the wooden hilts of her daggers. Aspen wood, the wand-wood of duelers and those who fought against evil. Her magic poured into the hilts, a living river of power.

"Erunt," Andromeda pleaded. "Erunt, et veritate. Arma mea." The magic spooled down the hilts until it met the goblin-forged blades. Tiny runes cut into the blades channeled the power along the surface and out to the edges. The daggers had been a gift from the goblin War leader in payment for her healing of his great-grandchild. They would not fail.

Andromeda raised the daggers, their weight tripled, quadrupled, dragging at her muscles. She kept her movements smooth, denying her exhaustion, and felt the immediate rush of magic from her family steadying her. Hands at shoulder-height, the points of the blades facing forward, Andromeda spoke the last spell and struck.

"Redige!"

She thrust with both hands, piercing the darkness Lucius had left behind. The magic exploded outward, burning up the lingering thorns, turning the black vines to smoke. The Tonks magic, turned silver by the power of their Patronuses, leapt outward, encircling the manor, tying the family together, binding them, creating new, glittering connections. The magic swept out from her core again and again, each Patronus sounding its call as its magic was called upon, their physical forms dwindling with each burst.

Daggers still wedged in the knot of Malfoy's magic, Andromeda's arms shook, her head falling forward, eyes closed as the magic used her as its conduit. It sizzled through her, hot, burning, searing. She panted through the pain, willing it on, again, further, until Andromeda was nothing and the magic was everything.

"Hey, you're all right. Open your eyes, my love."

So, there was something of Andromeda left after all. She smiled and turned her cheek into the familiar hand, pressing a kiss there.

"That's it. Come on, now." A wave of warmth swept through her, washing away the darkness, encouraging Andromeda towards the light.

"Mum?"

Dora's querulous voice was the last encouragement she needed. Her strong, forceful daughter sounded so … lost. Alone. Andromeda opened her eyes.

"There you are." Both of her loves leaned over her, silhouetted against the clear night sky, the stars making haloes around their faces. From within, the bonds of family grew taut, as if she could pluck them and they would sing. Her smile faded. Something was missing. "Oh." The Manor. Tonks' Manor was dead. Gone.

She sat up too quickly, but Dora was there to lean against when she would have fallen. Her daughter held her, one arm around Andromeda's shoulders while she looked at the empty husk of their home. Most of the walls were still standing, half of the roof, the great entranceway undamaged. But what had turned the bricks and stone and wood into a home had been destroyed. The magic they'd woven into those simple building materials, the memories of laughter and tears, the patter of Dora's tiny feet and the screech of her voice when she discovered her power, Ted's rumbling voice reading The Tales of Beedle the Bard, the scent of Andromeda's cooking – all gone.

"How do Death Eaters have this much power?" Dora whispered.

"It wasn't the Death Eaters," Ted answered. He nodded at the blackened crevasse that marked the point Andromeda had struck with her daggers. "This was the blackest magic, the darkest kind of curse. Your mother defeated it, but," he shook his head, "there are always consequences."

Andromeda sighed. He was right. The air felt heavy, smothering, as if it were filled with ash from a volcano about to erupt. "We must go." Admitting it was difficult, but she could feel the truth of her words deep within. "Leave here. Go to Chartwell."

Ted was already nodding. He rose, leaving Andromeda to Dora. Lifting his wand, he began to speak the ritual words, to release the Tonks' ownership of the Manor and withdraw the last lingering trace of their signature magic from the land. Released, the land could be cleansed. Someday.

"Wait –" Andromeda laid one hand on Ted's knee. "Molly? The others?"

"Molly and Percy have already Portkeyed back. Arthur and Bill are waiting to make sure we get away clean."

"No, there's a presence … someone remains." Andromeda turned to stare soundlessly at her daughter, willing her to understand.

Dora took a few seconds to make sure Andromeda could sit on her own before she stood. Facing the crumbling mansion, she waved her wand. "Expecto Patronum." The silvery wolf poured from the tip of her wand and shook itself, droplets of magic flying from its coat. "Find," she commanded. "Find friend or foe and then guard."

The wolf loped away, disappearing behind the walls. Dora closed her eyes, her forehead creased with concentration.

Andromeda forced her shoulders to relax, breathing deeply, in and out, giving as much aid as she could to the magic already healing her. Her daughter was a force to be reckoned with – she did not need her mother directing her wand.

"Oh!" Dora's eyes snapped open. "It's Scrimgeour. He's trapped up in my old bedroom. His legs are all tangled with the fallen ceiling that the Death Eaters destroyed."

"He's alive?" Andromeda patted her sleeve, drawing out her wand. The Death Eaters had attacked from that direction. What had Scrimgeour to do with it?

Dora chuckled darkly. "For now." Her wand described a convoluted path in the air, her voice barely audible. "We know Dawlish had him under his power – was he the one who made a gap in the wards big enough for the Death Eaters?"

"If so, he has much to answer for." Ted who was holding his spell in stasis while their daughter worked wore a disgusted expression. "Can you –"

"I've got him," Dora answered. "Or my wolf does." She grinned. "Our precious Minister does not seem happy to be dragged to safety by her sharp teeth."

As soon as the Patronus' rear end emerged from the house, Dora nodded to her father. "Go ahead, dad."

Andromeda rose, managing to conceal her smirk at the sight of her daughter's Patronus' ethereal teeth sunk deep into Rufus' magical aura. She couldn't smother the laugh that escaped when Dora notably ignored Rufus' insistence that he could walk and let her wolf continue dragging the hapless wizard over the rock-strewn ground.

Finally, Dora seemed to have had enough fun and waved her hand, bowing a thank-you to her wolf before it disappeared. She triggered a diagnostic spell and then hauled the Minister to his feet.

Rufus limped to Andromeda's side. "Where is –"

Andromeda interrupted what would probably have been an insistent demand for information. "Quiet." She reinforced the word with a spell, silencing Scrimgeour and binding his magic to her control. She sighed and caught Dora's hand when she nearly lost her balance. "This isn't the time for explanations and excuses. We are going somewhere safe, and you are joining us there. At least until we assess the threat you pose." She stared into Scrimgeour's furious gaze. "I would advise you to not confront me, Rufus Scrimgeour. I have just lost my home and my son-in-law has placed himself in danger. You should be relieved that my husband and daughter are safe, because you would not survive my wrath if you had contributed to their deaths in any way."

One arm around his wife's waist, Ted dug around in his waistcoat pocket and pulled out a white rook. Dora grabbed Rufus' elbow and tucked herself beneath Andromeda's waiting arm.

"Portus."

As the Portkey activated, while Andromeda and her family were trapped in its magical grip, she sensed it. A whiff of rot. The stink of decay. Hissing laughter. A black tempest rose, whipping around them, bending trees, breaking limbs, tearing huge chunks from the Manor's façade. Dora leaned closer, pressing herself to Andromeda while Ted's grip tightened, as if afraid she'd pull herself away to fight.

"Run." The hissing voice coiled around them, cold and heavy with rage. "Run to my traitor, tails between your legs." A face appeared in the black cloud, pale white, eyes red and blazing. "You cannot save them – the children. Do you doubt my power? My reach? Fools!" The face and voice faded as the Portkey jerked them from the Manor, but Voldemort's final words echoed in Andromeda's mind as she vanished.

"I will prove it to you."

Chapter 36

Chapter Text

Chapter 36

By the time Severus and Remus – with the odd collection of Weasleys they'd gathered – returned to the Manor, it was too late.

Bill lay shivering beneath Ted's healing magic, pale from blood loss. Severus had no trouble recognizing the spells that had been used against him. After all, Severus had invented them. Sectum Sempra. Contundere. The young man's skin was splotched purple where it hadn't been torn in long gashes, the internal bruises seeping more blood into his tissues. If Ted couldn't get the bleeding under control, Bill would be joining his father beyond the veil.

Arthur Weasley was dead. Fallen under Voldemort's final attack on Tonks' Manor.

Head flopping back and forth, Bill's eyes were half closed, his limbs restless beneath the magic. "No, no, don't do it, Dad. Please – please, no…"

Grief and guilt shone on the young man's skin. When the aurors reached them, Arthur's lifeless body lay slumped across Bill's battered form. He'd leapt in front of a curse to protect his son – that much was certain. Severus would never be a father, but his soul knew that Arthur would have preferred to die if it meant his son could live.

That did not make his sacrifice any easier for his wife and children to bear. Molly and her daughter held hands, both women determined to present stern, composed features to the outside world. George and Fred had hesitated for only a moment before hurrying back to Diagon Alley to fetch Bill's new wife. Percy sat in a heap of long legs and arms between his brother's bed and the window, tears running down his soot-streaked face, refusing any treatment for his own injuries from his rush to help. Charlie had made it his responsibility to see to his father's body, bowing over the last bed against the wall, murmuring cleansing and preparation spells to remove all traces of dark magic.

"We will help."

Saffron tugged the youngest Weasley boy forward, still blinking tears from his eyes. The two stood opposite Ted on the other side of Bill's bed, the House Elf whispering to the young wizard, describing wand movements and urging him to feel his way through the diagnostic spells.

Severus frowned. When had this happened? When had Saffron taken Ronald Weasley under her wing as healer? Harry and Miss Granger, arms encircling the other's waists, seemed eager through their own grief, as if this was something expected, looked-forward-to. Severus leaned against the wall, arms crossed, and resolved to watch and learn.

"Now, feel the dark spell, see the way its rhythms interrupt your brother's systems, interfering with his own magic."

Ronald's eyes were shut tightly, his mouth grim. "I – I think I see it."

"You do." Saffron took the young wizard's wand hand, directing the arcs and flips of his wand over Bill's pain-ridden body. "See where the spells are anchored. That is our target. Now …"

The boy's magic spooled down his wand joining with the sparkling power the Elf let loose. The magics combined, creating a glowing cloud of energy that stretched out across Bill's chest and abdomen. In the middle of a spell, Ted hesitated, his eyes widening at the new magic on display. He backed off a step, glancing back at Severus who returned a slight shrug and shake of his head.

"Exsolvo," the Weasley boy murmured. "Exsolvo maxima."

Beside him, Saffron smiled.

The result was immediate. Bill Weasley stopped thrashing, the pain-ridden scowl on his features dissolving into relief. The visible bleeding slowed and the dark bruises stopped their crawl across his skin.

"Now, we will knit," Saffron urged the boy, allowing him to use his wand freely. "These spells you know."

Ron nodded. "Fluxus. Respiro." He let his wand linger over his brother's chest, his gut, and then trailed it along his left side. "Necto organa."

Bill shivered, his breaths easing, his body seeming to settle deeper into the bed.

Saffron raised her gaze to where Ted Tonks waited. "Now, Healer. Now your spells will work."

Ted nodded and began again, glancing up now and then towards Ronald Weasley's swaying frame. Harry stepped in, letting his friend lean against his side. Severus found himself on young Weasley's other side, helping Harry lead him to the bed beside his brother.

"All right, Ron?" Harry asked, concern wrinkling his brow.

Ron swept a hand across his sweaty brow. "Yeah. Took a lot out of me, I guess."

"You are only just healed yourself, young Healer," Saffron chided. "Rest now. Your brother is safe."

Ron let his head fall back onto the pillow, tears leaking from his closed eyes. "Not dad, though."

"I'm so sorry," Harry choked out, still gripping his friend's arm.

"As am I," Severus added. "Arthur Weasley was a fine man and a fine wizard. He would be proud of you today, Ronald."

The red-head opened his eyes, startled. "I think that's the first time you've ever said my name, Professor."

Bowing, Severus gave up his space on the young man's bed to Miss Granger. "May we be better friends going forward."

"I have a feeling we're going to need all our friends," the Granger girl added, eying Severus speculatively.

Severus stepped back and allowed the three to grieve together, heads bent, tears falling freely. He turned, giving them as much privacy as they could take in the crowded infirmary.

Dora Tonks sat on her mother's bed, keeping up a monotoned explanation of what had occurred for an obviously magically exhausted Andromeda while she stretched one arm out to hold Remus' hand. Back turned to Severus, Remus slumped on the next bed, not quite lying down, but unable to stay upright. Severus set his jaw and stepped closer. He wouldn’t let the fool hug his injuries to himself in grief and guilt for an instant longer.

Dora's words to her mother echoed Severus' sentiments. "Someone is going to have to take Percy in hand. We can't let him refuse healing. Who knows what kinds of hexes he was hit with during that last fight to get his brother back."

From behind Remus, Severus lifted his wand, catching the young witch's eye and the barely visible nod she sent his way.

"We have enough Death Eaters to blame for our losses and injuries without turning on ourselves," Dora continued, keeping up the patter to distract Severus' target. "Let's please be clear – Arthur's death, Bill's injuries, not to mention yours and the loss of the Warmaster - all of those we've lost or might lose – they are the fault of our enemies. If I hear one more person talk about, 'if I'd only done this,' or 'if I'd been faster or better or sharper,' I will scream."

Remus finally noticed Severus' healing work when the deep gash on his cheek knit up and his clenched muscles relaxed. He straightened with a snap and sent a glare over his shoulder. Dora's tight squeeze on his hand distracted him.

"Shut up, Remus," she admonished with a frown before he could open his mouth.

"Well said," Severus murmured. "How is your mother?"

"Exhausted. Sore. Sad. Angry. Grieving. Doubting herself, everyone, and everything. That about cover it?" Dora leaned over her mother.

Andromeda snorted. "Just about." She didn't bother to open her eyes.

"Bill will recover." Severus dropped next to Remus. "It appears that the youngest Weasley boy has a talent for healing thus far undiscovered. When we've rested, we must consider the other children. I believe something happened while we were destroying that Horcrux. Something between Chartwell's House Elves and those three."

Remus rubbed the knuckles of his left hand across his forehead. "Do we have time to rest? Shouldn't we –"

"Yes. We must. You must."

Severus nodded at Dora's insistence. "We must make time to consider what has been achieved – and what has been lost. Now that Scrimgeour is in Shacklebolt's hands, the Ministry will insist we speak with them, deal with their bureaucracy." He glanced back over his shoulder. "It would be cruel to give that mission to a Weasley at a time like this."

"Dad can do that. He hates bureaucracy and has no diplomatic skills whatsoever." The ends of Dora's hair turned pink and curly, as if she were pleased with herself.

"Sounds perfect," Andromeda muttered.

Severus bowed his head. "I must finish the magic that will destroy the Dementors."

Remus set his hands on his thighs as if ready to stand. "I can help with that."

Severus' hand on his arm made him pause. "I believe your attention to our three young guests would be a better use of your time. They need to speak to an adult that they trust implicitly. That is not me." Not yet, Severus added to himself. Hopefully, that would change. "And it does not seem to be Madam Tonks."

"Too many mistakes." Andromeda turned her head on the pillow and opened her eyes. "Please, Remus."

"Of course. I should have thought of that." He frowned. "Damn. I've lost track. How long until the full moon?"

Dora shook her head, smiling. "It's tomorrow night. I'm sure Severus' manor includes some lovely dungeons or cells you can use, darling."

A guttural laugh surprised Severus and the others turned startled gazes in his direction. He cleared his throat. "I believe Chartwell can do better than that."

Sorrel appeared at the end of Andromeda's bed. "Food and drink in the dining room, Master." A tray appeared on the bedside table. "Or here, or in the bed chambers prepared. Will you and your friends rest?"

Severus rose, feeling age in his bones as if he'd lived a hundred lifetimes. "Let the Weasleys know, Sorrel. Make sure their rooms are connected. And that Harry and his two friends can stay together if they wish."

As the House Elf departed, Severus gripped Remus under one arm to haul him upright. "Let's make a good example of mature self-care for the others, shall we?"

Remus huffed. "Me, a good example of maturity. How Sirius and James must be rolling over in their graves."

For the first time in his long memory, Severus did not wince at the names of his two school tormentors. "You were always the mature one. Although Black and Potter set that bar particularly low."

Remus met his gaze, a wistful look in his eyes. "They really did."

Chapter 37

Chapter Text

Neville woke up in stages. He recognized the ache in his arms and legs – he must have overdone his work in the greenhouse yesterday. It had felt good – digging deep into the soil, managing the new cuttings his cousins had sent as early birthday presents. Prime growing season didn't wait. He smiled, burrowing deeper into his pillow. He'd finally convinced his relatives not to wait until the end of July if they came across a new plant for Neville's collection. Even two weeks could make a world of difference in growth and viability.

It was less than a week until his birthday, until he came of age. Neville grew restless, shoving off his blankets and turning on his side. He'd convinced himself that his upcoming birthday was the explanation for his grandmother's change of attitude over the summer. Always a perfectionist, her caustic, critical remarks had been a part of Neville's childhood, something to be expected and dealt with. Before Hogwarts, before he'd met his friends and fallen into Harry's circle, learning spells and hexes in the DA, and fighting against actual dark wizards, Neville had swallowed them down, accepting her words as truth. Recently, especially this summer, Neville found himself standing straighter, daring to disagree with her, even insist on his own way now and then.

For a week or so, he'd noticed her catching herself, biting off her worst lectures before she'd let out more than a couple of words. He snorted. It hadn't been his change of attitude that had done that miracle. While he wasn't positive, Neville suspected his grandmother had realized that, in a few days, Neville would be a man, legally and magically independent. Not a child to be ordered around, submissive to her overbearing rule. Truly the heir of the Longbottom heritage.

Two days ago, he'd approached her, asking for her to Floo call Gringotts to make an appointment to go over the Longbottom accounts the day after his birthday. To his surprise, she'd looked him up and down, pulled in a deep breath, and agreed before she'd hurried off on another of her unexplained and constant absences. His grandmother had been away from the manor more this summer than Neville ever remembered – which worked out well for him. Without her constant critical presence, Neville had put his long term plan into place, his plan for independence.

Neville had found his father's journals and account books at the end of last summer when his grandmother had dragged him from his beloved greenhouses to help the house elves clean out the attic. Anything written by his parents before their injuries was precious and Neville had spent many long hours under his covers, murmuring faint Lumos spells, so he could study them. The records had been boring and depressing and thrilling in turns, Neville's thoughts going round and round as he met the man his father had been, the smart, talented, confident wizard who had worked beside the Potters and Weasleys and Dumbledore in the Order of the Phoenix. Frank Longbottom had kept good records and tight accounts, but it had been the scrawled notes in the margins that had lodged deep in Neville's heart. Hints of his father's personality, his likes and dislikes, even clues about his mother's preferences for certain clothes or food. After all of his grandmother's ramblings about his parents, Neville had learned more about his mum and dad in those books than he had his entire life.

He turned his head and reveled in the sunlight falling across his face. Warm. Invigorating. A quick frown creased his forehead, but his body seemed too heavy, too weighed down to worry about why his grandmother was letting him sleep in. Maybe she'd already left for the day.

The warm sunlight was interrupted by a dense shadow and the sound of claws scrabbling on the windowsill. Neville sat up and lurched towards the window, already speaking in low, soothing tones.

"Hey, Filigree. Didn't expect to see you so soon." Neville had gotten used to Luna's strange bird over the summer. Most witches and wizards used owls or other birds of prey to carry messages, but, nope, not Luna. Her habits were always just a bit different, a bit sideways from what other people considered normal. Neville liked it that way.

He scratched the scrawny liderc behind one eye. Feathered only on its head and legs, the liderc looked a lot like a half-plucked chicken, with a wingspan that was as long as Neville's arm. It opened its mouth, black tongue sticking out as if the bird was yawning before it lifted one leg for Neville to remove its letter.

"You can rest in our owlery if you want." Neville raised his eyebrows as the bird hop-flew to his desk, rooted around with its beak to turn his spare parchments into a kind of messy nest, and then settled in, head sinking between its bony shoulders. "Or, here. On my desk. Sure. That's fine."

Neville sat cross-legged on his bed to open Luna's note.

"Were you as surprised as I was to receive Harry's note?"

No hello, no small talk, as always, Luna began every letter as if she was in the middle of a discussion only she could hear. "What note?" Neville said to himself. He frowned, reading further.

"My father is fine with it, by the way. I hope your grandmother lets you come, too. I'd like to have a good friend beside me if we're to be taking on more responsibility. Of course, Harry and the others are friends, too, but not like you, Neville."

Warmth lit up Neville's spirit. He was happy that Luna called him a good friend. He felt the same way about her. Maybe even a little more. But, what was she talking about?

"But now that the House Elf brought the Portkey, I feel that I can't wait for your reply. I am concerned about leaving my father here alone, but he will not abandon the Quibbler, nor should I expect him to, I suppose. As he constantly reminds me, he is an adult and I am a child, even though our aspects are often reversed in reality."

"Filigree will wait with you until you come. She may look thin and weak, but she's feisty. Please don't wait too long – it sounds as if the Death Eaters might be targeting us specifically because we're close to Harry. I don't want you to be hurt, Neville, so pack quickly."

"Luna."

The first heat of anger sifted through Neville's bewilderment at his friend's words. This wasn't Luna being strange and confusing – no, this was different. This was deliberate interference with his post either by his grandmother or people outside the manor. He snorted. If he was a betting man, he would dump a hundred galleons on a certain closed-mouthed, bird wearing old lady. Keeping Neville in the dark, hanging onto him here at home, unaware of whatever was going on in the wizarding world – yeah, that was pretty familiar.

He rose, hurrying to his wardrobe to throw on a set of clean day robes, unconsciously choosing a rather formal set that accentuated his height and the new breadth of his shoulders. Hesitating, he threw together an overnight bag with a few necessities and draped the strap over his shoulder, his wand in his pocket. His trunk would have to wait – hopefully, the house elves could pack it for him if he was forced to leave at once.

He took a quick trip to the bath, washed his face, brushed his teeth, and combed down his hair before marching down the stairs to find his grandmother.

He found her in the foyer, tugging on her gloves.

"Good morning," Neville began, his thumb hooked in the leather strap on his shoulder.

"Good morn –" Augusta's eyes narrowed as she took in Neville's formal appearance and his demeanor. "Neville?"

Was that fear on his grandmother's face? Now that he took a good look at her, Neville noticed other changes. Her hair – usually tightened down against her scalp in a severe bun – had escaped its hairpins and tendrils curled around her face and neck, with more grey showing than he remembered. Augusta had always been thin, but now her robes seemed to hang from her shoulders in straight columns without any hint of a figure underneath. Her hands, one glove half-on, were trembling.

Tightening down his resolve, Neville decided to take a page from Luna's book and dispense with the usual greetings. "Have you been intercepting my post, grandmother?"

The formidable Augusta Longbottom dropped her gaze. "I'm on my way out, Neville, perhaps we can talk about this later."

She was already turning for the door when Neville stopped her with one hand on her shoulder. He looked down at her. When had he grown taller than this woman?

"No, I don't think we can. If you aren't going to explain what's going on, I'll take my post and the Portkey and I'll say good-bye."

Augusta shivered, making the bird on her hat look like it was about to take flight. She turned to face her grandson. "How did you –"

Neville sighed. "So, you have been keeping things from me." He held out his hand. "My post, grandmother."

"Neville, you don't understand …"

"No, I don't. Because you've apparently been lying to me for weeks." Neville didn't know if he was more hurt or angry. "Please. What's going on?" After a long silence, he dropped his hand.

"Sinphonia," he called.

The house elf popped into view beside him. "Master Neville be's wanting Sinphonia?"

"My post, please, Sinphonia."

The wrinkled elf who had been nursemaid, nanny, and companion since Neville was a baby wrung her hands and glanced hesitatingly between the two. "Mistress has told Sinphonia not to."

His grandmother closed her eyes, defeat painted in stark shadows across her pale features. "All of this," she murmured, her voice lacking its usual strident confidence, "all this time. All of my plans, my vows to your parents, my," a dry, self-loathing laugh burst from between her lips, "my insistence on taking charge of your life, designing each and every detail, working hand in glove with the wizard I believed would save you, would save us all …" She raised pale blue eyes to Neville. "It's all been for nothing."

Neville knew he was scowling, his forehead wrinkling up as he tried to parse his grandmother's words. "What are you talking about?"

Augusta stripped off her gloves and handed them to the elf, then reached up to remove her hatpin and hat, unbuttoning her cloak at the neck and smiling down at the small figure beside her. "Bring Neville's post into the Morning Room, Sinphonia. Breakfast as well." She raised her gaze to Neville's. "I'll Floo call St. Mungo's and let them know I'll be late."

"St. Mungo's?" Neville felt like he'd fallen from his broom, his gut hovering somewhere up around his ears before plummeting. "Are you sick?"

"Not – exactly." Augusta tucked her hand into Neville's elbow and steered them away from the door. "You shouldn't worry about me." She patted his elbow with the other hand. "Especially not after … ah, Neville." Her voice shook with unshed tears.

"Grandmother –" he stumbled and the two clung to each other. "Tell me."

"Oh, it's not as bad as I'm making it out to be. Let's sit, get some food into you. I know you must leave, must get to better safety than these walls can give you." She stared up into his eyes. "I've been pretending for so very long, Neville, searching for answers before I will admit to my own foolishness. Pride, you see, misplaced price and misplaced trust – those are two difficult things to swallow."

"I –" Neville's anger was still there, burning hot in the center of his being, but swirling around it was his love for this woman who had lost her son, who had taken in Neville when she was still gripped by her initial grief and loss, during a war that had stolen nearly everything. He took her cold hand in his. "I'd like to think you'd trust me."

"I do. Oh, I do, Neville. I trust you to listen, I trust your heart to forgive me. Perhaps that is one of the problems." She separated from him when they reached the sunny Morning Room and gestured him to the other chair. "Maybe I don't think I should be forgiven."

"Now," Augusta poured tea for them both and nodded Neville towards the platter of eggs and sausage and the fragrant scones on his plate. "Eat. You're far too thin and you are going to need your strength for what's to come."

Neville smiled. That sounded a lot more like his grandmother.

Augusta glanced at the glass walls, the close-cut lawn outside crisscrossed by paved pathways winding their way past fountains and follies. "Have you felt it? The trembling of our wards?"

He swallowed a bit of eggs, wiping his mouth with his napkin. "No?" Had he? Neville had been restless the last few days, eager to escape the house and get his hands dirty in the greenhouses and grateful that his grandmother hadn't been around to stop him.

"You probably have. Your magic is tied to them, the family magic resonates within both of us." She sighed and pulled her gaze from the grounds back to Neville. "I wanted to deny it, to believe there was another explanation for the dimming of our magics. I sought help from friends, from old colleagues, even from the healers at St. Mungo's." Augusta shook her head. "I wanted to believe that it was because of my age or," her expression fell, "because of yours. Because you were nearly of age and the wards were reacting to your weaker magic."

Neville fought his anger back, lifting a cold face towards his grandmother. "And?"

Augusta's hand drew into a fist. "How I could have possibly said all those things to you, undermining you for years and years, comparing you – unfavorably – to your father." She set her teacup down with a bang, breaking off the handle. "It is unforgiveable. Irredeemable. I would not be surprised if you refused to hear one thing I had to say to you."

Leaning back in his chair as if to distance himself from the angry woman, Neville frowned. "You – what??"

She dragged a hand across her brow. "I am not making much sense, am I? Perhaps this will help." She plucked her wand from her pocket and twirled it in the air. "I had asked an old friend for help. This is the message she sent me."

On the table between them, a silvery image appeared. A Patronus, Neville realized. It was a large tabby cat, familiar eye-glass markings on its face, sitting on its haunches.

"Augusta, open your eyes."

Neville recognized the voice. "Professor McGonagall?"

"Sh, listen." Augusta gestured and the cat froze. "This is a recording I am keeping in my wand."

Okay, that order sounded more like the grandmother Neville knew. He nodded, swallowing.

The cat growled. "You and Neville are in serious danger. The blasted old fool had his fingers in so many pies that we will be dealing with this sort of nonsense for decades. Get your wards in order – tie them to Neville. He's young and strong, and as steady as they come. And get yourself together – I'll come with Poppy if you are concerned about your heart." The cat sighed. "I know your mind must be confused, but, honestly, who knows how long he's been interfering with your magic."

In the background, Neville could barely make out his grandmother's voice. "Neville? Yes, I realize he's stronger than I'd thought, but, really, Minerva…"

"Yes, Neville. Have you been so blinded that you, even now, refuse to actually see your grandson? As I said, open your eyes, Augusta. Of course you may bring him to Hogwarts, but I believe Severus has been in touch, offering another option?"

"Severus Snape!" Neville would have echoed his grandmother's disbelief. "That Death Eater?"

"Spy," Minerva hissed, the cat showing her teeth. "Haven't you read the papers? He's another whose magic was bound by our beloved headmaster. Judge him at your peril, Augusta."

"So I should take this warning seriously?"

"As seriously as if He-Who-Should-Not-Be-Named showed up on your doorstep. Which he may well do!" Professor McGonagall sounded as angry as Neville had ever heard her. Impatient. Desperate to get her point across. The cat rose to its feet, its tail snapping to and fro. "Send Neville here or to Severus. Do it now. He's needed."

The cat disappeared in a rush of silver sparks as his grandmother's sneering comment sounded loud and clear. "Neville? Needed?"

As the sparks dissolved between then, Neville found himself glaring at his grandmother across the table. Her thin lips disappeared in a grim line and she shook her head.

It sounded like Luna's letter was right. Neville nodded sharply. He would, by sheer force of will if necessary, listen to his grandmother while he ate a late breakfast. But he would be leaving. As his grandmother dropped her gaze and uttered a Reparo to knit up her teacup, a side table appeared at his right holding three letters in a tidy pile and a small wooden box.

"Before we go on, please," Augusta pointed to the box, "put that in your pocket. It contains a Portkey. The activation word is 'Salvus.'"

Neville lifted the lid of the box, revealing a white chess piece made from marble. A knight. It glowed with restrained magic. "Is it Voldemort who's targeting us, grandmother?"

Augusta tilted her head. "My dear grandson, Voldemort has always targeted us." She sighed. "You have always been in danger. Since your birth. Since a foolish man whispered the words of a prophecy into the Dark Lord's ear. Since your parents stood against one of the most powerful wizards in history and refused to bow down. Since you became friends with Harry Potter."

"Yet you were about to leave the manor without telling me." Neville raised his eyebrows at his grandmother. "Without giving me this." He held up the box.

"I had not yet decided how to deal –" She paused. "No, that is a lie. I was denying the danger, running from what I knew to be the truth. I have been running from this new truth since Dumbledore's magic dwindled from the world." Her eyebrows ticked upward. "Your confrontation this morning was well-timed, Neville."

"Luna sent me a letter," he admitted.

"Well, then," Augusta sighed. "I'm grateful to the child for her … unusual … methods of communication." Her expression was grim. "Merlin knows I needed to be slapped out of my dithering, my inability to make a decision."

"That's –" After a moment's hesitation, Neville decided to finish his sentence. "That's not like you, grandmother. You're the most decisive person I know."

"Things change." Her tone was dry as dust. "As Minerva told me, Dumbledore's magic had interfered with my mind since before you were born. My mind, my attitude, my memories." She straightened her shoulders. "I may take her up on her offer of an examination at Hogwarts. As for you, you should go to Severus Snape, now Severus Beverley Prince. His mind has been freed, it seems, from dark loyalties. He stands among us, now, vindicated."Neville's mind was reeling, but before he could ask any other questions, his grandmother spoke again."I owe you many apologies, Neville. More than I can count."

He wanted to say no, to wave away her words and offer immediate forgiveness. He didn't. Instead he nodded and folded his hands together on the table. "Please," he stated, "go on." He could listen. Luna's warnings and the Portkey in his pocket tugged at him, urging him to hurry, to take the Portkey to wherever she was waiting for him. But his grandmother deserved his time and attention – and, frankly, Neville couldn't in good conscience leave her when she was feeling so vulnerable.

"This all begins when your father introduced me to Albus Dumbledore …"

Chapter 38

Chapter Text

Chapter 38

What a difference a few weeks had made.

Voldemort flicked a spark of power between his fingers and sent it out to light the torches that ringed his ritual chamber. One after another, flame erupted and then sank into a dull red glow. His unnatural sight needed little light – the darkness, after all, was his home. His chosen land. The shadows, deep pools of black, the spaces between the stars, the hours when others slept or hid within their warded homes – he lived within each. Waited. Watched. Confident in his genius, his power, he who had been Tom Marvolo Riddle had embraced the Dark, swallowed it down until it filled him, changed him, transformed him from a half-blood wizard into the great Lord Voldemort.

The Umbridge woman's home bore little resemblance to what it had been. Voldemort's presence had changed it, the magics woven into its walls and foundations twisting out of shape by the darkness that seeped from his core. This room had been – he frowned – a wine cellar, perhaps. The bare stone floor and the rough cut blocks of its walls had been cleansed; all sense of its former use eradicated. He'd set the runes and sigils in the center with his own hands, but with the blood of others. No, his own blood was too precious, too cold. Let other, lesser wizards bleed. Let them bleed and burn and die. His hands curled into fists, rage sending his cold blood churning.

Umbridge. Dawlish. Eddings. Lestrange. Lucius. More names he could not bother to remember. Gone. Lost. Dead or, worse, captured. At the Tonks' Manor. Following Lucius to the Burrow. Yes, Lord Voldemort had struck back, had destroyed a central pillar of their foolish Order. But he had lost far more than a few sycophantic followers. Far more than his Death Eaters could ever know.

A week – a bare handful of days. That had been all it took to shake the foundation of all of Lord Voldemort's plans.

The wizarding world had been rocked by the loss of the great Albus Dumbledore, bastion of hope, guardian of the Boy-Who-Lived, and leader of the Light. Unstoppable, wise, able to see three moves ahead on the chessboard he himself had made. The wizard who even those who held onto the legend and fame of Harry Potter most tightly had, at heart, believed would inevitably face Lord Voldemort and defeat him. Just as he had Grindelwald. After all, who would believe a half-trained boy could be anything but a ploy, a stalking goat, one who would draw the Dark Lord's attention until the true hero could step smugly from the shadows and strike.

Dumbledore's death had resulted in panic, just as Voldemort had predicted. The Ministry had groped blindly in the dark after his Death Eaters, picking off the few Voldemort had left hanging like bait in a trap while allowing itself to be infiltrated by those better disguised. Wizards and witches reeled, scrambling to get away, to flee the country, to hide their sweet, innocent children – some few crawled to him, begging to join his side, believing it would protect them.

Then, a few scant weeks later, it had all changed.

His smile turned into seething, thin lips pulled back from his teeth. The blood traitor Arthur Weasley had been the one to warn Scrimgeour, to see to the failing wards Dumbledore had woven into every brick of that infernal Ministry. Even Voldemort's spy couldn't stop Scrimgeour from acting. Weasley and Bones and Shacklebolt had been ready, ready to supplant Dumbledore's wards with their own, catching so many of Voldemort's minions in their net.

Other bindings fell. Witches and wizards loosed from the manipulator's control. Powers grew, intelligence surged. Their newfound independence from Dumbledore hadn't hamstrung the Light as he'd planned, but cemented new alliances and healed old ones, all but forgotten. Thorns in his side had become bright swords, cutting off his ties to those who should be his allies: the goblins, the werewolves, and now his Dementors had disappeared, vanished from the earth as if they'd never been.

Arthur Weasley and his blood-traitor red-headed family had been a target for years. The oldest sons had made connections far outside the poverty-stricken surroundings of their so-called home, undercutting Voldemort's progress in enticing goblins and dragon-handlers to his side. The weasel-like middle son had followed his father's coat tails to the ministry, the two of them far more powerful than they should be, and far more insightful than any of his followers had suspected. So loving, so close-knit, devoted to each other. Voldemort sneered. Such mugglish bonds were made to be exploited, to be shown as the weaknesses they were by more powerful, superior wizards. He had targeted the curse-breaker, the son who had roped the goblins into helping the Light, hoping to turn Arthur and Molly Weasley's love and devotion into a yawning chasm of grief they would be unable to crawl out of. One shoulder lifted in a half-shrug. The idiot father had leapt to take the killing curse, instead.

Voldemort stalked the outside edge of the rune floor, examining his work for any small flaw or tiny error while his mind spun plots and plans. The Weasleys. Severus. Longbottom. The mudblood witch. Potter. Safe, for now. Hidden away behind wards even Lord Voldemort could not break. Wards that stank of age-old magics, of women – his lips curled in disgust. Filthy creatures joining with the pure blood of wizardry, undermining the superiority of their race. No matter. He would lure them out – all of them. Their foolish bonds would be the end of them all, especially the Boy Who Dared to Live.

Voldemort's strides came to a stop at the apex of his symbol, assured of his success. There would be time to face the young saviour, time to deal with each and every enemy, to assure their screams and allow the blood to flow around him, rich and red, until all beating hearts stopped. He hadn't allowed Dumbledore to beat him in life, he would make sure the old man did not defeat him after his death.

He raised his wand, seeking the touchpoint of his layered spells and curses. None of his followers could know that the great Lord Voldemort stood, now, on the edge of defeat. Lucius Malfoy was gone. Umbridge dead. Scrimgeour's Imperius broken. Dawlish caught. Snape untraceable. And yet, all these combined were not the cause of Voldemort's desperation. Within him, unexpected changes were taking place. His magical core shivered and trembled. His thoughts refused to focus. Even now his wand felt like a dead weight of wood in his hand.

There was one possible explanation. One he had not dared to contemplate – and yet he must. Another Horcrux, another carefully severed part of his soul had been destroyed. Out of seven, a sacred number, he'd lost two before his best laid plans could be put to action. Lucius had sacrificed his diary to tempt a child to destruction. Dumbledore had taken the bait of the Gaunt ring. Those losses had already been added up, mourned. Voldemort took a deep breath. This spell would summon all the rest, would lock them behind the strongest wards and keyed hexes. Nagini was safe within her spelled sunroom, unable to leave, to be summoned, or to be plotted. She, at least, would stay by his side, protected. Now he must gather all the others, the other objects which housed his split soul. Another smile curled across his lips. If his spell was strong enough, not only would he secrete the cup, the diadem, and the locket here, where his enemies would never find them, but he would hook himself a Chosen One. Drag the Potter brat out from behind his wards and into Lord Voldemort's arms.

And then he could spend some … quality time … with his newest guest.

Voldemort sent the magic flowing from his core, dragging it along its channels, directing it with both hands and wand to the diagram before him. Magic pooled on the floor, churning sluggishly along the runes, knotting in the seven points around the circle, a haze of energy drifting upward, tightening, crystalizing, until it melded into one whole, vibrating in shades of green and yellow – an uneven gem cut in harsh planes and angles that enclosed Voldemort's summoning charm.

"Remeo." The single word shook the stones beneath his feet, the house, the entire continent. Eyes closed, gripping his magic and forcing it to remain in shape, Voldemort waited through the quake, waited while his soul returned to its home, to the place its broken shards would naturally fit. It would take some time to locate them all –

The quake stopped abruptly, the stones silent and dull, his magic quiescent. Voldemort stumbled, nearly falling into his construct. He opened his eyes.

The crystal was empty.

Lord Voldemort's scream shook the stones of the manor far longer than his magic had.

HP HP HP HP HP

What a difference a few weeks had made.

Harry had awoken before dawn, still cold, still feeling the hollow emptiness of Ron's dad's death. Even so, waking in Chartwell Manor felt nothing like Privet Drive. The aches in Harry's hands weren't from weeding or cleaning, the pit in his stomach was not from meals refused or anger or fear. He glanced over at Ron and Hermione, curled up together on Ron's bed in the bedroom Sorrel had led him to last night. Having his friends nearby seemed to leech out most of Harry's anxiety, driving away the worst of his nightmares.

A week ago, he'd been working day and night at the Dursleys, planning to head off into the countryside with Ron and Hermione, intent on finding Voldemort's Horcruxes so the man could finally be killed. Harry had been swamped by grief and guilt at the image of Dumbledore falling from the Astronomy Tower, filled with pure rage at Draco Malfoy and Severus Snape's murderous actions, and nearly paralyzed by dread at his inability to do the job Dumbledore had set out for him. Now, even through his newest grief, the unbearable burdens seemed lighter. Manageable.

His talk with Remus last night helped.

Harry and Hermione had walked with Ron to the suite of rooms set aside for the Weasley family. Dora and Remus had taken Percy in hand, one arm each around his waist while Ted shuffled behind him, muttering healing spells behind his back. Ron was still a little shaky – physically and emotionally – and he'd needed his family. And they'd needed him.

Molly would have welcomed Harry into their rooms along with Hermione, but Harry had shaken his head and backed away.

"Harry?"

Hermione stared back at him from within Ron's arms, worry creasing her forehead.

"No, go on. I'm fine."

Remus slung an arm across his shoulders. "Please. I'd like to talk to Harry."

Molly and Hermione had nodded, turning back into the arms of the grieving Weasley family, everything else forgotten for the moment.

As the doors closed, Harry had flashed a quick smile to Remus. "Thanks. I don't –"

"No problem." He pulled Harry closer to him. "Let them grieve. We'll be here tomorrow. And every day after that."

Harry leaned against Remus, reveling in the warmth, the comfort, the wordless understanding. Just for a moment. Sighing, he tried to pull away, but Remus didn't let him.

"I really could use a chat if you're up for it."

Oh. Harry thought he'd just made up an excuse. "Sure."

Remus turned him around and led the way to another door. Behind it, a small office waited. One wide desk sat before a blazing fireplace; a few bookcases lined the walls between two floor-to-ceiling windows. A door sat tucked in a back corner.

Released, Harry moved instinctively towards the fire, craving more of that warmth. He startled when Remus' hands fell lightly on his shoulders.

"We haven't had time to catch up since you woke up at Tonks Manor. I'm sorry about that."

Harry began to mutter about it not being Remus' fault, but Remus' laugh stopped him.

"It has been an absolutely crazy few days, hasn't it? And the weirdest thing is, I can't help thinking that Sirius and your dad would be so pissed. Pissed with Dumbledore and his egotistical plans. Pissed with the Ministry. The School. Lily's horrible sister and her family." Remus pulled Harry back against his chest. "With me."

"No – Remus –"

Remus slung an arm around Harry's chest. "Hey, they'd be right, kid. Regardless of the bindings, there is nothing that should have stopped me from helping you. From being in your life. From trying to get Sirius a real trial so you could have a godfather. From taking the Dursleys – and Severus - on for how they treated you." He turned Harry to face him. "I know, I know. Dumbledore's power outstripped us all. Worse, the old chessmaster outmaneuvered us all. And, yes, that is one thing your dad and Sirius would have blamed me for." His grin was wistful. "No one should be able to outmaneuver a Marauder."

Harry swallowed hard. "Tell me about them?"

A rough, callused hand was laid against Harry's cheek. "I have so many stories. And, I promise, I'll tell them all to you. The embarrassing ones. The funny ones. Even the ones where you'll see that we were a bunch of little sh*tes who thought we owned the world. Right now, though, I think you could use a dose of fatherly advice. So," he drew Harry towards a small sofa at right angles to the fireplace, "if you'll permit me, I'm going to channel my good friend James Potter. Tell you some things he would say if he were here."

Harry's heart hurt, throbbed like an open wound. Tears lurked behind his eyes, stinging. He nodded.

Remus knelt before him and gripped Harry's hands. "Apparently, I'm going to have to practice this dad thing. I mean, I remember my dad's talks, Sirius' family's insane rants, but mostly I remember how James' father was with him. It's how we all wanted to be if we ever had kids. So, with apologies to my mate, James, here goes."

"Harry." Remus stopped and took a deep breath. "This life, this world we live in, it can be beautiful and inspiring, rich and full of adventure. But it can also be brutal. Heavy responsibilities come to us when we least expect it. Look at me." He gave a half-smile. "I was bitten by Greyback at four years old. Not very fair, was it? But, still, there was no choice but that I live with it." Remus' face lost all humor. "I'm very, very sorry that something like this curse I bear has come to you. That you've been burdened. But," his head shook slowly back and forth, "as much as I want to change it, as much as I'd give anything – everything – to take it from you, to go back in time to Voldemort's attack and destroy the bastard, I can't."

"I know," Harry whispered.

"Good. I'm glad that, deep inside," Remus laid his hand over Harry's heart, "you know that. That I love you. That I'd be proud to call you my son. To stand in for James and Lily and Sirius in your life." He grimaced. "That I would have done so if I'd been in my right mind."

Harry's heart hurt – not from grief or rejection, but because Remus' words had filled it, filled it to bursting.

"Now," Remus leaned back, keeping one of Harry's hands in his, "here I am saying all this when you're almost grown up. When you've had to fend for yourself since you were eleven years old. Before. When you've developed your own ways of doing things, ways of thinking. Asking you to change seems, well, horrible. Not fair. Not when you've managed to keep yourself – and your friends – alive all this time on your own. But that's just what I'm going to do, Harry. Ask you to change."

Harry frowned, listening.

"If Sirius hadn't been hunted as a criminal, if Dumbledore hadn't managed to keep him away from you nearly all your life at the same time Sirius' mind was twisted in Azkaban, he would have asked the same. He would have had you live with him, as his godson, his ward. He would have taken responsibility for you, acted the parent. Made rules and conditions and expected you to obey. You understand?"

"Would he? He seemed like a big kid himself," Harry responded.

"You never saw him with his little brother, Regulus. Quite the father-figure, I assure you. Before Azkaban. Before we were all betrayed by Peter and Sirius took on all that guilt. The Dementors reinforced it, you know, all those years. With Sirius' best memories stolen by those monsters, all he had to remember was his best friend's murder and his own helplessness." Remus' eyes were wet. "It changed him, of course."

Of course, it had. Harry closed his eyes, remembering his first sight of Sirius in the Shrieking Shack. Bone-thin. Rags hanging off him. Trembling. The light of madness in his eyes. Obsessed with one thing: revenge. It hadn't mattered to him that he'd hurt Ron or threatened Harry. Not then.

"So, and here's my point, finally," Remus chuckled. "Back at the Tonks', we all promised to treat you like an adult. To go along with your plans and wishes. I told you that I'd go with you wherever you wanted to go. And I'm not taking that back, exactly." Remus fidgeted, glancing away.

"But?" Harry prodded.

"But." Remus settled, gazing into Harry's eyes. "Even adults need friends. Advisors. People they trust, people who can listen to their ideas and theories and tell them if they're crazy. Or brilliant. People who have more experience or information than they do." He took a deep breath. "Even adults need their parents sometimes. I don’t know much, but I know this: when James had a problem, a concern, even as an adult, he didn't come first to me or Sirius. He went to his father."

Harry thought back to Remus' promises at Tonks' Manor. How great it had felt to be told he could decide for himself – and then how his fears and insecurities had rushed in. How his mind had reeled at actually taking that step, leaving with only Ron and Hermione at his side. Harry's first instinct had been to reach out to others: to Neville and Ginny and Luna. To his friends in the DA. He nodded to himself. Because, deep down, Harry had known that he needed help.

"People don't do that, do they?" Harry asked. "They don't rush off on their own, throw themselves in front of monsters or begin a quest with absolutely no idea what they're looking for or where to find it? That," he laughed, "that sounds like something from a story, a fairy tale, a hero's tale, not from real life."

Remus had returned his grin. "Real life is harder than a hero's tale. Fuller. With backstory and characters' motives and lives far off the page." He rose and sat next to Harry on the sofa. "I wonder if Dumbledore thought of your life that way, as a story from a storybook. All adventure and glory and tasks to fulfill with no background to fill in. Wounds take an instant to heal. Deaths are only meaningful to spur the hero on." His eyes grew shadowed. "Even the most beautiful drawing of a hero with armor and sword barely touches the surface." He pressed a finger to Harry's chest again. "In here, all the loss and pain and horror, all the burdens and sacrifices, all the joy and love you've felt never make it to the page."

Harry remembered an old, bearded man with sparkling robes offering him candy. Avoiding his gaze. Avoiding talking about the Dursleys. Snape. Avoiding Harry. "I wonder if that's why Dumbledore avoided me. Because he didn't want all that life filled in. He wanted to think of me as that two-dimensional hero, not a real kid. A real person."

Patting Harry on the knee, Remus sighed. "You should rest. Sleep if you can. And tomorrow, or the day after, or the day after that, we'll start writing a better story. Together."

They'd leaned on each other as they rose and Remus had left Harry with a hug and the suggestion that Harry 'think about it.' Harry had still been doing that when Ron and Hermione came to bed, their grief quiet and solemn. Sleep had not come quickly for any of them.

Harry swung his legs over the side of the bed, his thoughts churning. He wondered what Sirius would say about their summer plans to head off into the wilderness, alone. What James would have said if Harry had come to him with his problems.

Is this what it felt like to have parents, Harry asked himself. That level of trust, trusting the adults in his life to fight the battles Harry wasn't ready to fight; to advise and protect him. It was so foreign to him, so strange. To rely on someone other than himself felt … wrong. Maybe life with the Dursleys had broken something inside Harry – the place where children tucked away the certain knowledge that, no matter the trouble they found, someone would always be there to rescue them. To care. To save them. Harry swallowed hard. Maybe he could have learned that kind of trust, healed that part of himself with Sirius. Or at Hogwarts. Maybe, if McGonagall hadn't been so stoic, so dismissive. If Snape hadn't been so determined to make him suffer every time he opened his mouth. If Dumbledore hadn't insisted that Harry be shoved into situations far too dangerous and impossible for a child in order to test his mettle, to forge him into a weapon the Headmaster could wield.

Maybe it was too late. Harry shook his head, eager for something to distract him from the grim conclusion.

Chapter 39

Chapter Text

Chapter 39

Set up much like the Gryffindor boys' dorm, the square bedroom seemed to have been made for Harry and his friends. Four full-sized beds, wardrobes, and desks, all in muted reds and burgundies. Four wide windows, heavily curtained against the sun. Two owl perches, one holding Ron's snoring Pig, swinging upside-down by one claw, the other larger, ready for Hedwig when she was healed. At the foot of what could only be Hermione's bed, a roughly patched and gnawed cushion must be Crookshanks' bed. A glass terrarium sat on the table beside the bed Neville would claim when he arrived, ready for Trevor.

Harry moved carefully, drawing his wand from beneath his pillow to cast a Muffliato on his friends. They should sleep while they could. Ron's face was pale, his freckles standing out brightly against his skin, tear tracks glistening. Hermione was curled up against his chest, her face hidden against the soft robes Saffron had conjured for Ron after his bloodied and torn ones were banished. Harry sighed, smiling. It was good that they'd found each other, at last.

Harry grabbed a change of clothes from his wardrobe and headed towards the bath.

The manor was quiet. Harry passed the double doors that led to the Weasley's suite and then the door to Remus' office. A few steps down the hallway, doors on either side opened into rooms like the one he shared with Ron and Hermione, some in Ravenclaw blue, others in Hufflepuff yellow, and a fair few decorated with Gryffindor hues. His eyes widened in astonishment as he continued, the hallway lengthening before him, adding in new rooms and a set of stairs climbing up to a sudden third floor. Just like the Room of Requirement.

A waft of warmth against his right cheek drew his attention. The wall between two doors had turned to a thick mist, burnished gold and brown, hiding whatever was behind it. As Harry raised his wand, a revealing spell on the tip of his tongue, the mist drew to each side, creating an opening, a small square landing and a set of stairs leading down. He stepped into the newly created alcove and peered over the edge of the railing, watching the stairs form, one after another, descending into the dark. His uneasiness settled when a set of torches sprang into being on the walls, lighting the space with a warm glow.

Beneath him, another new hallway spread out from the stairs, left and right. Harry glanced back at the open second-floor hallway. Where would this lower section connect up? He tried to orient himself to what he'd seen of the downstairs – which wasn't much. Maybe behind the sitting room? Or maybe this new part of the manor, including the new bedrooms and this stairway was an entirely new wing?

He found himself heading down the stairs, his wand held before him just in case the lights went out. He'd been intent on finding breakfast, hadn't he? Was it a scent he was following? Cooked bacon or baking bread – hot coffee or spicy tea? He shook his head. No. Nothing like food, this smelled more like … magic.

Harry stood before a thick door bound by two wide straps of bronze above and below. He felt wards like a sudden itch along his skin and set the tip of his wand against the doorknob. A gentle wash of color lingered on the brass, like a tiny rain shower, and then dissolved. Knowing it was safe, Harry grasped the knob and turned it.

Harry had never seen a room like this before. It was huge – almost as big as the Great Hall at Hogwarts. Far across the room, the ceiling opened up, wooden beams crisscrossing to allow sun and rain to fall on the trees below. Harry recognized cedars and ash, blackthorn and acacia – the trees rendered somehow smaller, perfect versions of the massive real-world trunks and branches. They still towered over Harry's head, the tallest at least twenty-five feet and the shortest reaching to his shoulders. They grew in great raised beds of earth set in two rows that defined the outer wall of the strange room.

To his right, the room housed magical creatures. His heart thumping, Harry recognized a familiar quiet cry and hurried to a large cage, open in the front, where a beautiful snowy owl peered at him.

"Hedwig!"

His owl lifted her head from beneath her wing and clacked her beak at him, shuffling forward and into his arms. Harry's touch was tentative at first, as he smoothed her feathers and checked her wounds. There was a bare patch on her chest, a poultice lying across the deep slash he remembered. A splint-like contraption held one wing immobile, but her eyes were bright, and she looked happy to see him.

"You're going to be okay, girl," Harry muttered, tears in his eyes. "I was so worried about you." He bowed his head and laid his cheek against her soft feathers, the vibration of her cooing lapping at his spirit, soothing it. Words like 'safe' and 'home' and 'mine' echoed through his mind and heart, their renewed bond seeming to quiet something in Hedwig, too.

A nibble on his ear reminded Harry that Hedwig needed to breathe, and he set her back on the gnarled perch in the cage – a cage nearly as tall as Harry.

"Okay, you have water and owl treats and it looks like you can fly out into the sky when you're ready." He set his hands on his hips and looked around. "Who are your friends?"

Other birds – owls, falcons, kestrels, hawks – lived in huge cages all along the wall. They weren't prisoners, Harry realized; each cage was wide open. They must belong to some of the others – to Prince or the Tonks, maybe. He was wary of their sharp beaks and thick, grasping talons, but the birds didn't flap or peck at him as he passed; most eyed him and then ignored him, but one particular bird with a white head and red-orange wings in the center cage shuffled forward, almost like a person welcoming Harry to his home.

"Hello. I'm Harry." He kept his hands tucked against his chest.

The bird – a red kite, a metal label declared – stuck his head out, tilting it to peer at Harry as if he was an interesting species of bug. A moment later, it had lunged forward, nudging Harry in the chest with the top of its head.

"Um…" Hands out to try to keep his balance at the sudden strike, Harry's fingers brushed through the kite's feathers. The bird responded by opening its beak and trilling, its eyes half-closed. Harry tried it again, barely grazing the side of the kite's neck with the backs of his fingers. "Amazing," he breathed.

The bird settled upright on one branch of its thick perch, its head turned so that it could stare at Harry with one eye. Harry wasn't sure if it was offering a welcome or warning him about something, so he ducked his head and stepped back.

The trees called to him. Just like in the Tonks' garden, Harry moved instinctively among the tall trunks and heavy branches. Walking between the rows, he lifted his head, the scents, the flickering morning light filtered through the leaves, the distant cry of birds all soothed his spirit. He breathed deep, closing his eyes to concentrate on the changes within him.

His Occlumency shields no longer felt cold and dead, like metal armor – a cage – around his heart. They grew up, now, green and living vines, crossing and recrossing, thinner branches overhead to protect him. Light and air moved in and out, the smell of dark earth, of herbs, fruit and flowers awakened his mind and settled his emotions. The dark despair he hadn't acknowledged lessened. The fear that had taken up a cramped stance around his heart dwindled. Instead of feeling alone, rigid, now Harry's shields made him feel accepted. Loved. Strong.

He forced himself to turn back to the center of the long room. It looked like a cross between the greenhouse where Harry and his classmates had Herbology and a muggle carpenter's shop. Three long bench-like tables with glossy black surfaces stood in rows. On one, a series of rectangular planters sat around the edge, a few empty, some filled with rich, black dirt, and the rest containing one single plant. Harry stepped closer. The plants weren't like anything he'd seen before. They seemed like perfect examples of huge trees but in tiny, miniature sizes. He recognized a willow, an oak, an ash, and a blackthorn. He brushed one finger along the gnarled miniature trunk of the oak and felt a shiver of magic on his skin. Glancing back at the open land beyond the manor, across the lawn and into the tangled forest around the edges, Harry realized they were connected. Wild tree to miniature tree. These tiny trees would help him connect to others, to use their magic, to ask for their help in creating wands.

The second bench held racks of long, roughly squared off wood of all types. Unpolished, unfinished, waiting for something. Harry tilted his head to the side. They were the right size and shape for unfinished wands. Halfway down the bench, Harry noticed a few were clamped into vises. His hand twitched, his wand moving towards one smooth length of ash. The magic lay there, waiting for him. He didn't know the spells, yet, but he could learn.

The third bench was covered by a dull grey stone like an expensive kitchen's counter. Harry trailed his fingers along it, poking at scorch marks and stains that shone here and there. Magic – magic had made these marks, he noted, not something as simple as an overheated pot or spilled wine. In racks up and down the center, long drawers made of brass hid their contents. Some of the flat drawers glowed with spells – preservative spells, Harry thought. Others were locked with catches on either side as if the contents had to be kept contained.

Harry couldn’t resist. The top drawer closest to him shone, gold and white, beckoning to him. As he grasped the handle, he heard it – a humming, like someone was whispering a song along his nerves. It made his heart speed up, but not in panic. More like he was excited; anticipating something good.

He slid open the drawer and rose on his tiptoes to look inside. Carefully wrapped in the thinnest parchment, Harry found twelve opaque packets, the ends folded over. He picked one and laid it on the bench, unfolding the ends with care. Inside lay one single white hair. "Unicorn tail hair," he murmured to himself. He smiled, his gaze wandering across the other drawers. "Wand cores."

Harry forced himself to wrap the unicorn hair up again and replace it in the drawer. He wanted to search the other drawers, to seek out what he knew he'd find there: phoenix feathers, dragon heartstrings, horned serpent horns, coral, thestral tail hair. He shook his head. Not yet.

The wall opposite the cages with the birds was filled with bookshelves. Harry nodded to himself. Yes, this is where he should start.

He left the room quite a bit later, after one more stop at Hedwig's cage to reassure her he'd transfer her to his room when she was recovered. As the door closed behind him, he hugged three books to his chest.

"Potter?"

"I thought you were going to call me Harry, Professor Prince." Harry's back stiffened. Meeting this man in a dark hallway where his arms were filled with books and he couldn't reach his wand – alone – felt too familiar to be comfortable.

Prince, one foot on the last step of the new staircase, bowed his head. "I apologize. I was unaware that there was anyone else here. Or," he raised his eyebrows at the manor's new corridor, the doors, and the staircase, "that 'here' even existed." His lips pressed forward. "Changes are rapid at Chartwell and I can't seem to catch up."

Harry understood that. "Everything's changed," he whispered, frowning.

"Indeed. Someday, to someone, the Headmaster will have much to answer for." He moved off the steps. "That person is unlikely to be me." He straightened. "Harry." He said the name deliberately.

Harry had never seen Prince dressed in anything but his black teaching robes, buttoned up to the chin and down past his wrists. This morning he was clothed all in white and, when he moved, Prince's tightly fitted shirt and trousers gleamed with gold and green, as if it had been woven with magic.

The Potions' Master noticed him noticing.

"A Ritual Robe," Prince explained. "Although 'robe' is perhaps a misnomer. It is traditional clothing for someone performing a highly ritualized bit of magic." He lifted his arms. "White for purity, woven thinly so that the entire robe might pass through a ring that fits on my smallest finger. My mother made it." A wistful smile dragged the corners of his mouth up. "The thread itself is charmed with protective magic, magic that will not allow any of my own magical aura to interfere with the ritual. Especially when I do this." He reached behind his neck and pulled a thin hood up over his head, tucking his long hair underneath.

Harry shook his head. "There's so much I don't know." He raised his gaze to Prince's. "That's what you meant, isn't it? When you called me arrogant. Said I strutted around the castle as if I owned it. That I was ignorant and didn't even realize it?" His stomach knotted and suddenly the books in his arms felt foreign to him, as if he'd broken into some adult wizard's library and stolen them.

Prince shrugged off his hood. "I said many things that I regret. Blaming a child for being ignorant, a child who had never experienced the wizarding world until he turned eleven and, even then, only at Hogwarts was cruel and shortsighted. How could you possibly know more than you did, Harry?"

He could have done something. Anything. "I could have read, like Hermione."

"I don't believe the combination of the Horcrux," Prince pointed to Harry's forehead, "and Dumbledore's limiting spells would have allowed a great deal of comprehension. Not to mention that you were forced to live with your muggle relatives and outside the magical world where constant exposure to our history and culture would have informed your perceptions."

Harry knew what Prince said was true, but believing it, deep down – that would take a while. "Can I ask … would you tell me what ritual you were performing?"

Prince smiled. "Of course." He gestured for Harry to walk with him. "If you don't mind, we should head to breakfast. It was necessary to perform the ritual on a completely empty stomach."

Harry shrugged and fell in at his side. It seemed much easier than he remembered to keep pace with the professor's long legs.

"I had recently learned that it was my ancestors who created the Dementors," Prince began. "They believed the act to be the correct one at the time, but later, let their creation get away from them. It was my responsibility to see them destroyed."

"Wow. You destroyed the Dementors? All of them?" Prince was powerful – and not just with potions.

"Chartwell assisted me."

Harry nodded. "That's … weird, right? That a house can be so powerful. Almost like it has a mind of its own – a personality."

Prince co*cked his head. "You remember your godfather's home? It certainly had a personality, didn't it?"

Sirius' house had felt like bitterness and depression; the darkness had seeped into the walls and floor, tainting everything. "I suppose so."

"When a wizard's family home is built with magic, when the proper rites and rituals are accomplished at its beginning, its builders seeking the blessing of the elements, of the earth, of nature, then it can indeed take on life of a kind. The House Elves, rooted as they are to magic, help to keep Chartwell awake as Kreacher kept Black's home abandoned and dark."

At the end of the corridor, Prince opened a door that led into the formal dining room. He nodded Harry towards a seat, lifting a long black over-robe from a cloak rack by the door and buttoning it up. Harry set his books down and sat at the corner, relieved when a steaming tea service appeared.

Looking much more like himself wearing the black robe, Prince took the seat at the head of the table and poured for both of them. After they'd both taken a few sips, Prince folded his hands on his placemat and regarded Harry.

"Kreacher is something we must discuss."

Harry nodded. "I had a talk with Saffron yesterday." Was it only yesterday? A pang in his chest stole his breath. Hedwig's bloody body. Ron's injuries. The ghostly figure of Helga Hufflepuff warning him about loss. Arthur. Remus' talk. He rubbed hard on his sternum, trying to find his focus. Right. Kreacher. He swallowed. "She said there's a difference between House Elves – with capital letters – and regular house elves. Which is Kreacher?"

"Kreacher is very old, but not nearly as old as Saffron. I'm afraid the darkness of his family has warped his nature, and his years of abandonment by the family stole what was left of his mind and spirit." Prince grimaced. "Saffron and Cypress have scanned him, hoping to heal the worst of his hurts. It seems he had lived in close proximity to a fragment of Voldemort's soul for many years, which only damaged him more."

"A Horcrux?" Harry started.

Prince raised a hand. "It has been destroyed. The goblin Warmaster took on that task."

And died, Harry realized, thinking back to the scene in Chartwell's infirmary. He swallowed hard, trying to imagine how he and Ron and Hermione would have stood against it on their own.

"But, back to Kreacher," Prince continued. "He is unable to bond with a new owner. Even Sirius Black could not command him to obedience. You." He pointed at Harry. "Not a Black by birth or legal adoption, have no hope of doing so."

Harry rubbed at his scar. Another victim of dark magic. Of Voldemort's evil. Maybe Kreacher was evil through and through, but how much of that was his fault? And, worse, since he was legally Harry's house elf now, was it Harry's job to – deal with him? "What's going to happen to him?"

Prince touched one finger to the back of Harry's hand. "Have no fear. You are not required to carry out a death sentence. Chartwell's House Elves have him well in hand. They can utterly control his movements and cut off his communication outside the Manor. So long as he lives here, he can do no one any harm." He cleared his throat, sitting straight. "If that is what you'd like," he added hurriedly. "It is your decision as his legal master." Prince huffed. "Dumbledore's restrictions still seem to have a hold on my thinking. Not anything magical, they have simply left a rut in my thought processes about you."

Harry got that. "I keep wanting to act like I always have. Jumping into things. Taking charge." Harry clenched his teeth, his hands fists in his lap. "I should be taking charge, though, shouldn't I?"

"Of yourself?" Prince smiled. "We all must be responsible for ourselves to one degree or another. Next week you will come of age." He tilted his head. "Would it interest you to know that I can sense Occlumency shields within you? You have already taken charge of your emotions, which is quite an achievement for a teenaged boy who is at the center of deathly horrors. But," Prince shifted, "that does not mean that asking for advice, for older, more experienced wizards to come alongside you and give you what help they can is a weakness. It absolutely is not." Prince waved his hand at himself. "We all take on the advice of friends and family."

"That's what Remus said."

"Remus is a smart man – the most intelligent of all the Marauders, I believe. Although Sirius Black was the most cunning, and James – your father – perhaps the most magically powerful."

The arrival of platters full of eggs, sausage, bacon, and toast gave Harry a chance to think past Prince's kind assessment of those he'd always been disgusted by before. "Your manor made me a room, I think," he finally admitted.

"I suspected as much." Prince nodded. "Do you wish to tell me about it?"

Harry's mouth fell open in surprise. "But – it's your house. Didn't you know? Don't you already know?"

Prince's slight smile was absent of any mockery or sarcasm. It made the man's face look younger. "Chartwell keeps its own secrets. And those of its welcomed guests."

He didn't understand, but Harry saw no reason to keep Prince in the dark. It didn't seem like he'd mock Harry for this new interest. Time would tell. "It's a lab – for wandmaking."

Swallowing a bite of eggs, Prince nodded. It looked almost encouraging.

Harry began an explanation of what had happened in the Tonks' garden, only realizing how long he'd been talking when various Weasleys and Tonks began to arrive for breakfast. Ron and Hermione shot him a silent, questioning look before taking the seats the others had left empty on his right. Fred and George surrounded Molly. Fleur, still wearing the rumpled robes she'd arrived in last night, wore a concerned expression, mentioning that Ginny had insisted she come and eat while Ginny watched over Bill. Remus and Tonks settled at the other end of the table.

"Wand making. Interesting." Prince tented his fingers before his lips, sitting back in his chair. "Combining the skills of Herbology, Charms, Care of Magical Creatures, and Defense, your best subjects. Your mother was particularly good at Charms. Chartwell has offered you a very great gift – a place to learn, to hone your skills and develop the magics inside you. I believe it has great expectations of you, Harry. It welcomes you, offers you a residence here once the war is over. As do I."

Next to Harry, Ron choked on his tea, causing a slight distraction as he turned beet-red and Harry thumped him on the back. When Harry looked up, Remus and Tonks weren't bothering to hide their laughter.

"Takes some getting used to, doesn't it?" Remus poured himself a cup of coffee from a fancy silver pot that appeared between him and George. "I think Professor Prince is going to be a revelation to his students this year."

"This year?" Hermione's head popped up. "Will you go back to Hogwarts, Professor? Can you?" Her eyes were wide with wonder. "Can we?"

"Of course, you will," Prince replied. "You must attend your seventh year classes and take your NEWTs."

Harry exchanged glances with his friends. "We – we hadn't intended to. We were given a task – "

Prince clucked his tongue. "Indeed. Sent into the wilds looking for undomesticated fowl." He raised one eyebrow, his expression dry.

George spit his coffee out all over his plate and the table. "A wild goose chase, Fred!"

His twin chortled, cleaning up the mess with one flick of his wand. "Calm down there, George. Although he can't give you detention anymore."

"Oh, I have missed the two of you scrubbing cauldrons until midnight," Prince drawled. "You should also attend Hogwarts this fall. Choosing to leave school when you did might have been the right decision, but many doors will be closed to you until you successfully pass your NEWTs."

Voices were raised all around the table, the Weasleys arguing, Hermione barely able to contain her excitement at the thought of returning to school. The older wizards and witches mostly let them talk, offering advice when asked.

Molly Weasley, dabbing at her eyes, spoke into a short silence. "Your father would be happy to know you'd gotten your NEWTs, wouldn't he?"

It struck Harry how kindly she'd said it. She didn't use it to pummel her children into obedience, to guilt them into doing what she wanted. Molly seemed to be genuinely asking the question.

"I think he would," Percy answered, his head bowed over his half-full plate. "He was proud of me. So happy that I could work with him."

"Once you'd extracted your head from your … orifice," George added.

"True." Percy lifted his face, his smile hesitant. "He was proud of all of us, you know. Thought Charlie and Bill were brilliant. That Fred and George were going to be the first Weasley millionaires. That Ginny would take the Quidditch world by storm." He met Ron's silent gaze across the table. "He told me one day, 'Watch that Ronald, Percy. There's something inside him – something grand. He's going to surprise us all.'"

"He said that?" Ron's voice cracked.

Harry laid one hand on his friend's shoulder.

Percy nodded. "He did. And, from what we saw yesterday, he was right."

The silence that fell around the table seemed less dismal. More expectant. Like the future was filled with more than war, more than a desperate search for Horcruxes, more than death and dismay.

"Well, in order to get these kids back to school – them and their friends – we have to accomplish quite a lot this summer." Remus touched his napkin to his mouth.

"Getting rid of the lead murderer would be a good start. And his homicidal puppets." Fred added, his eyes alight. That wasn't the light of mischief, Harry realized.

"Agreed," George said. "So," he cracked his knuckles and set his folded hands on the table, leaning far forward. "Thoughts? Ideas? Strategies?"

All eyes turned towards Prince. Harry's included.

What a difference a few weeks had made, indeed.

Chapter 40

Chapter Text

Chapter 40

"To discuss the future, we must shine a light on the past. Each of us gathering our individual tidbits of knowledge to ourselves was Dumbledore's way. He divided us. Had us safeguarding our pieces of the puzzle of Tom Riddle as a child would hoard his toys."

Severus glanced down the table, meeting each of his guest's gazes. They looked to him. Expected him to have answers and strategies. It was more than acknowledging his position as their host, as the Master of Chartwell. Severus' burden had changed. His long days and nights of constant anxiety, acting the spy for Voldemort, might be over, but that did not alleviate his responsibility. Waging a war, leading troops into battle – he had not trained for this. His questioning glance lingered longest on Remus'. His Brother nodded, encouraging him to continue.

"If we're finished with breakfast, I suggest we gather in the conference room in two hours. I'm sure Missus Weasley –" he inclined his head towards both Fleur and Molly, "would like to check in on William. I believe we should invite acting Headmistress McGonagall and Professor Flitwick – perhaps some of the other Hogwarts' teachers - to our discussion." He turned to his right. "Other suggestions, Harry?"

Harry raised his head from a hurried discussion with his friends. "Is there any way to check in with Neville and Luna? We sent them letters and," Harry's eyes narrowed, "I understand they have Portkeys that will bring them here. But we haven't heard back."

Severus raised a hand, requesting a moment while he sought his connection with Sorrel. The House Elf popped into view at his right side.

"Sorrel, please seek out Mister Longbottom and Miss Lovegood. See that they are safe and share the message Harry gives you for them." He waved a hand towards Harry.

The young wizard clenched his jaw, considering. "Just – if you could ask Neville and Luna if they could come to a meeting here in two hours? We can discuss any other plans for training when they get here."

The House Elf bowed. "I will do so." He turned back to Severus. "Does Master have anything I should share with the young ones' parents if they ask?"

"Hmm. Indeed." Severus conjured parchment and ink. He scrawled a note, promising his protection for the two, and offering the safety of his house to both Augusta and Xenophilius if they'd care to accompany their children.

He handed it to Sorrel. "Take care of the transportation yourself, Sorrel. I trust you to protect them."

"Of course. Sorrel will not allow any harm to come to the Master's guests."

Once the House Elf disappeared, Andromeda rose with her husband. "What about the professors, Severus? Do they also have Portkeys?"

"Considering the formidable wards at both Chartwell and Hogwarts, I believe the Floo connection will be fine for their travel. I'll go and check in with them." And change out of these robes, Severus added to himself.

Percy cleared his throat. "McGonagall and Flitwick are the two most powerful wizards at Hogwarts. I'm not sure they should leave it unguarded. I'm happy to travel there and assist with whatever preparations the other teachers are making. That is, if you think I'd be of any help."

Severus took the young wizard's arm. "That is an excellent idea, Mister Weasley. Please, come with me."

Chairs scraped against the tile floor, the chattering of voices following Severus and Percy from the dining room to his study. Once there, Severus closed the doors behind him and regarded the third Weasley son. The young man at his side clearly had more to say to him – away from his family.

"What can I do for you Mister Weasley?"

Hands shoved into his pockets; Percy shook his head. "I think this is going to be a very confusing few weeks if you keep calling each of us 'Mister Weasley.' Percy is fine."

"Severus," he replied.

Percy didn't hesitate. "It's mum. I know you and my parents weren't close, that the bindings and geassa on all of us didn't allow for that." He peered at Severus; his light eyes dark with shadows. "Do you know anything about my mum's mum?"

Severus searched his memory. Molly Weasley nee Prewett came from a pureblood family; her uncles and brothers had been vital members of the Order in the first war, nearly all of them falling to Voldemort and his Death Eaters. But her mother's family? "I'm afraid I don't."

"Nan was a Seer. A real one. Not like that jumped up fortune-teller Trelawney."

Waving two chairs from the side of the room, Severus invited Percy to sit with him. "You'd be surprised. I know of exactly two instances in which Sybill Trelawney did successfully predict the future." He rubbed his fingers across his forehead. Minerva had mentioned Sybill's absence from Hogwarts a few days ago. The woman had foolishly left the castle against Minerva's advice and had yet to return. Hopefully, she would return in a haze of cooking sherry and a flutter of scarves claiming to have forgotten the date.

Percy shrugged and sat on the edge of the chair. "Still doesn't mean she's not a sorry excuse for a Divination teacher."

Severus snorted. "It is a foolish class. Divination cannot be taught. Her inclusion in the school was for no other reason than to keep her safe from Voldemort. And to tie her to Dumbledore just in case another helpful vision did come to her." He pulled his black robe close. "Did you know the Headmaster had her entire tower spelled to notify him of any concentrations of magic so that he could record her Seeings?"

"Man didn't miss a trick, did he?" Percy's tone was bitter. "Regardless," he brushed a hand through the air as if to erase their sidetrack, "something's happening with mum. I think she may have inherited some of Nan's gift."

"What makes you think so?" This was an unlooked for complication. Severus' lips twitched. Perhaps a boon – additional information could assist them greatly. Or mire down their planning in 'what ifs.'

Percy rose, restless and fidgety. "I stayed up with her last night. Couldn't sleep. The – the images kept repeating themselves. Bill all bloody. Dad –" He walked to the fireplace, fingering the items on the mantle, lifting the edge of the curtain to peer out the window at the midmorning light. "Anyway, during the night she went rigid. I thought she'd fainted or something, but -" he shook his head. "Her eyes were wide open. She said … things. Her voice all strained. And then she blinked, and it was as if it never happened."

Severus sat forward, his heart thumping. "It has been said that Seers can emerge at times of severe trial or anxiety. Did you speak to your brothers about this?"

His back turned, Percy shook his head. "No. I don't want to add to their burdens. Not yet. Not when, well," he shrugged, "it could be me. Maybe I imagined it."

"I doubt that." Severus rose to approach the wizard. "Have you been examined since Dumbledore's magic fell, young man?"

Percy turned to face him. "There hasn't been much time for that."

"True." Severus lifted his wand. "Would you permit me?"

"Why?"

"Percival Ignatius Weasley. You were one of the best students Hogwarts has ever graduated. Single-minded, determined to succeed and make a name for yourself." Severus allowed some of his impatience to show. "Surely you know the answer to that question."

"If by determined to succeed you mean liable to kiss as many asses as needed in order to get ahead …"

"Stop." Severus would not allow Percy to denigrate himself further. "You are intelligent and focused, quite a gifted wizard. You must stop doubting yourself."

"I'm not doubting my abilities, Severus, I'm doubting my character." Percy rubbed a hand through his hair, making it stand up in uneven tufts. "My priorities have been screwed up my entire life. Merlin, Fred and George were horrible students, but they always came down on the right side."

"Fred and George are unique." Severus chuckled. "And for that, we are all grateful. They, however, did not escape Dumbledore's meddling."

Percy started forward. "They didn't?" His hands clenched into fists as if he would rush off to fight anyone who dared to target his brothers.

"Not their intellect or their creative instincts, Merlin forbid." Trying to lighten the mood, Severus shared a smile with Percy. "They were spelled to target Slytherins. To become the bullies their Gryffindor predecessors were. To take up the Marauders' mantle."

"Is that how they got that bloody map? Dumbledore arranged it?" Anger on behalf of his brothers turned Percy's pale cheeks pink.

"I believe it was the means through which Dumbledore's spell took hold of them. Incited your brothers to try out their less savory products on Slytherin students." Severus inclined his head. "Even so, their antics were largely harmless, due, not doubt, to your family's solid character fighting the geassa." He peered at Percy through half-closed eyes. "Your own spirit no doubt fought just as hard, but the constant pressure of working at the Ministry eroded your own natural instincts. Clearly, Voldemort had his own dark influences there. Fudge. Crouch. Umbridge."

"I knew about Ron." Percy spat out a curse. "The twins, too. What about Ginny?"

"Your mother informed me that she'd checked out each of her younger children to determine how they'd been affected. You were busy with Arthur at the time." He laid a hand on Percy's shoulder. "Your mother did not share your sister's difficulties. I believe she felt it to be – too personal. I will admit, having watched Ginevra in action these past days, I believe she has overcome any undue influence quite well. She may, however, look for a confidant in the coming days. You would be an excellent choice, Percy."

Percy lifted his head, Severus' words allowing him to straighten his spine, to take some comfort in the thought that he might be of some help to his sister. "Perhaps I should get scanned, but, not now."

Severus nodded in understanding. "Did you record your mother's words?"

Touching a finger to his temple, Percy shared a bitter smile. "Perfect recall. That's how I did so well in my classes, Severus."

Eyebrows lifting, Severus stepped back. "Ah. That explains quite a lot."

"Book knowledge, outstanding," Percy murmured. "Wisdom? Well, I suppose we'll see."

Severus made a mental note. Perhaps this child of the Weasley's was most in need of his help. If the struggling young man would accept it. "Tell me what your mother said."

"It was – it seemed almost ritualized," Percy began, his brow furrowed. "When she began to speak, my own magic responded, tightening against my skin, eager to be released but finding nowhere to go. Whoever her words were for, I don't believe I was the intended recipient."

"Hmm." Severus considered. "Perhaps some additional wards are in order." He raised his wand and sketched symbols in the air, protections around himself and Percy, the runes and sigils bound to keep any words and magic inside a bubble and away from Chartwell's magic.

With a nod, Percy began to recite:

"'Sisters rose to greet the dark moon,
Bound by rites, promises, will.
The blood of our children will not be taken –
History remembers our vows,
Magic awaits us.'

'New sisters rise to greet the full moon,
Joined by heart, heritage, hope.
The three chosen ones, our children awaken –
Magic honors our vows,
History will not be repeated.'"

"She said it twice, exactly the same, and then asked me why the tea was cold."

Before Percy's last remark died away, Severus felt Chartwell react. His hastily drawn wards fell, powerless against the ancient Beverley magics. The air vibrated, motes of energy sparkling as a glow brightened around him. Eyes closed, Severus realized this glow suffused all of Chartwell – its rooms, its gardens, and all the land around it.

His eyes snapped open as he registered the presence of two of his House Elves. Saffron and Cypress appeared, hands held tight.

"Three times," Cypress announced. "Three times the charm is spoken, Master. Three times is truth. Three times is summoning."

"Summoning what?" Severus whispered, the rush of magic making him dizzy.

Saffron smiled at him. "Summoning all. Allies from near and far, from long ago and far ahead. From beyond the veil. Those bound to the ancient rites through the ages, under the dark moon, have been summoned back from the ancient forest."

On the other side of the House Elves, Percy lowered himself to one knee, arms crossed atop it. "My mother is one of them," he stated.

"Mother, grandmother, sister, daughter, friends and strangers, teachers, creatures, those gone on ahead. Those stifled by darkness and those who carry the moon's own light." Cypress's expression was fierce with joy. "Summoned, they cannot resist the call. They cast their vows, they promised."

"Promised?" Severus joined Percy on his knees. "Promised what?"

Saffron raised one hand to touch Severus' cheek. "To protect the children, of course."

Chapter 41

Chapter Text

Chapter 41

The Chartwell conference room was already filling up with people when Harry and his friends arrived. Harry, Ron, and Hermione hesitated in the doorway, shifting closer to each other at the noisy chaos. Adults, students, teachers, shop owners from Diagon Alley, witches and wizards wearing foreign clothing, and some dressed in simple shifts of homespun had gathered. In one corner, three goblins were in a quiet discussion with Charlie, Fred, and George. Shacklebolt from the Ministry stood with Amelia Bones and a grey-haired woman Harry didn't know wearing Wizengamot purple. Molly, Fleur, and Ginny, their heads bent close with Pomona Sprout and Poppy Pomfrey, were making notes against an ancient looking parchment held between them.

The room had expanded since Harry had checked it out after breakfast. Instead of a warm study housing a long polished table and a dozen or so chairs it now resembled a smaller version of the Hogwarts' Great Hall. At one end, a rectangular table standing a few steps up from the floor reminded him of the faculty table. Six rows of chairs lined the center of the room, facing that table. A third of them were already full

"Harry! Ron!"

"Seamus! Dean!"

Gryffindor students mobbed them – some that had already graduated like Angelina Johnson, Katie Bell, and Oliver Wood - but most in their own year, including the Patil sisters. A few other Ravenclaws wandered closer – Anthony Goldstein and Terry Boot. Justin, Hannah, and Susan – the Hufflepuff contingent – waved from their chairs towards the middle of the room.

"Where did you all come from?" Ron asked, thumping his friends on the back.

"Got these Portkeys, didn't we?" Seamus held up a black chess piece – a pawn – and the other students, digging in pockets and pouches, produced black and white ones of their own. They all laughed. "Looks like we've got enough for a bloody good Wizards' Chess tournament."

Harry blinked, frowning. This felt – felt right. So many of his friends, so many of the DA had come without even a word from Harry. He stood on his tiptoes, looking over the heads for Luna or Neville. Strange, those two seemed to be missing.

"It's only our year and older students here," Hermione whispered in his ear.

"It makes sense, Hermione," Parvati explained. "Only those who are of age could use the Portkeys without their parents' approval. We got an owl from Colin Creevey – he and his brother wanted to come but their parents wouldn't let them."

Of course. Harry nodded to himself. Neville's birthday was the same day as Harry's. And Luna was a year younger. He knew that Neville's grandmother was stern and overbearing, but he'd thought Luna's dad might have been a bit more agreeable.

"Let's find seats." Ron and the other boys hurried forward leaving Harry and Hermione to bring up the rear. When they'd reached the Hufflepuffs and Harry was just about to follow Hermione into a row in the middle of the room, he heard his name.

"Harry. Please."

Standing next to Prince behind the head table, Professor McGonagall gestured towards him. Heart thumping, Harry glanced down to Ron and Hermione.

"You should come, too."

"I'm not sure –" Hermione began.

Ron was already standing, without a moment of hesitation or doubt. "About bloody time," he murmured. "Come on."

Ron led the way. Harry, wearing a half-smile at the changes in his friend, followed. Behind him, Hermione muttered, but Harry wasn't worried. Of all of them, Hermione cared least about what other people thought of her, and worried least about appearances. Hermione knew she could stand with adult wizards – she was a force to be reckoned with and always had been.

Head high, Harry met Prince's dark gaze and found it encouraging.

Behind the head table, Ron gestured for Harry to take a seat near the center, Hermione beside him. "I'm good here." He answered Harry's questioning glance and took up a place standing between them, a single pace behind.

To Harry's left, Prince seated Professor McGonagall one seat down and then took the chair next to Harry himself, Remus standing slightly behind just like Ron. Beyond them, at the end of the table, two goblins perched on tall stools, Charlie Weasley behind them; at Harry's end, Shacklebolt and Bones settled in. Harry wondered if they felt the emptiness at their backs where Arthur Weasley should be.

Harry lowered his gaze as the crowd found their seats and quieted. The front row was filled with women. Professors from Hogwarts. Weasleys. Tonks. Rosmerta from Hogsmeade. Prince's two House Elves smiled up at Harry from the center.

Behind them, Harry recognized members of the Order of the Phoenix. Moody. Mundungus. Elphias Doge and Emmaline Vance. A tall, grey-bearded man with light blue eyes took Harry's breath away. He blinked hard, his chest tight. What Harry wouldn't give to see Sirius sitting there, grinning up at him, anxious to see what prank Harry and his friends would pull off next.

The middle rows were filled with Hogwarts students, present and past. Behind them, other wizards and witches sat. Florean Fortescue and Madam Malkin from Diagon Alley. Two unfamiliar Wizengamot wizards. Three or four were even dressed as muggles.

Prince lifted his wand and the rear door began to close. Before it shut completely, a fine mist of magic glimmered in the doorway. When it cleared, Sorrel stood there, Neville on one side and a stern matriarch on the other.

"Yes," Ron hissed. "Finally."

Harry caught Neville's solemn gaze before his friend hurried forward to take the seat Seamus was waving him towards. Augusta stared after her grandson for a moment before drawing her skirts around her and perching in the back row. Sorrel disappeared.

"Luna next," Ron whispered in Harry's ear.

The door closed with a snap. Harry felt Chartwell's magic against his skin, saw it rise from the floor to coat the walls and ceiling of the room. Protected. Silenced. Nothing and no one would be able to hear them or distract them.

"He who has named himself Lord Voldemort must be destroyed."

Prince's opening statement raised the hairs on the back of Harry's neck.

"Straight to the point, then." McGonagall spoke into the following silence, one eyebrow raised. Nervous laughter sounded from the students. She harrumphed and crossed her hands on the table. "Many of you have questions. Questions about our former professor Snape. About Dumbledore." Her lips pulled back in disgust as she said his name. "And about the expectations that have surrounded this young man," she leaned in and pointed towards Harry, "since he was a baby."

"We've requested your presence here today to answer those questions, and to hone our final strategy for eliminating this threat to our world." Prince cleared his throat. "You are powerful witches and wizards, some of whom fought in the last war," he lifted his chin towards the Order, "and some who have been battling against evil ever since." Prince nodded at the grim Hogwarts' students.

Shacklebolt rose. "Speaking for the Ministry, Severus Beverley Prince has been cleared of all charges against Albus Dumbledore and the students of Hogwarts. You've read about it in the Daily Prophet."

A woman wearing the robes of the Wizengamot lifted her wand, seeking permission to speak. "Why isn't this meeting taking place at the Ministry?" Others nodded, murmuring.

"Because Chartwell Manor is much safer than the blasted Ministry. And Rufus Scrimgeour is still recovering from a deep Imperius Curse." Moody snorted in disgust.

"The Ministry has proven it cannot even protect itself let alone those who rely on it." Shacklebolt waved Moody off. "It would have fallen completely had we not been warned about Dumbledore's fracturing wards." He laid one hand on his chest and bowed, eyes closed. "We thank Arthur Weasley for his wisdom and sacrifice. His loss wounds us all."

Every wizard in the room drew his or her wand and lighted it. Harry hurriedly did the same. A hushed phrase spread out through the room.

"He is remembered."

Harry met Molly's tearful gaze. She seemed touched by the gesture.

Shacklebolt lifted his head. "Thank you. Now. We have much to discuss and little time to do it." He sat and gestured back to Prince.

"Albus Dumbledore had a grand plan to defeat Tom Riddle, he who pretends to be Lord Voldemort. This plan," Prince drawled the word, the sarcasm thick, "required that three children, alone and barely armed, chase all across the country after secrets. And that," he turned to stare into Harry's eyes, "finally, one child, one Chosen One, volunteer to give up his life to destroy our foe."

"What?"

"A child?"

"Albus planned that?"

"That's no plan, that's a nightmare, that is –"

"Harry was supposed to die?"

Neville's voice rang out over the others. Pale and trembling, he stood. "He – Dumbledore did all this, bound our magic, fiddled with our minds and hearts, so that Harry would die at the right time? Like a – like some kind of sacrifice?"

The silence that answered Neville sparked and sizzled, crawling up Harry's arms until he couldn't stay still. Ron's hand on his back steadied him as he rose from his chair.

Harry faced the gathered wizards and witches, finding encouragement in the beloved faces. Molly. Seamus. Andromeda. Tonks. Professor Sprout. Hermione shifted closer. Remus growled. McGonagall tapped on the table.

"The simple answer is 'yes,'" Harry stated boldly.

His friends were on their feet, shouting. Angry. Some of the adults were crying, some faces were suffused with rage. Magic swirled, red and gold and green and blue and all colors.

Moody slammed his stick on the floor once, twice, three times. Lightning flashed. Voices faded.

The students were the last to resume their seats, each one of them, Harry noted, seething. He understood that. They knew him best. Had lived with him, fought beside him, and listened to his stories about Voldemort for years. They knew what kinds of battles Harry had already fought, the wounds he'd taken. The losses. They - maybe only they – remembered Cedric Diggory. They'd seen Harry after the third task. After the Department of Mysteries. Their hands had been carved with ugly words by Umbridge's quill.

Dumbledore hadn't failed just Harry – he'd failed every one of them. Each Hogwarts' student. Each innocent child. If Harry was expendable, a tool, a weapon, to be destroyed at will, then so were they all.

They deserved the truth.

Harry lifted his chin. "Let me tell you about Tom Riddle. And Horcruxes."

Chapter 42

Chapter Text

Chapter 42

Harry lifted his chin. "Let me tell you about Tom Riddle. And Horcruxes."

"Marvolo Gaunt, his son, Morfin, and daughter Merope, were the last of an in-bred, pureblood family, direct descendants of Salazar Slytherin. They lived in a run-down shack outside Little Hangleton, near a great estate owned by the muggle Riddle family. Merope Gaunt was an abused, half-powered witch who fell madly in love with a handsome muggle boy who often passed her dilapidated home." Harry grimaced. "It could have been a fairy tale - a handsome prince rescuing her from her evil relatives. But it wasn't. Because Tom Riddle, Senior didn't even notice Merope. And, without her talents at potion-making, he never would. So Merope brewed a love potion, fed it to the muggle, and forced him to love her. Tom Marvolo Riddle – Lord Voldemort - was the child of abuse and assault. And he grew up hating both of his parents. And everyone else."

The wizards and witches were rapt, hanging on every word. Magic rose within Harry, Chartwell's joining to suffuse the air with sensation. Merope's pain and hopelessness were tangible, like tears suspended in the air. Her desperation tasted like burnt ash – her frantic obsession with Riddle clawed at their throats. Harry could picture it – how her emptiness had turned her into a monster: manipulative, feral, clutching at Riddle's promise of escape. Forcing herself to believe that his manufactured love could ever be real.

"One day, finally free of Merope's potions, little Tom's father abandoned his wife and son. Merope didn't last long after that, dying of starvation and a broken heart, and little Tom was sent to a muggle orphanage. It's funny," Harry continued, his hands closing into fists, his knuckles white. "Dumbledore showed me many memories last year. Memories of Merope. Of the Riddle family – of little Tom's awful childhood. He wanted to draw parallels between me and Voldemort. To show me how easily abuse and abandonment could twist a child into a monster."

Harry ignored the curses from his friends, the immediate denials, as if Harry Potter could ever turn dark. He smiled, remembering his classmates staring, sure that a certain second year was the Heir of Slytherin.

Behind him, Ron snorted. Yeah. He remembered, too.

"What I find even more interesting is that Dumbledore didn't see the other side of the Gaunt story. He didn't see how secrets, how manipulating everyone around you, would lead to darkness. To death. How forcing others into some," Harry shook his head, frustration flinging his hands into the air, "some fairy story that you'd made up in your head wouldn't work. Muggle Tom Riddle didn't thank Merope when he overcame the love potion and realized the truth. And her son definitely didn't. Merope died when her imaginary world came crashing down. Dumbledore's fairy story didn't survive his death."

The magic he'd gathered kept Harry from falling into a childish tantrum. The scent of the dark soil in the laboratory down the hall, the feel of the sunlight on his face, the quivering of the wand cores came back to him, shoring up his shields, steadying his hands.

Breathing deep, Harry took up the dangling threads of his story. "Tom inherited his father's arrogance, and the Gaunt family magic. In him, that power was great. He honed it, turning accidental magic into something much more focused and controllable. Mind magic was simple to Tom – he needed no teacher to show him how to control the other orphaned children through magic and fear. At last, his power was noticed by the wizarding world and Albus Dumbledore sought him out. Invited him to come and learn at Hogwarts. Even after he'd seen inside the twisted child's mind and discovered Tom's hatred, his love of cruelty, Dumbledore believed he could save him. Change him. After all," Harry sighed, "Tom's awful childhood hadn't been his fault."

Hermione slipped her hand into Harry's and gave it a squeeze.

"At Hogwarts, Tom learned to hide his genius. He sought out old, pureblood connections, making himself into a solid friend and eager student of those who had the resources he craved. He spent school breaks at the homes of his Slytherin classmates, searching through libraries and embracing the darkest arts. He searched for anything that would give him power. That would shield him from the sharp intelligence of Dumbledore and provide what he needed – what he wanted. Power. Control. Vengeance against muggles and half-bloods. More than anything else, Tom Riddle knew that, without power, without standing in the Wizarding world above his orphaned half-blood status, he would amount to nothing."

"So Tom made plans. Plans to reinvent himself. He made alliances, took dark oaths, and created cruel spells. He mastered Occlumency and Legilimency. He targeted the weak, the friendless, the different, and they became his scapegoats. His victims. And, one day, tucked away in a hidden room beneath Hogwarts, accessible only to a Parselmouth, he came across a term he hadn't heard before. Horcrux."

Harry felt Prince stir, the professor rising to stand beside him.

"It is old, forgotten magic." Prince's deep voice carried, his precise inflections making the bare facts chilling. "Banned. Cut out of books and hidden behind the strongest wards. Only Salazar Slytherin's private library in the Chamber of Secrets contained any reference to the word, a library Tom Riddle cleaned out before he left school." He settled into a familiar teacher's stance, hands folded at his waist. "A Horcrux is made when a wizard splits off a piece of his soul and hides it away, preserving his life even if his body is killed. Preserving a wraithlike existence until each and every corrupted, torn soul-shard is destroyed."

Harry and Prince waited through the mutterings and cries that met his announcement.

"It is a spell most dark, most difficult, but not unknown."

A witch from the back row rose. Harry blinked, stunned by her beauty. Rose-gold hair curled around her tanned face; black eyes huge and deep peered up at him. She wore what looked like a costume out of one of Aunt Petunia's romance novels – stark white shirt, trim velvet waistcoat, and slim trousers tucked into knee-high boots.

"There is a dark library at Durmstrang, that opens only to the language of the snake. Grindelwald himself created it." The witch's accent was thick, but Harry didn't have any trouble understanding her. "It is said that Dumbledore visited his friend there. Perhaps this is how he came to know the word."

"Thank you, Altester." McGonagall rose and bowed to the other witch. She glanced around at the curious faces. "Elder Sigrid has brought her knowledge from the Continent to aid in our fight. She has been the Deputy Headmistress of Durmstrang for thirty years."

Harry's eyebrows shot up. Thirty years? She didn't look much older than Hermione.

"We believe the evil of this Voldemort threatens not just your shores, but all the Wizarding World." Sigrid pursed her lips. "As many Auslanders fought against Grindelwald, so we will now come to help against your enemy." She sat back down.

Harry caught Seamus leaning close to Dean and whispering in his ear. A smile tugged at Harry's lips – he could probably figure out what his classmate was saying.

"So, Voldemort – Tom Riddle – created a Horcrux?" The older lady in Wizengamot robes asked the question.

Prince bowed and waved a hand for Harry to continue.

Harry straightened. "Tom created his first Horcrux while he was at school. At Hogwarts."

"His first?"

"Did he say the first? How many are there?"

"Didn't Dumbledore know?"

The whispers quieted and Harry steeled himself for this next part. "In order to split one's soul, the wizard must perform an act of utter evil. A murder. Tom Riddle used the basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets to kill Myrtle Warren in a girls' lavatory and trapped a piece of his soul in a student journal." He caught Ginny's stormy gaze. "That journal was found during my second year and led me to the Chamber of Secrets and the basilisk there. I destroyed that Horcrux using a basilisk fang. I had no idea at the time what I'd done."

"So – it's been destroyed?" Seamus shouted.

"There were more," Harry answered. He swallowed. "Tom visited Little Hangleton next. He killed his muggle father and used the only Gaunt heirloom, a ring, to house another part of his soul. Then he Imperiused his Uncle Morfin to claim responsibility for the murder." A flash of grief swept across Harry's memories. "Dumbledore destroyed the ring. But the ring was cursed and that curse latched onto him. Some of you must have noticed his hand – it was black, decaying, the curse traveling up his arm towards his heart. It was killing him, all through last year."

Madam Pomfrey was scowling. "Powerful glamours," she muttered. "And mind manipulation. He made sure none of us took much notice."

Harry let the silence stretch out around him, the magics swirling. Behind him, Ron leaned close.

"You've got this, mate. Not much more to tell."

Harry nodded sharply. "Through the following years, Tom created four more Horcruxes. He used heirlooms, items with rich heritages that wizards would not be likely to destroy. The lost diadem of Ravenclaw. Helga Hufflepuff's cup. And Salazar Slytherin's locket. He even turned his familiar – a python – into a Horcrux."

He watched them count, saw the rising fear on their faces. A knot in Harry's gut finally came undone.

"These were the Horcruxes Dumbledore expected us to find. Me, Ron, and Hermione. On our own. Without any help from the wizarding world. We didn't know what they were, or where they were. He told us they might be valuable. Objects from the Founders' families. And that was it." His anger, his rage at Dumbledore's manipulations was explosive, making the room rattle, floorboards shaking, lights flickering overhead. Ron's hand on his shoulder steadied him.

"Yeah, he told us to find them. Destroy them." Ron snorted. "Seems completely logical, doesn't it? Three seventeen-year-olds are supposed to do something Dumbledore himself couldn't figure out. Right."

Hermione took up the story. "The three of us were tasked to find all the pieces of Tom's soul – all but one, actually - and destroy them so that he could die."

After the shouts of disbelief died away, Neville's voice rang out.

"That last one, Hermione. Does it have something to do with why you had to die, Harry? I mean, if you managed to destroy them all, couldn't anyone kill him? Kill Voldemort?"

Neville was so much cleverer than anyone gave him credit for. Harry closed his eyes for a moment. His friends stood beside him, close, reassuring. He lifted his head and touched one finger to the scar on his forehead.

"There was one Horcrux Dumbledore didn't want to tell us about. One he'd known about for years." He turned to stare into Prince's fathomless black eyes. "You knew. He told you. Made sure you would tell me about it at the right moment, when I was nearly defeated, when the battle had already taken people I loved and admired."

Prince's face was pale, his expression bleak. "He set both of us up perfectly to create the 'fairy story' you've described."

Nodding, Harry turned back to the silent crowd. "When Tom Riddle killed my parents, and tried to kill me as a baby, he created another Horcrux. It lived here, inside me. So," he continued before another roar from the crowd could distract him, "so I had to die, too. For Voldemort to become fully human again, the last Horcrux had to be destroyed. And Dumbledore believed that I must die to do that."

"But he was wrong!" Ron shouted over the others. "He – he never even considered whether the shard of soul inside Harry could be destroyed without killing him! Never gave it a thought!"

Hermione took over. "And it was – it was destroyed. Harry's mother's magic, magic that was rooted in an ancient ritual - witches' magic - rose up and destroyed the evil within Harry. He's free now. Free from Dumbledore's bindings, free from Voldemort's possession."

The two House Elves in the first row stood on their chairs; the women around them joined hands. The magic Harry had sensed billowed around them, shining rose. 'Witches' magic,' Hermione had said. Old and strong and beyond anything Harry had been taught in school.

Behind them, Harry's friends didn't notice. "Merlin, Harry." Seamus' laugh was dark. "No wonder you had nightmares."

McGonagall clucked her tongue, but Harry could see the amusem*nt at her Gryffindor's comment in her eyes. "All but one of the Horcruxes have been destroyed. Hogwarts herself destroyed the diadem as soon as Dumbledore's influence fell."

"The goblins destroyed the cup," Charlie announced.

"And the locket." Prince laid one hand across his heart and bowed.

"The ring and journal had already been taken care of. And Harry, there." Neville pointed, his pale skin tinged with green. "That only leaves …"

"The snake," Sigrid snapped, the rose glow of magic drawing her forward. She lifted her chin. "I believe the answer lies in this tale, does it not, Matron?" There was a light in her dark eyes. The light of victory.

McGonagall's eyes shone, too. "Indeed it does. As has been made clear to us through our dear friends, the Chartwell House Elves, it is witches' magic that will bring us the last Horcrux. None of you should be surprised that the snake is a female of the species. And that witches, joined together under the full moon this evening, shall deal with her."

In the front row, the witches stood. Molly, Ginny, Fleur, Andromeda, Tonks. Professor Sprout and Madam Pomfrey. Altester Sigrid stopped at the end of the aisle. Professor McGonagall and Amelia Bones stood from the table beside him.

Molly turned to face the others. "Witches of the ancient rites, young and old, elf, creature, or goblin, student or adult, all are welcome. Join powers. Bind hearts and minds. As we pledged so long ago, we will protect our children."

Every woman in the room spoke.

"I, Amelia Bones, do so bind."

"Katie Bell."

"Sigrid Loffeinson."

"Pomona Sprout."

"Rosmerta Balch."

More and more pledged themselves until there was one left.

Neville's grandmother rose solemnly, her chin high. "I, Augusta Longbottom, stand now in place of Alice, daughter in law and in love. She would be here if she could. Her spirit, in me and in her son, joins us, binding family, heritage, and magic." She stood at the other end of the front row, grasping Pavarti's hand.

Magic gleamed from each standing figure, billowing out in clouds of pale color, leaving their faces shining. Beside Harry, Hermione let go of his hand. He started, stumbling back against Ron, his heart thumping.

Hermione shone, too, her magic a cloud of white and gold, lifting her in the air to hover a few feet above the floor. Her eyes, usually a steady brown, burned white.

"Bound we pledge and bound we be. Blessed be the mothers. Blessed be the daughters. Blessed be the childless. Blessed be the sisters and the sisterless. All become one. One heart – one mind – one will – one magic." She lifted her hands, her hair drifting around her head, each curl gleaming, highlighted in gold.

A gasp rang out, dragging Harry's wide-eyed gaze from Hermione back to the front row. Molly Weasley stood, rigid and still, her aura of magic turning dark crimson.

"A sister is missing. A daughter. One who was pledged in times past, before birth. Pledged herself in heart and magic. She holds the song. She is the Singer. Find the daughter. Find the moon's light." Molly's voice was level, emotionless. "Bound now, sisters, mothers, friends, all – protect the Singer. Bring her home. Only with our moon's light will we prosper."

A line of magic drew itself between Hermione and Molly's wands and then blew into a tempest, swirling, circling, binding every witch in the room. From the back row it blew into high walls on every side, enclosing everyone who had gathered. Harry closed his eyes as the warm, comforting, fiery magic brushed past him. Fierce. Protective. Powerful.

For the first time, Harry understood Dumbledore's off-hand comments about a mother's love, about his mother's magic. He understood the prophecy – 'power the Dark Lord knows not.' This magic wasn't recited spells and wand movements. It wasn't found in dusty books or cold classrooms. This was the magic that held the world together. The magic of hearts and minds connecting, pledging to protect, to encourage, to set the world right so that the next generation might thrive.

This magic lifted Harry's spirit, charged his conscience, and strengthened his muscles. It held him upright, ready, safe, so that he could step out, act, knowing he was loved.

Maybe that part of him wasn't so broken after all.

Familiar laughter surrounded him.

"Mum?" Harry whispered back.

A glimmer of red hair, green eyes, the warmth of slim arms around his shoulders brushed through his awareness. "Never broken, my Harry. My son. Bruised and battered, but never broken."

He didn't know how long he stood there in his mother's ethereal embrace. Long enough for the magics to die down, for them to sink in beneath the surface of each person. For Neville to stand up, his face pale.

"Where's Luna?"

Chapter 43

Chapter Text

Luna hummed. The song her mother had sung to her was always a comfort, a reminder that she had been loved. She knew no one else could hear it – she'd had years of practice keeping her humming quiet. She pretended that she hadn't wanted anyone else to hear – to keep it secret and safe, just for herself – but, really, it was because other people didn't understand. The children she'd tried to share it with at play had mocked her. Adults looked at her with pity. Other Hogwarts students, well, a girl who hummed or sang, skipped down the hallways, and made friends with thestrals was bound to be misunderstood.

In this dark place, she needed her mother's song more than ever. It would have been easier if she'd been alone – Luna understood how to be alone rather well. Her imagination had been well honed over the years since her mother's death and her father's … absence. But she wasn't alone. She had others to see to, to care about. She couldn't draw up her knees and close her eyes and live within the beautiful landscape she'd crafted within her mind. It wouldn't be fair to them.

"How are you feeling, Mister Ollivander?"

Luna laid her hand on the old man's forehead, willing her magic to mingle with his. To strengthen him. She had plenty, after all. Her core was young, still growing, flexible enough to refill the well inside her quickly when she'd used it up.

The old wizard sighed, his pale eyes fluttering. "Much better, Miss Luna. Thank you, my dear." He patted her knee. "You should look after yourself, now."

"Oh, don't worry about me." Luna smiled down at him. "There will be plenty of time to rest and recover once we're rescued."

"Rescued, eh?" Ollivander winked. "My dear girl, you have a great capacity for optimism. Much greater than mine, I'm afraid." He stared up at the stone ceiling, smoke from the two smoldering torches gathering there like a storm cloud. "Knowing where we were might make it a bit easier to believe, I suppose." He peered at her through narrowed eyes. "Do you -?"

Luna tilted her head, her dangling radish earrings tickling her neck just the way she liked. "Near the coast. I can feel the sea reaching out to me, can't you?"

Chuckling, Ollivander laid his head back down on her folded jacket and closed his eyes. "Living in an island country, that does not exactly narrow things down."

"I suppose that's true." Luna sighed and laid down beside him, her head beside his knees and her feet pointing up towards his head. It wasn't exactly cold in this dank basem*nt, but she wished it were a bit warmer. It would be easier to sleep. For both of them.

She shouldn't sleep. Not now. Not when they had yet to return Professor Trelawney. The professor would need Luna. Her mind had become more and more confused after each interrogation by the Death Eaters. Luna sighed. If only the professor had stayed at Hogwarts, behind the castle's thick wards and protections. It was her sherry that had drawn her out. Sent her on a shopping expedition and into the Death Eaters' hands.

It was always our weaknesses that caught us, Luna decided, the song in her mind faltering. Her mother's curiosity, her love for learning and discovering had taken her away. Ginny had been so lonely her first year, away from the crowded love of her family's home. She would never have written in that journal if she'd had her brothers around her. Last year, it was Harry's link with Voldemort that had drawn them to the Department of Mysteries. A link Harry believed to be an asset. That's the way weaknesses usually worked Luna reminded herself.

Luna hoped Mister Ollivander would go back to sleep. Their captors had been especially nasty to him. They'd beaten the poor man. Broken his fingers. They wanted to know something – but apparently it was something that the wandmaker thought was ridiculous. A wand that could overcome all other magic. Really, the Deathly Hallows was a story Luna had been told at bedtime when she was just a tiny girl. It was supposed to be a cautionary tale about arrogance, she thought. Did he know about the Elder Wand, they'd asked the wandmaker. He'd laughed – and they'd hurt him.

She wondered what she'd have asked if she'd had a chance to talk to Death. The thought of the Resurrection Stone was perhaps the most intriguing. She missed her mum. It would be good to talk to her again. Luna closed her eyes and took up her mother's song again, this time singing the words under her breath.

Tom Riddle seemed to like children's stories. Perhaps he didn't hear enough of them when he was little. Ginny had told her something of Tom's life – that his parents had died, and he'd been left all alone. That was terrible, of course, but Luna didn't think it was a good excuse to become a mass murderer. Look at Neville. Thoughts of her friend warmed her and brought a smile to her lips. Neville was kind and good, and much stronger than anyone gave him credit for. Even raised without love, his parents sadly lost to him – lost to themselves – a person could choose the light.

She wondered if Tom would like to hear some other children's stories. She knew quite a few. Bunny Banion and the Roiling Rutabagas. Humpity Grumpity. The Flying Forest of Nikabrik. If she offered to tell him stories, perhaps he would leave poor Mister Ollivander alone.

Luna let out a deep breath and turned her head to the side. Tom didn't really want anything from her. She was unimportant – bait in a trap for Harry and Neville and the others. A way to manipulate Mister Ollivander into speaking his secrets. To try to focus Professor Trelawney's mind. To get her father to print lies in the Quibbler. While she was uncomfortable, and the bruises on her back and arms from the Death Eaters were annoying, and she'd love a cup of tea or a nice hot meal, Luna didn't think being a captive was so bad.

She did miss her friends, though. And she knew her father would worry when he realized she was gone.

A feeling of warmth swept through her. Luna smiled. "Hello, mum." She made sure the words sounded just inside her head – she didn't want to worry poor Mister Ollivander.

My moon's light. Her mother's response was the same as always. Bright. Warm. It was quite comforting.

The time is coming, Luna. Are you ready?

HP HP HP HP HP

Severus closed the door behind him, his shoulders falling from their tense hunch as the wards settled around his study. Just a few minutes, he begged the universe. A few minutes without questions or demands or messages detailing further horrific crimes occurring around the nation. A few precious minutes to settle the young wizard, to reassure him, to cement into Harry that the adults of the wizarding world – and their younger compatriots - had the situation in hand.

Although the Dementors had been destroyed, Death Eaters had taken up the slack. The Ministry was inundated with reports of violence and destruction. The disappearances were growing. Muggle neighborhoods attacked.

Privet Drive was on fire – literally. A gas main explosion. Severus closed his eyes. The wizarding world had no more imagination than ever, it seemed, pulling out the old favorite explanation for such horrific destruction. Number 4 had, thankfully, been abandoned by the Dursley family before Harry escaped. That had not saved the families who lived in the surrounding homes. That had not saved Arabella Figg.

Ollivander had been added to the list of the missing. Trelawney. Old Bathtilda Bagshot. Argus Filch. Stan Shunpike. Three Aurors were dead, targeted when they were lured out to rescue the muggle Prime Minister from attack. Xenophilius Lovegood's body had been found at his home, obviously killed in a furious attempt to protect his daughter. Miss Lovegood's disappearance had hit the gathered Hogwarts students the hardest.

Severus turned to regard the young wizard at the center of the unholy mess.

Harry had absorbed the news without flinching, but Severus had noticed the weight on his shoulders. The weight of guilt and grief, the certain knowledge that others would die before the end. Survivor's guilt. Severus caught Remus' concerned gaze – they were unfortunately all too familiar.

Harry had kept busy, brushing off any and all attempts at comforting words offered by friends or colleagues. He'd thrown himself into the planning, listened with narrowed eyes to the witches who bound themselves with renewed vows, younger women eager to join in, to learn the ancient rituals and bind their magic with the elements. Miss Granger had embraced her role as Binder, instinctively drawing the women – old and young, human and other beings – into a whole greater than its parts. Ronald had not left Harry's side, offering his quick, strategic suggestions to bridge the distance between the witches' role and the wizards' more front-line actions. Drifting between the two groups, Neville Longbottom had, perhaps, surprised Severus the most. Surprised and impressed. Noble. Humble. Diplomatic. The young Gryffindor assumed a background position but seemed to be just where he needed to be during their simulations.

During the past six hours, the wizards and witches had developed plans and strategies, honing the details, tearing them apart, examining successes and failures from every angle and then rewritten and tested them anew. The entire fourth floor of Chartwell Manor now resembled the Tonks' Training Room – although bigger and better equipped. It had been destroyed and rebuilt eight times already. Severus snorted. Mister Finnegan's skills with explosives had been a revelation. Not to mention the other students' ease with advanced defensive spells and Patronuses. Ronald's pointed glance towards Harry when Severus mentioned this revealed the reason. Not to mention Harry's automatic – and outstanding – assistance whenever a wizard faltered in spellcasting.

Dumbledore's Army. Severus remembered rolling his eyes when the headmaster had informed him of the clandestine defense club organized by the Gryffindors during Umbridge's useless reign. Bitter memories may have laid more smug satisfaction across Dumbledore's features than had actually been present, but Severus doubted it. How that name must now stick in the students' craws.

It had taken some spirited discussion to allow the students a place in the adult wizards' strategies. Many wanted to protect the students – to send them all to Hogwarts with the obviously false claim that they were needed to defend the castle. Hogwarts had cared for itself for centuries – she needed no assistance. The goblins had snarled at the suggestion, reminding Severus of the beings he'd seen at the Burrow, armored in gleaming plate mail. The Erechtheidei. Frozen as mere sculptures around the school, Minerva, as Headmistress, had released them, prompting the fierce warriors to take up guarding positions in and around Hogwarts.

It turned out, even without the goblin's reassurance, the students hadn't been as innocently unaware of adult manipulation as some hoped. How could they be?

"After all this," Oliver Wood had stated, his expression bland, "after Dumbledore's sh*te, I'd think you were shut with trying to manipulate us." His stare was fierce as he'd confronted Shacklebolt, the most protective of the lot. "I know we," he gestured to the students raged behind him, "are absolutely done with it. So, here's a thought – be honest. And make a plan that includes us. Because, frankly, the lot of us have more of a stake in the future of the Wizarding World than you old geezers."

"Not to mention more energy, quicker reaction times, and some new ideas that old Snake-Face hasn't seen before," Dean Thomas had added, leaning on his broom.

"And," the Ravenclaw – Goldstein – had added, "we've got Fred and George Weasley. No one in their right mind would try to keep them out of this fight."

Brooms. Explosives. Prank items turned into weapons. The Hogwarts' contingent had been right – none of the adults could have come up with this plan.

The plan would work – could work, Severus corrected himself. He knew, better than many others, that the best laid plans often did not survive first contact with the enemy. Especially when said plans were based on something that could not be tested.

"You're worried."

Remus' voice behind him drew Severus from his dark thoughts. He turned to face the other two wizards. "Our plans hinge on something that is mere theory; of course I'm worried."

Remus shifted uneasily, his gaze flicking between the clock on the mantle and the afternoon sun hovering behind the tips of the distant trees. "With your potion skills, it's not so much a theory as a certainty."

Harry stood behind a chair, creating his own barrier between himself and the two adult wizards. His hands clenched on the back rung. "Is this the same potion you made for Remus in third year?"

Severus huffed. "Similar. The original Wolfsbane potion is more of a complete muzzle – restricting all movement on the part of the werewolf. It literally shuts down his nervous system, leaving him weak and trembling, unable to attack or even defend himself. That is why Remus was so debilitated after the full moon while he taught. This," Severus took up the goblet, still steaming, on his desk, "is a variation. It will not restrict Remus' movements, nor hinder his strength. Instead, it affects the mind. It will dampen the wildness, the uncontrollable blood-lust of the werewolf mind. It will allow Remus to use his werewolf strength and senses, his resilience and quickness, but keep his mind intact. Hopefully."

"'Hopefully,'" Harry echoed, shadows gathering in his green eyes.

"You remember my change – beneath the Whomping Willow." Remus laid a hand on Harry's shoulder. "You remember how Sirius tried to talk me out of attacking, tried to reach my true self."

"I remember that it didn't work," Harry replied.

Severus thought back to the almost-capture of Sirius Black. How three students had stunned him. How the Black Animagus had chased a werewolf away from his godson and friends, at risk of his own death under Remus' claws and teeth.

"Without the influence of Dumbledore's wards and limitations, Remus' core is much stronger than it was. His mind is clearer, his magic well under his control." Severus nodded decisively. "I believe it will work. However, we are taking precautions."

Harry lifted the sheathed silver knife he'd been given. "I don't like the idea of killing Remus any better than him turning on us."

"That's just a last resort, pup," Remus said. He tapped the crossed leather harness he wore over his shirt. In the center of his chest a large, round medallion had been magically welded to the leather. A Portkey gifted them by Chartwell. "Just target this with the code word and I'll be transported back here, into the secure room Chartwell created."

The nod Harry gave Remus was still wary.

"Is there another precaution you'd suggest?" Severus asked.

The young man shook his head. "I'd prefer to do this without Remus – or on another night. But Hermione is certain about the timing. And I suppose we can't refuse to use an advantage like Remus can give us just because …"

Remus slipped an arm around Harry's shoulders. "Just because you don't want to lose someone else close to you?"

Harry's eyes were bright. "Pretty selfish, huh?"

"Understandable," Severus replied, moving from behind his desk. He didn't want to intrude on the blossoming relationship between Harry and Remus. His Brother had stepped into the father-figure role with eagerness and, somehow, Harry had accepted him. The young man was still skittish, still prone to pull back, to seek out his friends rather than an older adult. That was also understandable. There was no potion to take the two back in time, to remove Dumbledore's restrictions so that Remus could save Harry from life in a cupboard and Harry could, in turn, rekindle the warmth of hope and family within Remus.

"You've got a protective streak in you, Harry. One that's wide and strong." Remus laid his hand on the back of Harry's neck. "I know it's new to you but try to remember that adults like Severus and me are the ones who should be protecting you." Remus' forehead creased. "What Arthur did – it's what fathers do. Just like your mum and dad." His lips thinned into the barest smile. "They did not regret it, I can tell you that for sure." He gazed over Harry's head and locked eyes with Severus, inviting help.

"No," Severus added, stepping closer to lay a hand on Harry's shoulder. "The only regret James and Lily would have had is that they left you. And that you, alone, were expected to take up the burden of defeating the one they could not stand against."

Harry blinked hard, his jaw working. Overwhelmed, the young man seemed to want to flee, to stand up straight and deny the comfort the two older men offered. Severus and Remus waited, unmoving.

"The prophecy says …"

Remus' eyes shone red. "Screw the prophecy," he growled. "If 'neither can live while the other survives,' I say we kill the snaky old arsebadger tonight. Then, Severus and I will see to it that you don't just survive, Harry. No, I'm afraid survival isn't enough. You are going to live and succeed and marry and have bouncing baby Gryffindors and take care of us in our golden years. You, my cub, will thrive."

Severus snorted at Harry's wide-eyed disbelief. "Allow the boy some Slytherin children, Remus. He was nearly Sorted into my house, after all. Considering all the sneaking around he's done, in a different age he would have made an outstanding Slytherin."

"Granted," Remus allowed with a sarcastic bow. "By the way, cub, your happy, healthy future life is not a request, not a hopeful wish. That is a certain expectation."

"I'll – I'll try not to let you down," Harry managed to whisper, flicking a decidedly cheeky smile at Severus.

Severus put on his best 'evil potions' master' expression, looking down his nose at the young wizard. "See that you don't."

The moment passed. Severus convinced himself that it was enough as Remus strode decisively to the desk and drank down the potion.

Sorrel appeared. "The sun sets, Master. Soon, the moon will rise."

Severus felt the words of Molly Weasley's vision rise up in his throat.

"'New sisters rise to greet the full moon,
Joined by heart, heritage, hope.
The three chosen ones, our children awaken –
Magic honors our vows,
History will not be repeated.'"

Chapter 44

Chapter Text

The sun had set. The shadows in the forest deepened, all light extinguished. One by one they gathered beside the still pool. Apparating into place. Stalking from between the trees. Touching down at the edge of the clearing. Rising from pool and burrow. Cloaked in green, the women drew into a circle, two House Elves shining in the center. Between them, a slender figure with curly hair raised a pale, vine-wood wand and sketched a symbol into the air. Two red-haired witches, mother and daughter, stood opposite her, linking their magic to hers.

Other figures resolved into sight. Shimmering. Luminous. Made up of light and love. A red-haired witch with bright green eyes. Another, ripples of gold falling down her back. A young witch with twinkling blue eyes. Finally, a solid figure emerged within the circle of these spirits. White-blond hair and a cool expression announced Narcissa Malfoy. Daughter. Mother. Sister. Those gone before touched her, graced her with their memories, their intentions. Cleansing magic rushed through Narcissa from head to toe and she gasped, eyes wide.

Andromeda caught her around the waist before she could fall. Narcissa raised tear-filled eyes to her sister, beyond words, beyond apologies or oaths.

The ghostly figures moved among the others. Cleansing. Healing. Sweeping through the matrons and mothers. Sisters and daughters. Creatures of hoof and wing and scale. Invigorating spirits. Absorbing sorrows. Readying those gathered for their work.

The vine-wood wand moved in a ritual pattern, binding and sealing, claiming new vows, spirits and hearts linked. With one more gesture, Hermione encompassed the forest glade with wards and warnings.

Three came forward. Lily Potter – forever young, mourning her son's loneliness. Molly – older, solid, mother-figure, mourning her new loss. Augusta Longbottom – grandmother, strong and stern, her loss a permanent fixture in her soul.

"Blessed be the sons of the promise, the sons of our oath, the sons of love. Blessed by the sisters, the mothers, the daughters. Blessed by earth and star, by moon and sun, by wood and water." The other witches took up the refrain. "Blessed in heart, in healing, in wisdom. Blessed in heart, in healing, in wisdom. Blessed in heart, in healing, in wisdom."

The three faded back into the circle, leaving Hermione alone with the House Elves. As the first light of the risen moon touched her, gleaming in every curl, Hermione finished her preparations. Before her lay a cleared patch of forest floor, ringed about with bars of moonlight, silver and white. A cage.

The golden-haired figure approached, bare feet gliding above the tumbled leaves and roots of the forest floor.

"Find our moon's light," Hermione directed.

Pandora Lovegood smiled, bowed, and disappeared.

HP HP HP HP HP

My moon's light.

Luna hugged her mother's voice to herself. It was the same as always. Bright. Warm. It was quite comforting.

The time is coming, Luna. Are you ready?

Luna opened her eyes. Oh. Her mother was really talking to her. It wasn't just the same comforting touch, the simple words Luna might have imagined all these years. "Mum?" She sat up, gaping at the swirling rose colored magic. "Mummy?"

My moon's light, her mother repeated. I am so sorry I left you. Broke my vows that I would lead you in the way. Her mother's presence glimmered, her form taking translucent shape, gold and white.

"It wasn't your fault, Mummy." Luna scrambled onto her knees. "You didn't break your promise on purpose."

Her mother smiled. Sweet one. Do you remember the forest? Our walks under the dark moon?

Luna nodded. "You taught me to walk softly. To do no harm. To welcome others – beast or creature. I remember." Her heart full, Luna drank in her mother's presence, the scent of potions and herbs, her golden hair, loose and tangled down her back, long, rich robes of emerald and cyan, bare toes peeking out beneath.

Yes. You walk with the others whenever you enter the forest, my Luna. And they walk with you.

Luna had felt them. Felt them at Hogwarts. The small, quick minds of animals. The long-lived patience of the trees. Centaurs and thestrals and hippogriffs – the mermaids in the Black Lake. Others from ages gone. Familiar presences she couldn't name.

When the Seer returns, be ready. There isn't much time.

"I'll be ready, mum." Luna nodded, hands clasped to her chest. She wasn't worried. Not with her mother here.

Her mother's glowing hand brushed across Luna's cheek. Do you remember our song, Luna?

"Shall I sing it now?"

When the time comes, dear. Sing it loud and clear. The others are listening, anxious to hear it. To find you.

Luna hesitated. "Mum? Will you stay? Will you keep speaking to me?" It hurt her heart to think that, once she did as she was told, her mother would go back through the veil, her task accomplished.

A warm hand, a hand with weight and substance, was set on the top of Luna's head. I'll always be with you, my moon's light. In the water and the wood. In the green and the gold. In the dove's cry and the wolf's bark. We are all with you. Always.

Other presences surrounded her. Mother. Grandmother. Sisters and daughters down through the ages, back and forth in time and space. The words of the song whispered in her mother's voice and were echoed in Luna's heart. Luna had been trusted with the great song, the song of women, taught to the witches by the sirens at the beginning of time. She would need to teach it to the others.

Ignoring the tears making their way down her bruised face, Luna closed her eyes. She didn't want to see the moment her mother dissolved and drifted away.

"Are you all right, my dear?"

"Yes, Mister Ollivander. I'm very much all right, now. But, if you could be quiet for a little bit, I think we will find some help. Or some help will find us."

Still kneeling, Luna heard the key in the lock of the thick wooden door. The keening, whining voice of Professor Trelawney pleading to be let go. Telling her captors that she didn't understand, that she didn't remember any silly prophecy about a little baby.

As soon as the door slammed shut, Luna began to sing. Her voice trembled at first, hardly remembering how to sing above a whisper. Then, as the words flowed through her, from memory, to mind, to heart, it steadied, magic ringing in every syllable.

After the first refrain, other voices were raised with hers. Voices of friends – friends from Hogwarts. Ginny. Hermione. Padma. Luna's eyes fluttered open as others joined in. Professor McGonagall. Ginny's mum. Madam Pomfrey. Many women she didn't know, presences she didn't recognize added to the song.

While Luna sang, she watched Professor Trelawney shrink down into herself and a new awareness emerge. Tall and strong, her eyes clear, her hands steady, the powerful Seer knelt before Luna and took her hands. Sang the song with a rumbling, low voice, her melody reinforcing Luna's and the others'. Strengthening them. Hermione's voice was higher, it glistened and gleamed, drawing all those singing together, their spirits connected along one long strand, each one a different colored light.

"Oh."

Mister Ollivander's exclamation was more a sigh than a word. As she sang, Luna watched the magics roll down his body, leaving healing in the wake of its great wave. He sat up and lifted his hands, reaching – hoping for another touch of the beautiful magic. As she watched, a House Elf appeared beside him, resolving into form from sparks of light. The Elf was holding two wizards' hands – wizards Luna recognized. Professor Snape and Professor Lupin. Professor Lupin looked … different.

No matter. Sing, child.

Her mother's reminder steadied Luna's voice. She breathed deep and began again, the other voices weaving in and out, leaving no gap.

The House Elf let the professors go and swept up Mister Ollivander, Apparating him away. The Elf returned a moment later with two more wizards in tow – Kingsley Shacklebolt and one of the older Weasley boys. Before long, the cell was crowded with wizards. Fred and George Weasley. Professor Flitwick. Neville – oh, Neville. Luna's spirit filled to bursting.

The last to arrive were Harry and Ron.

You must join our sisters, now, my Luna. Her mother enclosed Luna in arms that felt real and warm and loving. Come. The House Elf held out one hand to Luna and one to Professor Trelawney.

Through her tears, Luna took one last look at her friends, at Harry and Ron, grim and determined, standing with older, more powerful wizards. At Neville. So tall. So strong. He wore a sword across his back. And he smiled at her. The three friends – the three sons of blessing - belonged there. Luna gripped the House Elf's hand.

They each had a role to play. "Thank you," Luna whispered as the dank cell disappeared and the dark forest appeared around her. She didn't know if she was thanking her friends or her mother or the universe for allowing her a small part in this battle. Probably all three.

HP HP HP HP HP

"Remus?" Harry gripped the wizard's arm, urging Remus to face him in the dank cell. Remus' teeth were bared, his eyes glowing red, fingernails turned into claws. But behind the rage-haze of the werewolf, Harry saw his friend, his near-uncle. Almost foster-father. The kindness and intelligence were still there, behind the fury, behind the single-minded purpose to destroy his enemy. To protect his cub. Harry sighed and let go.

"Into formation," Ron directed, his grip on Harry's shoulders pressing him into place.

"Set." Bill and Charlie moved as one to either side of the thick wooden door, wands ready. Fred and George, aiming from the bottom of the three stone stairs that led up to the door, nodded.

Flitwick and two other goblins stood poised in the shadows, bloodthirsty grins on their faces. They would not need wands to deal with whoever came through the door.

Shacklebolt made a quick check of the remaining wizards. "Remember, the witches will need some time to deal with the snake. Don't try to engage them all – our defensive line around the manor will take care of any trying to flee or provide reinforcements. Distraction is the watch-word. Sow confusion. Draw them away from the bastard." He nodded to Prince.

"One final word," Prince murmured. "This is not a duel, a gentlemanly match to prove a point. This is war. Cast to wound, to kill, to take out your enemy." He and Remus placed themselves behind the Weasley twins. "Remus has already taken Voldemort's scent. We will find him." He locked eyes with Harry. "You will enter the fight only when he has been contained. Understood?"

Harry rolled his wand between his fingers. "Understood."

Prince's dark eyes held him as if he'd been Petrified.

"My word," Harry offered in a whisper.

Prince nodded and rejoined Remus.

"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies..."

Harry forced himself to breathe in and out, slow and steady. Since they'd reached Luna, since the witches – Hermione – had left for the forest and he and Ron and Neville had taken their places with the reserves, the prophecy had been repeating itself in Harry's mind.

Everything had changed since he'd heard it, since he'd sat in Dumbledore's office and watched Professor Trelawney spin up out the Pensieve to speak the words that had doomed his parents. At that moment, Sirius' death had been an open wound in his soul. His friends' injuries had scared him, made him realize how he'd put them all at risk. Still shaking from Voldemort's attempt at possession, Harry had listened to the headmaster and accepted the burden. He must be the one.

Everything had changed since then. Everything and nothing. A handful of days ago, the adult wizards had stepped out of Harry's shadow and pledged to fight, to protect him. But there was no escaping the prophecy.

Dumbledore's spells, his interference with Harry's magic, and the memories and attitudes of the people around him had died away. The manipulations had come to an end. Remus and Prince, the Tonks and the Weasleys and so many others had joined together to fight. Magic itself had risen up, magic Harry hadn't known had existed, the magic of House Elves, the oaths of witches made beneath a dark moon before he'd been born. But nothing changed the truth of the prophecy. It hadn't removed the burden of ending Voldemort's reign from Harry's shoulders.

"and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not..."

Dumbledore had told Harry his hidden power was love. His mother's love that had saved him that Halloween night. He rubbed at his scar. Her spirit had been strong enough to remove the Horcrux, to destroy it, after fifteen years. That same love had made his touch deadly when Quirrell attacked him. Voldemort himself had known that he couldn't touch Harry without using his blood. Harry clutched his right arm. The scar reminded him of that night in the graveyard. Cedric had died and Voldemort had risen.

It had been Harry's focus on the love of his friends that had sent Voldemort reeling from possessing Harry in the Ministry of Magic.

He glanced around him. Maybe love was still the answer. Not the sheen of magic that his mother had left lying against his skin, not her sacrifice itself, but the ties of love and friendship and family that had drawn these people together. Harry swallowed hard. His love for his friends hadn't been diminished by the release of Dumbledore's puppet strings – it had grown. He stared at Prince's back. Just maybe, others' love for him had been allowed to grow, too.

Harry shivered as the last line of the prophecy broke through the haze of good feelings.

"…and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives."

Everything and nothing had changed. One of them had to die at the hand of the other. Harry or Voldemort. That's the reason Harry had been allowed to come. They couldn't kill Voldemort without him. And Harry had promised to do his best to be the one to survive.

He clutched his wand tighter. If it took committing murder to do that, to survive, to make sure his friends and new family made it through, Harry was okay with it.

Chapter 45

Chapter Text

It all happened in flashes.

Fred and George blasted the door off its hinges.

Pettigrew and another fell at Bill and Charlie's spells.

The goblins rushed forward, taking out two more Death Eaters.

Bangs. Cries. Screams. Flashes of light. Shouted threats. Insane laughter. Bill diverted a hex, saving Charlie but exploding a bookcase that rained down debris on both of them. Moody stood tall while three Death Eaters hit him with spells until Shacklebolt came to his rescue. Neville drew the sword of Gryffindor and cut straight through the wand arm of a Death Eater targeting Flitwick. Ron cast a healing spell on Moody's back, straightening the wounded man's spine. Behind Harry, Elliott, the muggle-dressed wizard bringing up the rear, threw some of the twins' Darkness Powder at a trio of Death Eaters before taking them out.

In what seemed like seconds, they'd all gathered in a great foyer beneath a swinging chandelier. Two Aurors in red robes took up bodies by the ankles and dragged them into the shadows. A great bang from outside rocked the manor. And then another. The chandelier shook, crystals shattering, falling like glass snow.

"Nice one, Seamus," Fred smiled, blood on his lips.

George laughed, straightening his not-quite-so-twin brother's broken nose with a quick spell. "That ought to keep them busy."

Professor Flitwick and the goblins headed towards the left side of the ground floor – Elliott and the two Aurors went right.

Moody stationed himself in the center, slamming his stick on the floor. "I'll slow you down." He clenched his jaw. "None will get past me up those stairs."

Silence fell as Remus' head swung up to stare at the hallway that overlooked the foyer on the second floor. He growled. Harry didn't know how Prince kept up with him, but the two leapt up the stairs and headed to the left. Harry had one foot on the first riser before he realized he'd moved.

"Slowly," Neville warned, grabbing Harry's elbow.

Harry froze as Bill and Charlie hurried up the stairs ahead of them, disappearing down an opposite hallway to the right. Fred and George gave Ron a pat on each shoulder as they followed Remus and Prince, keeping a few yards behind them. Remus was headed straight for Voldemort. For the last battle. The others would make sure they got there.

"There's a lot of house to get through." Ron's concerned gaze tried to follow both sets of brothers.

Heart thumping, Harry nodded. Sandwiched between Ron and Neville, he waited the agreed-upon thirty seconds before slowly following the adult wizards forward. Up. The footsteps had died away, but bursts of light and sound echoed from both ends of the upper hallway. Shacklebolt trailed Harry and his friends, his red robe seeming to catch at the magic in the air, making it glow.

"Eyes forward," the Auror ordered just as a door burst open between the twins and Harry and his friends. The attacking Death Eater was taken down by three simultaneous Stunners.

Ron knelt and cast a diagnostic charm. He rose and dusted off his pants. "He's not going to wake up for a week."

"Still." Shacklebolt cast Wingardium Leviosa and levitated the man down to Moody waiting below.

"Let's go." Harry urged them on. He didn't want Remus and Prince to get too far ahead. Along hallways and up short flights of stairs, they kept Fred and George within sight as the twins cleaned up the few of Voldemort's followers that had survived Remus and Prince's rush. Harry and his friends followed them up another floor and along a hall with tall windows on one side and four closed doors on the other. The doors had been fused shut with thick black vines, layers of curses and hexes.

"We'll deal with anyone behind those later," Fred grinned over his shoulder. Before he turned back, a window to Harry's right burst in.

Harry ducked as Shacklebolt crashed into him from behind, knocking him to his knees.

"Bloody hell," Ron muttered, splayed up against the opposite wall from the concussion, one arm flung up to protect his face.

Blood dripped down Neville's cheek from a slash just beneath his right eye. Crouching between the broken window and the next one, Harry struggled to get away from Shacklebolt's grip. The Auror checked him over, nodded, and rose to stand over the three, aiming his wand down the hallway in the direction the twins had gone.

Ron waved his wand over Neville, closing the bleeding slash. Harry braced himself, back flat against the wall, so he could peer out the window. Flashes of red and blue streaked past – Wood and Finch-Fletchley raced around the manor on brooms, flinging spells towards the Death Eaters gathered below. One of the robed and masked men on the ground flung another spell upwards and Harry ducked back. "Look out!" he shouted.

Luckily the spell went wide and struck the wall behind him instead of the window or the broom riders. A flurry of spells followed. And then a cry.

Before Harry could lean out to see who had fallen, Ron shoved him down the hallway. "Let's get away from here –" he urged.

Harry stared into his friend's worried gaze for a moment before nodding and moving on. His jaw hurt from clenching, from swallowing his questions and concerns. Prince was right. This was war. In war, people got hurt – people died. People on both sides. The names Harry guarded in his heart – his parents, Sirius, Dumbledore, Cedric, Mrs. Figg, Arthur Weasley – they'd no doubt have others to join them today.

They climbed up another floor – the last one, Harry figured. He'd taken the lead position, sweeping back and forth for traps and hidden figures Fred and George might have missed before moving forward. Ron was stalwart behind his left shoulder. Neville, Gryffindor's sword clutched in his hand, to his right.

Harry's gut was grumbling, complaining that he should be up front with Remus and Prince. The Golden Boy. The Boy Who Lived. The Saviour of the Wizarding World was meant to be the vanguard, not bringing up the rear where it was safe. His conscience tried to distract him with images of his friends outside. Targeted. Bloody, bruised, and broken. He remembered the Department of Mysteries – Death Eaters far stronger than any student. They certainly wouldn't hold back – none of their enemies would bother to stun rather than kill.

"Coward. Sending others to fight your battles."

The voice hissed, coming from the walls, the ceiling. Harry stumbled.

"Children die so easily."

Dean. Seamus. Justin –

I'll kill them, boy. You know your wolf and the traitor are no match for me."

Harry shook his head. No, this wasn't a vision. It didn't come from his scar – a scar that hadn't hurt once since his mother's magic had burned the Horcrux to ash. He braced one hand against the wall, head hanging. The strange curling design on the dark wallpaper seemed to move beneath his hand.

"Harry? What's wrong?"

Louder, stronger, the hissing slithered along Harry's skin, dived beneath to flash along his nerves, pouring through his Occlumency shields.

"Haven't the Weasleys lost enough, boy? I see you've thrown four more of them into my path just to save yourself."

"What's -"

"Are you okay?"

Harry pried his eyes open. "Can't you hear it?"

"They can't stand before the Killing Curse, boy. No one can. No one but you, it seems. They will fall before me, all of them. The wolf first, I think. Unless …"

"Harry!"

A green flash lit Harry's mind. A scream. The thud of a body hitting the floor.

"No!"

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As Luna sang, the moonlight spread through the forest. It lit every leaf, skimmed each trunk with a layer of silver. The lake, as smooth and serene as steel, reflected light up into the faces of the women. The others sang with her, creatures murmuring, wind adding counterpoint, owls and other birds adding their harmonies. The song called others to them – witches, small creatures, flying things. The song of the Sirens did not lure men to their destruction but made a pathway so that all women might find their sisters. All might become part of the whole.

The figure of the five-pointed star grew up out of the earth, its lines erupting in slashes of light. It rose up around the cage Hermione had created. Luna knelt at the point that emerged at her feet. Across the small clearing, a House Elf crouched at another. Ginny's mum and Missus Tonks covered the other two. Hermione, upright and hands upraised, took the center point.

The song became a whisper as the magics gathered, a hum just beyond hearing. Hermione shimmered, her great spirit welcoming every sister, mother, and daughter, drinking down the power they offered and holding the spell at the cusp point.

"Come to us, sister." Hermione focused the light with a flick of her wand. "There is only one pathway. One road to take. Come, sister, at our call. Come and join us."

Within the glowing bars of the cage, a green mist swirled.

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"Remus. Remus!"

Severus aimed his wand, his heart thumping madly in his chest. Remus was crouched over the bloodied throat of Rodolphus Lestrange, his teeth bared, his claws still deep in the dead Death Eater's flesh. Remus had been barely holding onto control for the past few minutes and Severus knew why - it was the smell of blood. The upper floor reeked of it.

It was Severus' fault.

Remus had been slowly pulling away, out-pacing Severus as he loped down the hallway following Voldemort's scent. He'd run right past the tapestry that hid a narrow passage where the Carrows had been stationed. Whether it had been the thick layer of dust that had confused Remus' overpowered nose or the werewolf's sheer determination to find – and end – their enemy didn't matter. What had mattered was that the Carrows had leapt into the hallway behind Remus, both wands aimed at the werewolf's back. Severus had reacted, fear for his brother racing the first spell he could think of out from his wand and his outstretched left hand.

"Sectum Sempra!"

The Carrows had little time to scream as the deep slashes were cut into the flesh of their backs, more ripping through their calf muscles, and their upper thighs, the arterial blood spraying out in bright red fountains.

Over the twitching bodies of the Carrows, Remus had turned back to stare at Severus. Remus' shoulders broadened, hunching, as he scented the air. His nose and mouth lengthened into a snout. Where Remus had stood, the werewolf lifted his head, howling. Before Severus could send the code word to the Portkey in the center of Remus' chest, he'd spun and sprinted towards the door at the end of the hall.

Lestrange, stationed before the door, hadn't stood a chance.

Severus shifted from an all-out run to a slow walk, calling upon all of his Occlumency to slow his heartbeat and steady his breathing. "Remus, you've done well. You've cleared the way. They cannot hurt Harry now. You remember Harry, don't you?"

He kept his voice even. Unhurried. His wand pointed to the floor in the hand at his side. "Harry and the others should be here soon. Do you smell him? Can you hear him coming?"

Remus lifted his muzzle and sniffed the air. Somewhere, beneath the stench of blood, the familiar scent of his young cub should help bring the wizard's mind back to the surface. Severus knew any upper-level thinking was out of the question, but appealing to Remus' senses might work.

"Harry is coming, Remus. He and his friends are almost here. Can you tell? Can you hear them talking?"

Remus co*cked his head, a low snarl rumbling from his throat as two sets of footsteps behind Severus announced the arrival of Fred and George Weasley.

"Stay back," Severus murmured without turning. "Back out of sight."

"Oh, sh*te."

He didn't know which Weasley uttered the words, but he saw the fire in Remus' eyes and the tension in the werewolf's muscles as he prepared to spring.

"Do you remember your vow, Remus?" Severus shouted. "Your vow of friendship and brotherhood?" Hopefully his words would cover the Weasleys' retreat.

Remus blinked, staggering backwards.

Severus drew in a slow breath. This was chancy, to try to reach the wizard's mind and magic while the feral animal was in ascendance.

"You vowed to never hurt me, Remus. More – you vowed that you would act as a brother to me. Protect me from harm. And I vowed the same to you. I don't want to hurt you. Do you want to hurt me?"

An echo from the past distracted Severus. He'd heard much the same words from Sirius Black beneath the Whomping Willow after Pettigrew's capture. Sirius had thrown himself at his friend even as Remus transformed. As Harry noted just a few hours ago, it hadn't worked then. Even the bond of Sirius and Remus' decades-long friendship couldn't compete with the werewolf's bloodlust. How could this newly reforged bond between Severus and Remus possibly compare?

Chapter 46

Chapter Text

Focus on Harry, Severus told himself, refusing to cower in the face of Remus' wolf. "Harry is coming, Remus. He needs you. I need you. Not as a wolf, but as a wizard. A wizard who will stand between those you love and the evil behind that door." Severus lifted his hands in a slow, smooth movement. "Will you force me to send you away? To send you to safety while Harry faces this threat without you?"

Remus snarled, gnashing his teeth. He flung his head from side to side.

"You don't want to go, do you?" Severus asked. Could he be reaching Remus' great heart? "You don't want us to fight without you. If we were hurt, if Harry were hurt, you'd never forgive yourself."

Another snarl twisted the werewolf's muzzle. Clawed hands clenched, Remus' chest rose and fell in quick pants. He shifted to stand sideways to Severus, shielding the Portkey from view.

"No, you don't want me to send you away. But I will. I will, my friend. To protect Harry. To protect myself, your brother." Severus took two steps forward, earning himself bared teeth and a rumbling warning growl.

A cub – a child – Severus remembered a dark night, a storm, his three-year-old self crying for his mother. His mother had taught him a spell that night - a child's spell fueled by feelings, not magic. Every wizarding child knew the spell, knew the simple words, and could direct it with empty hands and an eager heart. Magic knew its own. Magic knew what its children needed, even if the child did not.

This was not the wizard's 'Point Me' spell, the powerful magic that would tether the caster to the one he sought. No, this was a cub's spell. One that could only be cast with love, with a child's kind of love. Magic that reached from a child's aching heart towards the closest loved one. A mother. A father. A brother. The one person who would come at a child's need and reassure the child that comfort – that love – would always come to them.

"Find my brother," Severus murmured, remembering the child he had been.

Severus' magic, green and silver, rose in a hazy mist to drift through the air between them. Remus blinked, his eyes widening from feral slits as the magic came closer. He twitched, mouth open, tongue licking across his teeth as if to taste it.

"Yes, it's me, Remus. Your brother. I need you."

Remus turned, shifting to face him. Severus readied himself to cast the Portkey charm, not yet lifting his wand.

The magic rushed forward, striking Remus square in the chest, and sinking down beneath the surface. Down towards his core. Searching – searching for the soul of the one sought. Searching for Severus' brother, Remus.

Remus stumbled backwards, knocking into the door Dolohov had been guarding. He blinked at Severus, the rage-filled eyes dimming back to brown, his muzzle shrinking, reforming into a man's face. "Sev – Sev – "

Relief swept Severus nearly off his feet. "Remus?"

"Here." There was still some growl in Remus' voice, but his body had shrunk back into the wizard's form. He took in Severus' careful pose, assessing him for damage. "Brother. All right?"

"Yes, I'm fine. You haven't hurt anyone but our enemies," Severus assured him.

Remus huffed out a breath, nodding. "Good. Good." He straightened suddenly, peering behind Severus. "Harry is coming."

It only took a few strides to bring Severus up next to his brother. "Then let's finish this." He raised his wand towards the door. "Ready?"

The blood-streaked grin didn't frighten Severus this time. "Ready."

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"Harry!"

Ron grabbed him by the shirt and shoved Harry against the wall. The impact knocked Harry dizzy. He blinked up at his friends. He had to save them. Save them all.

"Ron –" Neville was out of breath – "Shacklebolt's been hurt – some kind of trap hex -"

"Listen! It's just like second year! I can hear the hissing - it's Parseltongue!" Ron yelled. "It's in the walls!" Ron yelled.

"Look – look at the wallpaper –" Neville tugged on Ron's arm, scowling. "Get him away –"

"He's going to kill them." Harry held onto Ron with a painful grip. "He's going to kill Remus. Your brothers." No one had ever been able to stand up against Voldemort. Only Dumbledore. Only Harry. What was he doing here? Letting them all fight his battle for him?

"Don't listen to him, Harry!" Neville demanded, finally getting Ron to drag Harry away from the wall and into the center of the hallway. "He's trying to lure you out!"

"Yeah, mate," Ron added, leaning close. "You need to stop listening to that bastard! Remember what he did with Sirius!"

Sirius. Lured to the Ministry to save Harry when Harry thought he was saving him. Harry's thoughts twisted and churned, like snakes. Snakes slithering under his skin, up and down his nerves. The hissing was inside him now, whispering where only he could hear.

Who was saving whom? Prince and Remus – they said Harry was a child, that adults should protect him. But all these years his teachers had claimed it was Harry's responsibility. Harry's job to fight Voldemort. To kill him. That he had to live up to his mum's sacrifice. Live up to the prophecy that had killed her.

"I was sorted into Gryffindor for a reason," Harry seethed, fighting, trying to push Ron away. "Not to stay back here and hide."

"That's Dumbledore talking, Harry." Standing at Ron's side, Neville never looked more formidable. Intimidating. "He's the one who pushed you, who turned us all into his minions so that you'd stand alone. So that you'd feel responsible for every death and disappearance. He wanted you to feel the burden so that you'd walk to your own death at the end of that madman's wand." He shook his head, his dark eyes sparking with light. "The Horcrux is gone. You don't have to do that anymore."

Fred and George had appeared beside Ron. "You should listen to the man, mate."

"Yeah, there's a bit of a wrinkle up ahead. Don’t need our Saviour to be out there howling at the moon, now do we?"

"I – I –" It didn't make sense. Were the voices right? Was Harry a coward, lingering in the back, surrounded by family and friends like he was something precious? Why? Why wasn't Ron precious? Or Fred? Or Remus? Harry's thoughts wouldn't settle. "Wait –" he shoved Ron away with both hands so that he could turn towards the twins. "Howling? It's Remus, isn't it?"

"Not to worry, not to worry, ole Severus has got him in hand."

"Why don't I believe that," Harry snapped.

"Fred. George. You should help Shacklebolt – he's –" Neville turned to point back over his shoulder.

Harry felt the twins' grips on his arms loosen. "Where? Is he –"

Youngest Seeker in a century, Harry twisted away from his friends and raced down the hallway.

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Remus and Severus tested the wards on the double doors. Severus yanked his hand back just in time as the doorknob grew teeth and snapped at him. Remus grinned.

"Doors and doorknobs." He shook his head. "No one has any imagination anymore."

The two drew back a few strides and checked the empty room on the right side of the hall. They entered, Remus immediately moving to the opposite wall and the window there. Severus banished the frilly pink bed with a disgusted grimace and approached the wall that must be shared with the room at the end of the passage. Voldemort's room.

"I've got it." Remus banished the window – frame and all. Crouched on the ledge, he caught Severus' gaze. "Ready?"

Severus' lips twitched "Always." He lifted his wand. "One, two, three - Bombarda!"

Remus leaped.

The wall exploded and Severus rushed into the gap.

Spells flew from Severus' wand, one after the other, each splashing against a powerful crystal-shield charm. Voldemort stood in the center of the wreckage, the splintered wood and plaster thrown to each corner of the room from impact with his shield. Teeth bared, the snake-like wizard turned to face the threat, both skeletal arms raised, pumping magic into his protection, keeping Severus' magic out.

"Foolish traitor," Voldemort snarled, tongue flicking out. "You have never been a match for me, boy. I shall enjoy teaching you, once again, to know your place." He twirled his wand in a complicated figure and hissed a spell.

Parseltongue. Severus dodged. He would be unable to properly counter a spell he could not recognize.

Snakes erupted from Voldemort's bone-white wand, hissing, fangs bared. They thumped to the floor at Severus' feet, angry, lashing out. He murmured a spell, wand pointed at himself, and levitated himself over the coiling serpents, out of reach.

Voldemort's laughter echoed from all around. "Jump – jump, my traitor." His wand sketched a loop and Severus felt a rush of air pushing him back and forth. "You will always jump to my wand."

Severus closed his eyes and called up his magic. Not the magic of wands and spell books. Not the magic of study and tests. This was his family magic. Beverley magic. His skin sizzled, and he imagined green and silver sparks radiating from his pores. The magic steadied him against Voldemort's tempests, holding Severus motionless before Voldemort could hurl him against wall or floor or drop him back among his venomous snakes.

"No Beverley will jump to any man's command, Tom." Severus opened his eyes. "Especially not a psychopath like yours." Over Voldemort's shoulder, through the translucent shield, Severus saw movement. He kept his eyes on the enemy. "Test me and you will know that you have been duped by Albus Dumbledore's magic once again. Even in death, the old man defeats you."

Voldemort's red eyes blazed with hatred. "No! His magic is defeated!" He flung his arms to the sides, green light erupting from his wand at the wizard's silent command.

The spell washed over Severus and beyond. Not the killing curse – Avada Kedavra could not be cast silently, nor from within a shield. The nature of the spell would not allow it. The Killing Curse demanded one stand before his enemy, look him in the eye, and take his life with deliberate passion, leaving one's self open to retaliation if it failed. In another lifetime, Severus might have been impressed by the Dark Lord's confidence, his utter belief that he could cast that curse time after time and remain untouched.

Today, Severus promised himself. Today Voldemort's confidence would lead to his downfall.

No, Voldemort had done exactly as Severus wished – he'd cast a spell to measure Severus' magic, to gauge all of the combined magic that was ranged against him in and around this manor. Aurors. Wizards. Goblins. House Elves. Healers. Youth and age. Muggle-raised and pureblood. Clever inventors and those well versed in tradition. Witches, linked, bound, filled to the top with elemental power.

And three boys – three young men – who walked with prophecy and power yet unknown.

Severus smiled as his magic suspended him in the air with no effort. He flourished his wand, keeping Voldemort's attention. "How far can you cast, Tom? How many can you sense, even now, coming for you? I promise you," Severus shook his head slowly, back and forth, as Voldemort's eyes widened, his pale hands shaking, "my allies' magic is more formidable than you can imagine." His smile became snarling, cruel. "It is the very power that you know not. The power that, released from that old fool's control, was prophesied to stop you, once and for all."

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Remus crashed through the windows of the huge sunroom, timed perfectly with Severus' Bombarda. He shook off the shards of glass, and silently apologized to the plants he'd overturned, quickly righting them, repairing the clay pots, and replacing the soil strewn over the floor. He sighed, relieved, seeing that the great woven basket set against the far wall was empty. The witches had done it – they'd snatched Voldemort's familiar from under his nonexistent nose.

As a werewolf, Remus would be mostly immune to the viper's venom. He'd been prepared to wrestle the snake, keeping the others free to deal with Voldemort. Remus flexed his claws, keeping his wolf on a tight rein – but just beneath the surface. Now he was free to join the battle.

He spun back towards the window he'd leaped from. Remus' heightened senses caught the twins' cries. Harry was coming – sooner than expected. He stalked towards the door into Voldemort's room.

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Fred and George caught up with Harry as he stumbled over the mangled Death Eaters' bodies. Fred flung one long arm across Harry's chest and held him against his body while white spiderwebs streamed from George's wand, wrapping the bloody corpses and dragging them to the side.

"Quiet," Fred murmured into Harry's ear. "You know the plan. We've got to time this perfectly."

Ron and Neville had arrived by then. "Blimey, Harry," Ron panted, hauling Harry from his brother's clutch, "get your head on straight."

Harry blinked at Ron's concerned eyes, his stomach sick. What was he doing? He was going to ruin everything. Still, the crawling sensation inside his skin was urging him to run, to hurry, to get to Voldemort before anyone else got hurt.

"Ron –" Neville frowned. His free hand was poised above Harry's arm as if he'd reached out to grab him and came up against a shield. "Can you run a diagnostic charm on Harry?"

Ron didn't ask questions. He murmured the spell and set his wand sideways a few inches from Harry's forehead. He moved the wand down, his eyes half-closed as he read what the magic revealed to him.

"Okay. That's – not right."

Harry nearly backed away from his friend as a fierce, determined expression came over Ron's face.

"More information, less talk, Ronniekins," George muttered, practically dancing back and forth. "We've got to get in there."

"Go," Ron said firmly, nodding towards the door at the end of the hall. "Neville and I can take care of this." His jaw clenched. "Shacklebolt – I'm sorry, but he's going to have to take care of himself."

As Fred and George took off, Ron pushed Harry into Neville's arms. "Hold him. Use the sword."

"What?"

Harry didn't dare move as Neville's arms came around him, the sword of Gryffindor held straight across his chest. Red and gold magic burst from the handle, sliding down the blade. Hot, insistent, the magic billowed up and down across Harry's skin. The same urgent need to run rose up, tangling Harry's thoughts, fear for his friends, his mentors, bursting; guilt slithering in circles in his gut. His wand vibrated in his hand.

"It's a spell, Harry. Something to do with your magic –" Ron's eyes narrowed as his wand made another circuit over Harry's head and chest. "No, it's not your magic, it's Parseltongue." Ron blinked, as if coming awake and focused on Harry's eyes. "Voldemort cast a spell that would target any person in the manor who could understand his snakes."

"The wallpaper," Harry muttered. The curling designs had dug down beneath his skin. "It's inside me."

Neville shifted his grip on the sword. Light caught on the silver blade, highlighting the faint lines of the inscription. Magic shone, so bright Harry squinted. He felt it thicken, wrapping around him like a shroud. He couldn't breathe – couldn't get his chest to rise and fall – he was choking.

"I've got you," Neville claimed behind him. "Let Ron do his stuff, Harry."

Harry couldn't fight, his arms and legs wouldn't answer him. As if he'd been Petrified, Harry was held immobile between Gryffindor's sword and Neville's strength. It should have been horrible – frightening – the feeling of being trapped, unable to breathe or blink or speak. Instead, a soothing warmth rushed up from his wand, offering comfort tinged with sorrow. The snakes still twisted, but the immediate need to go – to fight – was muffled. Harry trusted these two, he reminded himself. His fellow Gryffindors, two guys who had been with him through every nightmare, every manipulative adventure Dumbledore had put him through.

Harry tried to tell them – through his gaze locked with Ron's, his head falling back against Neville's shoulder. Tell them he trusted them. He thought he heard a phoenix's song.

"Okay." Ron's lips lifted in a half-smile. "Everybody hang on." He raised his wand, now glowing with white and green healing magic, "Salus Anima. Salus. Salvo. Comparco. Seduco." Ron's voice chanted, his magic aimed at Harry's throat and mouth. The spell gained strength as Ron spoke until he was shouting. He shoved his wand and empty hand towards Harry.

Harry gasped, his head flung back. Magic rushed down his throat and into his tissues, targeting whatever spell Voldemort had slipped beneath his skin. Gathering it up. Hauling it back up Harry's throat until he gagged. Choked. Vomited.

It hit the air, a bundle of squirming snakes, huge, pus-green, hissing and writhing as it attacked Ron's magic.

"Now, Neville!"

Neville shoved Harry away, into Ron's arms, and brought the sword of Gryffindor up. With one swing, the sharp edge of the sword – metal and magic fused - cut straight through the spell. The snakes burst into scattered stars of red and black that stung Harry's skin, burned against Neville's arms and Ron's cheek as he turned Harry away from the blaze.

Harry dragged in a deep breath, another, hands on his knees, trying to control the tears sliding down his cheeks. His wand hummed, the song rising. He cradled it against his chest – he didn't understand why he felt like this. Sad. Sad, but calm. Peaceful. Sure.

Seconds later he realized his friends were talking to him.

"It's okay – we've got you. See? It's gone. No harm done."

Ron giggled.

"Did you just giggle?" Neville asked, laughing.

"Sorry, sorry," Ron gushed. "Healing magic. It's a rush, mate."

Harry straightened, rising from his half-crouch. He felt light. Clean. His mind was clear. His mother's magic had expelled the Horcrux from Harry's body, but it was Ron and Neville who had taken away his last connection to Voldemort. Parseltongue. Harry knew the ability was gone, the last link to Voldemort's dark magic. No, not quite the last link. He swallowed, closed his eyes, and said his goodbyes.

The plan Prince and Remus and the others had come up with blazed across his thoughts, precise and perfect. Harry took in his two friends, huge grins on their faces, picking themselves up off the floor. "Well," he put his hands on his hips, "that was … something."

Ron and Neville, propped on each other's shoulders, couldn't seem to stop smiling.

"Understatement of the century," Ron said.

"A hell of a lot better than Expeliarmus, wouldn't you say?" Neville grinned.

"You'd think so," Harry murmured, the truth unfolding with the song within him. "All right you two, let's get a move on." He lifted his wand. "It's time to end this."

Chapter 47

Chapter Text

Luna felt sorry for the snake. It had been an innocent animal, once. Wild. Free. And then a wizard had stolen it away from its home because of its poisons, its natural gifts and immunities. Perhaps it had been coddled and treasured, but that did not make what had been done to it right. Natural creatures should be left to nature, respected, not turned into tools or playthings for the Dark Arts. Or Horcruxes.

The witches' magic had waited, singing soothing melodies around the thrashing viper until it quieted. Luna felt its confusion die away as it explored the grass and soil. Now the snake was more hungry than upset.

Outside the glowing bars of its cage, a single mouse crept forward, grey and tired, its tiny heart a few beats away from stopping.

"Thank you," Hermione whispered. "Thank you, mother, for your sacrifice."

Mice lived short, frantic lives. Even so – Luna bowed her head – for this old one to give her last few breaths to comfort another was as heroic as an act could be.

The mouse limped between the bars – a few more inches. The viper's tongue flicked out, her neck arched, bright eyes focused on the prey.

"A life for a life. The circle turns." Molly Weasley began the chant.

Others replied. "Thank the mother. Thank the giver."

Molly's voice was filled with tears. Her loss colored her spirit with grief. "Life returns to the earth. Death completes the journey."

"Thank the mother. Thank the giver."

Luna freed a whisp of comforting magic and sent it across the star to Ginny's mum. As she watched the glimmering strand, other witches' magic joined hers. Molly bowed her head and then looked up at the moon, her cheeks streaked with tears, but her eyes bright. "Without dark, we cannot see light."

"Thank the mother. Thank the giver." Luna repeated the chant. She noticed a new layer beneath the words, each woman, beast, and creature remembering a loved one. Someone taken, gone away. Sacrificed so that others might live.

The snake hissed, rearing back. It struck, fangs sinking deep.

"Taste death, all, and know thyself mortal. The last gift of the mother."

"Thank the mother. Thank the giver."

As the snake fed, Hermione sent the witches' magic into the cage. There, at the center, the life-charge of the mouse blazed, warm and red, this tiny mother's life entwined with all of theirs. The mouse's sacrifice would bind the magic, fuel it, carry it within the snake.

The viper swallowed it down.

Hermione's eyes closed tight, her hands shaking as the power poured from the women through her and into the snake. Seeking. Searching. Finding. Beneath the scales, the dry skin and the thick flesh, a spark of another's life hid. Broken soul - damaged beyond repair. The witches' magic encircled it, wrapping it in layer after layer of energy. The living witches could not destroy the dark thing, but they could protect the animal – and their company – from the aftermath of its destruction.

Behind her, Luna felt the others stir. The glimmering lives who had already tasted the mother's final gift. Her mum and Harry's. The Founder. The Wise One. The Lady. The Child. More than ghosts or memories under the full moon. They slid between those kneeling at the points of the star to reach through the cage's bars. Their hands were nearly too bright to see as they touched the quiescent snake.

"Be free, Nagini."

The ground beneath Luna's knees shook. Their magic strained but held, the snake enduring one flash of pain and then release. Wholeness. Nagini laid her head down on the forest floor and blinked ancient eyes at the spectral forms that had freed her from Voldemort's taint.

Hermione panted, struggling to find her voice. "Sister. You are no longer a slave. Freed and healed, your will is your own. Those gathered here would never compel you. But our brothers and sons fight the evil that enslaved you. Will you help?"

Luna caught her happy laughter with one hand over her mouth. Nagini's spirit had curled around the witches' magic within her as if it were a nest of eggs. Mother. Sister. Old and wise. She knew the one who had hurt her. Knew him well. She joined the circle of women, ancient and wise and protective.

"Yes. Her answer is yes," Hermione cried.

HP HP HP HP HP

Severus knew the twins had arrived when the thick snow began falling. Instant Swamp had been only the first of the Weasley geniuses' foray into weather and climate spells. Instant Blizzard, Severus smirked as more fat flakes fell, was infinitely more impressive.

The snow thickened, cascading down to blanket the room. It buried the snakes, slowing their cold blood, and forcing them to slumber. Voldemort cried out in a wordless shriek that would have made a cranky toddler proud. The snow stuck to his crystal shield, obstructing Voldemort's view, forcing him to fling his wand back and forth to clear it.

The Weasley twins faded back into room's dimly lit corners, murmuring spells to sink the snakes more deeply into their slumber before shrinking them down and tucking them away. Severus knew the two were already concentrating on their next round of surprises. He nodded to himself. Fred and George were the least impulsive Gryffindors – they would stick to the plan. The Weasley family had a wide streak of Slytherin strategy in their make-up.

"Fools," Voldemort hissed, taking another swipe at the heavy snow, trying to aim for the boys. "A sniveling traitor and two toymakers. That is what the vaunted Order of the Phoenix sends against me? Or are you simply the stalking goat, my dear Severus? You and these red-haired nobodies? Sacrifices on Potter's altar?" His laugh reverberated through the crystal shield. He bowed dramatically. "I accept."

The crystal exploded into lethally sharpened shards, tainted with hexes. The spell-glass shot as if from a muggle cannon, targeting Severus and the twins, while Voldemort spun, leaping atop the desk that stood against the back wall.

Severus raised his arms. His magic blocked the cursed glass from reaching him, but the force of the explosion sent him slamming backwards into the wall. He dropped to the floor, propped on one knee, keeping his eyes on his adversary.

"Do you think you can stand against me?" Voldemort's grin was wild, his teeth unnaturally white in the gloom. "I am Lord Voldemort. The Dark Lord. Even Albus Dumbledore could not survive against me."

Severus touched his wand to the top of his head, the slimy feeling falling down across his body. He would not be truly invisible, but between the gusts of snow and lack of light, the Disillusionment Charm should make him less of a target. He struck out with a bone-breaking curse before he moved, weaving across the room, casting a crushing hex before circling, changing direction as Voldemort retaliated.

The rush of air was the only evidence of Voldemort's movement. The falling snow was whipped into torrents, rattling the windows, shielding not only Severus' position but everyone's. Severus gritted his teeth. His own ability to fly was imprecise; it was best used as a last resort, to escape certain death. Voldemort, unfortunately, could do so at will.

Severus crouched in position, squinting through the storm. Hopefully, the twins had enough time – and precision - to target their enemy before he moved again.

"If you continue to throw children at me, Severus, I will happily leave a trail of small broken bodies to guide young Harry to me," Voldemort whispered. "These two will do for a sta –"

Severus' lips curled as he heard the twins' next effort take effect. Gurgling. Choking. Coughing. He couldn't judge Voldemort's location, but that didn't matter. A simple childish prank, weaponized. Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes had been transformed into quite the arsenal. The nosebleed charm wouldn't last, but it would take mere seconds to serve its purpose.

Kneeling between Voldemort's room and the sunroom, Severus kept his head down as the glass doors crashed inward behind him. Remus lunged over his head, airborne, straight towards the smell of the blood.

The two met in a flash of magic and a long, snarling howl, Voldemort's spells barely able to stand between him and the raw power of a werewolf protecting its cub.

"Now!" Severus yelled, standing, his wand weaving long tendrils of energy to join with two other strands from the twins' wands. The storm abruptly stopped, flakes drying in midair as the magic sizzled, searing hot. Across the room, Fred and George rose, stepping to the corners so that the three of them formed a triad. The two chanted in perfect rhythm, their voices so similar that Severus couldn't separate them. His own magic joined seamlessly with theirs, taking the lead. The special closeness of twin magic more than doubled under Severus' precise command.

The barrier they created slammed into being - one solid whole. Three walls, floor, and ceiling. It locked Voldemort into place, denying him escape. No Apparition, no flight, no way out.

Severus' gut clenched. Unfortunately, it trapped Remus, too.

His brother had volunteered for this. Remus knew what it might mean – as did Severus and Harry. This was the reason Harry wanted Remus to stay behind. Severus had nearly agreed with him. But, in the end, they'd all recognized this as the best plan. They couldn't allow Voldemort to escape, no matter what it might cost. Remus, with his werewolf constitution and resilience, was the best choice, their best hope to hold Voldemort until he could be killed.

Severus and the Weasleys wove their barrier with the strength of the Beverley heritage, the cleverness of born pranksters, and the wonders of twin magic. The only gaps they allowed would serve them, serve the Light, not Voldemort's darkness. The only weaknesses were purposefully created. The barrier would remain solid, utterly unassailable, even if one of the three of them were killed.

Voldemort was far too busy to try to target them.

Half-transformed, Remus struggled to bring his wand to bear with one hand while his other, claws outstretched, groped for Voldemort's throat. Facing a thunderstorm of dark curses, Remus' legs were braced, his weight held low, inching towards his target. Glimmering sparks billowed from Voldemort's empty left hand as he slashed his wand through the shrinking gap between them, leaving bright red lashes along Remus' skin.

His wand still connected to the barrier, Severus raised his left hand. A wash of Beverley magic slid through the tight shield to lay across Remus' skin. "Sorrel – now!"

Following the scent of Beverley magic, the House Elf appeared within the barrier, lips curled up in a snarl, hands raised. Magic rushed from the small figure in all directions, aimed and precise. It solidified the barrier from the inside, turned Voldemort's wand away from its target, and slammed into the dark wizard's chest with the force of a cannonball.

Voldemort stumbled backwards against the barrier, crying out in pain at the contact.

George Weasley grinned. "Nettleprick. Hurts like the devil, doesn't it, Fred?"

As Voldemort thrashed, caught between Sorrel's magic and the twins', Fred answered. "Snakes hate it for a reason."

Remus wrapped one clawed hand around Voldemort's throat and squeezed, cutting off the wizard's cries of rage. He leaned in, teeth bared and breath hot in Voldemort's face. "Hold still, Tom."

Blood erupted from beneath Remus' claws. With a shriek, magic erupted from Voldemort in a great wave, hurling Remus out through the barrier to slam against the wall. He fell, boneless, to the floor.

Severus steadied himself, his heart thumping. No. He couldn't go to his brother, make sure he was alive. He must keep Voldemort trapped. Keep him from fleeing or attacking.

"Now." Voldemort hovered a few inches from the floor, towering over the House Elf. He sneered. "I believe I have time to take care of the vermin before I slay everyone else Potter loves."

"And I think your time is up, Tom."

On Severus' left, Harry, Ronald, and Neville stood, shoulder to shoulder, each one wrapped in a nimbus of light.

From within Severus, from all around him, magic sang. The sound lifted, vibrating down into the wooden floor to reach the foundations of the house, spilling into the earth. Up past the ceiling, towards the stars and out to the limitless horizon. The song changed, joining with another, a melody made up of women's voices. Faint outlines appeared around the room, some kneeling, some standing – human and creature and spirit.

As the song grew, the outlines filled in. Molly. Augusta. Miss Lovegood. Miss Granger. Severus caught his breath as Narcissa Malfoy, her pale face serene and eyes clear, lifted her song with the others. On the other side of the room, another group appeared. The Patil girls, arms around each other and tears on their faces, Fleur Weasley behind them. Dora and Andromeda.

If Narcissa's appearance had startled him, the next group that took form and shape sent Severus' heart skipping. These were not flesh and blood, nor were they ghosts. These were the spectral forms of spirits who lingered, still watching over their charges.

Pandora Lovegood. A woman who could have been an older twin to Molly Weasley – Nan Prewett, he suspected. In their midst, dark eyes stern, stood his ancestor, Clementine Hozier Beverley Spencer-Churchill, her arm linked on one side to Severus' mother, Eileen, and, on the other, to Lily Potter.

Severus' wand-hand trembled, but he held firm as he met Lily's gaze. She smiled at him before turning towards Voldemort's prison.

"Your end is here, Tom Riddle," Lily said, her voice warmer than Severus expected. "You stand now, mortal, alone, rejected by your familiar, she who stands with us."

The huge viper appeared at Lily's feet. It tasted the air, coiling and uncoiling, sliding its impressive length along the floor to gaze up at its former master.

"No!" Voldemort shouted, thin lips pulled back to reveal the bright red of his tongue. Snake-like, his tongue flickered out and in as he raised his wand. "Traitor! Treacherous, disloyal creature! What have you done?"

The snake lowered its head, no longer interested in witches or wizards. She slithered off towards the sunroom. Released from her slavery, she sought warmth, safety, a place to sleep, a taste of her home. Nothing more.

A third song rose above the others. Crystal clear, as smooth as glass and just as sharp. A phoenix's song: sorrow and hope, death and birth, clean and powerful and unyielding.

Ronald and Neville and Harry separated. The healer, his form lined with white light, moved towards Remus' crumpled form. The sword-wielder in shining red circled the barrier to stand between the Weasley twins. Harry, mop-haired and bespectacled, robed in golden light, stood before Tom Riddle, self-styled Dark Lord, and raised his wand.

Voldemort pulled his robe close about him. "Ah, the Chosen One. Finally crawling out from behind your betters. Your friends." He waved his hand. "Crawling over so many dead, so many wounded in your place."

Voldemort's words might be arrogant, but Severus saw the shadows in the wizard's red eyes. The doubt. The way his gaze flicked from the three wizards, taking in the magic enrobing them, to the glowing spirits. He tilted his head as a dog would at the music as if he, alone, could barely hear its compelling tones.

Voldemort raised his wand, mirroring Harry. "These may have trapped me here, these vermin." He kicked out at Sorrel, still trapped within the magical walls, crouching at Voldemort's feet. "But you, Harry, you know you cannot hurt me with that wand, foolish boy."

Harry's face was grim, his eyes no longer the eyes of a youth but of someone far older who had seen too much. "No," he agreed, lowering his wand.

Laughter rang out from behind the barrier. "I will always be your better, child! Child Who Lived – when so many others died!" Voldemort's wand swished through the air. "Which of these will die first? Which will sacrifice themselves while you stand there, dithering?"

The wand pointed at Remus and Ronald. At Miss Granger. Molly. Voldemort shrieked laughter. "I will kill them all," he growled, the tip of his wand pointing unerringly at Severus, "starting with – ah!"

Sorrel had erupted from his crouch, a dagger in one hand. He'd thrust it straight into Voldemort's thigh. Tom Riddle back-handed the House Elf, knocking him to the ground.

"You will not hurt the master," Sorrel whispered, blood on his face as he climbed back to his feet.

"No, you will not," Harry whispered, his open left hand held out expectantly. "Expelliarmus."

Severus' eyes widened as Voldemort's pale wand leaped from his hand, tore through the barrier, and thumped into Harry's palm.

The boy looked from the wand to Voldemort. "I have an affinity for wands, Tom." He closed his eyes, his magic shimmering. "They are living things, with wills and spirits. Yours is yew, 13-1/2 inches, with a phoenix tail feather core." He lifted his own wand, a sad smile on his lips. "Fawkes gave two tail feathers when Ollivander asked – one became the core of your wand, and one mine. That's why they're linked." He laid the wands alongside each other, dark holly and pale yew, clutched in both hands. "Magic is funny, that way. It doesn't care about past and future, muggleborn or pureblood." He smiled across at Miss Granger, at his mother. "Wizard or witch. Fawkes gave his feathers and magic kept them safe, in our wands, this whole time."

"You created an enemy when you killed my mum and dad, you know that, right?" Harry's gaze was deep, bottomless. "A baby. Fifteen months old. Magic set you up. It set up your downfall with a prophecy. 'Neither can live while the other survives,'" he quoted. "I've wondered about that. It's ambiguous. Does it mean one of us has to die or both of us?" Harry's smile was wise, his quiet, relentless tone muffling the crowded room in silence.

"It means I must dirty my own hands to kill you, boy!" Voldemort plucked the dagger from his leg and covered it with a sheen of magic, throwing it through the barrier towards Harry's heart.

Severus gasped. The dagger was charmed with House Elf magic – his barrier allowed House Elf magic through –

The dagger flew, straight and true, towards Harry.

Severus tensed to leap, to throw himself between Harry and his death. Too late – he'd be too late -

The clang of steel on steel rang out. The dagger fell beneath the strike of Gryffindor's sword, tumbling in two pieces to the wooden floorboards.

Neville Longbottom. Neville Longbottom had just saved Harry Potter. Light-headed, Severus nearly toppled in relief.

Harry smiled at his friend before facing Voldemort once again. He lifted the wands. "A few minutes ago, I realized that I'd had the prophecy wrong all along. So did you – everyone, really."

Voldemort seemed stunned by his repeated failures. His red gaze moved, back and forth, between Harry and the wands. "What – "

"'Neither can live while the other survives.' It wasn't talking about us, Tom. It was talking about this."

With one motion, Harry snapped both wands and the world exploded.

Chapter 48

Chapter Text

Severus rose from his knees. The small body lay alongside the others, each one to be equally honored and remembered. He rubbed one hand across his forehead, trying to press the weariness away. Had Severus ever truly looked at him before? Taken in the lines on his brow or the leanness of his cheek? There was an innocence about him, about all of them, or perhaps it was just Severus' weary eye that filled in that attribute for the dead. He lifted his eyes to the crumbling, blackened manor house as he raised his gratitude towards wherever prayers lodged. Thankfully, before the end, Severus' eyes had truly been opened to those around him. To the depths of their devotion, the intensity of their struggle on the side of the light. Their utter inability to give anything less than everything. If Severus didn't get enough time to appreciate them, well … His shoulders sagged. There never seemed to be enough time.

Sorrel, House Elf, loyal and powerful and longer-lived than any others lay between the bodies of Gnashrend and Moody, goblin and Auror. Protective to the end, Sorrel had thrown himself between Severus and the final explosion, his magic wrapping his master protectively. Already wounded by the madman, the ancient Elf had died gazing into Severus' eyes, his final words lodging in Severus' heart.

"Ah, to give life in service," Sorrel had whispered. "Makes all the waiting worthwhile."

Cypress and Saffron had transported their brother's body here and washed him with their own magic, removing any taint of darkness.

One of the few left uninjured, Severus had taken on the task of seeing to the dead. He'd straightened Moody's crushed ribcage, closed the gashes across Gnashrend's neck. Young Oliver Wood, still clutching his beloved broom in one hand, looked as if he'd soon awaken and leap into the air, yelling the Gryffindor battle cry. The ancient Altester of Durmstrang had lost her glamours, returning her lovely young face to the seamed and withered features of age and wisdom, her white hair revealed, pure and clean, as she'd fed the last of her magic to others.

Severus had touched each wound, closing skin, straightening bone, wiping each face clear of terror or pain, closing staring eyes. Elliott's body lay at the end of the row. Severus regretted that he had never heard the wizard's first name. This last body- for now - had been rescued from the still smoldering second floor. Severus' magic could do little to cover the wizard's horrible burns.

The creatures who'd given their lives in battle had been stolen away by their fellows to lie in the forest or beneath the water. A familiar hippogriff. An elder unicorn. A pair of thestrals. An entire flock of ravens that had risen up to confound Death Eaters' aims at students astride brooms. Every being in the land capable of travel had joined the last fight – on one side or the other. Voldemort's followers were in the care of Amelia Bones and the Aurors - those who had lived and those who had fallen.

Seeing to the dead was a last gift Severus could give to these heroes and their families and friends. His soul ached, but he knew it could have been so very much worse.

It still might be. Poppy, Andromeda and Ted – and Ronald Weasley – were nearly overwhelmed tending the injured, spreading their skills and energy wide to prevent any others from joining those laid out here. They'd raised a tent in the once precisely tended garden, unwilling to let the wounded spend one more moment in the poisoned manor. Bill Weasley, newly risen from his previous injury, lay unconscious, his core drained to the brink as were too many others. The Patil twins. Narcissa. Minerva. Flitwick. They'd spent themselves to keep Voldemort contained. Molly held her son's hand in hers, holding him to life with sheer willpower while Ginevra and Miss Granger would not be moved from the Patil girls' bedsides. The goblins had taken charge of Flitwick and Minerva, naming the Headmistress an honorary goblin. Strangely, it was a much changed Sybil Trelawney who had plunked herself down at Narcissa's side, murmuring healing incantations.

Other children had required healing of bones, concussions, and other wounds. Blood replenishing potions. Magical stasis. Seamus Finnegan had blown off his eyebrows – again. Dean Thomas would always bear a pale scar across his left cheek. Corner and Finch-Fletchly had been found where they'd crawled beneath a downed tree, every bone intact, but gasping in shock from repeated Crucio curses. Cypress and Saffron had brought every potion from the Beverley manor to aid the work, moving among the injured to lay hands on those falling too quickly towards the veil.

Before tending to the dead, Severus had helped Dora Tonks separate one bed from the others. Hidden behind curtains that had been raised not for concealment of dread wounds or disfigurement, but for safety and privacy's sake. Remus would survive, Severus reminded himself. They'd been proven right – his brother's werewolf constitution had protected him from what would have killed a normal wizard. But his magical core weak from self-healing, Remus' long-fought-off transformation had taken hold. He was an unconscious werewolf, contained behind House Elf magic, curled into a sleeping, furry ball with his wife at his side, but a werewolf nonetheless. Curious stares would not penetrate his enclosure.

Kingsley lay in the tent, somewhere, silently fuming, as others with more perilous wounds were treated first. He'd fallen to a poorly constructed trap spell which had plunged him not into burning tar as the spell should have done, but into a puddle of sticky caramel. Severus shook his head. The Weasley twins had suggested he eat his way out. Severus was certain it wasn't the face full of toffee that had kept the proud Auror from laughing.

Severus silenced his stormy thoughts and spent a quiet moment in gratitude. Hopefully, there would be no more added to this cadre of the dead. For Harry's guilt's sake – for his own as the author of the battle plan. Even these few were too many.

Harry stepped into sight on Severus' left. The young wizard's presence was not a surprise. He and Severus had shared something within the manor. At the end. Severus let his gaze linger on him. It was time to truly see.

Harry Potter. Average height. Average build. Dark, unruly hair hanging over bright green eyes tempered by round eyeglasses. His left cheek was peppered with burns and tiny cuts, that eye bruised, the eyebrow singed. His hands hung empty at his sides. A closer look revealed blackened fingertips and angry, red skin on both palms. Harry's expression was cool, controlled, but his eyes and the tight line of his jaw gave him away.

"You should get those seen to," Severus stated, nodding towards Harry's hands.

"Soon." Harry's stare was fixed on the bodies.

Severus steeled himself for the conversation that must follow. "You have no penance to do, here, Harry. Your own pain is not required to make up for the pain, the loss, of others."

"I know." Harry moved his right hand over his heart, letting it hover an inch or so above his chest to save himself more pain. "I know that, in here."

"You were raised to believe yourself responsible, to feel the heavy weight of your mother's sacrifice, your godfather's death, your friends' injuries, and to know that you must earn it all by sacrificing yourself." Severus drew in a deep breath. "Even though Dumbledore is gone – for good - it will take some time for you to overcome his training."

"Voldemort was relying on that." Harry's hands twitched as if he'd like to gesture or put them in his pockets.

Severus raised a brow, curious. "How so?"

"He spoke to me, in there." Harry nodded towards the manor. "Told me how much of a coward I was, letting others die in my place when I was the only one he wanted."

"Of course, that was a lie."

The green gaze that met Severus' was sharp. "I do know that. Voldemort might have parroted on about blood purity and reclaiming wizarding heritage, but he killed whoever he pleased. He didn't much ask about someone's blood status before he subjected them to torture and death to get ahead." His mouth turned down. "He would have killed us all, eventually."

The young wizard turned to stare into the distance. Severus waited – Harry obviously had more to say.

"I figured something out in there, at the end. Dumbledore and Tom Riddle were a lot alike. Maybe they studied each other too well, or maybe Dumbledore tried to empathize with Tom too much. However it happened, they both believed themselves to be superior, to be alone in their right thinking. To be so far removed from others that they could use them – and use them up. There are words for that in the muggle world. Words like sociopath. Malignant narcissist." Harry's mouth ticked up on one side. "It's hard to call Dumbledore those names, even now."

Dumbledore. What words would Severus use to describe the wizard now that his true actions had been revealed? Brilliant. Powerful. Wise. Yes, those were still true. But also, egotistical. Manipulative. Having excessive confidence in himself and absolutely none in others. Arrogant. Perhaps Albus would have been repentant for the harm that he caused so many if he had won. If his actions had seen to Voldemort's defeat. But, if Severus had assessed the wizard rightly, that repentance would have been shallow and quickly forgotten.

"Putting names to them, understanding how and why they did what they did helps. A little," Harry added.

"A little," Severus agreed. His hands were fists, his muscles tight. "You were particularly targeted by both of these men from your infanthood. The persistence of your … brainwashing, if you will, isn't unexpected."

Harry grimaced. "You, too. Not infanthood, maybe, but you were under both of their influences for a much longer time."

"Yes, well, perhaps we should be grateful we do not live in the muggle world, Harry. That we aren't subject to their labels and descriptions." Severus snorted. "What would they label us? Victims? Murderers? Fools?"

Harry stood looking down at the dead before he turned towards the vast healing tent. Finally, he lifted his head, taking in the wide sky, dawn painting it with rose and violet. "Survivors."

HP HP HP HP HP

As soon as Harry stepped into the Healing Tent, he was surrounded, scolded, and shooed onto a cot in a solitary corner.

"Honestly, Mister Potter, it's like nothing has changed! You still have to be dragged kicking and screaming to take care of yourself."

Harry smiled, letting Madame Pomfrey's chattering wash over him. It was a bright piece of normalcy on this strange day. He collapsed onto the cot, elbows on his knees, and stared up at her.

"Why are you the only medical professional at Hogwarts?" It was one of those nagging questions that wouldn't leave Harry alone.

The medi-witch huffed, her wand waving over Harry's throbbing hands. "Because Albus Dumbledore did not see the value in taking proper care of students that he saw only as tools in his manipulative hands. If he had, he would have done many things differently."

"Like not keeping a dangerous artifact in a third floor corridor, surrounded by traps any first year could have beaten." Hermione flopped down next to him, leaning on Harry's shoulder.

"Or hiring a useless twat like Lockhart as a teacher." Ron propped one shoulder against the wall at the head of the bed, healing magic billowing out to wrap Harry's hands in soothing coolness. "Or Quirrell. Or that low-life, Death Eater scum Umbridge."

"Or expecting two third-years with a Time Turner to rescue an innocent man from hundreds of Dementors." Neville peered over Madam Pomfrey's shoulder.

"Just to name a few things," Harry snorted. Dumbledore was gone – completely. No sense dwelling on the past. His hands already felt better. As he watched, the blackened skin pinked, blood rushing past damaged tissues to make his fingertips tingle. The ache in his jaw lessened, muscles relaxed, and his brain began to go all foggy.

"Stop it," he warned, struggling to sit up from where he'd been drowsing. "I can't sleep. Not yet."

"Sure you can, mate." Ron guided Harry's shoulder down to the bed. "I think you've earned a nap."

Harry blinked up at him as Hermione snatched the glasses from his face and tucked them away in his pocket. "Only if you tell me," he insisted.

"Padma and Parvati will be okay." Hermione's smile was teary.

"Bill, too." Ron's expression lost some of its tension.

"Professor Prince says Remus just needs some time."

Harry felt what was left of his resolve drain away.

With a shake of her head and a gesture of her wand, Madame Pomfrey summoned three more cots to lay with Harry's. Before Harry closed his eyes, he saw them each take one, Ron closest, Hermione next – the two holding hands. Neville's cot lay along the feet of the others, as if he still kept watch.

"'M not holding ur hand, Nev," Harry muttered.

"That's all right, I will."

Harry snorted. Another bed fit perfectly against Neville's – Harry could just see the mane of unruly blond hair beyond him. Luna. Neville. Hermione. Ron. All safe. All here. With one last spurt of energy, Harry looked over their heads to familiar faces beyond. Fred and George. Ginny. Molly. Andromeda. Remus and Tonks were behind the barrier. Prince had his head bent with his two House Elves.

He closed his eyes. All survivors.

Chapter 49

Chapter Text

Fourteen inches. Flexible. The wand was colored a pale cream with darker whirls all along its length. Harry had chosen birch wood, a sacred wood, the Celtic wood of new beginnings. No, he shook his head, the wood had chosen him. The day they'd returned to Chartwell, Harry had found himself walking among the trees in the wand workshop. The stately birch had seemed to welcome him home. One branch had snagged in his jumper, and, when Harry gently picked at it to move on, the branch had come away in his hand.

Shaping the wand hadn't been done with tools, but with his hands and his magic. The spells Harry found in the books came easily to him, gold sparks enclosing his hands like gloves. Touching the rough branch and giving freedom to the wand within it was a matter of intention and inspiration, his fingers slowly peeling away the layers until the humming magic sang true notes.

When he was finished Harry had set the birch wand aside to fashion six other wands, his gaze often returning to where it lay, waiting, on the bench. He hadn't been ready – not at first. He wanted to come back to it fresh, his mind clear. Since the battle, since Tom Riddle's death, Harry's Occlumency had kept him steady, functioning – seeming normal to those around him. The scene – bloody and burning – in that room in Umbridge's manor, was still fresh, still tangible, sights and smells sharp: the searing pain in his hands and the high-pitched keening coming from Voldemort's figure rising up to distract him every time he lost his focus. He would not bring his new wand to life with the weight of those thoughts darkening his spirit.

Harry had chosen other woods – yew, alder, ash, and, finally, holly. Rough and dark and familiar between his fingers, the holly wood released one last whisp of grief from Harry's spirit. Breaking the wands – it had been the right thing to do. The feedback of the magic of the twin cores had reverberated between Harry and Voldemort, leaving everyone in the upper room flat on their backs, the spirits of the dead dispersed, all the witches and wizards unconscious.

Everyone but Harry. No one else had seen the final confrontation. Harry's last act.

His burned hands fixed into rigid claws, Harry had ignored the pain and stepped across the broken floorboards to look down on what was left of Tom Riddle. The elimination of the Horcruxes, the rejection of his familiar, and the destruction of his wand had already killed the thing that called itself Lord Voldemort. Tom Riddle was all that was left. An emaciated figure, hairless, the tiny remnant of its tortured soul keeping its ribcage rising and falling. It was curled in on itself, barely managing to turn its head to stare at Harry. The keening noise didn't stop.

"You've done it, my boy."

Dumbledore's spirit, white and grey, hovered on Harry's right, blue eyes twinkling.

His anger surging, Harry had forgotten his pain. There was so much he wanted to say, to scream – to rage at this man but he couldn't find the words.

"I'll take it from here, Harry. Poor Tom is no longer a threat. I will take him somewhere to live out what's left of the life he has." The specter drifted towards the pathetic figure.

"No, you won't." Harry's magic struck out, a red mist dotted with sparks, to engulf the keening thing. "Tom Riddle made his choices. He chose to hurt, to kill, to torture others to get ahead. He chose to believe himself better than anyone else, than everyone else. To tear his own soul into pieces to prolong his life." Harry's magic thickened into solid crystal, holding Tom tight in an airless shell. "He killed my parents, sent Neville's into madness, and enslaved hundreds." He lifted his gaze from the gasping figure slowly suffocating at his feet to Dumbledore. "He's cheated death for long enough."

"Harry, you can't –"

"Watch me, old man," Harry seethed. A few moments later, Tom Riddle was dead.

Dumbledore shook his head in disappointment, opening his mouth to chide, to scold, to insist that his was the better way. The only way.

"Silencio." Harry didn't know if the spell would work on a ghost – a spirit – but he'd given it a try and Dumbledore's image had reeled back at the force of the magic. "You were once a powerful wizard, one who could stand against Grindelwald. Against Voldemort. But, like them, you let it go to your head and started believing you were the only one with the right to lead. To take power. To turn others into pawns and tools." Harry had been trembling but forced himself to continue. "You gave your life to see your plan succeed, to save the wizarding world from evil. But you gave others' lives, too, without asking, without explaining the consequences. Mine. Neville's. Sirius'. Prince's. Remus'. So many more."

Harry lifted his burned hands. "You're done. Finished. There's no place for you here. No one to listen to you. No one who wants to see you." His magic shot out, exploding Dumbledore's mute image into tiny sparks, sending his spirit into whatever afterlife was waiting for him. "You're not welcome here. Don't come again."

Harry had realized, then, that one other had remained conscious. Protected by his House Elf, Prince had risen to stand at Harry's shoulder.

His heart thumping, Harry had looked up at Prince, not knowing what to expect.

An encouraging hand touched the back of his neck. "Well done, Harry."

Staring down at the birch wand, Harry drew in a deep breath, letting the memories come. The smell of his burned flesh, the pain, the despair, the sight of so many of his friends unconscious, wounded, maybe dead. His emotions were loosed – fear, hope, hatred, anger, disgust. They thundered through him again, just as they'd done that night with Voldemort. Through him, over him, and away, leaving him clean. Strong. Free.

The handle of the birch wand was as thick as Harry's thumb, three raised rings denoting the circle of life: past, present, and future. It tapered to a thin tip, making the wand look fragile, easily breakable. Harry smiled. Its strength was hidden, like true strength often was.

He was ready.

This was the final test of any wandmaker – the ability to match a wand to its proper core. To bind the gift of wood and nature into one magical whole. Mind open, heart calm, Harry lifted his hands, eyes closed. The boxes and drawers and pouches filled with cores seemed to quiver behind his eyes. Waiting.

"Accipio magicus," he offered, bowing. "Let the magic choose."

Magic rushed around him, encircling Harry, the empty wand, and the wand cores hidden behind wood and glass and fabric. He squinted, his breath catching at the magic's brilliance, its depth. Red and gold sparks tightened around him, moving down his shoulders and arms. The wand rose from the bench until it levitated between his hands, magic a glimmering circle around hands and wand.

"Reperrio," Harry whispered. "Let us discover."

A low sound hummed through him. It began beneath his rib cage, vibrating out to the tips of his fingers, lifting the strands of his hair. It rumbled and growled, louder and louder until it shook the bench, the drawers, and pouches, sifting, searching. The rattling quieted as the growl found its target. One long, thin drawer slid open, a velvet parcel lifting, unwrapping itself to reveal a single feather.

Dark golden, as long as Harry's arm, the dark veins of the feather gave it weight, strength, substance. This wasn't a songbird's feather, not ethereal and light like the one Fawkes had given him. This was different.

This was the feather of the griffin. Part eagle and part lion, the creature had given Godric Gryffindor his name, his crest, and his family attributes. Every Gryffindor knew its aspects, its balance of positive and negative traits. Griffins were guardians and protectors of life, tenacious, even into the afterlife. Harry swallowed hard. His parents had been true Gryffindors. Nobility, vigilance, virtue, and strength were the griffin's positive attributes. On the negative side, they could be judgmental, ferocious, stubborn, fiery.

To accept this core, Harry would have to accept both parts of himself. His protective nature and his tendency to judge others too easily. His strength and his fiery temper. His vigilance and his stubbornness. Harry wasn't sure if it would be harder to accept the positive or the negative traits.

"My hands have done violence. Killed. Hurt others." Images flashed across Harry's mind. Draco, lying bloody beneath Harry's spells. Quirrell turning to ash. Tom Riddle choking out his last breath. "I judged Draco Malfoy after one meeting." They'd both been children. "I acted impulsively, stubbornly thinking I knew better without asking for help." And Sirius had died in the Department of Mysteries.

Magic demanded he continue. That he speak deeper knowledge of himself. "I – I try to protect people." His friends. His mentors. Other students. It had always been his duty. "I have strong magic." Remus had taught him the Patronus charm at thirteen. Harry shook his head. He didn't know what else to say. He wasn't exactly noble or virtuous. He straightened his shoulders. "I'll try to do better."

Protected and protective. The sweet voice of his mother whispered in Harry's ear. What is at the core of the griffin? What gives it loyalty to friends and family far beyond duty? What is the true strength that lies at your heart, my Harry?

Tears falling, Harry whispered his reply. "Love."

The feather drifted closer, shrinking until it fit along the length of the birch wand. Maybe Harry had said enough. Maybe he didn't have to be the perfect griffin just yet. After all, he wouldn't turn seventeen until tomorrow. No, it was after midnight. Today. Huh.

He placed his palms at the ends of the wand and spoke the last spell.

"Coniugatio." Become one.

Magic snapped. In one bright flash that stole Harry's breath, the feather disappeared and the wand – his wand – was in his hand, complete. The song of wood and creature roared through him, lighting the dark corners of his memories, sparking his magic to cleanse, to invigorate, and to promise a future different from his past. No longer tied to the life – death – life cycle of a phoenix, or the machinations of the phoenix's master, Harry could step forward, finally, onto his own path.

He heard Ollivander's voice, remembered from Harry's first visit to Diagon Alley.

"Well, give it a wave."

Sparks shot up, filling the wand workshop with the snap and crackle of blazing fireworks.

Chapter 50

Chapter Text

Epilogue

Andromeda knocked before opening the door. "May I come in?"

Draco glanced up from the book he'd been reading to his mother, carefully placing the bookmark between the pages as he rose. "Aunt Andromeda." He greeted her with a short bow. "Mother seems much better this morning."

Narcissa smiled from atop her mound of properly fluffed pillows. Still paler than usual, her eyes were bright with amusem*nt. "My son insists on reading to me. He's found an entire series of these books written by a wizard named Pratchett about an improbable world riding the back of a turtle. I can't seem to get him to stop."

"Oh, Dora loved those books," Andromeda replied, waving Draco back into his seat. "She was always trying to get me to read them. The author's passed over, I believe."

"That's disappointing." Draco kissed his mother's knuckles. "I'd been hoping to keep going until the sheer frustration drives mother from her bed."

Andromeda waved a diagnostic charm over her sister's body. "Not to worry, I believe there were over forty stories at my last count. He'd even published a dozen or so with a muggle publisher. Pratchett was muggle-raised, I believe." She glanced over at her nephew as she finished her scans. Two weeks ago, Draco would have grimaced and tossed the book on the floor at the thought that muggles might have had anything to do with it or its author. After his mind healing sessions, Draco simply looked intrigued.

"No wonder muggles don't believe in magic if they have books like this." Draco shrugged and caught his aunt's raised eyebrow. "It's very entertaining, but it's not really at all how things work."

"Yes, I believe Wizard Pratchett won an award from the Ministry for thickening the disbelief in the muggle world. Something about Strengthening the Statute of Secrecy Through Absurdity. Strangely enough, he also won a few muggle literary awards."

Draco snorted, amused. "How is mother?"

Narcissa was the one that answered. "Nearly there, I believe."

"True." Andromeda smiled down at her. "You've been taking your potions, resting, rebuilding your reserves. In a few days we can get you up and doing small spells to reignite your core."

"Thank Merlin," her sister sighed. "I cannot remember ever going so long without using spells. She closed her eyes. "I am so grateful for our renewed connection – and our connection to the other witches. It's made all this much easier."

Andromeda plucked at the green and gold strands within her magic. Me, too, she responded. She sensed others beyond her tight connection to her sister. Other witches, near and far. Those who'd shared in the ritual were still bound, pledged to a sisterhood beyond blood or family. Gathered close to the mother's breast. Just a thought away.

There would be many more rituals beneath the moon.

When Andromeda opened her eyes, Draco wore a wistful expression. He swallowed thickly before speaking.

"It was never like that," he stated, his pale eyes bleak. "Not with … him. With Voldemort. He tapped his left forearm where a certain tattoo had once been dug beneath his skin, gone now since the madman's final death. "The connection between his followers wasn't warm or welcoming. It didn’t make me feel like a part of something bigger, not like I thought it would."

"No." Narcissa gripped her son's hand. "Tom lied about many things, Draco. And you and your father – and so many others – saw what they wanted to see when they looked at him."

"Initially, some may have wanted that, that kind of belonging. But I don't believe most of his followers expected much more than a quick path to power. A way to step over others. A close tie to the apex predator of the wizarding world." Andromeda had long given up spoon-feeding the truth to Draco.

Draco sighed, straightening his vest. "It's hard to admit."

"What?" his mother prodded.

"That I was completely wrong. About everything."

Perching on the edge of a chair beside her nephew, Andromeda narrowed her eyes. "Is that why you've given up Slytherin colors? Because you feel you've been completely wrong? That no decision you've ever made is worthwhile?"

Draco didn't flinch from her direct stare, barely glancing down at his pale grey robes. "It's true, isn't it?"

"Of course not," Andromeda answered. "Have you done horrific things? Stupid, narrow minded, bigoted, criminal things? Yes. You have. But you did most of them when you were a child, Draco. A child raised to darkness. While that doesn't excuse your later actions, or the way you shied away from what you knew was the truth, you had little choice. That's why you can sit here, in Severus' home, a free man rather than in a cell at the Ministry."

Lips tight, Draco glanced at the door that led out of his mother's room into their suite and then out into the rest of Chartwell.

"You aren't a prisoner, Draco. Not now." Andromeda leaned in and placed a hand on his knee. "Why don't you come with me? Come to breakfast?"

She saw his indecision. His fear. Draco was not a gifted Occlumens, his fear was written in every coil of his muscles and magic. He wasn't afraid of his welcome – he was afraid of his own reaction to the others who still inhabited the manor. He was afraid to face them.

"Go." Narcissa released his hand. "I've had enough of Granny Weatherwax for now. I wonder –" she turned to Andromeda. "Did Pratchett attend Hogwarts? Because I swear, he could have been describing Minerva McGonagall."

That surprised a loud guffaw from Draco. "Don't let her hear you say that." He set the book on Narcissa's bed and rose, his shoulders straight and his chin lifted high. "Very well." He held out his elbow. "Will you accompany me to the dining room, Aunt Andromeda?"

Andromeda shook her head and hooked her arm in his. "Begin as you mean to go on, Draco. That doesn't mean I want you to cringe and bow to Harry and the others. But drop the arrogance. If there's one thing Dumbledore taught us it's that we are all equals here."

He nodded, his chin losing its proud height. "Even Harry? The Boy Who Saved Us All? Not to mention his two sidekicks, Healer Weasley and Warrior Longbottom?"

Oh, there was that thread of envy. Of jealousy. Andromeda steered Draco towards the door. "You'll see."

HP HP HP HP HP

Breakfast at Chartwell was one of the few times those still making the manor their home saw each other throughout a typical day. Ted, Andromeda, and Ronald were involved in the various stages of healing any lingering injuries from the last battle, often consulting with St. Mungo's. Bill and Charlie spent quite a bit of time at Gringotts, reforging the strength of the Goblin Accords. Percy, Minerva, and Filius had moved their residence to Hogwarts, but frequented the breakfast table here – both to catch up with the others and to assure Molly Weasley that her family was safe. Percy had fit into the castle extremely well, and would become the newest faculty member quite soon, if Severus didn't miss his guess, teaching Wizarding Law and Society to upper years.

The twins and Ginevra came and went from Diagon Alley, making sure to check in with their mother in between trying to keep up with the massive orders they'd received for their products. To Severus' surprise, Fleur Weasley was proving to be an avid potion maker, adding her own range of beauty products under the Wizarding Wheezes' banner.

Remus and Dora had been strongarmed by Kingsley Shacklebolt into aiding the Ministry Aurors with the interrogations. Slight, unassuming Nymphadora seemed to have a knack for intimidation that even her werewolf husband could not match. The captured Death Eaters were 'putty in her hands,' Remus had admitted with cackling laughter and a stunned expression.

Miss Granger also spent many hours at the Ministry, in consultation with Rufus Scrimgeour and Amelia Bones. The witches' magic she had wielded had opened many eyes, eyes that had been too long shuttered by bureaucracy and regimentation. Magic was a wild, mysterious, living thing, not something to be legislated, restricted, and stuffed into rigid boxes designed by small-minded functionaries. If these past few weeks had taught them anything, it was that magic was more – much more – than wizards and witches had imagined.

Severus had felt it himself. Felt his magic grow to fill up each and every inch of his being. As he reached for the silver carafe of coffee, he felt it tingle along his skin, almost visible. It hadn't been only Dumbledore who had bound the magics of so many – it had been their own hidebound thinking. He glanced down the table at Minerva. Since her recovery, she looked years younger, her magic not only healing the wounds she'd taken, but reducing inflammation, easing pained joints, and giving her a newly filled well of energy.

She'd need it, Severus snorted as he raised his cup. There was little more than a month until Hogwarts would receive back its students and there were many, many changes to be made. So many changes.

Severus' eyebrows lifted as Andromeda led Draco Malfoy into the dining room. His godson seemed a bit paler than usual, his jaw tight as he faced those who had been his enemies not so long ago. Whatever welcome he had expected, the young man was soon disappointed. Ginevra Weasley glanced up, nodded, and summoned an extra chair to fit itself between hers and her sister-in-law's before continuing her conversation with Filius across the table.

Andromeda gave Draco a little shove before sweeping around to sit between her husband and daughter.

Severus caught Draco's eye, gave him a nod, and gestured towards the chair with his cup. "Good morning," he said.

"Severus." Draco seemed to shrink in on himself as he sat, unwilling to brush against either witch bracketing him.

The lovely Fleur was unaffected, sending a few platters to drift in Draco's direction. "Coffee or tea, Mister Malfoy?"

"Uh, tea, please," Draco answered. He took a breath and seemed to find his upbringing hiding beneath his anxiety. "Please call me Draco."

"Fleur," the witch answered with a quick smile.

Draco melted under the part-Veela's bright blue gaze. "Fleur," he sighed.

Ginevra elbowed him. "Taken," she sing-songed.

"Of course. Just being –"

"Overwhelmed by my wife's beauty and grace?" Bill leaned across Fleur to shoot a feral grin in Draco's direction.

"- sociable." Draco cleared his throat. "Ma'am," he added hurriedly.

"Stop teasing, William," Fleur scolded her husband before turning back to Draco. "Are you anxious to return to Hogwarts for your final year?"

Draco's grey gaze flicked around the table. "I'm – I'm not sure I'd be too welcome."

"Why not?" Minerva looked down her nose at the young wizard. "You have not been expelled; your grades are certainly adequate." She huffed. "You as well as quite a few of our Slytherin students have inquired as to whether they will be allowed to attend. As if getting an education was a matter of politics. Or a parent's actions could be laid at a child's feet. Even an of-age child," she added when Draco opened his mouth.

The table quieted, each one looking to Draco for his response. His cheeks flushed. "I'd like to go. But I think I'd have to talk to Potter first."

"I don't know why. To my recollection, Mister Potter is not on the Board of Governors. Yet," Severus added.

"Well, I certainly hope it's not for hair-care tips. That boy is hopeless."

"After all we've done for him, he insists on refusing our assistance to tame that mop."

Dora laughed, streaks of purple descending from the top of her head to curl over her shoulders. "I cannot imagine why, you two." She shot the Weasley twins a grimace. "Harry'd probably end up bald as Kingsley."

"What – bald?" As if on cue, Harry and his friends appeared in the doorway. Harry ran one hand through his dark hair, tugging it into place, out of his eyes. "Only if I am stupid enough to take Fred and George's hair-care tips."

Neville and Luna took their seats near the end of the table, Filius patting a chair cushion to urge Luna to sit next to her Head of House. Ronald scurried down the length of the table towards his brothers, barely hesitating when he noticed Draco sitting next to his sister. Harry and Hermione took their seats on Severus' right hand and left.

"Sorry we're late. I was …" Harry touched the right sleeve of his robes reverently.

"Go on," Hermione urged with a grin. "Show them."

Harry leaned over the table, his voice a whisper. "No one cares, Hermione."

"Oh, have you finished your wand?" Ginevra's voice was the exact opposite of Harry's – loud and boisterous and excited.

Severus managed to stifle his own laughter at the sight of Harry's blazing cheeks. Excited comments came from all sides, urging the young wizard to perform.

Harry Potter, Severus mused, hated attention. Just one of the many - wrong - assumptions he'd made about the boy based solely on his father's teenage egotism. That vision of the boy – as an arrogant, rule-breaking, rude reincarnation of James Potter had died long ago. Long before Severus had seen the boy face Voldemort – and Dumbledore - at the end. Before he had seen the boy's tears at a House Elf's funeral. Or had witnessed his utter refusal to be drawn to the Ministry for speeches or lauds or awards.

"One spell," Severus murmured, touching Harry's sleeve with one finger. "Give them what they want, and you may get some peace."

Harry met Severus' gaze, nodding. He flicked his wrist and a pale wand shot into his hand. Amidst oohs and aahs, he flourished his wand. "Thanks again for the holster, Hermione."

As the boy swished and flicked, lifting the tea service to hover over the table, Severus counted up the days. When Harry – and the rest of the table – settled down, Severus rose, his own wand in his hand.

Balloons and decorations appeared. A moment later, Saffron and Cypress had painted Chartwell's dining room with red and gold, a long banner unfurling across the mantle, 'Happy Birthday, Harry' scrolled across its surface. Sparkling confetti burst overhead, fizzling to nothingness before it could touch food or drink.

Every witch and wizard stood, cup or glass in his or her hand. Some were solemn, with tears in their eyes. Others laughed. The young people's faces were more honest and open, their eyes filled with joy. Draco seemed pensive but held his glass as high as any other.

Severus lifted his cup and addressed the extremely embarrassed of-age wizard still seated on his right. "Happy birthday, Harry. The wizarding world is most anxious to see what you and your friends will accomplish in the future. Not to mention just a little afraid." As the laughter died down, he continued. "You've all had a very … interesting start. Speaking for all of us," he laid his hand over his heart, "may we request that you all apply yourselves to your studies for the next year and stop trying to give your elders heart attacks?"

"At least for a little while," Remus chuckled, downing his pumpkin juice.

Harry smiled at Remus and then up at Severus. "No promises," he grinned.

"Merlin forbid," Severus groaned dramatically. When they were all seated and eating, chatting and laughing, Severus took one more long look.

Laughter. Joy. Peace. They looked good on Harry. Severus tilted his cup again in a silent plea. Let the future that unfolded before them be painted with visions like this. Visions of happy families. Of deep devotion. Solid friendship. Children raised to know they are protected and nurtured, that the childish spell Severus had sent out to Remus in the manor would always bring a loved one running with words of compassion and comforting arms, never manipulative half-truths and tragic demands.

Chartwell's magic responded to Severus' thoughts and the happiness gathered around her table, the beams and walls glowing. He smiled. Love. That was truly magical.