tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-80476981530580299052024-03-16T22:55:47.638-04:00Anarchy Is HyperboleSerial fiction and serial thoughts.ADhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10211720060888169877noreply@blogger.comBlogger60125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8047698153058029905.post-25744811357029857592016-05-20T16:37:00.001-04:002016-05-20T16:37:11.200-04:00 Significant Digits, Analysis and Thanks<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b style="color: #222222; font-family: 'noto serif', georgia, serif; font-size: x-large; line-height: 27px;">Significant Digits, Analysis and Thanks</b><br />
<b style="color: #222222; font-family: 'noto serif', georgia, serif; font-size: x-large; line-height: 27px;"><br /></b></div>
<span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-weight: 400;">I really enjoyed </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry Potter and the Methods of Rationality. HPMOR</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> excelled in its characterization, its intricate plot, its careful phrasing and riddles, and in its use of dramatic tension and catharsis. I loved the way it took aspects of the original </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry Potter</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> and extrapolated them out into a world and timeline, using reasonably pessimistic expectations to establish a small set of premises and then draw the logical conclusion.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Some of the scenes I found particularly affecting were the following:</span><br />
<ul>
<li style="font-weight: 400;"><span style="font-weight: 400;">Chapter six, where Harry talks about a childhood trauma when he felt unsafe, and we can feel that the author has shown us something very real and raw to him;</span></li>
<li style="font-weight: 400;"><span style="font-weight: 400;">Chapter sixteen, when Harry has his first Battle Magic class and virtually the whole of the story is set in motion in a compact and subtle way;</span></li>
<li style="font-weight: 400;"><span style="font-weight: 400;">Chapter forty-five, when the first Patronus 2.0 is cast and we read Harry’s mental </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">cri de cœur</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">; and</span></li>
<li style="font-weight: 400;"><span style="font-weight: 400;">Chapter eighty-one, the courtroom scene in which we learn everything we ever need to know about the awesome majesty of Minerva McGonagall.</span></li>
</ul>
<span style="font-weight: 400;">When I set out to write </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Significant Digits</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, I tried to honor everything I enjoyed and admired about </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">HPMOR.</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> The result is bound to be unsatisfactory for some people, because not everyone was fascinated by those same elements. Further, I was very specifically not trying to mimic the original story. To imitate another author’s voice and recreate their patterns over an entire work would be very difficult and not very fun, and I had no taste for the attempt.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">I wanted to write a story about a changing world -- the </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">whole</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> world -- as all the ambitions of the characters played out and met their difficulties. I wanted to write a story about the realization of the rationalism and humanism to which Harry aspired. I wanted to write a story about extravagance: extravagant planning with layered redundancies, extravagant characters whose passion led them to discard the literal and logical conclusions of their own beliefs in favor of still-greater pursuits, and extravagant events befitting the process of optimizing the world.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">I wanted </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Significant Digits </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">to answer some of the questions that had lingered with me. These were big questions, and even in three hundred thousand words, I couldn’t completely answer all of them -- but I did answer some. What was it like in the larger world of </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry Potter</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, outside the confines of the school? How would magic and magical races have shaped history and the hidden events behind them (ignoring the well-meaning but utterly insane history of canon)? How could the continued existence of this world be explained, given the elements we knew to be present?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Lastly, of course, I sought to tell a story with interesting characters and events that follow a rationally-unfolding plot, both at simple levels and in intricate mental leaps. There were many twists that everyone solved, some that only a few grasped, and a few that no one at all predicted. This has been an amazingly intelligent and creative group, and it was a considerable challenge to find the right balance. Congratulations are due to those individuals who guessed some of the biggest twists and puzzles, most particularly Reddit user /u/psinig, who identified the Second of the Three.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">In some respects, I have succeeded. In others, I have failed. I was certainly overly ambitious, and should have given myself twice as long and twice as many words. These limitations cramped plot development, curtailed events, and required me to rely on implications in some regards. But I do believe that I accomplished much of what I wanted to create, and that I have done one more thing besides: left room for others. There are other stories to be told. I’ll write some of them, but others have begun their own: </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;"><a href="http://www.2pih.com/">Orders of Magnitude</a> </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">is a prequel that’s already begun.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">There’s a whole big world to play in.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">There’s a lot I would change now, even though I’m pretty happy with the story. It’s my first work of this length, and my first work of serial fiction, and naturally there are all kinds of changes I would make in hindsight. I became a better writer over the course of this past year, and a more critical thinker. I should probably have cut back on some of the secondary storylines, in retrospect, since I didn’t have time or room to do them justice.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">There is one chapter, though, that I would not change and that I am utterly happy with -- a chapter in which I did every little thing I wanted to do, and yet somehow arrived at something that was even more than the sum of all those parts. <a href="http://www.anarchyishyperbole.com/2015/07/significant-digits-chapter-fourteen.html">Chapter Fourteen, Azkaban</a>, is everything for which I have aimed, and will continue to aim in my fiction. I can recommend that chapter to you, at the least, with a full and proud and happy heart.</span><br />
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<span style="font-weight: 400;">As for the rest, that’s for you to decide.</span><br />
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<span style="font-weight: 400;">Gratitude is due to many people.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Writing the story would have been quite literally impossible if it weren’t for the extraordinary efforts of 4t0m, go_on_without_me, pa55word, and a final editor who wishes to go unnamed. Their tireless willingness to sweat the small stuff despite unreasonably short deadlines, challenge poor phrasing or poor ideas, and cheer on our joint successes was extraordinary. This was their story and their accomplishment, too. Thank you all.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Readers and commenters have provided an enormous amount of support and constructive criticism, both of which have helped me improve as the story continued. I have been writing for a long time, but this is the first thing that’s ever gotten this kind of response, and a large part of that was that the community of </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">HPMOR</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> fans is so creative and clever and kind. Amazing individuals improved my website, fixed up the subreddit, donated a laptop when I complained about a green tint on my screen (!), and put together PDF and EPUB versions of the text. Thank you all.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Generous patrons on Patreon provided a real reason to keep going when things were hard. While I frequently remind people to consider their priorities before donating to a writer, it’s also true that money is the unit of caring. Patronage provided a message of support and very real assistance that could not be explained away as courtesy or indifferent politeness. Thank you all.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Eliezer Yudkowksy wrote something genuinely new and good, and inspired legions. And I certainly wouldn’t have begun the story at all if it hadn’t been for his gentle encouragement and reception when I first posted a snapshot of my ideas. Thank you.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Nothing would have been possible, or worthwhile, if it hadn’t been for my wife Lizzie. She walked with me in the woods while I talked about ideas. She proofread all the early chapters. She took the cover picture. I know that there is some ineluctable grace in this world, because I know her. Thank you.</span><br />
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<span style="font-weight: 400;">My next story will be the </span><a href="http://www.anarchyishyperbole.com/p/conquest.html"><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">The</span></em> <em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Consolation of Conquest</span></em></a><span style="font-weight: 400;">. It will begin in about a month, and updates will come at a more reasonable fortnightly basis. Please subscribe to my <a href="http://eepurl.com/bLNHdz">mailing list</a> or <a href="http://www.anarchyishyperbole.com/feeds/posts/default">RSS feed</a> or <a href="https://www.reddit.com/r/AiH">subreddit</a> to receive updates.</span><br />
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<span style="font-weight: 400;">Thank you.</span><br />
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ADhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10211720060888169877noreply@blogger.com28tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8047698153058029905.post-64370069278382608742016-05-16T22:38:00.002-04:002016-05-20T16:38:10.759-04:00Significant Digits, Epilogue<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b style="color: #222222; font-family: 'noto serif', georgia, serif; font-size: x-large; line-height: 27px;">Significant Digits, Epilogue</b><br />
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<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">ἔσχατος ἐχθρὸς καταργεῖται ὁ θάνατος·</span></em><br />
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<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
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<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">The Tower</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">June 1st, 1999</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Three weeks later</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione gave herself a moment to look around the room, moving from face to face. So few familiar faces: Percy Weasley, Amelia Bones, and Dolores Umbridge. Percy was smiling confidently on her left, while Amelia and Dolores were engaged in whispered conversations with their neighbors.</span><br />
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<span style="font-weight: 400;">Many more of those present were relatively new, either to her or to the Tower. He Jin of the Court of Rubies. Per Aavik-Söderlundh-Ellingsen, on mission for the nobility of Europe. And others: a Westphalian appointed by Hig, who was now unchallenged in his dominance over the surviving rump of the Council; several wizards and witches from various strata of the Confederation, chosen as representatives-at-large; a goblin who was present in the same capacity, nominally representing Beings; a domovoi of Russia sent by the Thunderer on behalf of the Slavic tradition; and wizards from Nigeria, Dunedin, and Chile.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">It was almost a parody of oligarchy, with stronger states and Things trying to cement their local power. The small nods towards democracy would have been pathetic if they hadn’t actually represented progress.</span><br />
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<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Every little step is important, but there’s still so much work to do,</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> thought Hermione. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Proportional regional representation for wizards; similar representation for Beings and some sort of system for Muggles; a federal system to incorporate adversarial interests; strong backing for select NGOs for science and healing... and so much more</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">. She could almost see the future stretching out ahead of her, in all of its strangeness and complexity.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">It might have been disheartening if Hermione hadn’t been so eager to get started. There were so many lives to save, and she was in a position to help without a minute of delay. She smiled. Not one more minute.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">All right, then. Time to do a little dance.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Thank you, everyone, for coming,” said Percy. “You should all have an itinerary, but I have extras if you need them. If you don’t mind, we’ll begin with introductions, and then we’ll lay out our current status and our future plans.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“There is much we need to do,” broke in Per, ignoring the orderly start of the meeting and the offered itinerary, his face haggard and serious with urgency. Percy looked mildly annoyed. “We must begin immediately to work on our defenses. The Muggles and the monsters and the other things… we must plan for their control.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He Jin cut in after the Norden diplomat, leaning forward and pointing out in calm and clipped words that the strange blurry monsters with fishlike eyes had been spotted in Ulan Bator a day ago, and there was no telling where they might go next.</span><br />
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<span style="font-weight: 400;">The Westphalian agreed, nodding along with the mandarin and adding, “Our resources are a fraction of what they were, and it’s taking everything we have simply to maintain the Statute of Secrecy. And that’s not even mentioning the villains behind it all -- the ones Reg called the ‘Three.’ </span>”<br />
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<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Yes,” said Hermione, rising up from her seat slightly. The others quieted, and attention focused on her. “You are all absolutely right,” she said, and she put force behind her words: cold steel. She pressed her lips tightly together, then gave a small nod, as though in confirmation of some inner resolution.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Our current situation has become untenable,” she continued. “If another attack arrived, we’d be wiped out. There is one member of the Three at large, assuming we have not fallen prey to misinformation in that regard -- I can imagine a clever group adopting a misleading name -- as well as a small army of Unseelie and many other threats. Even with the help of new allies,” and she nodded to the Curdite who was there on behalf of the goblins and other Beings, “we have barely been able to hold things together. Thousands and thousands of people and goblins lost their lives on Götterdämmerung, and we are vulnerable as never before.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Then now is the time to take hold of the Muggles, as our enemy did, and as we once did in old times,” said the Russian domovoi. “We must command their numbers for our own.” The New Zealand representative nodded her head, vigorously.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Yes,” agreed Hermione once more. Amelia and Dolores ended their hushed conversation, turning to look at her with shock and disbelief, and even Percy turned to stare at her. “I know that for many of you, this will be unimaginable, but I agree: it’s the only way. The world has changed, and all of us have seen things happen that we never could have believed.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
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<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Elsewhere.</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">At the same time.</span></em><br />
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<span style="font-weight: 400;">Limpel Tineagar’s face had been frozen into an unpleasant expression of dismay and pain. Reg Hig was reminded of the stories of how the Eleusinian Mysteries had punished its enemies, petrifying them into living statues and then enchanting their limbs so that they could be adjusted into humiliating positions. It seemed petty to today’s scholars of history, but its effectiveness couldn’t be discounted -- the Mysteries had maintained their hegemony over all of the Mediterranean for generations.</span><br />
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<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Not that they could do much, here</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, he thought, looking at Tineagar’s maimed body, floating in the air in front of him, stunned stiff. One arm cut away at the shoulder, the other at the elbow. He’d heard that Amelia Bones had done this, in the last moments of a fight on Hogwarts’ roof. He wondered if it had been punitive, necessary, or simply an accident of victory. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Bones is not a cruel witch, but a new Eleusinian Mysteries has arisen. I can’t ignore the implications of that, even if I am a part of it.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">That last thought was some comfort, at least, he thought as he looked at the broken body of the betrayer, floating along at his wand’s command. The great merchants and old families of Tidewater had been murdered, wiped out of life as thoroughly as if they’d never existed, but those Americans that were left would be an equal part of the new world. When the Council of Westphalia rose again -- and that Thing </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">would</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> rise again, even if Hig had to spend the rest of his life rebuilding its ranks and its strength -- the Americas would no longer be in the shadows, jockeying for leverage within the Confederation.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Councilor Hig, sir,” called a voice, and Hig looked up, returning from his reverie. It was the head of the DMLE, young Diggory, and four others. One was an auror that Hig recognized, but not the rest… they looked nervous and unsettled. Ranks were thin all over, and Hig supposed these must be new recruits or patrol-wizards pressed into more heady service than that to which they were used.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Director Diggory, hello,” said Hig.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Hullo,” said Diggory. The young man looked haggard, but somehow that made him look even taller and more handsome. His expression was solemn, perhaps due to their surroundings. The atrium of the British Ministry of Magic still bore scars and ragged wounds on every wall and surface. The basics had been put back in order, but it would be a long time before the cosmetic damage could be repaired -- and even longer before the memories would fade. Hig thought of Tidewater again, and shuddered.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Here is my delivery,” said Hig, gesturing with his wand. Tineagar’s body floated between them gently, as though wafted by the wind. “Good riddance. Have your people strip her mind, and if there’s anything left when you’re done, tell her that her home is gone.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Diggory didn’t reply, watching Hig with a sad expression. He gestured to one of the witches with him, and she cast her own levitation spell on Tineagar, taking over from Hig.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I’ll be headed back later tonight,” Hig said, “after taking some time to try to get together some people.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Checking up on friends?” Diggory asked, as he stared down at the frozen face of Tineagar.</span><br />
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<span style="font-weight: 400;">“No,” Hig said, shaking his head. “There are some expats of the Americas here in Britain. From all over… Chile, Brazil, the States, Canada, </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">et cetera</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">. I’m going to touch base with a few of them and see if they’d be amenable to coming home.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Make sense. I’m sorry about what happened.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“It could have been worse,” Hig said. “Salem escaped without a scratch on a single student, thanks to the goblins and centaurs, and Houston and Buenos Aires only lost a handful. And we’ll rebuild. Everyone, everywhere, needs to rebuild.” He gestured broadly around the atrium, as though to illustrate his point.</span><br />
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<span style="font-weight: 400;">“We’ll be here to help.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Thank you,” Hig said, and sighed. He shook his head. “Sorry, it’s too easy to be gloomy, these days. All is well with you?”</span><br />
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<span style="font-weight: 400;">“As well as can be expected,” Diggory said, nodding. “I lost some friends and a cousin, but everyone lost someone. It’s been too busy to really think about it.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Make sure you make time for yourself -- to keep a clear head,” Hig offered. “In fact, maybe you want to have dinner tonight? Take your mind off things?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Actually,” said Diggory, a bit sheepishly. “I have an engagement tonight.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I heard rumors about a long-sought romance. I suppose sometimes persistence pays off, eh?” said Hig, smiling gently. A signal to the young man: </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">levity is okay, even now with what happened in Tidewater, I won’t be offended.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Diggory shrugged. “What can I say?” he asked. “We’ve all been through so much, and sometimes a person comes out the other side a bit… well, bolder, I guess. It’ll be new and probably fun, and worth giving it a chance, and anyway</span>…”<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">And Diggory glanced with a smile over at the group that had accompanied him, where Pip was standing guard. “</span>…<span style="font-weight: 400;">he </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">did</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> save my life.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Pip noticed their attention. He smiled hugely and gave them a little wave. Then he returned to his work, straightening himself up and returning his attention to Tineagar… though she was hardly in a position to escape, even if she were somehow to wake, and though it didn’t seem as though any amount of dutifulness could erase the smile that was plastered on his face.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Well then,” said Hig, and now his smile was rather more genuine. “I hope you have a good evening. I’m sure I’ll see you soon, Master Diggory. Let’s hope for the best of luck -- in all our new beginnings.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">When Reg Hig left the Ministry of Magic, he found himself oddly optimistic. Despite all of his common sense and despite everything he knew of history… he let himself believe that things might get brighter. Things might get better.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Isn’t it pretty to think so.</span></em><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">”Muggles are an existential threat,” Hermione said, firmly, looking around at everyone at the meeting table. It was a new piece of furniture, without the scuffs and broken edge from Hermione’s demonstrations of anger three months ago. New like everything else in this new Tower. “Götterdämmerung showed that to everyone, even skeptics. Harry had some strong beliefs on this, as you know, but I think we need a new plan. The Statute of Secrecy made us vulnerable, since it encouraged us to separate ourselves and gather together into little enclaves. There was a time when wizards and witches lived among Muggles, usually ruling them, and it would have been impossible to try any sort of magical genocide. We need that protection again -- the protection of Muggles.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Madame Granger,” said Amelia, and her voice was harsh. “I am surprised to hear this from you. You used to moderate Mr. Potter’s approach, but now you sound more extreme than he ever did. What is your idea -- that we attempt to seize control? It’s not even practical, even if it weren’t a gross departure from our ideals. We are so few… do you imagine we could dominate the Muggles when they have as many cities as we have people?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“We have been intervening strategically for years,” said Hermione, coolly, standing up. “On a small scale, even a handful of wizards can effect incredibly quick change at a minimum of risk.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I hardly think a few Hit Wizard squads are good evidence,” objected Dolores. “And you </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">know</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> what they’re like.”</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Elsewhere.</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">At the same time.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“This seems like the perfect moment for sniping,” said Neville, in a hopeful whisper. He scrunched himself forward enough to see over the rim of a huge spool of copper wire that was currently hiding him from sight, then ducked back down. “Yes, sniping it is. For sure.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“If we did that, then --” said Fred, cocking his head to the side.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“-- wouldn’t he be dead?” said George, cocking his head to the other side.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“No, I just need to snipe the gun out of his hand,” said Neville. “That can be healed.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Then there would be the blastbomb only to explode, I think,” said Bogdanova, peering around the corner for a moment. She pulled her head back and turned to Neville with a mocking smile. “Which means all of our problems here would be gone very shortly... yes, you have convinced me.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I can snipe his other hand, too,” offered Neville. “Then he can’t blow up the bomb.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“This might be one of those situations that can’t be solved with sniper rifles,” mused George, contemplatively.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Although now that we say that out loud, it just sounds silly,” contemplated Fred, musingly.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“We can use the Extinguishing Charm on the bomb. That will stop any detonation,” said Neville. “Then the sniping.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Snipe the hostages, as a distraction?” suggested Bogdanova. Her appearance may have changed with rejuvenation, but her attitude certainly hadn’t been affected.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Enchanted bullets, that’s the ticket,” said Fred.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Zip around to both hands, whammo, knock him back and to the left,” agreed George.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Neville turned to squint at George suspiciously, but the Weasley twin only smiled serenely. Neville sighed, and crossed his arms with a scowl. “Fine, fine… the same as always, then.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Don’t worry, Nev,” said George, consolingly. “You’ll get your chance, someday.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“There will be another time the world is about to end, and then you’ll just nip in and snipe the arch-villain just in time to save everyone,” said Fred, nodding.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Happens all the time,” said George.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Definitely not a unique opportunity for awesomeness,” said Fred.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The twins were grinning, now. They reached across to each other, and each tapped the other on the head. With the sound of a cracking egg, they vanished into Disillusionment.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Bogdanova waited a second, then leaned around and tugged on Neville’s earlobe, affectionately. “They’re not wrong, you know,” she said, her tone softening. “Who knows what may happen? Think about other things of that day.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I know,” Neville said, sighing again as Bogdanova lifted her wand and tapped herself on the head, vanishing from sight with a wet crackling noise. “And I’m grateful, of course. But still… the sniping…” he said plaintively.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Oh, come on,” the invisible Russian witch said, and her voice was fond. “Let us go. There’s a girl in the pond that needs rescuing.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Neville grinned, and Disillusioned himself.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span>
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“This is good,” said the domovoi, who obviously approved of the plan. Several others joined him in that attitude. Per, Percy, and Dolores looked doubtful. Amelia looked hostile. The others seemed to have reserved judgment.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He Jin cleared his throat, delicately, and asked Hermione what she was proposing.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">The fast reverse.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“We have already seen the success of making our rivals into our allies,” said Hermione, gesturing at the Curdish envoy. “So we need to do the same with the Muggles. We need to turn a threat into an asset… potentially the biggest asset we could ever have. We need to eliminate the Statute of Secrecy and present ourselves to the world as a magical people. It’s a risk, and we’ll need to be careful, but remaining isolated has proven even riskier.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Nearly everyone seemed confused by what she was proposing, except for Amelia. Her expression softened, and displeasure was supplanted by surprise. “You’re not proposing mastery at all. You’re proposing the </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">modus meli</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Open and free, and as equal as we can manage,” confirmed Hermione. “Not hiding from them, not ruling them, but living with them.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Per spoke up, cautiously. “If you will excuse me, that seems to be an idea with a very interesting goal, but one with too many problems. It is impossible.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“There are so many problems that it’s staggering,” Hermione allowed. “Every Muggle government will see magic as a weapon, so there will be a risk of global warfare -- in addition to the constant threat of kidnapping or blackmail. There are also different aspects of magic that are incredibly dangerous to the untrained, but any Obliviator can tell you how hard it is to completely eliminate information from a Muggle population… which is why nearly every aspect of our magical world can be found approximated in folklore and legends, even today. And of course, there’s every possibility we’d face a return to the days of witch-hunts and inquisitions… especially after recent events.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“But you believe you have a solution,” Amelia said, quietly, speaking over the murmurs of the others.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“It is possible that the Mirror of Noitilov can be used to alter the terms under which our world operates,” said Hermione. “It is also possible that the Goblet of Fire can be used to bind people without their conscious knowledge, if it will recognize a proxy in terms of political representatives. It is also possible that some of the new spells we will acquire from our two captive members of the Three -- or even one of the ones we already possess -- could be used once we have mastered them to manipulate even a global population. But we may not need to resort to any of these, if we devote ourselves as one to this goal and find different solutions. There are many others, including mundane strategies like wand control. There were only one hundred and twelve wandmakers worldwide a month ago, and there must be many fewer now. We kept the entire world in an imperfect ignorance for centuries -- surely if we really try, we can manage a transition without too much damage.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Percy was staring at her, eyes wide. He’d realized what she was saying -- her </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">true</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> message -- before anyone else. But he didn’t seem angry. He seemed awed.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“It might be hard,” Hermione added. “But sometimes the hardest things -- the things that seem the most impossible -- are the things that most need to be done. The first step to finding a solution is rejecting the idea of impossibility. Then you just take the first, hard, scary step.”</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Elsewhere.</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">At the same time.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Nikitas Seyhan knocked gingerly on the door to the cottage at Külek Boğazı. There was no answer. Nikitas frowned and turned around, glancing behind himself to where Tonks, Jessie, and Urg were watching. Tonks smiled and nodded, miming a knock. Nikitas turned back around and knocked a second time, more loudly. He knew he should be nervous, but really only felt a distant discomfort. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Hello?” said a voice in the local Greek. The door cracked open, slowly.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Is this the Seyhan house?” said Nikitas, in the same tongue. He felt like he was in a dream.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The door swung open, and a big bluff man stood there. He was bearded and florid, and his eyes were wide.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Nikitas? You’ve come back to us?”</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Dolores said something first, in a syrupy voice that was unusually quiet. “Ms. Granger… the Mirror, and the Goblet, and the new spell… aren’t these all things you could have already done? Couldn’t you have… Did you?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He Jin was out of his seat, glaring at Hermione as though his eyes were capable of murder under their own power. The Westphalian had gone pale. Per was looking rapidly around him, not having yet understood but too afraid to ask.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione stood and stepped away from the table, and walked to the room’s window. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Dramatic pose at the window, put my silhouette against the sky. Like so.</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> She looked out and down, at the clouds rolling beneath the Tower as the building lightly floated along, borne up by the salvaged Aa-Khem of the Shafiq. The scarab statues had been recovered from the wreckage of </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">The Declaration of Intent</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">. The new Tower, still only a fragment of its future self, was buoyed up in the sky: unassailable, invisible, and puissant.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The people in this room represented enough power and influence to sway the Confederation. They’d fought a global war together, and now faced new challenges and a new world. They’d been forged out of a disparate and violent assemblage of fractious Things, and could now be united.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Fear could do it. She could threaten most of them. They might seek her death and plot against her, but they’d obey. She knew that Draco would do it that way, if he were in her position. A cold and intimidating speech, leveraging all his power and influence, and enlisting the weak as his enforcers.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Persuasion could do it. She could convince most of them. They wouldn’t be wholly won over, and might later change their minds, but they’d agree. She knew that Harry would do it that way, if he were in her position. A bold and inspirational speech, changing as many minds as possible, and backed up with redundant plans to handle anyone who was recalcitrant.</span><span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-weight: 400;">But she wasn’t Draco and she wasn’t Harry. They’d each stepped away from these things, perhaps permanently. She was Hermione Granger, daughter of dentists, goddess. She was standing at the crux of things, and she knew the right thing to do.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Fear was limited. Draco had been afraid all of his life, in one sense, but he’d still found the courage to face the worst and overcome it. A single lever was all it took to overturn fear.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Persuasion was limited. Harry had spent years railing against insanity and irrationality, hurling evidence and reason against dull walls and burning with frustrating when they failed. He sometimes couldn’t see the way the world was, out of eagerness to see it the way it should be.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione knew that wasn’t how you led people. It wasn’t how you changed minds. She had led the Returned, and she knew why. She had led soldiers, and she knew why they’d followed her on the battlefield. She had led the people, and she knew why they wanted to touch her hand and worshipped her.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione had died twice, and she knew what she’d followed back to this world. She knew what people would follow.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">They followed the light.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Far below, all around the Tower, she could see bright spots of crimson glory. She heard a phoenix call, as though it saw her, and heard another answer.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione turned around, and smiled, and began to speak.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">She brought her own special gift. She brought hope.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Yesterday.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“It just seems unlike you, is all,” Hermione said to Harry, watching him curiously. She opened a satchel and looked inside, but the extended space within was still empty.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I think my part in this is over,” Harry said, shrugging. He was silent for a moment as he finishing bolting down the Vanishing Cabinet inside of the spherical silver ship, then he stood back and surveyed his work. He nodded approvingly, and turned back to Hermione. “And I’ll be within reach, from time to time. I might need help.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione frowned. “You’ll need a lot of books, and you might get lonely, but as far as we can tell, there’s no limit to that Cabinet. You don’t even really need to ‘go’ at all, since you could just as easily live here and check in on your ship once a month. So this is really you taking a sabbatical from everything. And that’s fine, but I think I’m the one who’s going to be asking you for help. Be ready to pop on through, the first time I encounter an insuperable problem.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Well, see, here’s the thing,” Harry said, leaning down with a silver wire rack so that he could affix it to the interior of the ship. “You remember all of my work with Luna, looking into the nature of magic? Magical theory has come quite a ways since we started to systematically eliminate possibilities. And we found some pretty amazing things when we looked at the brains of people casting spells. We never did have enough of a chance to discuss it, I think,” he mused. “Anyway, I pretty much have just one strong hypothesis now. And it fits with what we know about Merlin, and explains a lot.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Spoken magic and wandless magic look almost the same when you see how they’re expressed. BETs and POSTs and all the rest in specific patterns, even though the interference each spell generates might be completely different. The same effect, the same patterns. It’s not a far inferential leap to conclude that the pattern is a command, like you might give to a computer. If you’re magical in nature, then something in the universe knows to pay attention to that command.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Now, it’s possible that it’s just the nature of the universe that specific electrochemical patterns in our neurology trigger complicated phenomena. I’ve read weirder theories. But that opens up a big question: why are we the only ones?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“It’s the Fermi Paradox on an even bigger scale. There are so many planets where life could evolve, out there in the universe. And the existence of magic means that a lot of the normal answers probably don’t work. Distance and difficulty don’t seem like they could possibly matter once any magical civilization is advanced enough, and some of those lifeforms that probability suggests must exist would end up being magical, just like humans.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Now, there’s a lot of possible explanations. Maybe magic makes it even more difficult for life to evolve than we thought, somehow. Or maybe there are magical barriers we don’t know about, blocking us off.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“But then I think about Merlin, and what he was afraid of, and how he… well, he backed down, when it came down to it.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione’s jaw had dropped open and she’d forgotten to breathe since Harry had said the words “Fermi Paradox.” He continued on.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I didn’t present him with very much new information, when it came right down to it. He must have already known Meldh had been defeated, and they’d been watching me so they already knew the other things I said. And I told him that prophecies always come true, but I learned that from a book that </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">quoted Merlin</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">. So why did he go?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Maybe he’s just biding his time. Maybe he’s seeking a way to neutralize our advantages. Maybe he was just suddenly persuaded.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“But someone that powerful with that much lore and prophecy…” Harry shook his head. “I’m not sure about that. Because I’m thinking of what Merlin’s goal might really have been, and about a thing called the Great Filter, and…” He paused, then continued. “No, I think that --”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Wait,” interrupted Hermione. “Just wait. Because I think you’re about to tell me that you think the British wizard Merlin is an alien from another planet, sent here to watch us or guard us or something. And that maybe aliens invented magic? And that is…” She frowned. “Just… no. Put a pin in that. I can’t handle that right now.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry grinned. “I imagine a computer somewhere, advanced beyond our furthest dreams, that fulfills commands to users it recognizes. And we just happen to have matched that pattern in the wierdest way. But all right. Another time, then. Or until it becomes more urgent.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione was silent for a long period, while Harry continued packing away supplies. Lots of redundancies and failsafes, since this was a journey into the unknown. He’d be pushing against new limits and uncertainties about all sorts of materials and spells.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">After a while, the witch spoke again. “How do you know that this will work? And where to go?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Prophecy,” Harry said, shrugging. “Which is the only way I can even do this, since I know I will succeed someday. Eventually. I just need to head to the Scorpion and the Archer… Scorpius and Sagittarius. Something is locked beyond return along that path. Just by coincidence, that’s also where astronomers think a black hole is situated, at the center of our galaxy. So that’s where I’ll go, and we’ll see if that’s where Dumbledore is now. If it’s where Atlantis is now. If it’s where all the things locked beyond return are trapped outside of time. It’s inconvenient and crazy, but sometimes so is the world.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“How far is it?” asked Hermione.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“26,000 light years or so,” answered Harry, grinning. “Although I expect to find faster ways to travel than the speed of light.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I feel as though we’re saying goodbye,” Hermione said, and her voice trembled a little. “Which is stupid, because you’ll probably be back for lunch next week, once you start to need someone to talk to. But you really are leaving.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I’m leaving,” Harry said.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“And you’re leaving me in charge.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“You’re in charge,” Harry agreed. “Oh, I have three things to give you! Might as well give them over now.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He reached into his pocket and pulled out a milky-white stone. “The Spirit Stone. The last of the Deathly Hallows. Yours now in truth, along with the others.” She accepted it, wordlessly. It was also reportedly a Horcrux of Voldemort. A research project: how to break those ties.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He tugged on the fingerless glove on his right hand, pulling it free. A pained expression passed over his face, but he didn’t hesitate. He offered it to her, and again Hermione took it.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">She glanced at his other hand, at the decoy glove he always wore, but he smiled a wry smile. “No, I’m going to hang on to this one. I discovered something useful about it, recently. No, the third thing is a ritual. It’s a sacrificial ritual… a dangerous one, but an important one. The most important one, really.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“You… wait, what?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“It was one of the only things I could think to do, at the end. I couldn’t fight, not really. And I only knew one thing that had impressed anyone in the Three. A ritual that he saw in my mind, one I’d never actually done. I had it in my mind, all the principles -- I’m really not sure how to explain it, it just works out somehow, when you’re inventing a spell -- and Meldh had told me I was being stupid not to use it.” Harry pulled a folded parchment from his pocket, carefully, and handed it over to her. “I still think he’s wrong, and I’m still not sure if it’s the right thing. But I did use it once. To fulfill a promise. I picked a star that seemed least likely to have any negative consequences… a Bok globule that would only have existed as a star for a few thousand years, as best I could figure.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione took the parchment. She didn’t know what to say… didn’t know how to react to a succession of surprises that seemed too great to be borne. All she could think was a single sentence, a miraculous sentence that embraced the multitude of stars scattered throughout her mind’s eye, each one now with a name: </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">We can save everyone.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">She smiled gently. Her eyes were wet.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Malfoy Manor</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The small family accepted no visitors, and seldom left the house.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">It was a strange, new way to live: as though ambition were sated, as though ambition had reached its natural end. Surely, it was temporary -- for the gnawing of desire never rests for long -- but for a time, the family wanted for nothing. They were together, and they were content.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Sometimes they played music, or had long conversations, or spent entire afternoons in cooking elaborate meals. But often, they simply sat with each other in silence. It was a happy and full silence where nothing needed to be said, because everything important was known.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">From time to time, Draco would close his eyes and hold them that way for a long time, before opening them again. As though testing what he was seeing.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">But nothing changed, and every time he would open them again, Draco would see his father anew, holding his mother’s hand.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He smiled gently. His eyes were wet.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Somewhere beyond Earth and everything else we know. Somewhere in the darkness of space.</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Soon.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry took a deep breath, and then let it out, slowly. It sounded very loud inside of his ship.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He held the glove from his left hand, and examined it with a smile. He touched the curved fragment of the Cup of Midnight that was bound there. A decoy he’d worn for years, to balance the Stone of Permanence. Impervious to harm and enchantment and damage, and always close to him.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He pushed hard on the underside of the smooth piece of pottery, twisted it to the side, and then pushed down on it. There was a small click, and the piece of broken earthenware slid upwards, revealing the round aperture to an extended space sheltered beneath.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry set the glove on the floor of the ship. He reached over to pick up a book from a small shelf where he’d placed it earlier, and then stepped into the glove. It drew him in, delicately.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Finding his way past all of the traps and security precautions had taken him weeks. Removing a substantial part of a mass of tungsten had taken almost as long, since he’d needed to be extremely careful. In this, after all, he was entirely alone.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">But he’d done it.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He sat on a small stool, and smiled. “Hello, Professor. I brought a book, and I thought I’d read to you today.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“That would be acceptable, Mr. Potter,” said Voldemort.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“It’s called </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">The Feynman Lectures on Physics</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, and it’s one of my favorites.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Is it long?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Yes.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Then begin at your leisure, Mr. Potter.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry didn’t begin right away. He just looked at the box for a moment.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He smiled gently. His eyes were wet.</span><br />
<br />
<br /></div>
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<div style="background-color: white; text-align: center;">
<b style="color: #222222; font-family: 'noto serif', georgia, serif; font-size: x-large; line-height: 27px;">Significant Digits, Chapter Fifty: Ultimate</b><br />
<div>
</div>
</div>
<span style="font-weight: 400;"></span><br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span>
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Out of the night that covers me, </span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> Black as the pit from pole to pole, </span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">I thank whatever gods may be </span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> For my unconquerable soul. </span></em><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The oldest stories of magical war are full of glory and drama, wrought on stage in bright colors, and entirely unlike the reality of war.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">As the vile goblins or villainous Muggles or vicious warlords swarm the field, awash in blood and villainy, the valorous Lord of Emerald calls upon an ancient ritual and the eldritch might of his Staff of the Seven Words, and sweeps aside the enemy with a single, cathartic gesture. Or if it’s a different sort of tale, the good-hearted baron finds himself at a loss at the climactic moment, and only the wits of his clever majordomo suffice to trick the gloating foe into a magical vow -- allowing a quibble in that vow, in the end, to bring that same foe to his ruin. Or the entire action between heroes and villains takes place in the uncertain shadow of some ancient power in the distance, and in the extremity of danger, it is only the intervention of thunder from on high that resolves the dispute in favor of Goodness.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">It is not that the authors of these stories were naive or ignorant of war. In a world where scholarship and warcraft were so closely linked, it was often the winner of a battle who wrote the story of the fight. Instead, a sort of </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">wishful thinking</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> prevailed in these narratives.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Real war is a horror.</span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">All of the defenders had fallen back within Hogwarts where possible, barricading the doors on the three sides of the castle not protected by the lake. They found battlements and windows and balconies, and rained down destruction on their enemies. Outside, a smaller few engaged in different sorts of combat, fighting with growing desperation.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Oddly enough, Hogwarts was not ideally suited for battle. The school was an ancient sanctuary of arcane lore, raised up when the world was wilder and magic was mightier, but it had seldom ever been directly challenged. Despite all probability and the disruptive nature of magic, there had not been a violent change of regimes in Britain since the time of Merlin, when the Wizard’s Council was established -- the riotous Thing that preceded Merlin’s Wizengamot and the world’s Confederation. Only two villains had ever dared to attack the walls of the castle-school, and they had met swift and sure ends.</span><br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">An outside observer might even say, on balance, that magical history was suspiciously tidy.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Despite these limitations, however, the castle was a formidable fortification. And once the defenders were forced to fall back within its walls, they devoted everything they could spare to preserving their strength. It was all too apparent that, should the walls of the castle fail, it would be impossible to coordinate any sort of defense. There was no motte to which they could retreat, or even any internal system of defense beyond the unreliable will of the building itself. It was a single keep, and they could not allow it to fall.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">They used every force and trick and power at their command, and the powers that be had called in every ounce of strength that could be spared from other fights.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">In different corners and in secret places, there were portkeys held in reserve. Portkeys to Hogsmeade, portkeys to the Receiving Room or other places in Hogwarts, and portkeys to the Forbidden Forest. Most were illegal. All that could be found, were used. Too few came, for there were other wars and other battles. At the Ministry of Magic, a heroic handful had held their ground. At Godric’s Hollow, a force of goblins had met a troop of monsters in a clash that could only be called audacious. Sadder still were the calls that simply went unanswered.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">It was hard to say if there was victory to be had on any front. Across the globe, much of the enemy had withdrawn or had spent itself, but even successful defenses had been ruinous. And not every defense was successful. Tidewater was cold and lifeless. The Court of Rubies was bloody and dead.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">But where there were warriors to answer and means to travel, they came to Scotland. They came to the defense of Hogwarts and the Tower, the center of a global war and the thoughts of all. From America and Russia and Korea and China they came. From the Free States and the Sawad and Cyprus and Cappadocia and Norden they came. From France and Germany and Hungary and Chile and New Zealand they came. From everywhere they could, they came.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">And those in a position to know gradually came to understand that there could be only two outcomes here, as day reddened into dusk and nightmare hordes met castle wall:</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Either Hogwarts and wizards would survive this night.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Or they would not.</span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione could hear Edgar Erasmus screaming. At some point, the pompous wizard, engaged in aerial battle high above, had been toppled from his broom by a gust of wind. When he fell, a goblin took the opportunity to dart forward and bury a spear into the man’s belly. The spear had already claimed the life of a basilisk, and now an acid venom was wracking Erasmus’ wound. He howled with agony, eyes fixed wide and face red, clutching at his stomach and writhing, legs slopping and flopping in a puddle of liquified stone. Most of the hill on the east side of the castle had been made into a ruin of shattered rock and enchanted soil. There were precious few Muggles left here, but the ones that were present could barely make their way forward through the devastated terrain… and most of the ones that managed were cut down by the careless and indiscriminate attacks of giant serpents and unliving creatures of rock, who did not differentiate between friend and foe.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Edgar Erasmus was in very much the wrong place, and his screams of agony spoke of that mistake. This was no place for humans. This was a primeval battle against horrors.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">And as she heard him scream, Hermione Granger found herself thinking, </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">No time for mercy, </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">and -- to her shame -- not even knowing what she meant by the thought.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Shuddering, she brought the axe in her hand down a third time, and the head of the terrasque parted from its body, falling free. Its mouth fell open to let a cloud of stinking vapor escape, and the heavy carcass dropped to the ground with a crash that knocked nearby Muggles off their feet. It landed on Hermione’s right foot. She barked a short cry of pain and instinctively yanked herself free, leaving behind at least one toe but keeping her footing. She turned to look for a new target, keeping her gaze low as she scanned around herself.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Off to her left, she saw another terrasque as it savaged someone -- Muggle or wizard or goblin, Hermione didn’t know. The creature was almost impersonal as it rent the body in its jaws into gorey pieces, holding most of it down with one of its six legs and methodically tearing away with its sightless lion’s head of black stone.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">She felt rather than saw the basilisk as it struck at her, and she lunged to the side, chopping down awkwardly with the axe. The goblin silver sank into the enormous serpent -- a glancing blow. The blade sliced its way free and off to the side. Before she could move, one of the basilisk’s coils or possibly just </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">another basilisk</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> collided with her back, swatting her with the strength of a freight train.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">For a moment, Hermione lost track of things.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">When she found herself again, she was on her rear, sitting with her back to something hard. She jerked her gaze back down to the ground. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">As if fighting giant monsters wasn’t hard enough you can’t even </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">look at their eyes </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">or else you die</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, she thought, dazedly. Erasmus was still screaming.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">She heard the clank of metal boots -- it was that trio of goblins who’d just joined the fight, Hermione realized. The ones who gave her the axe. She glanced at the sound, cautiously.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">One of them was in full plate armor in a medieval sort of style, while the other two only wore breastplates and helmet. The armor was silver and gold and brass; some pieces were bevelled and decorated with engravings, while others had simple and clean lines. All three carried shields. For reasons that Hermione didn’t fully grasp, all the goblins now had shields, even when it made it difficult to wield their chosen weapons.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">She felt stupid, as if she should understand why, but that didn’t help.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">A green bolt came from a defender on the battlement above her and streaked out of view down below. Hermione was glad someone on their side could still cast the spell; she hoped they had hit a basilisk. Her own wand was in its holster. The axe had proven more effective.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">She reached behind herself to feel the stone of the castle. Hermione had damaged it, cracking it with the impact of her body. If it had been mundane stone, she’d have gone straight through it, she thought; the stuff of Hogwarts was barely chipped. She found the edge of a stone and pulled herself up.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">As the goblins charged past her, she looked at where they were going, scanning the torn and smoking ground carefully until she could see the giant curving form of the basilisk in her near-peripheral vision. Then she launched herself forward, following the three goblins as they charged. Two of them raised their swords, and one of them set a spear-butt in the crook of his elbow. All three of them raised their voices in guttural cries she couldn’t understand.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">A gleam of silver -- her axe. Hermione snatched it up in her golden gauntlet as she ran. She heard the basilisk hiss, and saw a flash of movement as it struck. One of the goblins hurtled past her, broken.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The other two kept charging, roaring like heroes. She joined her voice to theirs, and followed them.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Draco couldn’t move his right arm. Much of it had been torn away, removed with great gouges by one of the dog-like things that were racing around, tearing apart victims. He couldn’t quite get a grasp on them -- they weren’t properly visible, but just seemed like smears of insane nonsense. Rough impressions: </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Wide mouth. Sucking discs of teeth. Pale eyes of blue cataracts. Knotty muscle.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">What was left of his arm hung limply from his shoulder, as though it weren’t even a part of him. At least the potion had stopped the bleeding. Kept him alive. That ugly little American had given it to him. Hig. The fellow was down the hall, with Gregory Goyle. At a different window. A different defense.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">They’d managed to kill three or four of the things. The Killing Curse worked, and maybe other curses as well, Draco wasn’t sure. They moved so quickly, leaping around faster than anything could move, faster than anything </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">should be able to move</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, and their every touch brought bloody blight to their victims. Wards and shields could stop them, but when they struck even something as doughty as a Prismatic Sphere, it was as though they hit with the force of a dragon. Draco had thrown up a ward to deflect one of the human-shaped monsters from entering through the window he was defending, and the blow it had dealt his spell had brought him to his knees. He hadn’t fallen, but only just. He could feel the magic positively </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">drain</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> out of him.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Draco lifted his wand, held it in Ochs. There were some Muggles below, but they were thin on the ground. And in light of the other creatures, they seemed quaint with their cricket bats and knives. None of them had guns or explosives, and so they weren’t worth his attention.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The sun was setting, and all the light was red. It would be night, soon.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">A flash of motion leapt past the window, and Draco heard a scream from somewhere.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He leaned against the curved side of the window. He wanted to fall to the ground. He wanted to weep. He wanted to sleep.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">But he would not. Some things were stronger than sleep or weakness or death. He would fight.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Then he heard a hooting sound, and this time he was too slow with his shield. Before he knew what exactly had happened, he was on the floor before the window, and something was on him. He’d lost his wand, it was gone, he couldn’t do anything.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">It was one of the flying ones, and it was on his shoulder and one side of his chest</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">and</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">he felt</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">pain ripping</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">and</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">he heard</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">a wet sound</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">of flesh tearing</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">and the crackle</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;"> of bone</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">splintering</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">and the pain</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">was killing him</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">he screamed</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">he screamed</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">he screamed</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">he screamed</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">he went away for a moment</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">and remembered</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">“Draco,” Harry said. “Thank you for coming. I… well, thank you.”</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">“What do you want, Potter?” Draco said, staring at the other boy. Potter had his face all screwed up, brows furrowed, as he always looked when he was about to be unbearably earnest. Looking at him made Draco feel sick -- a deep and bitter disgust that tasted of acid.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Potter closed his eyes. “I want to make you a promise. A promise about your father. I want to --”</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">“Harry Potter,” said Draco, his voice a dangerous hiss. “Be very careful what you say next.” He could feel the acid on his tongue, but even more, it was burning in his veins. The rage and hatred. The things that made him weep at night, as he forced his face into his pillow and sobbed with great wracking cries. The things that made the presence of his mother a cruel thing, because they were very nearly strangers and his father was freshly buried. The things that made him so eager to hurt someone, these days. “Be very careful,” he repeated.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Potter hesitated, opening his eyes to look back at Draco. Green eyes, filled with compassion. Draco wanted to spit in them.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">“Listen,” said Potter. “I’ve been thinking about what I owe… about the shape of things, and the degree to which my own arrogance and blindness have hurt others. And you’ll understand more about that, soon, I think, but…” He paused, looking at the ground. “Draco, I want to make you a promise. A promise to try my hardest to do something. And I don’t want anything from you in exchange, not even your friendship. I want </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">nothing</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> from you. This isn’t about you. It’s about… terminal values.” The other boy stopped again, seeming to think about how what he was saying might sound. “About the things that are the most important in the world to me.”</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Draco could kill him. They were alone, and no one knew Draco was here. He had a knife, and Potter wouldn’t expect that.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">“Draco,” said Potter, “I am sorry your father is dead. Truly and absolutely. With all my heart.” A flash of something came across the boy’s face -- regret, somehow. “But I have seen impossible things. Magic is an impossible thing -- or rather, it is </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">all </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">possible things, which is pretty much the same thing. It’s brought… Hermione is back, and magic has made the space between death and life, which was already not very wide, into something that seems so small. Magic is…” Potter closed his mouth, shaking his head. “Sorry, I’m not saying what I mean. I’m not saying this very well.”</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Potter folded his arms, and hugged himself. Draco stared at him.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">“I… Draco, I don’t know how to say this. If it will seem insulting or crazy or what. So I’m just going to say it and hope you know that I mean it,” the other boy began again. He raised his eyes, and met Draco’s gaze.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">“I intend,” said Harry Potter, “to spend the rest of my life working to stop anyone from dying again -- everyone’s father and mother and son and daughter. And I intend to bring back those that have died, through whatever ritual or spell that needs to be invented to cross that last remaining gap of time.”</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">“Draco,” Harry said, “I promise to try my hardest for the rest of my life to try to bring back your father.”</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">And there was an instant, right then, when the Lord Malfoy very nearly murdered the Lord Potter for toying with his heart. But Draco stopped himself, and stared into Harry’s eyes which did not leave his own.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">And he saw something there. He saw steel, and something harder than steel. He saw a will that would brook no obstacle and tolerate no barrier. He saw the diamond-hard will that had brought back Hermione Granger and Draco didn’t know how but he </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">knew that had been Potter</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> and he saw an honour that bound this boy to a path. He saw a promise that was stronger than sleep or weakness or death.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">“Will you help?”</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Draco’s wand was in his hand. It was still in his hand.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He was there and he was alive. Something was attacking him. One of those things was attacking him. It was killing him. He didn’t want to die. He wouldn’t die. He couldn’t die. Because...</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Because he wanted to see his father again someday.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">And some things were stronger than sleep or weakness. Or death.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Avada Kedavra!” </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">he cast. The thing on his shoulder vanished, dissolving in a blaze of green light that burned away the inchoate blur of murderous sensations.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He slumped back to the stone, gasping.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The world was hazy and dark. Draco blinked, rapidly.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Sir!” A voice. “Sir, hold on, I’m here!”</span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Pip jumped as the Bloodfoot Curse rippled across the rough slates of the roof towards him. He lost his balance as he landed, one foot sliding on a tile, but caught himself with one hand. Bellatrix Black laughed at him.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">This was bloody </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">deja vu</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, really.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The fight had been going on for what seemed like hours. They had been moving to the roof, to try to use massed volleys of the Killing Curse against some of the more insane-seeming monsters that had come calling at Hogwarts tonight, but what had begun as three tight, tactical formations had dissolved into chaos as some of the enemy took the fight to them. A flaming chariot had burst from somewhere sideways of reality, drawn by a horse of fire, and it had left madness in its wake:</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Ten witches and wizards with bloody sigils of hands and swords on their robes.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">That skinny American witch from the Council of Westphalia, looking spidery and sour.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">And that bleeding bitchy bint Bellatrix bloody Black.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Pip felt how a Gryffindor in the library must feel: lost and upset. Bellatrix was missing an arm and an eye, and she was still a better duelist than he was.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">To his left, Madame Bones was fighting the American. That should have been a brief contest, but somehow the Westphalian was managing to hold off the Chief Mugwump, fighting with unimaginably queer new spells and with a sad grimness. Mr. Diggory was already unconscious, having coughed himself into unconsciousness after receiving a blast of Rotlung in his face.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">To his right, Mad-Eye Moody and three other aurors were fighting the Grindelwaldians. Wait, didn’t they have a proper name? Something Hungarian and unpronounceable? No matter. Despite being outnumbered two-to-one, the good guys were winning. Pip couldn’t even </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">follow</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> some of the things Moody was doing. At one point, Pip could have sworn he’d actually seen one of Moody’s stunners </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">turn in mid-air</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> before hitting its target.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">That had left Pip and Kwannon to fight Bellatrix Black, which seemed insane since didn’t they </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">already know</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> how that would end after last time? But there was nothing for it, and so they fought, and Bellatrix was laughing again.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Maybe one of the defenders in the air would be able to help. Pip knew that one of the American auror squads, as well as the Shichinin. They had their own enemies to face, but this was </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Bellatrix Black</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Kwannon raised a shield to buy them some time, but Pip remembered the last fight -- he raised his own, too. When a Breaking Drill eradicated Kwannon’s barrier, the curse -- following the first one almost immediately, impossibly fast -- burst against Pip’s redundant shield. And both of them were quick enough on the dodge to avoid the Killing Curse that blazed at them within an instant.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Better!” shrieked Bellatrix with a laugh. “Dancing dollies!”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Lagann! Stupefy!” </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">cast Pip, at almost the same time that Kwannon shouted, “</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Stupefy! Lagann!”</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Bellatrix twirled in place, cackling, and let her shield dissolve as she dodged. She had another raised almost as quickly as Pip could have blinked, and </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">then</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> she flicked her wand in a way that Pip didn’t recognize. A stream of yellow liquid burst out at the gesture, spraying from nowhere.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Caught without any idea of what the curse would do, or what shield would be appropriate, Pip did as he had been trained: he dodged again. Kwannon, trained by the same person (the curse-casting blur just behind them, in fact) did the same.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">And Bellatrix anticipated it. When Kwannon threw herself to the side, a Slow Blade of Unusually Specific Destruction was waiting for her. It exploded violently.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Kwannon was thrown bodily away, and off the roof, and she was gone.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">And it was at this moment that Pip wished he were a different sort of person. Someone important. A noble, or a brilliant researcher, or a seer. Or even just someone truly special. Because he knew that truly special people wouldn’t die. Not this way, not after so much. Not at the moment when it mattered the most, when failure would mean the death of Alastor Moody and Amelia Bones and so many others.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He’d seen the plays. Bloody hell, working in the Tower had been like </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">living</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> in a play. Utterly impossible things happened all the time when necessary. When the really special people were in danger, even if it was from things like the Killing Curse… well, somehow, it worked out.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Philip Pirrip was just his mother’s son. He was a decent auror, and a hard worker. He could say that about himself. But in that moment, as he leapt to his feet and tried to think of what to do next, knowing that he’d already fought this battle and had lost as though he were a Hufflepuff toddler… well, he just wished he were someone else. Someone special.</span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">In the fell clutch of circumstance </span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> I have not winced nor cried aloud. </span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Under the bludgeonings of chance </span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> My head is bloody, but unbowed. </span></em><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione saw her again. The witch in green. The one who’d been with the monsters, walking with them, </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">controlling</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> them.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione dragged her axe free of the basilisk’s head. It smoked with venom. So too did the golden gauntlet on Hermione’s right hand. There was a greenish tinge to both metals, now. Hermione shook the axe, and gore splattered to the ground. Where the ichor fell, the ground began to bubble and steam.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The witch was standing in front of one of the walls of the castle, and she’d sunk her hand into the stone. A terrasque stood motionless beside her, obedient as a great stone dog, as the witch in the green dress dragged her hand downward. Like a knife sliding through butter, she cut a long rent through the stone of Hogwarts, kneeling as she brought her hand all the way to the ground. Then she pulled her hand free and straightened.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">This must be one of them. One of the Three. One of the leaders. The enemy.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione pulled her bubbler from her robes. The back of it had been crushed in, and the decorative clamshell case was falling apart, but it still worked. “Boys?” she said.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“We’re here,” came the voice of one of the Weasley twins.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“ ‘Boys,’ ” scoffed the Russian witch with them.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Be ready and watch for the high sign,” Hermione said.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“You got it,” replied another twin, cheerily.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione put away her bubbler, and steadied herself. Then she attacked.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">She shouted no challenge and no warning. She simply threw her axe at the witch, as hard as she could. It flashed through the air, whistling as it flew.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The terrasque intervened, lurching into motion, and the axe bounced off of its side, the handle hitting the creature’s rough red shell.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The witch turned to face Hermione. Her face was serious, but her eyes were bright. The terrasque shifted out of the way, lumbering aside.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Hello,” the witch said. There was a husky accent in her voice. “You are Hermione Granger. You are quite magical, and quite powerful.” She raised her hand. “And I think your time is done.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione already had the Elder Wand in hand, and she charged.</span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">A figure in plain grey robes walked the halls of Hogwarts, unseen. It moved with some uncertainty -- as though it knew its destination, but not the exact path. But it found its way to the library before too long.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry Potter didn’t see. He had a bubbler in hand, and was giving urgent instructions.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“-- no, it’s not enough to say the word. You have to… you have to find something within yourself. You have to produce a </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">deliberate will</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> within yourself, like you were casting wandless magic.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry Potter was standing at one of the library windows. A strange sort of Muggle device was set up there -- a tube mounted on a tripod, pointing up at the stars. Two aurors stood on either side of it, maintaining shields across the window against any intrusion. The floor was covered in chalk markings, repeatedly rubbed away and redrawn.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">This was not the Archon Heraclius Hero, perfectly reshaped into a facsimile. That was obvious. How strange. Harry Potter had won, somehow. It was beyond belief, but it had happened.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The threat personified stood there, unaware and vulnerable, and the figure studied him. Just a boy, really. The crux was still just a boy. So dangerous to everything and everyone, the age-old threat to life resolved by time’s lens into this single person, and it was just a boy.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The figure permitted himself a smile.</span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Beyond this place of wrath and tears </span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> Looms but the Horror of the shade, </span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">And yet the menace of the years </span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> Finds and shall find me unafraid. </span></em><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The Unseelie had gathered in a tight knot outside the western walls. They were pulling someone apart, and that person was screaming. Impressions of black eyes and wide, wet mouths moved delicately and deliberately, causing pain as if it were an art.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">It was horrible, but it was a respite for the defenders.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">No, not a respite,</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> Draco thought. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">An opportunity.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Where was Moody? We need to take advantage of this, right now.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He shoved himself away from the wall that been supporting him, and brandished his wand. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">“Expecto Patronum</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">A silver krait undulated on the stone before him, moving gently.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Go to every wizard and witch on this side of the castle and on the battlements,” Draco commanded it, and he bent his will to making </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">that </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">a thought of peace and happiness. “Tell them to find me near the entrance to Gryffindor Tower. We are going to strike.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Before the snake was gone, Draco had fumbled his bubbler out of his robes, and was contacting everyone he’d seen who was still answering.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Outside, someone was screaming.</span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">When Gregor Nimue and Harry Madagascar both slumped to the floor, as suddenly unconscious as though they’d been bludgeoned, Harry knew that the moment had come.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He turned around, and saw a middle-aged man in plain grey robes. A little out of shape, with a small paunch. Taller than average, but somewhat stooped. A face heavily seamed with care, and green eyes. Ancient, ancient green eyes. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Are you him?” Harry asked.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The man smiled, softly. He had a kind face.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Yes, Harry Potter,” he said, in a voice that was mellow, and deeper than Harry expected.</span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Pip had lasted only a few minutes more, and he suspected that was only by Bellatrix Black’s cruelty.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Silly billy boy,” sang the insane witch, “and now such fun!”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">She had captured him casually, whipping the Incarcerating Curse at him amid a torrent of attacks.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He lay there, helpless.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He had to watch as she turned on Moody, who was backpedaling away, trying to find a way to create some space. Only one auror still stood by his side against five of the Hungarians, and curses and shields were appearing and disappearing and flowing and sparking out with such rapidity that it looked more like a magical dance than intelligible combat. But there was nowhere to retreat to, and no way to create room or escape. Now he would have to have to watch. Again.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Bellatrix Black shrieked her mad laughter and struck away Moody’s shield. Then again as he produced another one, but despite the desperation of his motions he still had to fight Grindelwald’s soldiers. They redoubled their attacks, and Moody reached the edge of the roof, and had no more room to retreat. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Bellatrix paused, sighing a deep and happy sigh, and giggled once more. She raised her wand.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Bellatrix!”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The cry came from above.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Bellatrix Black!”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">It was otherworldly.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Bellatrix Black!”</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">It was enraged.</span><br />
<br />
<strong><em>“Bellatrix Black!”</em></strong><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">It was magnificent.</span><br />
<br />
<strong><em>“BELLATRIX BLACK!”</em></strong><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">It was Neville Longbottom.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He came from the sky. He didn’t land, exactly -- rather, he plummeted to the roof in a swooping dive, so steep that it seemed as though he would simply crash straight through the slates, but Longbottom pulled up at the last minute dead even with the slates, alighting and walking without even an instant of transition. He stepped forward and the broom clattered to the roof and Longbottom was already attacking, once twice thrice, as though gravity and timing and all the laws of possibility were mere formalities that he’d chosen to discard. Tall and terrible, the Lord Longbottom moved like the wind.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He attacked Bellatrix, and it was a thing of beauty and glory -- choreographed, as if it had been practiced every day for years. High feint drawing a shield, which put him into position for obfuscation, and which in turn flowed seamlessly into three glowing offensive bolts. It was a series like any auror would learn... but rather than two or three spells in sequence, Longbottom attacked without ceasing, a rhythmic and timed flow of variety and passion. He switched from low attacks to broad ones, raised wards and then shattered them with surprising new offensives, and stripped away Bellatrix’s defenses with a hurricane of attacks.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">In an existence that threatened to become overcrowded with the unbelievable, Pip still found room for astonishment.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Bellatrix laughed; high-pitched, insane. “Silly little do--” she began, but a flurry of attacks cut her off, and she was forced to defend herself. “Silly bi--” she began again, only to again be forced to bark out a shield of crystal and dodge away from danger.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“You --”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Silly bi--”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">No one could be standing after attacking endlessly, relentlessly, unstoppably, but Neville Longbottom never broke his stride and never broke his sequence. One spell followed another, one attack followed another, one shield followed another. No openings, no weaknesses, no opportunities, no respite.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Bellatrix Black’s laugh broke. She lashed away attacks and raised wards and cast curses, but she was not fighting a wizard. She was fighting an elemental force.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">And every taunt and every joke and every insanity was cut off by some new attack. Every word broken by offense. Every moment under siege.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“That’s --”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Longbottom advanced without pausing, never breaking stride. He was discarding his humanity, and doing it despite eyes streaming with tears.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“No --”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“You --”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">And finally, Bellatrix’s mad smile cracked as she desperately ducked the hundredth attack, and she shrieked with a voice full of fear, “</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Stop!</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">And like a wrathful god, Neville Longbottom, a thousand feet tall and burning with brimstone, roared in return, “</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">That’s what </span></em><strong><em>they said</em></strong><em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> to </span></em><strong><em>you</em></strong><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">! </span></em><strong><em>Avada Kedavra!</em></strong><span style="font-weight: 400;">”</span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione’s duel with the witch in the green dress was a strange thing.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The Goddess charged, wand raised, already casting. The enemy sneered, raising her own hands, and lightning surged between them.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The Elder Wand took it from the air.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione’s attacks fell uselessly against the witch’s shields, which barely glowed a gentle silver as they absorbed one curse after another. The witch’s attacks found no purchase, for the Elder Wand moved of its own accord, assisting its true owner, obliterating magics as though they were a child’s whisper.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione closed the distance, and they fought. Spells fell on shields. Spells fell on wand-wards. The duel was a storm without wind.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Almost as an afterthought, the Goddess crushed the head of a terrasque with her golden gauntlet, which carved through the creature with the burning fury of basilisk venom. But she could gain no traction against the witch in the green dress, who evinced neither strain nor dismay.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Foolish monkey,” said the witch, her voice punctuated by the wordless thrusts of her hand which sent green light and burning flame and sharp crystal cascading into Hermione’s wand-borne defenses. “Didn’t you know there was only ever one outcome, here?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I did,” said Hermione, panting. “And so now would be good, gentlemen.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">She lashed out at the witch with every ounce of belief and faith and grief, and the enemy’s wards glowed bright under duress. Hermione’s other hand landed like a titan’s hammer immediately afterwards, a crushing blow dealt with a troll’s strength.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">At the same instant, there were two sharp cracks, almost simultaneous. Twin gunshots, fired from above.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The first rifle shot shattered the witch’s shield. The second passed through her stomach.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Perenelle du Marais screamed, and it was loud, and it was long.</span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Draco looked over his troops. Perhaps a hundred wizards and witches. Weary, ragged, wounded, crammed into the small room where the Gryffindor stairs met the main hallway. Three watching at the windows, where the horror-things were pulling apart their victims. He clutched his ruined arm with the other to stop it from swaying -- </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">he</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> was swaying, bloody hell. No, this would not do.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Unbreakable honour.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The Lord Malfoy forced himself to straighten up. Black shapes danced in front of his eyes, and for a moment everything went dull and far away, but he held himself upright. He held himself like a Malfoy.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">His face was out of control. Draco mastered it, arranging it how he pleased: a cold look of confidence. His body was a tool, his to wield.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">His voice. Before he spoke, he felt the blood in his mouth and throat. No. He swallowed it back, swallowed the bile and blood. Cleared his instrument.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“We’re attacking. A massed attack. The enemy is gathered together. They’re not afraid. They should be.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“We’ll die,” offered Reg Hig. Not opposition, but resignation.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“We might. But we are already dead. This way, we have a chance..”</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">No, this is… no, it’s weak. The stuff of desperation and stupidity… last resorts persuaded no one. </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Damn you</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, Draco, focus on their weakness, not ours</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Where are you? You are the knife: Cut.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Listen to me, all of you,” Draco said, and he put steel in his voice. “I won’t pretend to believe in everything that the Tower believes. I won’t tell you any pretty stories about the way the world could be. Listen to me when I tell you that we need to act now to protect the way the world </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">is</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, and everything that’s in it. Listen to me when I say that magic exists and it is precious, and we need to protect it.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I am not the sort of person they call ‘good,’ ” he said, and now the steel came of itself, and he stood even taller, and he heard his father’s voice in his own. “I am the sort of person who gets results. Against all odds. Against a united country and a united world, I have gotten results. Because there are things that are more important than you or me or even this bloody school. There are things more important than our blood or our very age. There is magic in this world, in every wand here and every soul, and they will crush it if we let them.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He raised his wand into the air, and it glowed with a fire he knew glowed in his own eyes.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“So when I say to you that now is the time and when I ask if you will follow me, know that this is our best hope, and that we will win. For there is something greater than goodness and greater than even these odds, and that is </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">us</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">!”</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">What arrant nonsense</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, thought the Lord Malfoy, as he spoke honeyed lies.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">A hundred wands rose in response.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">And from high above, there was a new sound. Many voices, raised in a single call.</span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Who are you?” asked Harry, lowering the bubbler. He left it open, Luna listening on the other end.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Merlin,” answered the man, simply. He watched Harry, arms casually at his side.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Despite everything, Harry felt himself shiver at the name. He knew that it might well be a lie -- certainly it was the lie he’d have chosen, in this man’s place -- but it could also be true. It was more plausible than any of the other possibilities, if the law of parsimony was any guide: Merlin applying a secret, guiding hand, working to prevent the doom that he’d foreseen… well, it broke no rules of time travel and required no additional elements.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry had anticipated other possibilities, of course. Albus Dumbledore, trapped beyond time -- that could well have put him in some ancient era before the Mirror was made. Or Garrick Ollivander, whose familial presence in Britain had been suspiciously unchanging for most of wizarding history. Or Harry himself, returning from a future where they’d mastered all knowledge, acting to ensure the realization of that future. Or some random, unnamed individual, hidden perfectly from sight throughout all time and legend.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">But ultimately, what plausible candidate made sense, other than the one who had famously acted from the start to try to limit magic and preserve the world?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“You’re here to destroy me and save the future of the world,” Harry said. He kept his voice rigidly formal. “And for that, sir, I respect you. It is even possible that --” his voice faltered as he remembered J.C. Kraeme’s bloodied body, the death of Hermione and Granville, and the hundreds of thousands who had already died today, but he pressed on. “It is even possible that you have done the right thing.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Merlin nodded solemnly, his smile fading from his face. “Then you understand.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I do,” said Harry. For a moment, he felt the absurdity of the moment. This was a moment that might spell the difference between a world of magic and advancement, a world where death could be defeated and Dumbledore could be retrieved, and… and a different world. A darker timeline. And all of that was riding on this simple, clumsy conversation.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“But,” Harry went on, as Merlin raised his hand, “your map is wrong.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Merlin didn’t lower his hand, but only tilted his head. Just slightly. An invitation.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“You must have known of Albus Dumbledore -- perhaps you even knew him, somehow,” said Harry. “I sometimes wonder if he was the wisest man I’ve ever known, or merely the bravest. He ransacked the Hall of Prophecy and used his knowledge of the future to guide its shape. He didn’t believe prophecies could be truly averted, I think, and he might have been right. In retrospect this seems obvious, but people like Tom Riddle spent years trying to avoid one prophecy or another, and they always failed.” Harry shrugged. “I’ve never heard of a prophecy that was simply wrong. And if my readings are correct, you agree with him.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“So you know this, then: I, Harry Potter-Evans-Verres, will tear apart the stars.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Merlin nodded his head, slowly. His eyes were amused and curious, but they held a fundamental flatness. Harry couldn’t imagine what that might be -- some jadedness from such a long life, a precommitment to ignore all persuasion, or something beyond his ken -- but he had no time to worry about it. He pushed forward, and felt his thoughts begin to catch fire.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Once upon a time, a lonely little boy had gone to a strange school. He was a prophet of new ideas, and saw things in a new way -- he was the needle’s point of a black slash that cut from one entire civilization into another, bringing the force of thousands of years of accumulated knowledge to bear on a point forged by trauma into diamond strength. And yet not a single jot or tittle of that had mattered, in the end. So little of the boy’s cleverness had actually been brought to bear. His beliefs were the hard uphill way, and even a prophet was not immune to easy answers.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">It was not until the end that the boy had grasped the real meaning of his own beliefs, and had ascended. Rationality was </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">winning</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry’s mind blazed like an inferno. He raised his hand.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“First.” He held up a finger. “Only two people are known to have ever mastered all the wizards and witches of the world. Both, I think, did it for a good cause. But consider that for all your power and your age, I have done what you did… and I have done it without force, and by granting life and power, and I have done it in only seven years. I am your equal in this respect, and if you underestimate me now, then think about the fate of everyone else who has done so. Think of your ally, Heraclius Hero.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Second.” He held up another finger. “Events are already in motion to ensure that magic and humanity survive. The Tower is gone, and the Mirror which was the door. It has found a new place.” </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">High above us, </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry thought. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Six hundred kilometers high, so that its field of view encompasses the whole planet.</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> “Some friends of mine wait there -- waiting to find out whether I live or die. I will not tell you their instructions. But know that we all lie within the mirror now.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Third.” He held up a third finger. “You have several times attempted to disrupt my designs. You arranged for the destruction of my first facility, killing my friend in the process. And this very day your ally tried to enslave me. And yet I am here, and he is gone.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry’s mouth grew firm. He met Merlin’s eyes for a long moment, and then moved those three fingers: thumb poised against forefinger and middle finger. Ready to snap.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">"So think. Stop and think. You have a map in your head -- a mental map of reality. As you move through the world, you can trace your path on it. You can tick off events as you come to them; that's how you know your map matches reality. When you're surprised, it's not because reality is wrong... it's because your map is wrong. When you realize that, you have two choices: you change your map, or you get lost."</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Merlin stared at him, and all vagueness and flatness was gone. In its place was the raptor gaze of someone who was beyond death and weakness, who had weighed human life and discarded it when it interfered with his will.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">"Consider whether you have been surprised by events. Consider whether this is unfamiliar ground. Consider your fallen allies. Consider your derailed plans," Harry said, and his voice was soft. "Stop and think, and consider: do you want to keep moving in this direction? Or might there be other surprises waiting for you?"</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I will give you the same chance that Lord Voldemort -- that Tom Riddle -- was given, before I took his life. I will give you the same chance that Meldh had, before I took </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">his </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">life. Stop now, and go in peace.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Or I will end you.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry didn't waver, and he was not afraid.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">And it wasn't because he knew of some ultimate sanction or greater plan.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">And it wasn't because he knew that Hermione would save the day with some impossible feat.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">And it wasn't because he had faith in something greater than himself.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry did not waver because this moment laid bare his heart, the white-hot line of humanity at his center, slashing through the black arc of Tom Riddle and cutting through every obstacle in his way. Harry did not waver because he had tested all things and held fast to that which was true, and he had set that truth in service of the good with every last ounce of strength and will and might.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">And for Harry James Potter-Evans-Verres, that was the purpose of life.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Well?” said Harry.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">From outside, a woman screamed, long and loud. The scream of a dying woman.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Within a moment, another cry joined with the first: the sound of a hundred phoenixes, their call like the birth of a new world.</span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">It matters not how strait the gate, </span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> How charged with punishments the scroll, </span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">I am the master of my fate, </span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> I am the captain of my soul. </span></em><br />
<br />
-<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">“Invictus,” by W. E. Henley</span></em><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Merlin studied Harry closely.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">And turned.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">And left.</span><br />
<br /></div>
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<b style="color: #222222; font-family: 'noto serif', georgia, serif; font-size: x-large; line-height: 27px;">Significant Digits, Chapter Forty-Nine: Penultimate</b><br />
<div>
</div>
</div>
<span style="font-weight: 400;"></span><br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione had a moment to think as she and the Returned climbed through the air away from Hogwarts, zipping over the school grounds towards Hogsmeade. It was a short distance -- a few minutes’ flight -- but she took the opportunity afforded her to think beyond the immediate tactical situation. Strategy, not only the demands of the moment, needed to dictate her movements. And right now, she didn’t have any sort of larger strategy.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">How could I? How do you fight an enemy that breaks all the rules of the game? </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione thought to herself. The Three were attacking -- </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Well, now it must be the Two, really</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, she thought, thinking about the unremarkable white stone that was sitting inside of a small, mundane iron box in the Headmistress’ coat pocket. But Meldh had wrought havoc and almost brought the entire world under his control with </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">one spell</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">… It had taken an ancient artifact and years of planning to create a safeguard against that kind of attack, and even then it might have failed if things had gone a little differently. At that last moment, if Meldh had the wits or resources to draw up another spell from his ages of lore, there was literally no predicting what he might have been able to do to her or Harry -- even with his throat missing.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The old books were full of fantastical feats and mighty deeds, and attempting to sort out the historical from the apocryphal was more a work of literary criticism than historical research. “Lord Foul” was said to have commanded dementors and basilisks and terresque, but was that a real spell of command that the Three might deploy, or simply a legend that the writer thought was appropriate for an infamous dark wizard?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Normally Hermione would be able to rule some things out -- a secret spell from the past that allowed its caster to stop someone’s heart without the possibility of dodging or warding, for example. If such a spell had existed, it would have made the one who invented it into an unstoppable force. History would look different.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">But according to Harry, Meldh had implied that the Three had been in hidden control of events for generations, which meant that they might actually </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">be</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> an unstoppable force.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“They’re using all the powers of the old world,” Harry had said, “everything that’s always worked for villains like them in the days gone by. But we’re going to use all the powers of our new world to match them, and we’re going to beat them.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">But unless they had some brilliant ideas very soon, she couldn’t see how.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione heard a dull popping sound from far below among the trudging mass of mind-controlled Muggles -- no, </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">people </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">-- and pulled up on her broom. The Returned matched her, and they rose higher yet. They were already too high to be under real threat from rifle fire, even if they hadn’t been warded, but there was no point in risking it. She glanced around her, making sure everyone was with her and uninjured. Hyori and Esther rode on either side of her. Charlevoix and Urg followed them, staggered at different altitudes, while Susie, Tonks, Nikitas, and Jessie were spread out in a third, staggered row. Simon’s absence was conspicuous.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Simon. My solid rock. Sweet, solid Simon. Gone now. </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione wished she could have been there -- to save him, to help him, even just to hold his hand.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He’d been the first one she’d saved.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">It was still raining when Hermione began pulling open the cell doors. The walls of Azkaban had been battered, and a great jagged fissure had split one of the three sides to the prison; Granville had carried her through and they had landed within, and for the first time in centuries, the broken halls of Azkaban felt the cleansing cool of the rain.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Most of the cells were empty. Most of the prisoners were gone, transferred to the new Howard Prison or simply released. But there were still people here.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">One door was stuck. Hermione forced her fingers around its edge, the stone cracking loudly through the patter of rain, and wrenched the door open. Another empty cell -- no, there was someone here.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">She stepped into the cell, and let gentle orange flame illuminate it. Granville made a small sound, shifting in position on her shoulder. It was a sound of remorse or admonition.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">The person was lying on their side, staring up at the ceiling. Rotting alive, with black leprous streaks of infection spreading from great mottled sores, entwined maladies spread across a withered chest. As warm light touched the person’s face, they slowly closed their eyes and turned towards her. What did they see when they looked at her -- just a soaked teenager with a phoenix and a scared look on her face? Who did they think she was?</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">She reached out a reassuring hand to the person as she approached.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">“My name is Hermione Granger. I’m here to help you.”</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">And now he was gone. Brave Simon.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Her attention snapped back to the present as they passed the gates to Hogsmeade, and she saw new enemies. Not just the endless flood of weapon-wielding Muggles, but two other groups.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">A large wedge of witches and wizards in robes was slowly, almost casually, making their way through the mass. They walked in good order right along the stone-paved path from Hogsmeade, as though they were merely a group of forty students returning from a trip to Honeydukes. The Muggles parted before them as though directed by an invisible force. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Something to do with the spell controlling the Muggles, or something about the orders they’d been given, or… maybe these are involved in the control or can give directions?</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione felt cold run up her back as she recognized -- even from this height -- some of the enemy. Councilor Limpel Tineagar. Bellatrix Black, with one eye and one arm (her artificial arm, the Gripmain, presumably still lay in the vaults of the Department of Mysteries). Some of the strangers wore markings on their robes that Hermione recognized as the sigils of Grindelwald’s death squads, the Hírnökei; she could see the red sword of the Záh Kardja and the red hand of the Veres Kezek. No Grindelwald in his own person -- a small mercy in this tide of nightmares.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">And yet even this was not the end, for behind this infantry of dark wizards was a cavalry of monsters. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">She recognized the basilisks. The enormous serpents were following a lone witch in a green dress, seeming to mimic her movements. As she walked, they swayed to match the swing of her hips, and their gaze was clearly fixed on her back to the exclusion of all else. The basilisks were at least fifty feet long, perhaps more; the portion of their serpentine bodies that they held upright was as tall as a two-storey Muggle home.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Behind the basilisks was another mass of creatures -- terrifying things that could only be terresque. They had broad shells on their backs, rough as chipped stone, and moved on six stubby legs with shiny red scales. They were huge -- ten feet high, with round black heads as large as a lion’s, and great mouths that smoked with some sort of vapour. As they lumbered along, they resembled nothing so much as a mad cross between a tank and a turtle and a parade float.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">As both groups came into view and as soon as she grasped what she was seeing, Hermione immediately reacted. They couldn’t handle this -- not with so few people. She yanked her broom to one side as sharply as she dared, almost colliding with Hyori before the Returned could match her change of heading. Should they be trying to transfigure protective goggles or something, in case the basilisks’ stare reached them at this distance? No, no time, and they needed free wands. The important thing was to get back out of sight and warn everyone else. Luna already had one task, but now Hermione had something else for her, too.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The witches and wizards weren’t mounted -- strange, but in keeping with their lack of hurry in a time of war -- and so there was a chance that Hermione and her people might get away before any conflict could begin. She heard a distant shout from below as they wheeled about, but the enemy wouldn’t manage more than one or two attacks before the Returned were clear. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">My God… in addition to a seemingly endless horde of Muggles, we’ll also be fighting the denizens of Howard and Nurmengard?</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">A bolt of green light streaked past, veering wide. It was joined by another, placed more accurately and blistering through the air between Esther and Charlevoix. A thick gust of steam blew into the group almost at the same time, but it was without force at this distance, and the Returned were putting distance between them and the enemy with every moment.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">There was no point in engaging, but a thought did occur to Hermione -- obvious, in retrospect. She slackened her pace just slightly, and brought her wand to her throat. “</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Sonorus</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">,” she cast, and then bellowed at the top of her lungs, “</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Egeustimentis Ba</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">!”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">There was an immediate response below, as four or five of the witches and wizards began firing on each other. A fireball erupted among the group, cast by one of its number. Hermione grinned, and leaned further into her broom, urging more speed. They still needed to prepare for the monsters.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">An odd hooting sound startled her. It sounded like a giant owl -- and it seemed far too close, as though it somehow cut through the rushing wind. Hermione jerked her head to the side and looked for the source, but saw nothing. She could see Urg looking puzzled, and knew she hadn’t been the only one who heard it.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Then Susie fell out of the sky, tumbling off her broom, slapping at something that was wrapped around her head. Hermione only caught a glimpse of it as Susie tumbled away -- a naked thing of skin and teeth, vibrating violently.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">And then Hermione was diving after her, her broom vertical, arm stretched out and golden gauntlet reaching. She could hear Susie screaming -- shrieking at the top of her voice, louder than a person should be able to scream, agony tearing out of her.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Shouldn’t do this no time stupid stupid</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, she thought, in a confused jumble that didn’t shake her from her course in the slightest.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">strained</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> forward, trying to force herself to go faster, to dive more quickly, to reach farther. Susie tumbled away in a tangle of robes and blood, beating at the thing on her face and chest until it fell away, tossed in the wind. The ground rose towards Hermione and Susie, surging up to meet them as they fell.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">She reached and </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">reached</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> and </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Got her.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">As her hand clamped down on Susie’s ankle, Hermione kicked herself savagely back, hauling on the front of her broom so fiercely that she felt the wood strain and crack dangerously in her grip. She pulled up into a swoop, the bottom of the arc dipping within arm’s reach of a crowd of threatening Muggles, dragging them both back up into the sky without letting go of a drop of speed. The violent motion wrenched Susie badly, and Hermione felt something in the witch’s leg give -- the hip or knee -- but Hermione had her, thank God thank God, she had her.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">They rocketed forward, Hermione leaning forward and holding the broom steady with her left hand. With the other, she pulled Susie up, lifting the witch’s lower body over the front of the broom.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">But Susie was dead.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Her face and chest were a mess of bloody meat, ground and torn as though by some monstrous industrial machine. Her mouth was agape -- a lifeless black wound in the shredded flesh.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione’s eyes burned with the wind and her rage, and she clenched her jaw. She leaned forward, though, gripping Susie in place. Stay focused. Susie could still be saved.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The rest of the Returned joined her moments later, swooping down to fall in line with her.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione heard more hooting.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">No no no what </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">is </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">that?!</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Esther pulled even with Hermione, and leaned over. She grabbed one of Susie’s arms, pulling on the witch. Hermione understood what she wanted, and helped, seizing the back of Susie’s robes and lifting the witch from one broom onto the other, fighting with the other hand to keep their flight steady.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">There was another hooting sound, and something collided with Esther, her broom, and Susie. The two witches were gone, as immediately as if they’d been struck from the sky by lightning.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione wheeled in her seat, and saw… </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">something</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">. Not a physical thing so much as a flow of sensations. It was something like the use of wandless magic: the purposeful movement of particular ideas. But this was somehow visible, and moving, and malevolent. A collection of sensations, divorced from sanity and sense.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Large eyes. Black and oily. Wet.</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">White skin. Flaky, run through with spidering cracks. Ragged in places, as gnawed.</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Long, thin limbs. Sparse flesh. Lumpy joint.</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Mouth. Smile.</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Smile.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">And there were more, leaping up around them. Hooting with mirth. They were </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">so fast</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">; Hermione was on a broom at top speed and they were </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">leaping at her</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Without word or order or request, Hyori and Charlevoix broke away from Hermione and the rest of the Returned. Hermione twisted to see once more, and they flew around and back, in a circle back to where Esther and Susie had fallen. Their curses flew as quickly as they could cast them, but the creatures were too quick and too inchoate. Even the spells that seemed to hit had no effect. They leapt at Hyori and Charlevoix, hooting, and the pair vanished, plucked out of the air.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione turned back around, gritting her teeth again, and her hands tightened on her broom. She fought to stay calm -- fought to stay under control.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Esther and Charlevoix. The French witch had once been nearly catatonic, breaking into screams every time she was separated from Hermione. Esther had been very quiet, too, for a time; injured deep within herself by betrayal and her own anger. But the two had found each other during this past year in some new way -- Hermione hadn’t pried. They were even leaving Powis -- they’d just recently gotten a cottage in Godric’s Hollow.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hyori. An enigma, even to Hermione. Laconic and deadly serious, imprisoned for murder, but with some hidden depth that Hermione had never understood. She’d made a game of things in subtle ways, and her sharp eyes had always hinted at thoughts the witch had never revealed.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Susie. Lascivious and sarcastic, delighting in affecting cockney, alluding to a sexuality she used like armor. Like all of the Returned, she’d left some piece of herself with the dementors, but she was bravest of them all in trying to reclaim it.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione, Tonks, Urg, Nikitas, and Jessie flew on, back to Hogwarts and back to help.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Not that Hermione could imagine what help would suffice. What could anyone do in this situation? What weapons did they have that would work?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">And again: what did these damned monsters even </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">want</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">This didn’t make </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">any sense</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">! Why was the enemy entering through Hogsmeade, and not right outside the castle -- or for that matter, why not right </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">inside</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> the castle? They didn’t know the limits of the spell, but Bellatrix had used it to simply appear within Hogwarts, so why not do that again?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">For that matter, why go to war like this at all? Harry had said that Meldh had only said that “a great and fearsome god” was calling for “blood”... part of some larger plan to eliminate magic from the world. That last bit accorded with what Tineagar had said back in Tidewater. That seemed like years ago, now… Tineagar had claimed she was fighting to stop the world from breaking.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">They were wasting resources, unless they had some hidden aim. Their plan had been for Meldh to take Harry’s place, with Harry in some “new shape” as an enslaved advisor. But preparations for this attack must have started, at the latest, well before Hermione went to the Tower. The Muggle news, she’d learned, had begun reporting disappearances in the morning. So why were the Three essentially attacking each other? It couldn’t be infighting or rivalry, since Meldh had known about it to mention to Harry. It was part of a plan. But she couldn’t see what that plan’s goal might be, in light of the Three’s goal of ending all magic. Were they trying to start a war between Muggles and wizards? Or just trying to kill off as many wizards as possible? Or was it just a distraction from a trio of monsters who had no particular regard for the lives of others? And how would they react to the loss of Meldh?</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Oh</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione’s broom wobbled as she suddenly realized something, letting go with one hand to snatch her bubbler out of her robes. She lay her will upon it, picturing Harry; he answered almost immediately.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Harry!” she shouted, calling at the top of her voice to be heard over the wind, unwilling to slacken the pace of her speeding broom even a fraction, “Meldh was going to take your place!”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">His eyes lit up, and she knew he understood: to the other two members of the Three, the world might not look any different from one in which Meldh had succeeded and was in control of the Tower. They might not have heard her use the counterspell, if they weren’t near that group of wizards. They might still think everything was going according to plan.</span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">It was an uncomfortable moment when Draco realized he wasn’t in charge. He arrived in the Great Hall with Mad-Eye and Diggory at his side and twenty aurors in tow (and one Gregory Goyle). Longbottom and Bogdanova were there, and told him that Granger had left operating orders and then had gone flying off to do her usual routine (jumping from really high, getting in over her head, discovering she was actually a bit rubbish at magic, and resorting to punching things like a Muggle). Her plans were good ones, but they still needed someone in command. The Lord Malfoy (now the greatest of that name, one of the handful of people in command of the </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">entire world</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">) drew himself up to his full height and readied himself for the burden.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">But before he could begin, Mad-Eye had already taken control from a perch on the rooftop over the great doors.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“You there, get back here -- get on that roof, no need to be flying around!” he roared, pointing at one of the groups in the air. “Use the castle and hold this ground! Keep them back, but Hogwarts is stone from the ancients -- </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">use it! </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">And for Merlin’s sake, everyone put up a </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">bloody bubble</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">!”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Chastened, Draco tapped his wand to his head, casting, “</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Bullesco.</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">” He felt the uncomfortable feeling as a bubble swelled from one nostril, inflating until it encompassed his head.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">They went to work.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">It soon became clear that standard dueling tactics were useless. There were simply too many of the enemy, and those methods had already failed one group of defenders. It was simple math: even if every auror was able to kill a hundred Muggles, there would still be more.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Instead, they focused on attacks that affected a wide area -- not those rare spells that could do damage on a large scale, for those were deeply draining. Instead, they used attacks on the terrain, and innovative Transfigurations.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The fliers dispersed from a height something called “sarin” out among the Muggles, far away from the castle. Within minutes, it began crippling and killing huge swaths of the enemy. At the same time, other fliers dropped large metal canisters that Mad-Eye transfigured; the blastbombs detonated into fiery explosions as they landed among the Muggle horde.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Closer by, defenders picked off those Muggles who managed to reach the top of the hill and the castle walls, and used the Butterball Charm to make it almost impossible to make the approach. Some still got close enough to attack with their weapons: they became targets, too. One fired a ranged blastbomb which leapt from its tubelike gun and blew up against the castle wall, as though it were conjured fire. It did but minor damage to the school, but it was dangerous nonetheless. A massed horde of Muggles, despite their limitations, were a fearsome threat.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">It’s like the ancient wars, the stories from old</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, Draco thought, with a tingle of excitement and unease. Muggles died in droves, and from a perch on a balcony above the great doors, Draco lashed out to protect everything he valued, fighting a war he had never really believed would come.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">In only a few minutes, he was starting to feel sick. But there was nothing for it. He swallowed hard and leaned over the railing, twirling his wand, “</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Stupefy! Stupefy!</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">” Two more Muggles fell back, stunned, dropping into a frictionless slurry of liquified stone and vanishing from sight.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">A movement from above caught his eye, and he glanced up to see Granger coming back, streaking through the air at top speed. Half of her band of fanatics were gone. But it looked like she was unhurt, he saw with relief.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">She dropped down from the sky and swooped to a stop near Mad-Eye on the roof, out of sight from Draco (on the balcony below) but within earshot. “Alastor, there’s a force of witches and wizards on the way here. Bellatrix and that American witch, Tineagar, and at least thirty others, including some of Grindelwald’s old bunch.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“But not Grindel himself,” gruffed Mad-Eye. “Makes sense, since they tortured him into insanity twenty years ago.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Draco didn’t even have time to be shocked by the news, as Granger went on. “There’s worse… ten basilisks and almost as many rock-monster things -- from the old legends, the terresque. And… and --”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Her voice ended in a strangled cry before she found her words again. “And something </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">else</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">. I don’t know what, some sort of </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">creatures</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">. They’re so </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">fast</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> and spells didn’t </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">work.</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Harry’s in the library,” replied Mad-Eye. Then he shouted at someone Draco couldn’t see, calling roughly, “You lot, get down here!”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The Shichinin flew in from Draco’s left, joining the pair on the roof. Draco turned his attention back to the battle as an explosion concussed the air, claiming another dozen lives, and picked off two more Muggles who’d separated from the pack and nearly reached the castle.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">A few minutes later, the monsters arrived. Draco had never seen anything like them. Giant serpents -- basilisks, he knew. Creatures the size of buildings, with six legs. They tore through Muggles like the people weren’t even there, crushing them underfoot as they stormed at Hogwarts across the castle grounds.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Monsters… what did you even </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">do</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> in a situation like this?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">There was nothing </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">to</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> do except handle one situation at a time, and wait for instructions. Three more Muggles reached the top of the slope, clambering on the partially-submerged bodies of their compatriots, and Draco took them down. One of them had raised a tube-weapon, but Draco thought he took him down in time.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The next instant, everything went black and pain, jumbled up in a riot of impact. Draco found himself staring at the side of the castle, lying on the stones in front of the great doors. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He lay there, ears filled with white noise, and tried to understand what had happened.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Draco rolled over onto his back, and coughed. It hurt abominably, as though something inside him was torn. But he couldn’t stop himself, and coughed again, spasmodically.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He stared up at the roof of the castle. Granger and the Shichinin were in flight again, a tight bunch. They flew down to him, pausing in the air a dozen yards away.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">No time for this, do your asinine plan, whatever it is</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, Draco thought, scornfully. Weakly, he lifted a hand, and flapped it in a dismissive gesture.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Granger nodded at him, something unrecognizable on her face. She turned and waved at one of the Weasley twins, Merlin knew which one, and pointed down at something on the ground, out of Draco’s view. “Fred!” she shouted, barely audible through Draco’s ringing ears, “You guys take those and get high! Wait for my signal!”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Draco put a hand to his forehead, and it came back red and wet. He felt dizzy and nauseous. Bile rose in his throat, and he leaned over to vomit. When he was finished, he’d barely straightened before he needed to throw up again. His legs felt weak, and he swayed in place, staggering to the side as he tried to stay upright.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">A strong grip seized his forearm, held it tight, held him in place. Dazed, he looked to find an armored child holding his arm. No, not a child. A goblin, clad all over in shining silver.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Rest easy, wizard,” said the goblin, its consonants guttural. “We’ll need you yet.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Draco couldn’t quite understand what he was seeing. Something was in his eyes; he swiped at his face with the sleeve of his robe, blinking rapidly as something stung his eyes. His Bubblehead Charm was broken, he realized. He needed to get it back.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">But for the moment, all he could do was fight to stand as the goblin let him go. It hefted a spear in its hand, and pointed it down the slope, to where the monsters were raging.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Draco held himself upright, and felt a moment’s hope.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Then he heard the strangest hooting noise.</span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">A solitary figure in plain grey robes, unseen and unnoticed, watched the fighting.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">It paused to flick its fingers through the air, whereupon a tracery of crimson light formed a sharp arrow, directing the figure’s gaze to the castle itself and an unseen target within.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The figure picked its way carefully up the steep slope towards the Hufflepuff greenhouse, which was damaged and open. Where the way was inconvenient, the ground gently shifted itself, as though the earth itself was trying to be accommodating. The lone individual stepped delicately over broken panes of glass, and slipped inside the school. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">It made its way to the library.</span><br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span></div>
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<b style="color: #222222; font-family: 'noto serif', georgia, serif; font-size: x-large; line-height: 27px;">Significant Digits, Chapter Forty-Eight: Antepenultimate</b><br />
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<span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span>
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span></em>
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span></em>
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Receiving Room, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Now</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">This was a defining moment. Gregor Nimue knew that. Everyone was leaning on him to break protocol, and he was standing fast.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">It was a shining moment, and it was a long time coming.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Considering his experience and skill, he should have been Terminus of the Receiving Room a long time ago. He had twice the lore and three times the brains of any other Tower Auror, and it was practically a crime that he’d been sidelined for so long. He’d spent </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">years</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> chafing under the command of inferiors, stuck on chizpurfle duty or some other nonsense -- all because he’d had the bad luck to be on the Azkaban rotation on the night that veela-giant crossbreed dropped out of the sky on a phoenix and knocked the place flat. An entire detail of good and experienced aurors were dropped down to sentinel duty the very next week, and Gregor had been taking orders from idiots ever since.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">And what was even better, the very week he was finally back in a decent posting -- Terminus, a job with some real heft -- was one more in a series of crazy weeks. The blastbombings in Diagon and Tidewater, the start of the Treaty of Independence, an attack by some worthless students with a hundred doxies, the One-Day War, the attack by Bellatrix Black, and now some sort of takeover attempt at the same time that everywhere else in the world was going to pot. Too many people had been burnt out or hurt or both, and so good old Gregor’s career was finally </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">finally</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> heading back to the top.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">There were protocols for things like this, for powerful wizards who might manage to evade security and put people under their control, and Gregor followed them to the </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">letter</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">. As soon as McGonagall sent word about a message she’d received, he’d given the signal. They’d rolled the shield and locked down the Tower, and no power on the planet could make him open it until he was satisfied that the Tower hadn’t been compromised. That was the rule. That was his role. The Terminus was the first and last guard against attack -- from </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">either </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">side of the Tower’s golden doorway.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Injured wizards, witches, and Squibs arrived and were sent to nearby chambers in Hogwarts, stabilized as well as could be done by a skeleton crew of the less-skilled aurors. Gregor kept his best stationed near him -- and that necessity became even more apparent when entire squads of foreign Hit Wizards and auror teams arrived. Some of the most famous battle wizards and duelists in the world appeared on the summons of the Headmistress of Hogwarts and the Tower and some American muckitymuck. The Boston Brahmins didn’t even arrive stunned; they spun into existence fully awake and aware, which meant that they’d used an </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">illegal Tower portkey</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> that didn’t have the security enchantments. Gregor’d need to report that -- earn another point in his favor.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">As the story became clear, he’d let out messages and he’d let in a handful of runners and representatives, but still: no one left. A strange and powerful wizard had tried to take over and failed… fine, a good story, but would it be any different if a strange and powerful wizard had tried to take over and </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">succeeded</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">? Lockdown remained in place.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Even when he heard that the Ministry itself was under attack, and that the dregs of the aurors who’d been sitting idle in Hogsmeade or some other Knut-ante place had spotted a crowd of Muggles, Gregor knew better. He did his job. Americans, Russians, Koreans, and seemingly a thousand angry British including all the most powerful people he knew were all putting pressure on him, and he did his job.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">It was a shining moment, and it was a long time coming.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Lift the lockdown, Nimue!” shouted Auror Hedley Kwannon, “It’s been nearly thirty minutes! Don’t you know what’s </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">happening</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> out there?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Don’t </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">you </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">know what protocol is, Kwannon?” snapped back Gregor. He was off to the side of the door, out of its line of sight, but he knew she must be fuming. One more bit of consolation: knowing one of the Tower’s pets was being treated like everyone else for a change. He’d already heard that another one of them, that flinty Kraeme woman, had been badly injured.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">If he found out that Pirrip had fallen off his broom and broken his neck while mooning after the Diggory brat-in-charge, then Gregor’s day would be complete.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“You don’t have to let them out, but you’re going to let us in,” rumbled the biggest of the three Chinese wizards who’d been pestering Gregor for the last twenty minutes. He didn’t approach too closely -- not with fifty Tower Aurors on alert, wands ready for conflict (from either direction).</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">And if this whole thing were a ploy and it was you lot behind it, wouldn’t that just what you’d bloody want? </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Gregor thought. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Although all things considered, it’s still most likely that Mad-Eye is the one behind the whole thing, somehow.</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> He smiled a mocking smile right at the Chinese Hit Wizard, although all he said was a courteous, “No, sir. Sorry.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Two of the Tower Aurors exchanged an uneasy glance, but didn’t lower their wands. Gregor noticed, and noted who it was. Unreliable.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“You have every confirmation code and you have Patronus verification from five of us,” shouted Kwannon. “That </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">is </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">the protocol!”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I still have discretion,” called back Gregor, “and I haven’t seen anything th--”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“No. That’s enough now, Nimue,” said a new voice, with a tone of command that was leather-tough. Madame Bones. His former leader in the DMLE, before she leapt up four or five rungs to Supreme Mugwump and Chief Warlock. “If the Tower has been compromised somehow, then it’s past proof and past solution. You’ll end the lockdown right now. Innocent people are dying.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Gregor considered. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">She’s right. And I’ve made my name. If this was a Mad-Eye test, then I’ve made my reputation. And if not… well, this will probably still be good for me.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Fine,” he said. And before he’d even said a word more, tense aurors were lowering their wands with a sigh. The sharper ones were in immediate, rapid motion: heading to the bunched-up crowd sorting itself into a queue to get through the narrow Tower entrance, or going the opposite way to the rest of Hogwarts.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Gregor turned to one of the aurors in charge of scanning. “We’ll need to sort out who is available for assistance outside…”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">But his voice trailed off as he watched a ripple shift through the witches and wizards around the Tower entrance. They cleared a path.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione Granger strode through the path, out of the Tower. Her step was brisk and her face was tight. She had her wand out -- and her other hand looked oddly pinkish, as though it had been sunburnt.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">This was a shining moment, Gregor knew. The same person who’d broken his career would now reward him for keeping to the rules at the moment when it had been the most difficult, and when there’d been every reason to give in.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He stepped forward to meet her. “Madame Granger, I hope you --”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The Goddess didn’t even slow down. She walked forward like he wasn’t there, and her shoulder swept Gregor aside like a curtain of iron as he tried to hastily get out of her way. He staggered backwards, met an obstacle behind one heel, and lost his balance. He landed on his rear, awkwardly.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">No one took much notice -- too many things going on -- except for the few people near him (including the bass-voiced Chinese auror, who had stuck a foot out behind Gregor).</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He watched the Goddess sweep through the room and out, and then she was gone, two witches right on her heels and dozens of aurors and others rushing in their wake, following her with grim faces. Almost before she’d vanished from the room, though, there came someone else -- the only person, perhaps, who could draw even more attention than Hermione Granger.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Cedric, take anyone not vital who can cast a Patronus,” said Harry Potter, walking briskly up to the Tower entrance. He was wearing simple garments -- trousers and a vest beneath plain robes. “Communications are now the most important thing you can do. We can bring reinforcements here quickly with Safety Sticks, but moving them after that is harder, so --”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“So we need to know exactly what threats are where, and now,” finished the Chief Auror and Head of the DMLE, walking alongside and just behind the Tower.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Potter nodded, sharply, and then a look of uncertainty flashed over his face. His stride broke, and he halted. He was standing inside the golden oval of the Tower, looking out at the Receiving Room.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Gregor stood up and turned to the side, trying to follow the Tower’s gaze. He glanced around the room. Nothing unusual now but a relatively plain stone room with the usual decorations -- the tables of Dark Detectors, the shelves of chizpurfles, the few pieces of other furniture. It was crowded with combat-ready wizards, and injured people were arriving at a steady rate, but there were no apparent threats. There didn’t seem to be any reason for the Tower to hesitate… was he nervous about any remaining danger? That didn’t seem possible, considering how often Potter had been in serious peril. Just a couple of months ago, he’d nearly been blown up in Diagon, and just today there’d been an attempt to cast some sort of Imperius Curse on him. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">He is just a child, after all. A child who’s taken charge of the world, but a child. With a stupid haircut, too.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Madame Bones stepped up from somewhere behind Potter. She said something too soft to hear, and then put a hand on his back and gave him a gentle but firm push forward. The Tower stepped forward and out of his eponymous facility, and took a deep breath. He closed his eyes. He looked pale.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Then the moment passed, and Potter was turning to yet another person walking with him -- a blonde-haired witch -- and telling her to get everything ready, and to remember everything he’d said.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Nimue found himself pushed to the side by several aurors, and then again by a scornful blonde wizard -- was that </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Draco Malfoy?</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“You’re the one who was Terminus and kept us here? Well done, you fool,” sneered Malfoy. He didn’t stop, but walked on.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Things weren’t supposed to go this way. This wasn’t </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">fair</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Good going --” “-- you complete bollocks,” said a pair of red-haired Hit Wizards with bizarre cheer as they walked by.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I followed protocol!” Gregor protested. “I just did what I was supposed to do!”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“You did the right thing, Nimue,” Bones said, staring at him. Her voice was cool. “What an odd time to begin such behavior, just when it most hurt us.” Then she turned away from him, too, looking at another auror who’d emerged from the Tower behind her. “Madagascar, you’re in charge here. Get everyone moving. Get everyone you can outside, to help Granger.”</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry stepped to one side of the Mirror, which sat as impossibly solid as ever, embedded in the masonry of Hogwarts as though it were a piece of interior decoration: a fancy accessory to the castle, rather than the most potent magical device known to still exist.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The Cup of Midnight might have been stronger, once. They hadn’t been able to find much information about that ancient device, which came to them now only in scant shards, but Hopkirk’s best guess was that the Cup had been the method by which the Interdict was enacted. Around the same time, the Cup was broken and Merlin lost his life and his time. Occam’s Razor suggested that all three events were perhaps related, although contradictory legends told many different stories.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">There was a time when Harry couldn’t have imagined making a decision like that… a decision on behalf of humanity. On some level, of course, every little decision tasted of eternity. But to consciously choose a path for the future of mankind, to make a gamble in the name of human intelligence… well, that had been the fate of a precious few.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">And now Harry was going to join them.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The scramble he’d inspired with his order to evacuate the Tower had caused something like a panic, especially when added to the chaos of the attacks and the tension of the lockdown. Healers and officials and researchers and diplomats and friends first tried to enter the Tower, only to find themselves turned back: Moody stood just inside, where the two main corridors split off, and roared orders. There were suddenly too few aurors, where only minutes ago there had been far too many, but those remaining worked to clear out the entire facility. The Records Room was emptied, desperate researchers were permitted a single trip to retrieve anything they needed from the departments, and every last straggler was forced out.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">At least one researcher fought back, recklessly, after his request to return and retrieve his personal Pensieve was denied. He was stunned and removed. But while there was a great deal of complaining and even some tears, most accepted the warnings without such a drastic reaction.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Probably a lot of them don’t really believe that anything is going to happen to the Tower -- they expect to be able to come back after the alarm dies down. They don’t know that it’s going to… well, I don’t even know what will happen to it. </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry stared at the Mirror. It stood immobile: a fixed point of supernal obdurance. If it were possible to truly conceptualize the supermassive black hole at the center of the galaxy, this is what he imagined it would be like: potent beyond reckoning and more solid than existence. Not that he’d ever had occasion to see a black hole. His mouth twisted in a wry smile.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry looked at the golden circle of the Mirror.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He had to do this.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He had to make himself do this.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Kwannon kept most people from bothering him with their urgent pleas for assistance or exceptions. She blocked their path physically -- or with wards when necessary -- to keep his corner of the Receiving Room empty, off to the side of the Tower entrance. He was startled, then, when he felt a hand tug on his sleeve. He turned to find Auror Pirrip, looking sweaty but grinning broadly. He glanced over Pip’s shoulder at Kwannon, but she was smiling, too.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Yes?” Harry asked.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Mr. Potter! You’re never going to believe… the goblins, sir!”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry felt a sick feeling in his gut. He knew what this was about, and celebrations were not in order.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Every round for countless rounds, wizards defected instead of cooperating. What did we expect would happen?</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Let me guess: they attacked, but we won.” He sighed, and turned away, to stare at the Mirror again. “It’s been building for weeks, now. Well, no, it’s been building for years. And the frustrating thing is that it’s impossible to even blame them, or feel happy about winning. It doesn’t change anything, and it actually makes things </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">worse</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> in a lot of ways. I don’t think moral culpability is heritable, but centuries of structural inequality and outright oppression can’t be ignored for --”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Sir!” interrupted Pip, putting a hand on Harry’s arm again, his urgency overriding his patience and respect. “They’re fighting with us -- fighting for us! Everywhere! They’ve saved the Cypriot Hold and Beauxbatons. They’ve saved </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Godric’s Hollow!</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">”</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">That’s… my god, that’s better than we deserve. That’s better than any of us deserve.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">It was amazing. It was a touch of grace. It was a shining moment.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry felt his eyes fill with tears, and a smile spread helplessly across his face.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Everything is going to hell, Mr. Potter,” said Pip, smiling back, “but we’re not alone.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Sir!” said Kwannon, behind Pip, one arm raised to stop a panic-faced auror. “They need you! The Goddess is out there, but…”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Things must be bad and getting worse. And it was time. The Receiving Room was almost empty, except for healers. Almost everyone who could fight was gone, and everyone else was trying to secure themselves away with the students -- down in the dungeons, he supposed.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Moody and a last team of aurors emerged, floating two stunned stragglers along in their wake. Moody gave Harry a heavy nod, his face sadder than Harry had seen it since Albus Dumbledore had been lost beyond time.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Yes,” said Harry to Kwannon. He turned back to the Mirror. And now he felt ready. “I can do this. But then we’re going to the library, not outside. Let Hermione do her thing -- I’ll do mine.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He stepped in front of the entrance to the Tower -- the pocket world of his creation. The world of his volition. He felt for his wand.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Muffliato,</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">” he cast.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Noitilov,” he said. And the surface of the Mirror changed, and just like that, the John Snow Center for Medicine and the Tower School of Doubt was gone.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span>
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">What a waste</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, Hermione thought, grimly. She pulled her broom up and away from the entrance to the castle. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">What a heroic waste.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The defenders could have done any number of things differently, if they’d been willing to rethink their situation or defy convention. They’d fought like they’d always fought: with incredible bravery but limited creativity.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The castle fell away behind her as she flew upwards, set on the steep hill that edged upon the waters of the Black Lake. The staircase down the hill was gone, bitten away halfway down by the teeth of rubble that were strewn at the bottom. The Hogwarts grounds, normally a gentle rise of grass from the main gates from Hogsmeade all the way to the castle, were a torn mass of detritus and the dead, still intermingled with the scrambling mass of people who were pouring in from Hogsmeade in an endless stream. There were thousands, perhaps tens of thousands. Perhaps more. She’d heard that a million people could fit within Tiananmen Square in Beijing, and tried to estimate based on that. Considering all the chaos and the impassable areas… how many people was she looking at?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">She picked a portion of ground and did a quick Fermi estimate, counting the living and dead on that portion and extrapolating to the whole field.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Ninety thousand.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">There was a dull thump from far below, and a line of silver smoke arrowed through the air. Hermione watched as it arced gently downward, and hit the wrought-iron apex atop the Hufflepuff greenhouse. The missile exploded. It actually did little damage, except for a multitude of broken glass. But she could see rifles and numerous simpler weapons among the crowd, too.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Well,</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> and she couldn’t believe she was thinking this and very carefully reminded herself of the moral equivalencies and the slippery slope of the thought but even so she still couldn’t help but think, </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">they are just Muggles, after all.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione dipped her broom sharply, dropping dangerously quickly to the ground. She pulled up just short of the gathering aurors. Every moment, more were arriving from outside. She took a moment to assess who was there and what their known capabilities were. A formidable force, even against an army like this. And if they fought smartly, they could win this.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The Returned were there. Simon was missing. In turn, Hermione met the eyes of Urg, Charlevoix, Esther, Nikitas, Tonks, Susie, and Hyori. She didn’t say anything, and neither did they. There was nothing that needed to be said.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Brahmins and Rakshasa,” she said, firmly, jabbing her finger at the elite American and Russian auror squads. “You’re in the air. I want to know about everything that happens. Stay high. You’re not fighting, you’re keeping yourself protected. If you seen an opportunity, you tell the Jīngluò or the Three Treasures.” She indicated the Chinese and Korean squads. “They’re going to be working in teams, protecting each other and attacking. You’ll be transfiguring things I’ll tell you -- dangerous things. Things you’re never supposed to transfigure. But you’re going to do it, because it’s the only way to stay alive… and the only way to save countless other lives.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione waited a moment, anticipating arguments or demands about her authority. But there were none -- just confident nods and cool determination. They knew of the Goddess. They knew the reputation of the Tower.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">She turned to the British forces. “Shichinin and Omega, you’ve the most experience fighting Muggles. Defend this ground. Half of you will be on the battlements… this is a castle, use the cover. I have more ideas -- things we can do to stop this. Draco Malfoy and Alastor Moody will join you when they arrive.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione wheeled her broom around and pointed at the horde below. “Thousands of people have already died, including dozens of our own. But what finally worked was a physical barrier. Use that. Hold them off, stay on the defensive. The Muggle news is full of these disappearances -- we don’t know how many we’re facing. So your job is just to hold back the tide and keep the school safe. If you have to, retreat inside. Stay alive.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">She gestured at the Returned, and they began mounting brooms.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Neville Longbottom called out to her as they rose. “And you… you’re going after the source?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Yes,” she said. “Stay alive.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">And then she was flying, the Returned by her side.</span><br />
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<b style="color: #222222; font-family: 'noto serif', georgia, serif; font-size: x-large; line-height: 27px;">Significant Digits, Chapter Forty-Seven: Hell</b><br />
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<span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span><span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span></em>
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">And the whole earth was of one language, and of one speech.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">And it came to pass, as they journeyed from the east, that they found a plain in the land of Shinar; and they dwelt there.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">And they said one to another, Go to, let us make brick, and burn them thoroughly. And they had brick for stone, and slime had they for morter.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">And they said, Go to, let us build us a city and a tower, whose top may reach unto heaven; and let us make us a name, lest we be scattered abroad upon the face of the whole earth.</span></em><br />
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<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">And the Lord came down to see the city and the tower, which the children of men builded.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">And the Lord said, Behold, the people is one, and they have all one language; and this they begin to do: and now nothing will be restrained from them, which they have imagined to do.</span></em><br />
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<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Go to, let us go down, and there confound their language, that they may not understand one another's speech.</span></em><br />
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<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">So the Lord scattered them abroad from thence upon the face of all the earth: and they left off to build the city.</span></em><br />
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- <em><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Genesis 11:1-8</span></em></em><br />
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<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Trafalgar Square, London</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">May 19th, 1999</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">4:40 PM</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The deep timbre of the anchor’s voice was so low-pitched that it was hard to understand over Andrea’s earpiece, and she had to ask him to repeat his question. She held one hand over the earpiece, both to help her make out his bass rumble and to serve as a visual excuse for the repetition.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Andrea, have you been able to speak to anyone there to get an idea of what’s happening?” Bill repeated in an anchor’s practiced voice: warm and concerned, but confident enough to reassure. Andrea was reasonably certain that his sort were grown in a vat somewhere.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“There is a lot of confusion, and a lot of fear, Bill,” she said, shaking her head and using the obvious for filler as she planned the rest of her response. “We’re not sure what is going on, but we know that it’s something serious… and something dangerous. Officials here will only say that there has been a dangerous incident to our south -- something so dangerous that they’ve evacuated everyone from the government buildings in Whitehall: the office of the Treasury, the Old Admiralty, and very nearly the whole of this area, the seat of the whole British government.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“And just to confirm, we haven’t been able to get any more details? Theories right now range from some sort of chemical spill to an attack with biological weapons, and many experts have stated that they believe this incident is related to the recent mass disappearances around the world.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“There are no details available, Bill, but we can hear regular explosions coming from beyond the cordon... and the police here are preventing us from advancing any further,” Andrea said. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Especially after what happened to the BBC crew.</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> The thought of those poor people -- of what she’d seen on the feed from their cameras -- it made her skin crawl.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">There were seventeen crews here, and they’d all huddled around a monitor set up on the back gate of the BBC ops truck. They’d sworn not to say anything until they were cleared to do so by the authorities. How could they do otherwise?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The rough footage showed the crew advancing down the riverwalk on the Victoria Embankment, skirting a police cordon that hadn’t yet been established. One of the producers was audible, talking to the other in rough, quiet tones as they moved at nearly a jog down the pavement. There was a buzz of indiscriminate noise behind her words, and eventually it grew loud enough that they all fell silent, rather than raising their voices to be heard. The late afternoon sun cut sharp shadows from the trees to their right. No one else was visible.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The BBC crew had paused for a moment to get an establishing shot of the river and Big Ben, turning the camera south along the deserted street and panning past a long line of motionless cars and buses.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Then the camera had rocked and swerved, dipping forward as someone made a guttural sound of surprise or alarm. For a moment, all that was visible was blurry pavement, and then the camera reared back up and to the right. For one sickeningly long second -- no more than a second -- a heavyset woman in a thick, tan apron was visible, eyes wide and staring. Her hair was streaming down the side of her face, torn loose from a bun, and there was a thick section of pipe clutched in her hands. It was covered in blood, and a matted wad of gorey hair dangled from its end. There were other people visible behind her, packed into a dense mob. They were marching steadily forward in a single mass that parted around the Fleet Air Arm Memorial statue, heading towards the BBC crew. A few people were distinct in the crowd: a man with a rifle in his hands, a child with a knife, a woman with some sort of large tube hugged to her chest.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Then the second was past, and the camera lurched away and leapt at the pavement, smashing itself dark.</span><br />
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<span style="font-weight: 400;">“We know her Majesty the Queen has been confirmed as safe, and also the British Prime Minister,” said the anchor, “but how much is this going to impact the government there?</span><br />
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<span style="font-weight: 400;">Andrea nodded thoughtfully to show that this was a meaningful conversation and not just speculation, and answered, “Some of the most important leaders of the country may be in danger, but we just don’t know enough yet to say for sure, Bill.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Thank you, Andrea. We’ll be back with you later. Stay safe out there,” Bill said, and she nodded sagely, as though she had a fucking clue whether or not she was safe. “Let’s turn now to analysis from Lieutenant General Hassan. General, what are some of the possibilities we might be looking at?”</span><br />
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<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">The entrance to the Ministry of Magic, Gwydyr House, London</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">After ten minutes of hell, the aurors began using lethal spells. There hadn’t been any order to that effect, but in a moment of desperation or anger an auror animated the centaur statue on the fountain in the center of the atrium. The stone sculpture clopped down off of its perch with granite feet, nocked an arrow, and sent the yard-long stone bolt across the atrium and through the chests of two Muggles. They crumpled to the ground, dead. Two other Muggles snatched up their weapons -- a knife and a gun -- but a taboo had been broken. Another auror lit the clothing of his attackers on fire with a word, and the room dissolved into blood and battle.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Some of the staff and aurors at the Ministry recognized what was happening for what it was. The more learned wizards and the amateur historians knew why the time-turners weren’t working and why they couldn’t Apparate, even though the only enemy visible was a monstrous wall of hate-faced Muggles. They’d read the stories of the great battles of the old days, when warlord wizards had matched their armies against each other.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">At least now there was no more wondering about where the missing Muggles had gone, stolen in their thousands from cities around the world. Some were here. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Many</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> were here.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">History was full of accounts of wars much like this one; as the Mhlongo Scroll said, “</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">The most fundamental principle of war is control. Your beasts are a steady wave, and it is your task to unsteady your opponent, the better to wet them. Direct your attacks so as to limit their options, not to damage the foe. Then the waves will overtake them.”</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Casting spells took energy and will. Even the most powerful wizard wouldn’t have an infinite supply of both. Keep them pinned down and eliminate their options for escape. Eventually, they would tire or make a mistake or lose heart. And as every student of magical history knew, that’s when the Muggles got you.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The wars of armies and attrition had been gone for generations, abandoned with the Statute of Secrecy and the creation of modern magical nation-states after the Peace of Westphalia. Private armies of Muggles were not conducive to secrecy nor governance, and they had become a thing of the past.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Unfortunately, it seemed the past had caught up with them.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The well-equipped and well-trained aurors stationed at the Ministry of Magic had done their jobs. Those few stationed outside had alerted their compatriots the instant the massed wall of humanity had charged down the street towards the Ministry, a mad parade of mayhem that seemingly had come from nowhere. The aurors had managed to evacuate almost everyone except for active defenders; they’d gotten out word of the attack; and they’d sealed the Ministry at three points. The stout doors hadn’t stopped the Muggle mob for very long, but successive layers of wards and traps had sealed away the atrium for nearly an half hour, despite the concussive power of the weapons the Muggles had brought. Bodies soon littered the streets outside, mounded up among the Muggle government buildings, torn by shards of crystal, burnt by acid, and otherwise ruined by every craft of magic. It was magical slaughter, and it was madness. But the Ministry stood.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Then chariots of fire swept down into the atrium from some sideways place, drawn by horses of stomping flame, and Muggles began to pour out among the defenders -- far more than should ever have fit on those chariots, as though the phaetons of fire had no limits on their capacity. It was a novel attack, an </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">impossible</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> attack, casting an army in the midst of the aurors despite the thick protections that should have prevented such transportation.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Many of the Muggles were already injured or covered with blood, stained with the efforts of previous misdeeds. They attacked with purpose and intensity, but showed no malice or madness. They had guns, clubs, knives, and improvised weapons. And there seemed no end to them. Hundreds. Thousands. More.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The atrium soon began to fill with the dead and dying. One auror team fought to create a new perimeter, conjuring acrid smoke in clouds enough to choke the Muggles. But their attackers only staggered forward through the smoke, climbing over the fallen in an endless flood of grim murder, beating savagely on shields and wards with their weapons.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The defenders tore through them: stabbing hails of splinters; infectious pulses of green light; blasts of acid-filled wind. Each dead Muggle was replaced with two more, and when shields began to fail under the rain of blows, attackers began to slip through the gaps. Determined fingers seized one auror’s arm when he was a trifle too slow, dragging him down in an instant. A man with an iron club smashed it against the wizard’s skull, and he stopped moving. The man pulped the auror’s head with two more blows before the Killing Curse took him from the world. Too late.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The defenders fell back to a choke point. They abandoned the atrium, filling it with a last billowing cloud of fire and smoke, and then took the elevators down a floor to the DMLE. They destroyed the magical lifts, filled the shaft with rubble, and began creating traps and barriers.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">It should have been impossible for Muggles to breach the Ministry proper. But then, it should have been impossible for Muggles to even find the entrance to the Ministry, much less break through to the atrium.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The defenders made frantic calls on their bubblers for reinforcements, desperate to create some kind of plan to drive away the enemy. The possibility of simply abandoning the premises was considered, but discarded; it wasn’t a matter of pride or principle that they needed to retain control, but rather a concern for all the objects safeguarded in the Department of Mysteries, and the hidden hand that might be seeking them. There were secret and powerful things under guard there, some beyond the understanding of the Unspeakables themselves, and they could not be allowed to fall into the wrong hands.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Two dozen wizards arrived by Vanishing Cabinet, and two dozen more began to harry the close-packed horde surrounding the Ministry, killing as many as they could with their most devastating spells. Still other aurors flew to Gringotts, hoping to beg or bribe to borrow the dragons that the goblins kept. Beasts had been a method of Muggle control too, once. Such control might even have been their intended purpose. At this moment, however, the doors were found sealed, and another hope dashed.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The wizards were remembering and employing some of their more creative methods of killing </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">en masse</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">. The Butterball Charm turned the road liquid, drowning its victims in a slurry of slippery stone. Mandrakes had been fetched, and their screams killed everyone around them. And magical fires consumed Muggle after Muggle. The enemy fell in droves. But there was simply </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">no end</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> to the Muggles. There were thousands of them, pouring in every minute without stop, unleashed from some hidden hoard of humanity. It wasn’t fair. No, worse than that… it wasn’t even </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">sane</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">. It was as though the hidden hand behind the attack didn’t care about their forces or any perceivable objective. It was all pointless -- all the fear and blood and anger.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Some of the Muggles had little packages that exploded. Blastbombs. Inside the Ministry, those who had fallen back to the lower level felt the stone around them shake and heard explosions, and cast grim looks at each other. Even if the explosives couldn’t really reach them, eventually more flaming chariots would arrive among them.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The Muggles were coming. Endless. Remorseless. The defenders of the Ministry of Magic were fighting an ocean, and the ocean was winning.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">It is perhaps understandable that some began to weep when they heard from their bubblers that a wave of Muggles, packed in a plenitude without end, had appeared at Hogsmeade. And there was no one to stop them, for there were other attacks happening… all over the world. Even the Tower was under attack, locked down and sealed off. Tears were only natural.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Many of the aurors had children at Hogwarts, after all.</span><br />
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<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">“Oh, sacred Ether and you winds, masters of speed! You, waters of rivers and you, endless laughter of Ocean’s waves! Oh, Mother Earth! And you, Sun, who sees all!</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Look at me! Look at my suffering, I, a god who must suffer the punishment of gods!</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Look at what outrageous torment I must endure for countless years! Look at these dire shackles this new ruler of the Gods has devised for me!</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Ah! Ah! I groan for my suffering now and for all the suffering to come. When will I see their end?</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">But what am I saying? I know the future and all that it will bring and I know all my suffering beforehand, so I must endure as best I can what Necessity has sent upon me because she cannot be resisted.</span></em><br />
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<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Yet, neither can I speak nor stay silent about this agony that I am forced to suffer. I’ve hunted down and stolen, inside the hollow of a fennel’s stalk, the seed of fire, a gift that has proven itself to be the teacher of every craft and the greatest resource for humans. Such is the crime I have committed and this is the penalty I am to suffer: nailed and chained on this rock beneath the open sky.”</span></em><br />
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-<em style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: 400;">Prometheus Bound, </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Aeschylus</span><br />
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<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Tidewater, Boston, United States of America</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Earlier</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">The same day</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">It was a fine, clear afternoon, and Councilor Littlebrook Strongbound was having his mulled egg-wine on the grotto balcony. The Alþing had a lovely view of the harbour, sticking up from among the lesser buildings of Tidewater with sharp concrete edges, and one of the small perks of his long tenure on the Council was access to an office like this one. He sipped his drink and looked out on the water, sighing contentedly.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Already, today had been a productive day. Hig had been playing things close to the vest for months when it came to the Brits and their damned Treaties. Strongbound had known it was all a power play by his old foe. He’d tried to shore up support along traditional lines, making a deal with that little snakeling son of Lucius, only to discover that the little brute had turned the whole Independence movement out for fools, capitalizing on the idiocy of the Thunderer and the Cappadocians’ brute hatred, precipitating a conflict that was obviously doomed from the start. The very evening of that one-day war had left the Malfoy boy in a position to negotiate his way into the top of that stupid Tower hospital/school/Thing, but had left all of his erstwhile allies out in the cold. There was no chance of a better deal at that point, and so they had supported him, reasoning that it was better to have a seat at the table than be left alone in the world.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Now it was becoming clear that the Malfoy boy had few ideals, if any, and was just waiting for his chance to depose the scar-faced pottery king. And Hig -- damn that ugly stump! -- was in the catbird seat. Strongbound could see it, now… Hig had spent months railing against the “new dark lord” and the Treaty for Health and Life in order to maximize his bargaining position. Then Hig made one trip to Britain, and suddenly he was open to a deal. And the deal he made with the Goddess just happened to include enormous subsidies to Salem and the Russell Institute, arithmancers to “help” with the Council finances, the end to damnable British support for the damned Cypriots, and the elimination of tariffs. Hig claimed personal credit for the feat -- meaning that he could claim the gratitude of the monied merchants, the support of the elites, and the appeasement of all the Turcophiles who’d long distrusted him.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">But today, Strongbound would finally begin to make inroads. He examined the drink in his fingers, smiling at the thought. Ever since the centaur bill, Hig had held the upper hand on access to the Earnest Ears Bureau. More of his review requests were approved by the oversight committee than anyone else, meaning he had access to essentially any of the wealth of information that the Council programs were always bringing in. Finally, though, Strongbound had struck gold with one of his own requests -- one of the few he’d gotten past the committee -- and soon, things would change. A delightful, dirty little secret between two of the councilors on the committee, and now he knew it. It was leverage, and that leverage would translate into information, and that information would translate into power.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Strongbound sipped his warm drink, and began to be happy and make plans.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Hoooo,” called someone from the street, their voice lilting and strange. Strongbound frowned, and leaned forward, to peer over the balcony railing. There was no one standing on the cobblestones below: the afternoon light showed nothing but a scrap of lone parchment scraping its way along in the gentle breeze.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Strongbound leaned back.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">There was someone behind him. He could feel it.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He turned.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Large eyes. Black and oily. Wet.</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">White skin. Flaky, run through with spidering cracks. Ragged in places, as gnawed.</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Long, thin limbs. Sparse flesh. Lumpy joint.</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Mouth. Smile.</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Smile.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">The thing turned hand finger open smile. Teeth dark touching rough. Rasping. Skin part yawn moving scream. Night whisper lust end cut. Thousand no my ripping beyond wet. Rough. Red. Black. Black. Cut. Scream.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Smile.</span></em><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">It took Councilor Littlebrook Strongbound a very long time to die.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">When he finally did, the Alþing of the Mystical and Benevolent Council of Westphalia was left quiet and empty of life. A bundiwig remained to walk the halls alone, pausing to lick wet spots on the floor now and again, its swarming mass of chizpurfles milling about on its back. The gaunts moved on to the next taste of magic and time, moving from building to building in Tidewater. None escaped, their magic dying in their veins. Viscs lazily flapped through the air in their wake, borne on tissue-thin wings.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span>
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Hogsmeade, Scotland</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">At the same time</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">The same day</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">While a few stubborn and brave wizards stood their ground to try to drive off some of the Muggles, almost all the residents and workers of Hogsmeade evacuated their little village as soon as they saw the steady-marching mass of the unmagical. The enemy’s presence was known instantly, of course. Even before the Tower existed, security precautions had included the closest settlement to the school. Nicomedius Salamander and Holly Nguyễn had been stationed there. It was a tedious assignment and one dreaded by aurors, but the pair had voluntary service in Azkaban on their record, and so their careers had stalled. They were on duty, standing idly outside of Honeydukes, when they heard the first screams and saw someone send up red sparks.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Despite their current status, the two aurors were well-trained and experienced. Salamander alerted the DMLE and the Receiving Room, while Nguyễn took to the air to reconnoiter the enemy.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Nguyễn barely caught sight of the mob before she was attacked. They were lucky or too numerous, and a bullet tore through her outer thigh before she could shield herself appropriately. She yelped and wobbled in her seat, but held on, pulling up and away. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Firearms were surprising and instantaneous, but they only shot bullets -- a repetitive and easily countered attack. Even if Nguyễn hadn’t been a Muggleborn, she would have been able to deal with a few gun-toting Muggles.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">A </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">thousand</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> gun-toting Muggles were a different story. They were crowding into Hogsmeade, their numbers so great that their weight brought down fences, and several of them were actually being pushed through shop windows as the village streets were filled to overflowing. Nguyễn saw broad red puddles, smeary with dozens of trudging Muggles, where they’d already seized some poor innocents. She didn’t see whoever it was who’d sent up red sparks, but scraps of bloody robes were visible underfoot in front of Dervish & Banges. The front of the Magic Neep had been smashed in, and smoke was pouring out.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Nguyễn circled the mass in a wide arc, high enough so that their thrown weapons fell short, and looked for the wizards in control. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Some sort of bus or plane must have brought all of them</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, she thought as she tore open a package of Wondo-Slo-Blood, slapping the wet cloth on her leg. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Too bloody many for… well, even portkeys wouldn’t work. You’d need hundreds of them.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">But she saw no apparent magical attackers and no apparent transportation, which was very worrying. It was as though a football stadium full of unusually well-armed hooligans had taken it upon themselves to go have a pint at the Hog’s Head, and had just walked straight into a magically protected village that was stacked with Anti-Muggle Charms.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Nguyễn returned to Salamander, finding him standing outside of the Three Broomsticks, and felt panic rising in her guts. It got worse when Salamander told her curtly that the Ministry was under siege by Muggles, and that the Tower had been in lockdown and wasn’t operational, and that there were a hundred other things going wrong all over the world. Had the Statute of Secrecy just been broken somehow, everywhere? Had Muggles gone to war on wizards? She’d always thought that was Slytherin bunk, but there didn’t seem to be any alternative.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Everybody safely out?” she asked Salamander, dropping down next to him. She remained on her broom, with one hand pressed to her thigh.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Salamander shook his head, and slammed the heel of one hand into the inn’s door again. “No! Almost everyone responded to the alarm, but this idiot won’t leave -- I was about to knock in this door and drag her out!”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Nguyễn glanced over her shoulder. The Muggles would be there in minutes, a well-armed wall of humanity. She shouted at the door, “Madame Rosmerta? It’s Holly! You need to leave -- you need to get out </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">now</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">! There are hundreds of Muggles coming, and they’ve already killed some people! We can’t protect you if they try to get in and get you… a few casks of butterbeer aren’t worth your life!”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">There was a heavy thump, and the door opened. Madame Rosmerta peeked out. She’d been rejuvenated, but she’d already been so young that her appearance was little changed: bouncy brown hair, pale green eyes, and a skeptical pinch to her mouth. “Muggles? Well, why don’t --”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Confundus</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">,” Nguyễn cast, her wand a flicker of motion. She didn’t bother with any alternate states of mind, and leaving just a dull-witted confusion in place. She pulled a Safety Stick from inside of her robes.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Wait!” said Salamander, reaching up to grab her wrist. “The Tower just got out of lockdown -- I already told you.” He handed her a milled metal rod, dimpled in the center. “Use this. It’s international, but I don’t have any others, and we can’t take the time to side-along her.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Nguyễn didn’t argue. She put the rod right into Rosmerta’s hands, then mimed a bending motion to the woman. Rosmerta complied, a dull look in her eyes. The rod bent, and she was lifted sideways and away, spinning off into a direction that didn’t exist and vanishing from sight with the familiar, comforting sound of a portkey.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Signal to Hogwarts. That’s where they’re headed. And call for help,” said Nguyễn. She kicked her broom up to be even with the roof, and heard the sound of Muggle feet, far too close.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Call where?” Salamander asked. “Broom,” he said to his pouch, and mounted. He rose up next to her. “The DMLE and the Tower are both under attack. We can fly up to the castle, but who are we going to call to come help? Those are the people who should be helping </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">us</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">!”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Call </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">someone </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">-- </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">anyone</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">!” snapped Nguyễn. “Bubble anyone you know who’s stationed at a Safety Pole. Or Howie -- maybe they can spare some people.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The two aurors pulled away as the first Muggles came into view. They sped off towards the castle.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">No one stationed at the Safety Poles or Howard Prison answered. Either they were too busy -- an ominous possibility -- or they were unable to pick up a bubbler at all -- a much worse possibility.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Nguyễn and Salamander put on more speed and tried to think of someone else they could call for help… someone who might answer quickly, and with force. The Hogwarts grounds whipped by below, the Forbidden Forest looming large and the school growing swiftly ahead of them as they approached.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Things were desperate, so Salamander resorted to desperate measures. He bubbled a former auror who had been acting like a nutter for years. It was true desperation, that it had come to this.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">She picked up almost instantly, babbling in a strained rush. “Hullo. Just realized I missed a button and three weeks ago I saw a dog and it looked at me and I thought of five good names for it but when I was seventeen a dog vommed in my bed and so all the names had to do with vomit and I’m very worried about things right now at the Tower and we’re about to leave so you better make this quick. Sorry about that, it keeps happening, what is it?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Tonks,” Salamander said, cupping the mirror with his hand and shouting to be heard over the rush of wind. “We need help!”</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Everywhere, there were attacks. Everywhere, there were invaders. Salem, Paris, Oslo, Huangzhou, Moscow, Cyprus, Johannesburg, Abuja, Dunedin. Vast crowds of Muggles attacked, or hooting Unseelie, or newly-free dark wizards in their dozens, or other... things. It was a masterpiece of coercion and coordination and carnage, as though some monstrous god were raining down the wrath of armies upon the world. And in many places, there was no help at all.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span>
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Godric’s Hollow</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">At the same time</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">The same day</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The alarm had been raised, and there was no one to come.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Ten monsters stood on a clear ridge above the village, looking down a steep slope at the thatched huts and low brick walls of the magical settlement. The basilisks had been hooded, swaying in place uncomfortably, and the terrasque stood as impassive as the rock from which they had been made. Four wizards stood behind the monsters, wands in hand. Their posture was tense and uncertain; they were not the masters, rather merely the attendants to beasts beyond their ability to truly control. The snakes and stones acted under the command of an unseen presence, and those dark wizards who’d accepted the cheerful offer of a chirpy young stranger now found themselves regretting that choice.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Still, they were free. That was more than could be said yesterday. And the power they had seen from their savior… no, they would do as they were told. They waited where they had been told to wait.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The defenders moved rapidly in the village below. Two of the patrol-wizards were escorting one last protesting inhabitant out of his home, a wizard who had refused to abandon his kneazles. The others were working under the direction of the aurors and the Hit Wizard squad to try to set up wards and traps -- even simple barriers of stone, whatever they thought might slow down the earthbound enemy. There had been some discussion of attacking the fiends on the ridge before the situation deteriorated even further, but… well, reason could be flexible in the face of fear, even among the trained and brave. There were twoscore wizards to defend the ancient village, and they were afraid.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Should they have fled? Abandoned Godric’s Hollow and its treasures and its history? Perhaps that would have been wise. But they did not go. They found mirrors, instead, that they might bear the basilisk’s gaze from at least some distance, and they searched their memories for the spells that might work -- some of them desperately trying to remember combat magic for the first time in decades -- and they hoped for help.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">No help came.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Goblins came instead.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The sound of their approach was like the grumbling of a great metal dragon. One hundred goblins marched up onto the ridge from the west, their armored boots slamming into the ground. They bore pennants fixed to their spears, bright with the colors of inscrutable traditions and clans. Many of them bore shields of silver or gold or bronze as well, and every shield was different and every shield was beautiful.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">They did not march in unison, but they had discipline enough, for at a shouted signal, they came to an abrupt halt on the ridge’s edge, twenty yards from the monsters. One of the dark wizards behind the beasts nodded solemnly, as if in greeting.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The goblins turned to regard the cowed defenders of Godric’s Hollow.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">The country was as noisy as a bellowing bull </span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">The God grew restless at their racket, </span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Enlil had to listen to their noise. </span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">He addressed the great gods, </span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">“The noise of mankind has become too much, </span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">I am losing sleep over their racket. </span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Give the order that </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">surrupu</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">-disease shall break out.”</span></em><br />
<br />
- <em><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">The Epic of Gilgamesh</span></em></em><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span>
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Hogwarts</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“The Tower is open again -- there was a takeover attempt,” said Salamander, lowering his bubbler.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">In unison, all five of the Returned turned to stare at him, lowering their wands. It was disturbing.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">They stood in various places on the gentle slope in front of the castle’s gate, where a staircase led up to the main doors and Great Hall. The path to Hogsmeade lay in front of them, time-smooth stones set in cement-hard earth, while the Forbidden Forest stretched out to their right, dark and dangerous. The Malfoy flying fortress, </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">The Declaration of Intent</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, was just visible to the left, around the edge of the castle where the greenhouses were located.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“They’re trying to sort things out, but the Goddess is fine,” he said, crossly.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Simon glanced at Susie. She returned the glance with a frown, then turned back to Salamander. “We’re going then, love.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He stiffened, staring at her. “Are you insane?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Protego Totalum</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">,” cast Tonks, her wand dabbing lightly at the air.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">A few paces behind her, Simon was casting the same spell, and a few paces behind </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">him</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, Charlevoix was putting her own wards up. A barrier against physicality was the best defense at the moment, layered to buy time. Twelve aurors and five fanatical criminals couldn’t do much to stop that horde of Muggles, so they needed to delay them for as long as possible. Every minute that passed was another minute to allow reinforcements to arrive. With Time frozen -- they’d gotten the warning, along with everyone else with a time-turner -- this was the best strategy.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">It was frustrating. On this day of insanity and emergency, the first responses had gone to the Ministry and to the Tower, and the second responses had gone… well, everywhere else possible, really. Now, even if they’d been able to contact the big hats who could countermand previous orders, there was no one left that they could even reach to help defend Hogwarts. It was </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Hogwarts</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> and all they could find were seventeen wizards and witches to protect it! Nguyễn had gone to enlist the faculty and even the </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">prefects </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">to help, but a swarm of a thousand Muggles was marching on the school, only minutes away.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">And now the Returned wanted to go cling to the Goddess’ bloody skirts, taking years of fighting experience and those golden gauntlet weapons of theirs with them.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“We can’t spare anyone. We need </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">ten times</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> as many. You’re not going anywhere!” Salamander protested, bristling.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“We’re going to help Hermione,” Simon said, firmly.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“No, you’re not,” said Nguyễn, limping through the open front doors of the school, her voice fraught. “There are protocols for Imperius and Confundus infestation, and they’re in effect. No one is going in or out of the Tower. The Terminus is following the letter of the rules, and no one is getting past the Receiving Room. And since you can’t get in, you might as well stay here and help protect Ms. Granger’s life.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">This was a blatant lie, Salamander knew. The lockdown was over, and the Tower was probably the command center, like it had been during the One-Day War. But he said nothing, and didn’t meet her eyes. They couldn’t lose five battle-hardened combatants right now. Help would be coming, but there was fighting everywhere… they’d need every last wand.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">To that end, there were nearly forty people following Nguyễn. Eight professors, Salamander saw with some relief. Competent help. None of them were from his own time, but he recognized most of them from one place or another, anyway. Slughorn, Sprout, Flitwick, Hooch, Sinistra, Vector, and Murkluk. He didn’t recognize the fat one, but supposed he must be Professor Placela, the teacher they’d brought in to replace the proper Divination professor.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He was even glad to see the young adults who must be the prefects. Fifteen years old was essentially an adult in many ways, and they’d be able to at least keep themselves out of danger and cast some wards and jinxes. Fifth-years would have some experience with Care of Magical Creatures, after all, and that wasn’t so different from handling an angry Muggle. From the back lines, they’d be fine.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">But there were at least twenty students who couldn’t be past their fourth year.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“We can’t --” Salamander began, glaring at one of them, and then he paused. “Where is everyone else? Where’re Moody and the Tower aurors?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“This </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">is </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">everyone,” said Nguyễn. “The Tower was almost captured and all the most important people in the world are huddled up in there, safe, but there’s so much going on… they’re going to send help as soon as they can.” She sounded bitter. “The Headmistress and two professors are guarding the students and activating more of the castle’s defenses, but this is it.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">You couldn’t Apparate into Hogwarts. Any aurors sent elsewhere -- to the Ministry, to Antarctica, to wherever -- would be slow to return.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The Returned had already gone back to their preparations, turning their eerie hollow-eyed stares back to their work. They were laying traps along the path from Hogsmeade: Transfigured caltrops and blades, and patches of slurry-soft earth. The little goblin Returned -- Og? Urg? -- was pulling little metal boxes from a pouch at his waist, fitting them into the golden gauntlets he wore on both hands (unlike the others, who only had one apiece).</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“We can help, sir,” said one young man, a good-looking boy with dark skin and sharp cheekbones. “I can help.” He sounded as though he were terrified, but his jaw was gritted.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“You’re going to </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">die</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">,” Salamander said, harshly. “We saw what was out there and it’s a bloody </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">army</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">.” Best to be out with it. Best for them to break now, rather than later.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“They know that,” said Professor Slughorn, cutting in. His voice had none of its mellow roundness. It was cool and tight. “We all know that. Auror Nguyễn told us what we were facing. And she told us that there was no one else.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The sound of metal ringing on stone came from within the doors of Hogwarts, and a line of animated armor and statues marched faultlessly out of the school. They needed no direction and could endure disenchantment. Old magic, not used in a very long time, and well beyond anyone now alive.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“We’re here to fight, sir,” said the boy again. “I know it’s bigger than us, but we can fight. We know things. It’s…” He reached for words, and again Salamander could see the fear in his eyes. The fear that the young man was swallowing back like a stone. After an instant, the boy seemed to find what he’d been trying to say. “…it’s no crime to reach beyond your grasp if you can see where you’re reaching.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">A handful of other students gathered behind the boy, and Salamander had the feeling that he was seeing through a glass darkly: a narrow view of a complicated story.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Bravo,” whispered Professor Sinistra.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Well said, boy,” said Salamander, grudgingly. “Well, we need to hold here. We need to hold until help can arrive. You can help. What’s your name?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Lawrence,” said the young man, raising his chin.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Salamander heard a rumble behind him. The Muggles were close. Professors and aurors were already deploying, many of them mounting brooms. Others took command of the students, putting them in the rear and giving them strict instructions. He turned around, and felt his stomach tighten. He glanced back at Lawrence as the boy was led away by Professor Slughorn, squinting at the lining of the young man’s robes. Green. “You’re a Slytherin?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Yes, sir,” said Lawrence, turning back to the auror, and in that moment the fear was gone from his voice and his face, and he looked as calm as the morning. “A </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Silver </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Slytherin.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“They’re coming!” shouted Nguyễn, her broom rising rapidly into the air to Salamander’s left. “Nicomedius, get on the line!”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Salamander forgot his surprise, and got himself sorted.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">By the time the Muggles appeared down the slope, the battle order was set. Behind the first layers of wards and shields, statues and suits of armor were arrayed, armed with their own enchanted weapons or whatever could be Transfigured for them. Nguyễn and a team of broom-mounted aurors and professors were already in the air, flying towards the enemy; they’d attack from behind and try to do as much damage to disable and slow down the attackers as they could. The rest of the defenders were in groups of three, arrayed just before the zig-zagging stairs that led to the castle’s main doors, except for the Returned, who’d formed their own broom-mounted, tight contingent off to one side, seemingly away from the main line of battle. The students were set on the staircase itself, in a position of partial cover where they could do some damage without being too vulnerable.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The fliers were out and off as soon as the Muggles were visible. The leading front of the unmagical was broken and staggered by the traps laid in their path. They weren’t mindless, and took some care in their approach, but their determination made them seem more like ants than people: when a knot of Muggles tumbled into a hidden pit, caught or killed on the barbs within, their compatriots didn’t even slow. The Muggles just kept coming. Some managed to shoot their guns here and there, where Extinguishing Charms from the fliers had left a gap, but even the rare impact fell on prepared shields.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">As the Muggles drew in range, broken from their initial solid wave, wizards and witches began to lay flames and blades of crystal and other barriers in front. The Muggles pushed past and kept going, but their advance came at a cost of time and blood. Their injured were crushed underfoot. Scores died for every inch gained.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Salamander hurled curse after curse, and felt like he wanted to vomit. It was butchery, not combat.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">At some hidden signal known only to themselves, the Returned swept away to the right, moving obliquely down the slope towards the Forbidden Forest. Most of the Muggles ignored them, even though the hollow-eyed fanatics continued to attack as they flew, lashing into the mass of the enemy with curses and conjurations. They opened up a second front, far enough away from the stairs to the main doors that the enemy was forced to either divide their attention or simply endure the attacks smashing into their flanks. Hammer and anvil.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The Muggles chose to ignore the attack, perhaps deciding that it was pointless to send part of their massed waves at the highly mobile Returned. Or perhaps the hidden wizard controlling them decided such. Or perhaps they’d simply gone mad, and were not capable of responding tactically. Whatever the cause, the Muggles just kept coming.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Before too long -- indeed, after a sickeningly short time -- they’d reached the first layer of wards. Ten hands began hammering on the unseen barriers, then twenty, then forty. The Hogwarts shields responded, sparking lighting and fire into their attackers, but it just wasn’t enough. Though they died in droves, there were hundreds more to take their place. Within a few minutes, the pressure of the smoking bodies alone was enough to break the shields, collapsing from sheer blunt trauma, like a wave crashing over a wall. Blood sprayed and foamed as the first shield warped and wept crimson energy, and then failed.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Salamander gave up on flame, which was doing too little damage and had no deterrent effect. He softened the earth instead, so Muggles were swallowed into sudden holes, drowning in liquid soil and crushing their allies beneath them.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He watched as the Returned began activating their gauntlets, pouring geysers of swelling, sticky foam into the mass of Muggles. It was effective, but short-lived, as those trapped were pressed down into the foam, and others began avoiding it. Less effective were bursts of wind or quantities of some stinging gas; neither did more than temporarily slow forty or fifty of the enemy.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">But there were just too many. That was all. No failure of strategy and no surprises. Just hundreds upon hundreds of Muggles, pouring forward in a thick mass. Thousands upon thousands. A city’s worth of men and women. More than should have been possible. More than was </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">sane</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">As more shields broke, the animated statues and armor began to step forward and attack. They wielded whatever weapons they’d been provided: one suit of armor swung a greataxe mechanically to and fro through Muggle flesh, while a marble statue of Vindictus Viridian swung a club of granite. The aurors and professors supported them, casting flames and noxious smoke into the front lines, while the students picked off those Muggles who broke past with the Sleep Hex.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The Returned poured fire into the flanks of the Muggles. Astonishingly, it seemed like they were actually using Transfiguration: transforming earth or flesh into thick clouds of acid or burning chemicals or poisonous gas. Despite everything, Salamander was shocked. That was madness -- the actions of someone who didn’t expect to live through the fight. But that was probably correct.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">More than a thousand must have fallen already, Salamander thought numbly, looking at the heaped dead on the slope before him. He lashed arrows of steel through four Muggles, and then again through the ones behind them. He was beginning to feel burned-through and hollow, magically exhausted. They couldn’t keep this up.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Nicomedius</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">,” called a pleasant, silvery voice from his elbow. Salamander glanced to the side only long enough to see a corporeal patronus floating next to him. A cat. The Headmistress. “</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Help is coming. Ten minutes.</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He lashed out with a wave of flame as one of the statues toppled over, smashed too often by a Muggle’s iron bar. Two of the suits of animated armor were also down, and the Muggles had reached the second layer of wards and shields. Salamander spared another quick glance around him. Three of the fliers were down or dead. One of the professors had passed out from magical exhaustion. And he saw, to his surprise, that Lawrence was running away. He and a young woman had mounted brooms and were fleeing away from the fight and to the left, where the greenhouses and the looming shadow of </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">The Declaration of Intent </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">were visible.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Slytherins</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, he thought with disgust. Then he was fighting again, ignoring the black spots that were beginning to dance in front of his eyes.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Hold the line!” he screamed. “Help is coming! Hold the line! Hold the line!”</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span>
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Miss Watson your runaway nigger Jim is down here two mile below Pikesville and Mr. Phelps has got him and he will give him up for the reward if you send. - HUCK FINN</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">I felt good and all washed clean of sin for the first time I had ever felt so in my life, and I knowed I could pray now. But I didn't do it straight off, but laid the paper down and set there thinking -- thinking how good it was all this happened so, and how near I come to being lost and going to hell. And went on thinking. And got to thinking over our trip down the river; and I see Jim before me, all the time; in the day, and in the night-time, sometimes moonlight, sometimes storms, and we a floating along, talking, and singing, and laughing. But somehow I couldn't seem to strike no places to harden me against him, but only the other kind. I'd see him standing my watch on top of his'n, stead of calling me, so I could go on sleeping; and see him how glad he was when I come back out of the fog; and when I come to him agin in the swamp, up there where the feud was; and such-like times; and would always call me honey, and pet me, and do everything he could think of for me, and how good he always was; and at last I struck the time I saved him by telling the men we had smallpox aboard, and he was so grateful, and said I was the best friend old Jim ever had in the world, and the only one he's got now; and then I happened to look around, and see that paper.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">It was a close place. I took it up, and held it in my hand. I was a trembling, because I'd got to decide, forever, betwixt two things, and I knowed it. I studied a minute, sort of holding my breath, and then says to myself:</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">"All right, then, I'll go to hell" -- and tore it up.</span></em><br />
<br />
- <i>Huckleberry Finn</i>, Mark Twain<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Godric’s Hollow</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">At the same time</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">The same day</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">One goblin stepped out in front of their gathered army. He was small, but his bright-silver helmet had a proud tilt to it. When he leveled a spear at Godric’s Hollow, making some gesture to his fellows, the blade was studded with a fat ruby, but the tip was sharp enough to shave the sun.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Basilisks hissed quietly, and the terrasque stood with obdurate stillness. Waiting for the signal to attack the wizards and consume their flesh and taste their blood. Waiting.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The goblin handed the spear to another, and raised the visor of his helmet. He had a sneer on his face as he stared down at the village. A shiver ran up the collective spine of the defenders of the Hollow. They looked at goblin silver and basilisk scale, and they knew despair.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The goblin removed a shining gorget from around his throat, and drew a wand from a simple leather holster at his side. He waved it in the air and touched it to his throat, saying something. Nothing happened, but sharp-eyed wizards divined he was attempting the Amplifying Charm.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">It was a simple spell, but it took him ten or eleven tries to cast it properly. Still, considering it was the first time many of the wizards had ever seen a goblin cast a spell, it was a remarkable achievement. The goblin cleared his throat, and began to speak, his voice raw with emotion and thick with a Gobbledegook accent.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I am Bilgurd the Marrowed. I speak for the Urgod Ur, work-leaders of the Great City of Ackle! I speak too for the Burgod Bur of Curd, the Malwirt Mal of Podhurt, the Salwirt Sal of the Freihammer Mons, the Curl of Shikoku, and the Curl of Waimate Wam, and the Curl of Singurd! I speak for the goblin nation!”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">His voice rang out over Godric’s Hollow, the assembled monsters, and the shaken defenders.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“We are goblins, and we do not forget!</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“One thousand years ago, our cities were bright and proud with our will-work -- the secret arts of transfiguration known only to us! Ackle was a city of marble and diamond, beautiful to behold. Wizards saw the will-work of the seven cities, and were jealous, and so men like Severus Hortensius took our wands by force! Goblins were banned from owning wands, and the seven cities became small and dark, and we do not forget!”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Bilgurd’s voice was black with bitterness.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Five hundred years ago, we were wandless, and we had to rely on our hammer-work and our wits! Yet still, wizardkind was jealous! Our goods were taken by force; Gringotts of London and Lurgods of Kochi were stolen from their rightful owners, and their gold heaped into wizarding coffers! We were robbed, and still today that gold sits in the vaults of wizards of noble blood, and we do not forget!”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Two of the dark wizards standing behind the basilisks and terrasque exchanged mocking smiles, their unease forgotten in their contempt.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Three hundred years ago, wizards decided that their dominance and blood-thirst was not yet sated! Wizards -- that people that held elves in thrall and murdered Muggles and hunted centaurs for sport -- these wizards feared reprisal from their victims! And little wonder! And so wizards closed themselves away from Muggles and decreed that no goblin could ever again roam free on the land! Wizards dared to lock away entire peoples in a bondage of secrecy so complete that few even question its justice! We have been bound by the Statute for centuries, though our Things have no voice in the Confederation that gives it authority, and we do not forget!”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">A silverwork goblin helmet shifted to turn to regard the monsters nearby, and the shiny mirror of its brow shone like a lesser moon.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Since time began, the mudwater wizards of the world have stolen from us -- taken our will from us and borne it away in pieces. The fruit of our forges and the light of our souls, put on display or waved around like trophies, and justified through </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">illegal </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">and </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">unconscionable</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> contracts, as though any goblin could contract away his soul! Betrayal burns in every stolen suit of armor and every stolen spear, in every goblin-work mirror and every hoarded blade. Our hammer-work has been stolen, just as our power of will-work was stolen, and we do not forget!”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Bilgurd’s shouts died down. He paused, then spoke again, quietly and with emotion.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Goblins have honour. A new wizard spoke to us, of ancient name and great lore. The Archon, he called himself. The Archon Meldh. He knew that we had suffered, and spoke well to us. He spoke of wands, and banks, and prisons, and thefts. The Archon told us that he would give us back the knowledge of transfiguration that we once held, to do things that even the wizards could not do -- to transfigure for days, not hours. The will-work of our ancient purpose. The Archon told us we would be free, too, and masters of our destiny and lives.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Goblins have honour, and so we told him that we had allied ourselves with the Tower, and that he had treated us fairly. We told him that he had given us wands, and that we had been given a seat in the Wizengamot, and would soon have more, and that we were given all the healing arts in the Tower’s power to give us. We told him that we did not doubt that wizards were changing, and that the world was changing, and that it could be different. We told him that, and he told us to weigh up all the wrongs and all the rights of our long history, and to ask ourselves: where did the balance lie?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Bilgurd turned to face his own people now, and it was clear now, for the first time, that he had never been addressing the village of Godric’s Hollow or the gathered monsters or their dark wizard companions. He was speaking to his own folk. And he spoke with passion, his voice ringing clear.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Goblins have honour, and so we gathered in our Things, and we debated. We argued over the value of contract and good-will, and we argued over the very meaning of our lives. We argued over the inheritance we would leave to our children. We argued over what we might owe to our friends. And then we decided, and the seven cities took a vote.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The goblin’s voice rose again, and now it was the roar of millenia.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Goblins have honour! Goblins of Ackle and Curd! Goblins of Podhurt and the Freihammer Mons! Goblins of Shikoku and Waimate Wam and Singurd! The Tower is threatened! His people are in danger! Wizards have put out their hand to us and --”</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">One hundred goblins roared in unison, as bold as iron and fierce as brass, “</span><strong>We do not forget!</strong><span style="font-weight: 400;">”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">They wheeled in place. They turned upon the monsters. They leveled their spears. And they charged.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">John Snow Center for Medicine and Tower School of Doubt (The Tower) </span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Now</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The Tower had dissolved into chaos when they found out that Hogwarts was under attack. In a manner entirely unbecoming to a room full of wise and experienced leaders, everyone broke away from what they were doing -- sending messages abroad to keep information coming in; coordinating deployment of aurors and patrol-wizards and anyone else they could find; working to find a pattern behind it all -- and began shouting. It became even worse when </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">three different wizards</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> cast the Amplifying Charm and tried to cut through the chaos with simultaneous shouts of “Enough!”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">It only stopped when Hermione Granger stomped her foot into the stone underfoot as hard as she could, smashing into it with a cracking boom.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Quiet, please,” she said. She turned to Harry. “I’m taking everyone who can hold a wand out there, now.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Not everyone,” said Harry. “Luna,” he said, turning to Lovegood, who somehow still managed to look vague and aloof, “I need you to get Basil and Percy’s brother. I have a job for the three of you… an incredibly important one.” He didn’t wait for a reply, moving to jab his finger at ten people in turn. “All of you -- get to the Records Room! Each of you grab two drawers and pull them free. The incantation to release them is ‘Fuzzy-wuzzy was a seventeen Manila.’ Get them out of the Tower, somewhere safe -- the RCP.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry turned to two aurors, seemingly at random. “You two. We’re evacuating. Your job is to tell me when everyone is clear.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The room was silent. Everyone was staring, even those who’d been assigned a task. Alastor Moody had his eyes clenched, and he was leaning on the meeting room table. Hermione found her eyes filling with tears.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Harry, what are you --” began Madame Bones.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“We’re evacuating. Set up what we need in the Great Hall. Everyone who can -- and all the aurors we have -- go and fight. There’s no more reason to stay. I’m bringing the Tower down. Then I need to consult with Hermione about something I’m going to do,” said Harry, and his voice was as icy as the determination in his green eyes. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“And then,” he added, as people gaped at him, “I’m going to the library. Now </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">move!</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">”</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span>
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Outside</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Salamander had seen Nguyễn die. She’d simply fallen off of her broom. He didn’t know why. Maybe she’d passed out, or maybe something had hit her. But he’d watched her wobble in her seat mid-flight and fall, dropping in amongst the Muggles. She was dead.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Some of the students had fainted. Others were levitating professors or aurors up the stairs -- others, too tired even to do that, were just dragging the fallen, physically. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Every lost combatant was a disaster.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">There was only one layer of wards left. Salamander stood behind it, flanked by twenty others. Three fliers were left, reduced to weak curses and hexes. Everyone did what they could for as long as they could. They all fought as though it were the end of the world. Perhaps it was.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Somnium! Somnium! Inflagrate! Phlogisticate! Phlogisticate!”</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">“Phlogisticate! Somnium! Ventus! Ventus! Prismatis!”</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">“Stupefy! Stupefy! Stupefy! Stupefy!”</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">“Somnium! Somnium! Prismatis!”</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">They fell back. They were a tight knot of magic at the base of the stairs. Muggles smashed their weapons against Prismatic Shields. Salamander sustained his with his will. He had no magic left. He fed his spell with his life.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">There was a shadow, he thought dully, as a Muggle brought a sledgehammer down on his shield. A shadow.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">The Declaration of Intent </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">was aloft, rising slowly from where it had rested near the greenhouses and floating towards them.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Another Muggle was beating on his shield with a pipe. It was an old man, Salamander saw. Thin-faced. Dressed in torn pants, with no shirt over his shrunken chest. Salamander blew him apart with a shower of gore. Thousands of Muggles dead. Always more.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Down the slope, Salamander watched the Returned charge. He’d seen them spend all of the charges from their gauntlets and cast spell after spell into the endless flow of Muggles. Now he supposed their magic was gone.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">They swept into the side of the crowd of Muggles like a knife, leaning down from their brooms to smash their gauntlets into the heads of their targets. Then they pulled up -- one broom short, Salamander couldn’t see who. They flew in a tight circle, then did it again. And again.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">An auror’s shield gave. She died a moment later as three Muggles buried knives into her chest and stomach.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Salamander knew he should clear some space to move back, to maneuver.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">If he dropped his shield, he wouldn’t be able to cast it again.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He stayed.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He held on.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">The Declaration of Intent </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">was flying over them now, a squat fortress of stone gently soaring overhead.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Oh</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, Salamander thought, as his vision went black. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">That’s where the boy went</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span>
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">When </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">The Declaration of Intent</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> came crushing down on the entry stairs of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, it pressed into the rock, sending a shudder through the earth. It rose and fell again, and then again, deliberately and grandly. Three times it smashed itself into the stairs before it ruptured, exploding into a small mountain of shattered stone.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">People died. Nicomedius Salamander was among them. So too were many, many innocent people, kidnapped and enslaved and whisked far away, to die in a war beyond their understanding.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">So too were Lawrence Bradwian and Annabeth Dankesang.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hogwarts endured.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The Unseelie arrived first, borne by flaming chariots. They found interest in the ruined bodies that littered Hogsmeade, strewn here and there, battered into meat. The horror-gaunts gave their strange cry of amusement, driving lejis before them, as they turned towards the castle of Hogwarts.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Dark witches and wizards followed, and almost all of them kept a distance born of stark terror from the Unseelie. Only two moved without fear ahead of their fearful compatriots. One trotted along with mincing step of madness. The other trudged with the hateful step of despair. Bellatrix Black and Limpel Tineagar made an odd pairing.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Perenelle du Marais brought basilisks and terrasque with her. She did not bother to hood the great serpents, paying their gaze no mind. The full-figured witch in her green dress walked among them towards the killing fields, and seemed lost in her own thoughts.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">One individual came last, unheralded and unarmed, clad only in plain robes of grey, bringing no one and nothing with them.</span><br />
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<span style="font-weight: 400;">From everywhere, the armies came to Hogwarts.</span><br />
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ADhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10211720060888169877noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8047698153058029905.post-1158814145721211482016-03-28T18:43:00.000-04:002016-04-07T01:27:13.948-04:00Significant Digits, Chapter Forty-Six: Levee<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b style="color: #222222; font-family: 'noto serif', georgia, serif; font-size: x-large; line-height: 27px;">Significant Digits, Chapter Forty-Six: Levee</b><br />
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<span style="font-weight: 400;">Eventually, of course, help arrived. A gathered force of Russian, Chinese, American, and Korean witches and wizards had answered the urgent plea of Headmistress McGonagall, who had acted swiftly and with her usual competence to demand assistance. Indeed, they had sent their most elite response teams: the Boston Brahmins, the Siberian Rakshasa, the Jīngluò, and the Three Treasures. After an initial accident in the Receiving Room, it took half an hour to negotiate a peaceful end to rising hostility and suspicion. Harry’s message had stated that everyone in the Tower had been suborned by an intruder, and it was -- unsurprisingly -- difficult to prove that this was no longer true… especially since the visitors from around the world brought grim news of their own.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The Muggle news services had broken into panic -- in some cases, outright hysteria -- over mass disappearances that had occurred in major cities around the globe. Thousands of people, maybe tens of thousands, had gone missing. Entire neighborhoods had been emptied of their populations in less than a day. The Witch-Watchers and their counterparts in other countries had passed on the news, of course, but few in the magical world had been able to say what it might mean. Such feats of malice were beyond the abilities of any person or persons yet known. Nothing on the scale had been done in many generations, since the era when magical combat between powerful wizards depended heavily on controlling crowds of armed Muggles with charms and threats.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Also troubling was the restive behavior of the goblins. It had already been apparent that all seven goblin cities had been in communication with each other, and most particularly with Ackle. Spies and spells revealed that these Beings had gone further, and that a fearsome gathering of goblins had massed on the plains near Ackle, heedless of Muggle eyes. The goblin nation, encamped in their thousands, rejected all emissaries and inquiries and threats with cold words and armed guards. Magical observers could only watch them huddle amid brightly-colored canvas and clockwork beasts of silver, and wonder.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">There were rumors and suspicions, especially after two exhausting hours had been spent communicating the events of the past two days and all the concerns that faced them. Communications were sent back to different Things, and responses multiplied by the minute. Grindelwald’s cell had been examined, and the shackles of the Abiku were checked, and the dark pit of Sarai’s oubliette was secured. But the monsters were all snug in their captivity, and worried minds turned to other possibilities. The name of Merlin was mentioned. Atlantis was mentioned. Only a few knew enough to speak of the Three, and tremble.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Some did not react well. A seer in Istanbul had gone mad, screaming about the return of the Dökkálfr -- sheer madness, for that grim faerie people had been gone from the earth for a hundred generations. And a Slytherin boy named Lawrence felt a cold shiver run up his spine as he read the late edition of </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">The Daily Prophet</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> and recognized that, once more, deathly dangerous events were building on the near horizon.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">And yet for all this, as Harry Potter-Evans-Verres sat in a crowded meeting room, surrounded by some of the most important and powerful individuals on the planet, drafting orders to be delivered to the Muggle Prime Minister and Minister of Magic Carmel N’Goma, and struggling to understand the sheer scale of the threat that loomed… for all this, Harry yet found himself wondering about Voldemort.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Where are you, Professor?</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> They could probably find him with the thaumometers, the same way they’d located Horcruxes. But Harry had lost not only the memories of where he’d hidden away Voldemort’s cell, he’d even lost </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">how</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> he’d hidden it away. Just thinking about it, he knew he’d be unable to look for the secret prison within the Tower… it was too dangerous for him. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">What sorts of traps or obfuscation did I put in place? Hermione will have to look for it, but will she even agree? Yes, she will, once I put her to imagining an endless hell of solitary confinement and sensory deprivation. We will have to --</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Harry!” said Mafalda Hopkirk, irritably, snapping her fingers. The buxom head of the Unspeakables had clearly been trying to get his attention for some time. Amelia Bones and Reg Hig, standing next to her, looked almost as upset.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Sorry,” Harry said, feeling his face redden. He stood up from his seat at the conference table, glancing around the meeting room. No one else seemed to have noticed his distraction. Moody was conferring with his aides, several of the Americans and Chinese, and three representatives from the Muggle government; Cedric was speaking urgently with Hermione, the Shichinin -- why did Neville have a black eye? -- and the Koreans; a pale Umbridge was sitting silently in the corner while the two sfaironauts (Percy’s brother, Ron, and Basil Horton) spoke with Draco; and two of the Returned, Hyori and Esther, were standing watchfully with several aurors.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry turned to Hopkirk, taking a deep breath and trying to settle himself. “Sorry, Mafalda,” he said again. “It’s been a difficult couple of days. Where are we?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“We’re in crisis,” Hopkirk replied, succinctly. Her smooth, commanding voice was clipped.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“While we were trapped and enslaved, the world went mad,” said Hig. He rubbed the end of his plum nose, sighing. “I have to leave almost immediately to start dealing with just the problems springing up in the Americas. Thousands of people are missing from New York, Rio de Janeiro, and Mexico City. And Van Rensselaer, Randolphs, and Hardicanute,” and Hig indicated three of the Boston Brahmins, “all have reports of other disturbances. Infierno has been breached, and twenty dark wizards and witches have escaped custody.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“La Boca del Infierno has been broken into?” broke in Bones, sharply. Without waiting for a reply, she stabbed a finger at one of Moody’s aides, who compliantly approached. “Send a team of Hit Wizards to check on Howard. Gecko protocol.” The aide’s face paled, and he raced away.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Our prophecy-analysts agree with the verdict of the Pool of Demand… something is happening, bigger than… well, bigger than anything they’ve ever seen or heard of,” said Hopkirk. She sounded calm, but her shoulders were rigid with tension.</span><br />
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<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Time is frozen,” said Moody, who approached. There was a grim set to his jaw. “Time </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">everywhere</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> is frozen. We tried to set some surveillance in place and begin preparations, and we lost two aurors. Bad deaths. Shouldn’t be possible to do that, but the second attempt was made in Japan, and it failed too.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I checked back in with Powis,” said Hermione, who joined the conclave, Cedric and Draco following. “Urg says he’s gotten messages from Curd, and it confirms what Cedric just told me. Thousands of goblins from all over the world have gathered in Ackle.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Apparating, though most of them only recently got wands?” said Bones, in surprise. She checked herself in a moment. “No, of course not… stockpiled portkeys.” She frowned, grimly. “And that hints at long preparation.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“We knew they’d been gathering weapons,” said Harry, wearily. “We were going to… I don’t even know what we were going to do. Speak to them, I suppose. This isn’t a surprise, though.” He felt sick to his stomach. He knew that it wasn’t the right way to think about it -- to think that they </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">owed</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> him anything, just because he’d finally begun to put an end to years of oppression. A good person stopped doing evil because it was evil, not because they wanted something from the victim. But it was still a bitter pill to swallow.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“After all we’ve done for those vile little creatures,” said Hopkirk. Moody and Bones nodded, their faces sour. Draco looked torn between smugness and horror.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione frowned and glanced at Harry, but said nothing.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry imagined all the deadly things that could be done with goblincraft and a little ingenuity. He imagined all the damage a mass mob of people could do when enchanted, even without magic. He imagined the power of ancient magic from ages past, wielded today. He imagined all the unknowns that might yet present themselves.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Assets,” he said, abruptly, swallowing the bile rising in his throat. “What are our assets?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">They collaborated to tick them off, estimating the number of witches and wizards they could bring to bear in battle in different scenarios, and their effectiveness. The leaders of the Jīngluò and Rakshasa joined the group, working with Hig to fill in the gaps. Everyone lied to everyone else, omitting available artifacts and warriors from their accounting, but it wasn’t too long before the small group had an estimate of the total armed force they might be able to summon, if every member of the Confederation could be brought to bear.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">There were perhaps a million wizards and witches in the world, with higher concentrations in a few places like Britain (for reasons that might best be described as “imperial”). Perhaps half of that number had more than rudimentary magical schooling, and an even smaller proportion could be said to be ready to fight. All told, an optimistic estimate of the wizards available to fight in a world-threatening emergency -- like massed armies of Muggles or goblins -- would be something like fifty thousand. The actual forces they’d probably have on hand on short notice would be something like a tenth of that total.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Are we moving too fast?” Cedric asked, as they reached their grim conclusions. “We don’t even know if the disappearances or the goblins are related to each other, or to Meldh’s attack here, or even if there’s going to be conflict.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I think,” said Hermione, carefully, “that we should probably work on the assumption that all of the events are related in some way, even if it’s not the way we might think. We certainly shouldn’t start any accidental wars, but it’s the Three, after all, not the One. There are two more Meldhs out there, and he told Harry that there was going to be violence.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“We should assume the worst,” said Draco with a look of gentle scorn for Cedric. “But even if wizards are outnumbered by goblins or Muggles, even if it’s three to one, we can win. As long as we know where they will strike and prepare for rapid movement, we’ll wipe out any attack.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry held up his hand and waited for the bustle to quiet down. He looked to Madame Bones.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Supreme Mugwump, if I might?” She nodded assent, impatiently, and Harry raised his voice. “We need to prioritize and organize. We need communication between decision-makers. We need to determine likely targets, and likely forces at our command. We need to try to figure out who is behind this -- if it is the Three -- and what they want.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He pointed at Moody and Hig, in turn. “Reg, I know you want to go home, but you need to have home brought to you. You will work with Moody and sort out our vulnerabilities… no, the </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">world’s</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> vulnerabilities. If possible, get in touch with He Jin of the Court of Rubies, and let him take the lead.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry next turned to Draco and Bones. “Draco, you and Madame Bones might best work on a command structure and mobilizing our forces. Everyone you can think of, and assume some groups will betray us -- either out of short-sighted ignorance or deliberate treachery. Find the Minister and Percy and ask them to help.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He turned to the remaining individuals. “Our friends from other countries need to assign emergency plenipotentiary representatives. Everyone else, we’ll have specific things for you to do, shortly.” He drew a deep breath, reaching back to pull his ponytail snug. “Listen, Draco is right. Some of you know me, but I think I can say without ego that everyone here knows </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">of </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">me. And trust me when I say that we can do this. Even if we’re surprised by an attack, and an enemy has local superiority, wizards have superior mobility and firepower in almost every direct conflict. Even if this is the worst-case scenario -- a return to the old days we’ve read about in books, with armies of thousands and goblin armies wielding their weapons -- we’ll be evenly matched with them. If we keep our heads about us, we can </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">do this</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Many people nodded firmly, cheering at the little speech. Placing their faith in him. Some scowled or rolled their eyes. They needed no encouragement, or didn’t buy it. A few only looked angry. He didn’t know why.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Meldh put those of us in the Tower through hell, but we beat him. We beat him with our wits and our preparation. We can do that now, if the Three are really attacking on this scale -- really stepping out of the shadows. They’re using all the powers of the old world, everything that’s always worked for villains like them in the days gone by. But we’re going to use all the powers of our new world to match them, and we’re going to beat them.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Before Harry had finished speaking, an auror had appeared at the front entrance to the meeting room, his face shiny with sweat and filled with horror. Another messenger was on his heels, and she rushed to Mafalda Hopkirk.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Oh no.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Madame Bones,” he said, his voice strained. “An army of Muggles has attacked the Ministry. It’s been evacuated and they’re holding off the enemy, but there are thousands of them. And Howard Prison has been breached. And there’s --”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He was interrupted by a short shriek from Hopkirk, who was swaying where she stood, drunkenly, her face stricken.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">All eyes turned to her.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“The Unseelie have risen. The flesh-harrowers. The ravers. The sailors of the sea of teeth. Oh Merlin, no, no, no… to hell with Muggles and goblins, the </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Unseelie </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">have returned to the world.” Her voice was strangled, and it was hard to say if it was the shock of her words or the dissolution of her normal composure that was the more disturbing. “It’s not… we can’t... oh, Merlin, why? You do not call up that which you cannot put down. We’re… we’re...” She swayed again, putting a hand on the shoulder of an adjunct, overcome with horror.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“We’re all going to die,” Hopkirk whispered. “This whole world is going to die.”</span><br />
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<b style="color: #222222; font-family: 'noto serif', georgia, serif; font-size: x-large; line-height: 27px;">Significant Digits, Chapter Forty-Five: Homophone</b><br />
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<span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione hefted the Elder Wand. It was long for a wand, and oddly-shaped -- it even looked like there were carvings on the surface, faint knobbly engravings. She’d only seen it a few times before, for Dumbledore had seldom used it in the presence of students, but its distinctive appearance made it easy to recognize.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">As she held it between her fingers, she slowly became aware that a new voice had joined a hymn within her -- a hymn that had been there for a long time, but which she’d never noticed. It was a hymn to glory and war, and it sang within her as deeply and innately as her own heartbeat.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">What do you do? What are capable of? How can you help me? </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> she asked it, speaking to that bone-deep hymn. There was no response, and no indication of the wand’s power or nature. She knew that Harry had stopped using it long ago, when he’d begun sacrificing parts of his magic -- over and over, year after year -- to revive some of the dead. Once he’d committed to that, focusing all of his efforts on organizing, planning, leading… well, he was never going to be a wizard of immense arcane power, and that made carrying the Elder Wand around with him a liability, rather than an advantage.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">“It’s too dangerous for me to carry around, putting it at risk, when we barely understand it,” </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">he’d said.</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> “We don’t even know what it would mean to be ‘defeated’ and lose the Wand to a new master. If I lose a game to someone, or get charmed by someone, or even just get killed by an attacker, I don’t want them able to just reach down and pick up an ancient device of this sort of power. It makes all of your spells more powerful, but who knows what else it could do in the hands of the wrong person? None of our research could find out its hidden properties, but if it’s anything like the True Cloak of Invisibility, there’s another hidden level.”</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Well, it didn’t matter right now, anyway. Whatever the hidden power that might exist here, at the moment Hermione just appreciated the boost to her magical power. The entire Tower was set against them, magically compelled to do their best to rescue Meldh. There were no more contingencies, no more plans. It was possible there was yet another plan, another level, hidden from her own memories the same way the Goblet had been… but she doubted it. No, it was just her and Harry against the world, it seemed.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">She flicked the wand between her fingers, and it trailed silver sparks. The work of the legendary Peverells, another of the Hallows. The thought put her back in mind of their situation. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">We need to get to the meeting room, to get my things. The Cloak will get us out of here -- and help us rescue Esther and Hyori, if they haven’t already been dominated. Then we can work on a plan to free everyone else.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione lowered the wand, and took a look at her injured arm. It was healing, pink flesh pushing new, raw skin out from the swirl-seamed stump. She’d be able to use it in a few more minutes.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Firming her resolve, she stepped out of the cubicle, to head back to Harry near the other end of the clinic’s general ward. She saw that he’d rolled the goblin-silver shield in place to block off the other entry, and was heading towards her with quick steps. Harry looked disheveled -- a skinny young man in simple robes, soiled with streaks of blood, his hair coming loose from its ponytail. These days, the scar on his forehead was usually faded, but he was flushed and a pale lightning bolt was visible on his brow. He had dark circles under his eyes.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">They met halfway down the hall. She turned, and they walked together, moving briskly.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Meeting room,” she said. “Not too far. Just through the discharge ward, around the corner, and down the hall. We can do it.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“When they come, just try to get through. You stand a better chance of making it, and then you can rescue everyone,” Harry replied, holding his wand in tense fingers. He offered her the white rock that had been Meldh, and she tapped her wand to it and spent a half-second of her will Transfiguring it into its present shape, taking control of the spell with her own magic.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">She didn’t bother to respond to his words, and he didn’t push it. They’d long-since dropped pretenses between them, and didn’t play to roles. She didn’t tell him that she wasn’t about to leave him, and that he stood the best chance of figuring out a plan to reverse all this -- to free the Tower. He didn’t reply that it was more important that someone got out, and that too much depended on someone staying free. No roles. No wasted words. Just Harry and Hermione.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">A stranger appeared at the end of the ward, racing through at a sprint. On seeing them, he skidded to a halt. Almost certainly an auror, Hermione thought. Average height, average weight, but no one she’d ever seen before. Wand in hand.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Then the auror grinned wolfishly, and she knew. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Alastor.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He wasn’t even trying to disguise his body language, with his shoulders rounded and his feet already in correct position for Mezzo Passo. He was using his primary wand. He looked as he’d looked in a dozen bodies on hundreds of different mornings, putting her through her paces along with four other students. He looked prepared.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Hermione. Harry. You’re free,” he said. An unknown voice, but familiar cadence and gruffness. “Well done.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Alastor,” she said, calmly. “Meldh is dead.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“We must serve his interests, and find a way to bring him back,” Harry said, standing at her side.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Alastor shook his head, still grinning, and tapped one side of his head with his free hand, chidingly. The Eye of Vance, embedded in his head like a real eye. He could see that there was no Meldh in the room, and see the white stone she’d dropped into the pocket of her robes. He knew.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Which means</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, Hermione realized in a flash so quick that it could barely be called a thought, </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">that we’ll be swamped with aurors in a moment, and he’s delaying me and hoping for some banter, and he can see through all the cubicles and barriers so he has a tactical advantage, and he knows I know this but also knows my options are limited, but he also knows I have the Elder Wand now and will have incentive to fight him individually, so he won’t go for the quick stun, no stupid stupid of course he will but he’ll </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">also </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">try to slow me down some other way, Harry is a weak point so he’ll hit him too and make me sacrifice to protect him, watch for it watch for it.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">They acted at the same instant. Alastor whipped his wand in front of himself, turning to the side, and cast two curses as quickly as most people could breathe -- muttered spells that she didn’t recognize from a distance, and without visible effect. Simultaneously, Harry raised his wand, starting the movement for the Lesser Action of Shahryar’s Delay. He didn’t get past the first twirl of his wandtip, however, before Hermione violently shoved him aside. He was lifted bodily off the ground, through one of the thin cubicle partitions.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Before Harry had even landed in a tangle of white sheet and metal frame, Alastor had launched his next attack, and Hermione had raised a ward. Not her customary Roger’s Shield, but Azarian Fire. The aqua flames were something he’d taught her, which was both a risk and an investment -- he was intimately familiar with the spell, but it would remind him of how close he’d been to her. Hermione didn’t think anyone could throw off the Lethe Touch; during the few moments it had bound her, it hadn’t even felt like a separate constraint that </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">could </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">be fought. But that was still Alastor, and some part of him must still be vulnerable to emotional attack.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The Tower’s chief of security didn’t appear to even slow down, however, and he didn’t try to break her ward, either. That was wise: when it crackled into life in front of her, Hermione had seen the blue flames surge unusually bright, hotter than she’d ever seen with the spell. The Wand.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He struck overhead, instead, snapping off a curse at the stone above her. “</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Reducto</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">,” he cast, and some of the fitted stones of the clinic roof, five feet above, exploded. Hermione had seen it coming, however, and brought a Roger’s Shield over herself with time to spare. It left her wand in Ochs, so she capitalized, slashing down with a rightward flick of her wrist as loose stone and dust cascaded down around her. “</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Hominem Revelio</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">,” she said.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">She felt a cool wind blow against her from four directions -- from Harry, who was climbing to his feet to her left, from Alastor straight ahead (who was casting yet another spell without any visible effect), and from the two aurors who were Disillusioned or wearing Invisibility Cloaks (or more likely, both) as they crept up on her. The hidden aurors were nearly halfway to her.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione took one with a stunner, using the back-draw from the gesture to bring up a wall of prisms behind her Azarian Fire. The other auror sprang to the attack, joining Alastor, who had taken the moment to raise new wards. She watched through blue flame, firing pass-through curses as quickly as she could. The Elder Wand gave each attack greater strength: her Bertram Bolts flew with the speed of thought and her stunners were broad and bright, almost hungry for impact, despite the added effort of casting through her own shields. She dodged return attacks and dispersed an anaesthetic gas produced by the Disillusioned auror, whose presence she could still feel, roughly. She had no need of the exact counter-spell: brute disenchantment served just as well.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">To her left, Harry had stayed crouched down in the cubicle into which she’d thrown him, keeping a low profile on one knee, wand in hand, just touching the floor, ready to be swept up in defense. He’d used a minor charm to clear a line of the sight through the cubicles to Moody, but was keeping out of the way.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">As Hermione dodged yet another stunner, she saw the double flash as two Slow Blades of Unusually Specific Destruction popped against her Azarian Fire. Realization flooded her thoughts as she remembered the spells Alastor had cast without effect, twice before and once more recently. Lashing away a stunner with a dashed-off Rune of Abatement, Hermione reached out with her wand hand in the same gesture to raise Bartolomeo’s Reckoning between Harry and Alastor, desperately hoping to block the third Slow Blade that must be headed towards Harry.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Too late, she recognized how Alastor’s gambit had been telegraphed, and realized she’d been forced into turning almost the full of her back on her attackers in order to shield Harry. “</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Lagann!”</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> she heard from both her attackers, and her Azarian Fire died.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione didn’t try to turn back, but kept moving, lifting herself onto her toes and spinning into chaînés turns away from where she’d been standing, close to the white wall of the cubicles. A Bloodfoot Curse ripped along through the ground where she’d just been standing.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">As the sickening purplish glow swept by, Hermione brought up her wand, recovering back into Pfugh and Mezzo Passo. The Disillusioned auror was fading from her awareness, but she could feel through the Revelation Charm that he was running towards her. She felt the churn of panic in the back of her mind -- even with the Elder Wand, fighting Alastor would have been hard enough. She couldn’t afford to deal with this other threat.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">No sooner had she thought that, however, when she saw the stone floor five feet ahead of her split open, a hole of darker grey yawning and a wide area rippling with gray-limned spiderweb cracks. It was as though ten square feet of the clinic floor had melted and retained only a thin covering of its native stone. The auror that had been attacking became visible as he sank into the bubbling grey substance beneath the stone, sprawling forward in surprise, struggling as a sticky substance coated him with thick goo, pulling him down.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">To her left, she could see Harry rise to his feet, grinning. The invisible auror strained against the expanding pool of sticky foam that had been partially transfigured under a thin shell of stone, but he only continued to sink: out of the fight.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Alastor’s wolfish grin vanished. He went back on the attack, and curses flew between him, Harry, and Hermione like a hailstorm.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry was awed and confused watching Hermione and Moody duel, as though he were watching experts play cricket (or Quidditch, for that matter, which had always seemed a mix of rugby and test cricket played a hundred yards off the ground). He understood the rules and the basic tactics, but he couldn’t help but be aware that there were tactics and patterns that were moving beneath the surface that he could barely even notice, much less appreciate.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">They both seemed indomitable. He’d had occasion to see fighting on the highest level from time to time, but the level of play here… he hadn’t seen it since a bitter black night in Azkaban, many years ago. He could understand why, on a certain level: Moody and Hermione were both skilled combatants, intelligent and creative, with Moody’s breadth of experience and inordinate canniness (and his use of both arms) matched against Hermione’s inhuman reflexes and the Elder Wand. But more than that, the duels both then and now had been non-lethal. Neither Moody nor Hermione wanted to kill each other -- in Moody’s case probably because he wanted to preserve a key asset for Meldh -- while in Azkaban the auror had been following protocol (and Voldemort had been toying with his prey). Duels to the death, Harry thought, usually ended much more quickly.</span><span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He kept his wand to the ground, and worked to help. He made sure to transfigure an air passage for the trapped auror, turning a tube of the foam into feathers. Then he tried to undermine Moody’s footing in the same way he’d gotten the auror, but the Eye of Vance kept Moody apprised of a repeat of the same trick. Now that he was looking for it, Moody kept an eye for any shift in the stone around him. At least it cost him a moment to dispel the creeping transfiguration, giving Hermione opportunity to tear away one of his shields with a coruscating blue curse. Harry had continued the strategy, using partial transfiguration again and again in order to carve out falling rocks from the ceiling, turn parts of the walls behind Moody into ether or nitrous oxide, or simply destabilize the security chief’s footing. He did anything he could do quickly and nonlethally, before Moody could spot the change in the stone.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione caught three hexes on three consecutively appearing shields, lunging to one side as she counter-attacked with brilliant yellow bolts of light. Moody pivoted so that they missed, raising a new ward to protect himself, and Harry saw the pupil of the Eye of Vance vanish as it swiveled around inside of Moody’s head. It didn’t swivel back immediately.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">His reinforcements are almost here -- we’ve been fighting for too long. They must have gone to prepare something on Moody’s orders, in case he was defeated. Need to end this.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">They simply got lucky, as so often happened in combat. Harry turned part of the ceiling into benzocaine, and a gobbet of the topical anaesthetic the size of a Bludger fell onto Moody, just as Hermione ripped away his last tactile ward. It splattered onto his arm and along his chest.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The auror slapped the chemical away, spattering the floor, but the damage was immediate. Within seconds, Moody’s wand slipped from his numb grip. The determined security chief used the hand that hadn’t been deadened to try to raise barriers in front of himself, but Hermione simply broke through them by main force, using the Elder Wand to dispel them with powerful charms.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">It wasn’t pretty or dramatic or clever… just a misstep by their opponent. Life wasn’t a play, and sometimes that was how things went.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry thought of Voldemort’s wasted last word, a moment of meaningless spite. Sometimes that was how things went.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Just before the end, Moody opened his mouth to say something, but Hermione stunned him without stopping to chat. He toppled over, an awkward-looking statue. She went to check on him, calling over her shoulder at him, “Call for help, while I make sure he’ll be okay!”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry took a moment to summon up the thought of mankind unbridled, transcendent over death and time and pain. It was as easy as smiling. “</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Expecto Patronum</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The glowing silver humanoid stood before him, brilliant argent. Its light was a reminder of gentle things.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Go and tell Headmistress McGonagall that everyone in the Tower but Harry and Hermione has been taken over by a villain named Meldh. Moody, Bones, Hig, Malfoy, and all Tower aurors have been controlled. Alert the Ministry and the Council of Westphalia,” Harry said. Then he repeated it all again, just in case she was too startled to take it in, the first time. He hadn’t seen much of her since she’d declined his offer to help him manage Britain; now they met only a few times a year. She was a full-time teacher and administrator, and he thought she liked it that way. She might not be ready to be dragged into this sort of madness again on a moment’s notice. But she’d step up. She always did.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The humanoid was gone in moments, vanishing from sight with long silver strides that carried it longer than they should, right through the wall and towards the Tower exit.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione stood up from where she’d been kneeling beside Moody. “He’s fine.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Without another word, they sprinted on down the corridor, heading for the unsealed exit.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">No time to lose. Have to get to the meeting room. We need to escape. We can’t possibly win against the entire Tower, Elder Wand or no.</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> Once again, Harry cursed his past self for his unfortunate foresight. Meldh had said the Lethe Touch had the “capacity for release,” by recasting it and adding another word, or words. Harry had stopped Meldh from telling him the release command, anticipating just this scenario.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">I should really be glad</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, he thought, wryly, as they raced down the corridor, </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">that a release command even exists. That always seems to be the case… a strange kind of “conservation of magic.” No continuous effect is permanent unless there is a permanent loss, like with a sacrifice, or a permanent source of “power,” like with the creation of Hogwarts on a ley line. It’s a strange sort of </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">moral</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> balance, one of those odd things that hints that maybe it’s a designed system.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">One day, he’d track down the designer -- the people of Atlantis, an unknown civilization before them, or whoever else -- and get some answers. And maybe help them fix some exploits, like the existence of the Killing Curse.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">In a few seconds, they’d reached the exit of the clinic. The Tower was shaped like an enormous isosceles triangle, with the Mirror at the vertex angle. The clinic ran along one side of the complex, while research departments ran along the other. Larger departments, like Material Methods and the Extension Establishment, were located at the base of the triangle, where there was the most space. In the center was the meeting room. Not very far.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione held up a hand to stop him as they reached the exit. The hand was pink and raw-looking; only slowly returning to its normal tones, but at least she had both limbs again. She peeked her head around.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Almost instantly, she jerked back, narrowly avoiding the red bolts of several stunners and the wash of flame from a prepared flame trap. A lock of her chestnut hair was scorched away, but she was otherwise unharmed.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“They’re set and waiting,” she said, scowling. “Neville, the twins, and that Russian witch, plus at least ten other aurors. And there will be more at successive defense points.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Once their defenses are set up, they’ll storm the clinic,” Harry said, frowning. He gripped his wand more tightly at the thought. “There are weapons in Material Methods... things in development.”</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Please, pretty please, I hope I anticipated this and set up yet another contingency</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">. He searched his brain for likely activation words in times of desperation. When he was seven, he’d come up with a set of signals, in case he was kidnapped, being held hostage, unjustly imprisoned, or a number of other scenarios. He’d given it to his parents and insisted they memorize it. Then he’d quizzed them about it for a month. Maybe one of those would work? It was a nostalgic call-back to a personal moment, and it was occurring to him in this moment of stress… maybe he’d set up the secret Spoon of Solving My Immediate Problems to respond to one of them?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Chumble spuzz,” he said, loudly and hopefully to the air. Nothing happened, except Hermione turned to stare at him. “Chumble spuzz chumble spuzz,” he repeated. Still nothing. “Anatidaephobia! Anatidaephobia anatidaephobia! Plippy ploppy cheese nose!” No… no sudden crash of thunder or magical rescue centaurs.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione was still staring at him, her brown eyes concerned. “Just trying some possible secret command words I might have made myself forget,” he explained.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Ah,” she said. “I thought you might have had a stroke.” She turned back to the door, and grabbed the goblin-silver barricade.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“What are you doing? We can’t lock down the clinic and hope for rescue. We’d never hold out in the time it took an outside force to breach into the Tower,” Harry objected, raising a hand to stop her.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“You’re right,” she said, rolling the seal over the door. It clicked into place in its silver brackets. “Which is why we can’t try to fight through prepared defenses. We’ll sacrifice our fall-back position, instead.” She pointed at the wall. “Carve a big rectangle. I’ll push through, and take them out from behind. We won’t be able to retreat without the wall intact, but there are enough people out there to just carve through in fifteen minutes with the Reductor curse, anyway.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“There’s no going back from that,” Harry said. But he was already running over to the wall that she’d indicated, laying his wandtip on it.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“There was never been any going back… not since an afternoon on a train with a very annoying boy,” Hermione said. He glanced back at her to see a tight smile on her face.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">It took only a moment to transfigure four thin slices of stone in the shape of a doorway, turning the substance into grease. A rectangular block of stone was now separate from the wall, ready to be moved. An old trick -- one of his first partial transfiguration tricks, in fact. He stepped back.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry felt his stomach tighten with tension as Hermione stepped up to the stone and flexed her hands open and closed. She put her palms on the block, and grinned. “It’s my own fault, really, for knowing the six quarks.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">She shook her head, as though rueful, and then pushed.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The huge block of stone slid slowly for a moment, as though stuck, but then Hermione lurched forward and slammed her shoulder against it. With the strength of a goddess, she shoved the stone through and out. It tipped forward as it reached the end, chipping the upper part of the hole, and then it fell forward with a colossal crash, smashing against the floor hard enough to make Harry’s teeth feel like they were rattling in his head.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Then Hermione was through, wand whipping into several spells before she was even out in the hall, and Harry could hear the sound of battle. “Left floor,” she called back to him, urgently, and he hurriedly leapt forward, to touch his wand back to the stone. He began to transfigure, pushing out into the stone. Harry moved the point of change down away from him and below. He couldn’t see, so he was forced to guess at how far away from him he needed the effect; he knew the layout of the Tower intimately, of course, but not where the enemy was in the corridor to Hermione’s left. The larger the area he affected, the more time it would take; he settled on transfiguring the same size of trap as before, transforming another block of stone into sticky foam beneath a thin stone shell.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">All the while, he could hear curses and hexes and charms, barked orders. He heard the crackle of flame and the sizzle of spells. And all the while, he heard Hermione continue to cast, almost as quickly as she could speak. She didn’t tire and didn’t pause. Was this the Elder Wand? Was it just her?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">There was a crash in the corridor and a hiss of foam before his transfiguration was over. Harry ended the effect.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Right fl--” Hermione called out. But before she finished her thought, there was an explosion, and she was thrown back through the hole in the wall, limp, along with thick black smoke. She crashed through two of the cubicle partitions, landing bonelessly. Her robes were smouldering.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Got her!” Harry heard Neville Longbottom call from the hall, cheerfully. “She’ll be okay, don’t worry! Load it again!”</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">What did Neville have? Did Neville have a </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">rocket launcher</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">?</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry leapt in front of the hole and raised his wand. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Need to buy time. </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">“</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Prismatis!</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">” he cast. A sparkling multicoloured wall burst forth from his wand to cover the aperture -- not an instant too soon, either, as George Weasley appeared from the hall, dashing forward. The Weasley twin checked his charge as he saw the Prismatic Wall. George smirked.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Hello --” he said.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“-- Harry,” finished Fred, stepping in next to his brother.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Together, they raised their wands. He spared a glance back at Hermione. She still wasn’t moving. She looked badly injured, crumpled and broken-limbed. Her eyes were open. Sightless.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry felt a moment of despair.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">This is all so stupid and so pointless. We could have set up the Goblet different ways. We could have tried binding everyone with it -- redundant contracts, nested together. To have come so far, and to be so close to success… we were really doing it, after all. We could have saved everyone.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">It would have been perfect. Now this sad and stupid ending. </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Just like Voldemort, who wasted every chance he ever had, even his last chance at dignity, and now he’s lost in a prison of metal and magic, hidden somewhere in the Tower beyond Harry’s reach.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">“Lagann!”</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> cast the twins, together, and the Breaking Drill shattered Harry’s shield. It vanished, and Harry staggered back.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">And even at this moment, when all was lost, his thoughts didn’t stop. Instead, they came faster -- faster and faster, still thinking of the last moment he’d ever spend with Professor Quirrell -- Lord Voldemort. Wasting his own last moment.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">That scornful last word. That wasted last word. </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">And he could almost hear it again, now, as the twins leveled their wands at him. He could hear that cold laugh, and the roaring mocking hateful last word: “Bah!”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Bah.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The instant of understanding was like a breath of sweet air to a drowning man’s lungs.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Bah. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Egeustimentis Ba</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">,” Harry said, loudly.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The twins swayed in place slightly, blinking. They lowered their wands, and looked at each other, raising their eyebrows.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">It was suddenly very quiet. It was suddenly very still.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">And for once in their life, the Weasley twins found they didn’t have a single clever thing to say.</span><br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span>
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ADhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10211720060888169877noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8047698153058029905.post-36835002733196927982016-03-13T21:58:00.001-04:002016-03-20T01:02:50.052-04:00Significant Digits, Chapter Forty-Four: Batter My Heart<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b style="color: #222222; font-family: 'noto serif', georgia, serif; font-size: x-large; line-height: 27px;">Significant Digits, Chapter Forty-Four: Batter My Heart</b><br />
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<em><br /></em>
<em><br /></em>
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">O royal Hera, of majestic mien, aerial-formed, divine, Zeus' blessed queen, throned in the bosom of cerulean air, the race of mortals is thy constant care. The cooling gales they power alone inspires, which nourish life, which every life desires. Mother of showers and winds, from thee alone, producing all things, mortal life is known: all natures share thy temperament divine, and universal sway alone is thine, with sounding blasts of wind, the swelling sea and rolling rivers roar when shook by thee. Come, blessed Goddess, famed almighty queen, with aspect kind, rejoicing and serene.</span></em><br />
<br />
- Orphic Hymn to Hera (trans. Thomas Taylor)<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">John Snow Center for Medicine and Tower School of Doubt (The Tower)</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">May 19th, 1999</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">The same day</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione had only a few seconds to think before someone stepped into the cubicle, past Harry.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">It was an older man with a pleasant smile. He glanced at Harry, but said nothing. He reached out to put his hand on Hermione’s ankle.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Egeustimentis</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">.”</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione existed as a fragment of consciousness, while a strange man walked through her mind.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“And you are Miss Granger,” mused the man. He stroked the broad fur of one thought, as it wriggled down among its fellows. “Or shall I call you Hermione? Maybe when I know you better.” The thought squirmed away from the man’s touch.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I am Meldh,” said the man. “It has become necessary for you to be altered to a certain degree. All of your friends have been changed thus, including Harry Potter.” He waded through the thoughts that seethed around him in their furry multitudes, plucking at them here and there. “Another Muggleborn… and so much like Mr. Potter, himself. He would be pleased to hear that, I think. There is no romance, there… more worship than anything else, as though you were a statue on a pedestal. But it would please him to hear it.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The mote that was Hermione observed this, distantly.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Meldh touched a tightly-spun wire of dense yellow fog, and it undulated at the contact. “So much that is interesting, here.” He flickering his fingers over a series of fog wires, and seized one between two fingers to examine it. “You think a great deal of your ‘Returned,’ hmm? We will take them into our organization as well, then. Great events are in motion, Miss Granger. Entire armies are moving and preparing, getting ready to crash against each other like great waves. Nations will fall. Worlds will end. We will add your Returned to the ranks of the belligerents… take them off of the map, too.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The wizard smiled, amiably. “But first we must make some changes. One rather important change, laid down upon your brain.” He picked at a wire, pulled it free, and moved it. “We begin, Hermione.”</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Meldh released Hermione, and smiled amiably. “There. All better.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">She looked back at her master.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The world shuddered, as though in pain.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">A ripple passed through the small white cubicle in the Tower clinic, through Hermione where she lay, bound, on the bed, and through Harry and Meldh. It was as though someone had taken hold of reality by the corners, like a bedsheet, and given it a firm snapping shake.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Meldh said nothing, but shot Harry a questioning look, his lips firm. He stripped back the sleeves of his robes with two rapid movements. His skin had begun emitting golden light, pleasant in color, but pricklish on the skin, and some manner of green-skinned creature, translucent and smelling of sulfur, had slithered out from beneath Meldh’s clothing to wrap around his waist. The beast had innumerable jointless legs, like clawed tentacles, and the wide-nosed snout and beady eyes of a great lizard.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry looked around, bewildered, sweat on his brow. His hands were trembling.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“What --” began Hermione, her voice a croak.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“My God,” interrupted Harry, whipping his head around at her. “You used it, didn’t you, Hermione?” His voice was rising into an accusing, outraged shout. “I can’t believe you would be so reckless! Don’t you realize you’ve put us all in danger?! You’ve put the whole Tower -- all of </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">England</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> in danger! Are you insane?!”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“What is it, boy?” cut in Meldh, his voice an uncharacteristic snarl. His eyes were narrow and dark.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry stabbed an accusing finger at Hermione. “It’s the ultimate power in the universe. And you have </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">used it</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Meldh whirled to stare at Hermione, raising his hands in front of him. His palms seethed with black ichor, boiling forth as he glared threateningly. The wizard was all alive with anger, bright-edged and sharp, and it was as though he were a different person. “What have you done?!”</span><br />
<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
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<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">John Snow Center for Medicine and Tower School of Doubt (The Tower)</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">January 17th, 1996</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Three years ago</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry set the leather satchel carefully on the table. “Here it is,” he said. “Fred says that it was just where the centaurs said it would be.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“And we’re sure,” Hermione said, staring at the bag, “that it’s not a fake, made into a trap that will turn us into frogs or something?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“The Headmistress, Moody, Mafalda Hopkirk, and Edgar Erasmus have all independently verified it,” said Harry. In answer to Hermione’s raised eyebrow, he added, “...shortly before their memories were voluntarily wiped.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">She pursed her lips, and leaned forward across the table, opening the satchel. She reached inside, and pulled out the Goblet of Fire, also known as the Cup of Dawn. It was a crude-looking thing with a thick rim and rough base. There was no fire or glow about it, and to all appearances was nothing more than a poorly-made wooden goblet.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“This is… underwhelming,” Hermione said, frowning.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“That’s the cup of a carpenter,” Harry said, smiling.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Is it really --” Hermione began, then frowned again. “Oh, shut up.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I worked out the language for the contract,” Harry said, pulling folded parchment out of his pocket. “They used to use this cup for sporting events and major contracts between magical races, so it’s pretty well-understood. Hopkirk explained it to me. It can bind anyone to a contract if their names are placed in it. Only valid contracts -- binding two or more people, clearly stated terms, only negative consequences, and so on. But it’s famously impossible to evade the penalty clauses.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“It doesn’t seem that useful to us, then,” said Hermione, disappointed. “We don’t need a contract to trust each other.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“The idea of ‘negative consequences’ is relative,” Harry said. He shoved the parchment over to her. “We swear this, and then seal the memories of all of this away.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The proposed contract was lengthy.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">We, the oathbound, hereby make contract that at no point shall we be controlled, possessed, or otherwise ensorceled by the same individual, group of individuals, club, coterie, organization ... Should we fail to abide by this bargain, whether it be by fault of our own or the deeds of others … shall suffer the immediate and complete dismissal of all enchantments or alterations of mind present on our persons at that time, including but not limited to… as further specified in Appendix XIV … required loss of memory of all terms and conditions for the contract, as well as loss of memory of the contract itself, as well as the location and status of all agents or objects involved in maintenance of the contract, for the duration of the contract… </span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">It went on.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“You don’t think this is paranoid?” she asked, studying the oath, looking for flaws or loopholes. “I mean, even beyond Alastor levels of paranoia. There are other ways to use this… there’s an opportunity cost for setting this contingency up. If we hide this thing and erase it from our memories, then we can’t use it for anything else. Why not use it to lock in support from signatories to the Treaty? Or even just use it to keep all our aurors loyal?”</span><span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry picked up the Goblet of Fire, and studied it. “Magic is too big. It’s too unpredictable. That’s a good thing in a lot of ways, since it means we can’t even begin to guess at the possible limits for humanity in a universe full of magic. Exploring and colonizing outside of our light cone, reversing entropy… we can’t rule anything out. There are thousands of spells, and tens of thousands more that have been forgotten or mostly forgotten. There are too many possible unknowns. This might actually not even be paranoid enough… I tried to figure a way for this to work for us individually, but you can’t contract with yourself.” He put the Goblet back down. “Yes, we’d pay a price for doing this. But we have to defend against everything, even the impossible things we don’t know about yet. Levels and levels.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione regarded the Goblet of Fire, and nodded, slowly. “All right. Although honestly, I’m not sure why all of these sorts of things have such silly names.”</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">John Snow Center for Medicine and Tower School of Doubt (The Tower)</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">May 19th, 1999</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Now</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“She has used the Star of Death,” said Harry to Meldh, his voice upset and his face sweaty. “And now we’re all at risk. Our very existence in Time is at risk. Sir, we have to get you someplace safe!”</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">The Goblet of Fire… our contract, </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione thought, blinking rapidly. The memory was there -- the knowledge of the contract was present, as though it had always been lurking just out of her mind’s eye. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">We broke the contract, and it has imposed its penalty. The failsafe worked. We’re free.</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> She glanced down at the bands of goblin silver across her legs, her waist, her chest, and each forearm, fixing her in place to a strip of silver on the underside of the cot. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Well, free in a manner of speaking.</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Are these restraints for unruly werewolves, or something created just for me?</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Meldh pivoted in place, holding one palm towards Hermione and swinging the other towards Harry. Ichor bubbled from between his fingers. Where it dripped on the floor, the surface vanished, leaving a series of divots and pocks in the stone. “The ‘Star of Death?’ There was no hint of such in either of your minds,” declared Meldh, his voice taut with tension and anger. </span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Smart man. When your captured enemy is making implausible claims about secret weapons, he’s almost always lying. And even when he isn’t, your enemy’s demise will often be the best solution. Better for your health and your reputation to wipe them out immediately.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">He needs fear. </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">She glanced at the marks left by the black ichor. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Fear of obliteration. Fear of the unknown.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“It’s coming,” said Hermione. “And it’s already altered our past -- eating it up from the source. I think… I think it begins from the first moment of its own existence. Even our memories of it. Maybe it… I’m not sure. I only know that it won’t stop until it has devoured our time. Yours, mine, and Harry’s. We’ll be gone.” She breathed out, heavily, and closed her eyes. “I’m willing to pay that price.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“You defy the Lethe Touch,” Meldh observed, coldly. “I mastered you and I changed you, yet now you are glad of my death.” He paused. “There is something at work here that I do not understand.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione opened her eyes again, and saw the Asiatic wizard staring at her with narrowed eyes. She remembered lunch with Reg Hig and Per Aavik-Söderlundh-Ellingsen, and the value of a strategic but subtle slip.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“It doesn’t matter what you do,” she replied, her own voice as firm as bedrock. “I will not stop the Star of Death.” She raised her voice, pronouncing as clearly and coldly as a mountain stream, “Die. And be damned.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He turned to face her, fully. Just behind him, she saw Harry watching, carefully but silently. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Good. Don’t oversell it. </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">The translucent green creature that clung to Meldh’s waist hissed, quietly, and kept its attention on Harry.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Meldh said nothing, either. He only met her gaze with dark eyes. She felt a touch on her mind -- the gentlest of probing contact with another’s thoughts. Barely a whisper of Legilimency: a thin needle of attack so perfectly honed in its intrusive power that it seemed to have physical form.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione didn’t react. Her training had not overlooked the obvious. Her mind was a stone her mind was steel her mind was wax her mind was an ox her mind was a child her mind was herself. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">And there was nothing for Meldh to find there but contempt. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Die, and be damned.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Meldh said nothing, but she felt the touch on her mind change. The whisper-sharp needle of Legilimency vanished and was replaced by something unfamiliar… a draining emptiness that settled down around her thoughts. It plucked at her from many directions at once, presenting a blankness into which her mind could pour. It was like the last moments of consciousness before sleep, where a thought could occur, linger on the edges of awareness, and then gently tumble away into the darkness.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">But Hermione had an answer for that, too. She cast thoughts into that darkness, one after the other, flinging them out into the sucking unconsciousness that lay on her thoughts like a blanket. She hurled memories like weapons, a bulwark of recall that could be offered without loss: the feeling of sunshine on her shoulders as she sat in a field at Powis; the rich ribbons of smell that filled the house when Gran made venison pies; the joyful screams of Granville that shattered the grimness of Azkaban; the click of one chess-piece against another as her father taught her how to castle.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The draining emptiness vanished with that last thought, and she saw a flicker of reaction on Meldh’s face. Surprise and suspicion.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione never moved her eyes from his.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Kурва,” Meldh spat at her, his face reddening. “Very well. Another Touch. And I will tear your mind to </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">shreds </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">this time.”</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">You have to get near me to do that, little man,</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> thought Hermione.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He took a step towards her, reaching out for Hermione’s restrained arm. The golden light that had been gently emanating from him faded, and the ichor vanished from his palms.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Behind Meldh, Harry drew his wand.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">She bucked in place, kicking both legs as hard as she can, straining her stomach, wrenching her arms in place. The goblin silver didn’t yield even a little. But she remembered fighting Tineagar in a Tidewater basement -- remembered the value of sacrifice. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Pain is nothing. Save one life.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Her right arm braced against the restraint, and she twisted it to the side. It broke with the sharp sound of fracturing bone. Pain roared like a lion, savaging her.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Meldh, reaching out for her, lurched backwards in surprise.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry raised his wand to point at Meldh. Almost immediately, the green creature wrapped around Meldh’s waist hissed loudly, and lunged at Harry. He backpedaled, swatting at the creature as it landed on his chest, shrilly hissing and baring its smoking fangs. Meldh jerked around in shock.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione jerked her arm free, torn hand and forearm still locked in place on the bed, blood pouring out of her like a bolt of crimson fabric. A scream burst from her.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">But the end of her backup wand, the Ultimate Ulna, was exposed amid the splintered ends of her bones.</span><span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Lagann. Stuporfy.”</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The Breaking Drill Hex cleared the way, and the Swerving Stunner didn’t even need to swerve: it hit Meldh full in the chest.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The member of the Three didn’t fall. He staggered, red flickering energy jolting through him. The green creature on Harry’s chest -- </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">connected somehow? a sort of magical circuit-breaker?</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> -- whipped its head back and exploded in a shower of phosphorescent green sparks torn through with flickering red. In the same moment, the Ultimate Ulna also flared green and red, and burnt itself into ashes. She could smell her own flesh as it burnt.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">I’m unarmed</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, she thought crazily.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Meldh lurched forward towards Hermione, grunting something unintelligible, his face a grimace of rage. He reached for her.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Desperate, she lashed out with her broken arm. The splintered bones lashed Meldh across the face, leaving deep scratches along his cheek. The pain was Fiendfyre on her nerves.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Hermione!” called Harry, reaching for his dropped wand, eyes wide.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Hermione,” snarled Meldh, arm outstretched, swaying in place.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Hermione,” agreed Hermione, and struck once more with her broken arm, and her splintered bones tore like talons through Meldh’s throat. Blood geysered across her chest and face.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The dying man’s hand came down on her shoulder, his dark eyes bright with anger. Blood poured onto her from the lacerated meat of Meldh’s throat. He tried to speak, to cast a spell, but could produce nothing more than a bubbling gurgle and a mouthful of blood. Meldh grimaced, and his teeth were red.</span><span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Stupefy. Stupefy. Stupefy!</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">” cast Harry from behind him. And this time, mortally injured and bereft of his defences, the spells took Meldh. The member of the Three shivered through with red energy, his muscles locking, and toppled to the ground like a fallen tree.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Oh, All-Nature, Queen, Mother of all things, untiring Mother, exalted, creating, She who tames all, Unmentionable, shining, the Firstborn who quenches everything, who brings the Light! Born of yourself, present everywhere and all-knowing You Blessed One, who makes things grow and rot, Father and Mother of all things, Universal Worker, you who walk forth in an endless maelstrom, conserving, you who uphold yourself through repeated metamorphosis: I pray to you, give me peace!</span></em><br />
<br />
- Orphic Hymn to Demeter (trans. Thomas Taylor)<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione, shaking, clutched at her injured arm with the other. It had stopped bleeding already, which was a relief. She’d been worried that her innate healing ability had been “dismissed” by the Goblet of Fire.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Across the cubicle, Harry was leaning on a chair, wand in hand. He was shaking, and there was a scorch mark on his cheek. Hermione supposed that had happened when that green creature had exploded -- taking her wand with it.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">She found her voice, finally, glancing from Harry to the frozen Meldh, and then back again. “The Death Star?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry shrugged, but couldn’t stop a smile from spreading on his face. It was an odd contrast with his trembling hands and the sweat plastering his hair to his forehead. “I couldn’t… I couldn’t think of anything else that sounded plausible and scary enough.” He shook his head. “I don’t know how we…”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">His voice trailed off, and he paled. “Oh, God… everyone else. The Tower, the </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">entire Tower</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, is magically bound to serve Meldh. He got almost everyone, Hermione. Draco, Moody, Cedric, the aurors, the healers… dozens and dozens of people are still under the effects of that... that… that </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">spell</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Get me out of this, first,” Hermione said, slumping back against the bed. The pain in her arm was fading, finally.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Buttons thirteen Sangomas,” Harry said, and the restraints opened with a gentle click. “I’m so sorry about that, I didn’t --”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“No time,” interrupted Hermione, “and anyway, don’t be stupid. How do we free everyone?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry rubbed his temples, gritting his teeth. “I don’t </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">know</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">. There’s a counter-spell, but I stopped him from telling me about it. For </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">exactly this reason</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, as a matter of fact. You cast the spell -- which is </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Egeustimentis </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">-- and then you say something else. But I don’t know what.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione knelt down next to Meldh, and clamped a hand over his neck. “Get out your medical kit. Maybe we can wake him up and get the spell out of him, somehow.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry knelt beside her, opening his mokeskin pouch. “Medical kit,” he told it. He opened the small white case as soon as it leapt to hand, taking out Haverford’s Marvelous Coagulant and some bandages. “It’s been weeks, and I only just found out yesterday that we had finally managed to safely get some things out of Bellatrix Black. You think we can crack </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">this</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> guy in the next few minutes, before someone checks on us? Without him playing puppeteer again?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Point taken,” Hermione allowed. “But I don’t even have a wand, much less my other stuff, so I don’t know what we’re going to do, otherwise. Can you manage to stun everyone here by yourself? Have you been secretly practicing duelling with Cedric or something?” she asked. She lifted her hand from the injured wizard’s throat.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry didn’t answer, just rolled his eyes as he squeezed orange gel onto Meldh’s neck. The blood pouring out of the wizard’s ragged throat began to slow, and soon stopped. “Your usual wand is in the meeting room, with the rest of your things. But I have a back-up wand for you. It’s actually here in the clinic. I wanted to keep it especially safe, sealed off even from the rest of the Tower in case of trouble.” He held out his wand to her. “Take mine for the moment.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione took it from him with her uninjured arm. The wound on the other had closed, but she thought it would be ten or twenty minutes before the arm was usable again. She examined the raw-looking pink skin of the stump, which throbbed with pain in time to her heartbeat. She made a face.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“For now, I’ll transfigure Meldh,” Harry said. “We can’t kill him, since we really might need him to release everyone. Let me have that back for a moment.” She handed him back the wand, reluctant despite the obvious necessity. Harry was not a duelist.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He took the wand and held the tip against the chest of the villain’s stiff body. Meldh began to shrink and warp in color and shape. Harry glanced over at her. “He was really Herpo the Foul, you know. Inventor of the Horcrux spell.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione nodded, thoughtfully. “That makes sense.” She stood up and went to the curtained entrance to their little white cubicle. “That spell… it was enslavement. How long were you like that? How long has he been here?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“A couple of days,” Harry said, quietly. His voice was very small. “It hurt. It was like being at war with myself. Everything in me pushed as hard as it could, but it was like part of my mind had forgotten itself. Couldn’t help itself. And it was the most powerful part.” He stopped speaking for a moment, staring down at the diminishing Meldh with distant, unseeing eyes. “I worry a lot about addiction. I think that this was what addiction would feel like.” Meldh was gone. In his place was a small white rock.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Then you’ll have put at least some plans in place in case something like this happened,” said Hermione, firmly. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Stay with me, Harry. </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">“How long do we have before someone comes to ch--”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Cedric Diggory pulled back the curtain to the cubicle, flanked by a pair of aurors. He looked startled, opening his mouth to say something. The aurors behind him were quicker on the uptake, and their wands were already drawn. They raised them.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry still has his wand. I’ve got nothing -- less than nothing, only one arm. Need to close the distance.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Είναι ο ίδιος!” called out Hermione, firmly, walking towards them with a bold and unafraid step. Her Greek was abysmal, a basic vocabulary put together in haste before the raid on the Cappadocian fortress of Göreme, but that wasn’t important. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">They have one overriding priority, the same one that was given me: protect and obey Meldh. That’s an advantage for me. And they might be the slower for their internal conflict.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">They were too well-trained and experienced, however, for any of that to slow them more than a moment. She was still out of reach when they recovered from their surprise, deciding that the better part of service was to incapacitate first and ask questions later. Good for them, that was the right decision. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Even if it’s massively inconvenient at the moment. </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">The faces of the aurors hardened, and she saw their arms tense again. Cedric’s eyes widened in alarm, and he snatched for his own wand.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione thrust out her mind with the thought of blue November and the smell of burning leaves, and threw herself forward in an inhumanly powerful tumble. Her ward of prisms burst into existence, unfolding themselves with a crackle of crystal into a solid wall across the front of the cubicle.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">They didn’t fall for the gambit. The auror to Cedric’s left fired Bertram’s Bolts high and low, while the other tracked her with his wand, casting the Stunning Hex at her moving form. As Hermione tumbled forward, she heard the prism-barrier shatter and evaporate, and felt the numbing sting of a near miss.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Stupefy! Stupefy! Expelliarmus!” </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">she heard Harry cast, just before her tumble rolled her into the trio of aurors. She smashed into and through Cedric’s legs with her back, carrying them out from under him. He fell on top of her, thrashing at her as he struggled to bring his wand to bear on her.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">One of the aurors gestured a Roger’s Shield into being in front of himself, almost effortlessly catching Harry’s attacks with the multicolored circle. The other had his wand pointed at her, his mouth open to curse her. Cedric was in the way, but that didn’t matter if he was just going to stun her, anyway. The auror was just too far to reach, and she didn’t have any weapons. Could she grapple with Cedric and get his wand?</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Oh. Cedric.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">She seized one of Cedric’s legs with her good arm. She had a moment to see him staring at her, horror on his face. Then she heaved on the leg, hauling it as hard as she could upwards and away from her. She couldn’t actually lift him off the ground that way -- his leg would have come off if she tried, she thought -- but he swung along the floor like an enormous club, smashing into the threatening auror’s legs. The two wizards fell into a tangle of injured limbs.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The other auror turned his attentions to her, but it was too late. She was on her feet like lightning, and dropped him with a light backhand across the side of his skull. He collapsed, unconscious.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry darted forward and stunned the other two. They froze into immobility, still folded around each other and struggling. He threw her the wand, and she snatched it out of the air with her good hand.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Last cubicle on the end,” he said. “Password is ‘splendour fifty Buick.’ </span>”<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione nodded. “Make sure none of these three are too badly hurt.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Go,” Harry said, already reaching for the medical kit.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">She leapt over the auror she’d knocked out, into the main corridor of the clinic. The long row of white cubicles confronted her, screened off with sheets. She sprinted the length of the corridor in the blink of an eye, arriving at the other end of the general ward at the same moment as a running auror appeared at the door -- Hedley Kwannon. Kwannon’s wand was already drawn, Hermione saw.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Stupefy!”</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> cast Kwannon and Hermione at the same time. As she cast, Hermione lunged to the side into one of the cubicles, clawing out with her mind to raise another wall of prismatic crystal. For her part, Kwannon was unbelievably fast, raising a wall of Azarian Fire </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">and </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">the red mist of Bartolomeo’s Reckoning almost at the same time, and </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">still </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">able to bring her wand back to Pflug position. The auror’s wards absorbed Hermione’s curse, and Kwannon was ready to cast three Bertram’s Bolts, each a foot apart from the next -- avoiding the lure of the prism ward, and aiming for where her target was actually going. Hermione felt them sizzle past her, the dull yellow hexes missing her only by the grace of her speed and luck.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione sprang to her feet as Kwannon charged through the door. Immediately, Kwannon raised more Azarian Fire, and it was again a cover for an attack. But this time she attacked Hermione’s footing. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">“Orbis.” </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione felt the stone underfoot soften, sloughing away from under her shoes. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">She’s better at chaining and a better shot than me; if I lose my mobility, I’m done, </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione thought.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione responded the way Alastor had always taught her: once you know your advantages, press them relentlessly. She sacrificed position and used the stone for her own purposes, charming it into a swirling wall of rock between the two of them. Then she sprang forward, driving her toes hard into the softening floor.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">From the other side of the wall, Hermione heard Kwannon chant the first few syllables of the runes of balance: a delaying action. Unfortunately for Kwannon, Hermione simply had no time for more of this.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">She threw herself shoulder-first into the stone at full speed, and it yielded before her. She burst through, into a startled Kwannon -- still tracing orange symbols in the air -- and stunned the auror with a crackling red curse.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Panting, Hermione turned to the cubicle on the end. “Splendour fifty Buick,” she said, holding her shoulder. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The plain stone of the wall shifted in one spot, slightly and silently.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione stepped over to the stone that moved, and gently pushed it to one side. It swiveled open on an invisible hinge, exposing a small ledge within the wall.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Resting on the ledge was a wand of elder wood. She recognized it. It had once belonged to Albus Dumbledore, before it passed to Lord Voldemort. He in turn passed it to Harry Potter, who became -- as she understood it -- the rightful owner, by dint of conquest.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Until he was defeated by Bellatrix Black</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, she realized. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Right before I put my fist through her.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione Granger picked up her wand.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">O Powerful Nike, by men desir'd, with adverse breasts to dreadful fury fir'd,</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Thee I invoke, whose might alone can quell contending rage, and molestation fell:</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">'Tis thine in battle to confer the crown, the victor's prize, the mark of sweet renown;</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">For thou rul'st all things, Nike divine! And glorious strife, and joyful shouts are thine.</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Come, mighty Goddess, and thy suppliant bless, with sparkling eye, elated with success; </span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">May deeds illustrious thy protection claim, and find, led on by thee immortal Fame.</span></em><br />
<br />
- Orphic Hymn to Nike (trans. Thomas Taylor)<br />
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</div>ADhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10211720060888169877noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8047698153058029905.post-22870601131375890412016-03-06T00:10:00.003-05:002016-04-05T22:20:24.077-04:00Significant Digits, Chapter Forty-Three: Melpomene<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b style="color: #222222; font-family: 'noto serif', georgia, serif; font-size: x-large; line-height: 27px;">Significant Digits, Chapter Forty-Three: Melpomene</b><br />
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<em><span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span></em>
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span></em>
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">The Urgod Ur, Ackle</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">May 19th, 1999</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">The same day</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I have no powers plenipotentiary,” said Nagrod, nodding gravely at the assembled Urgod Ur. “I’m a messenger, and cannot come to any accord.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“But you bring word from Curd,” said Sub Gol, folding his arms over his stomach, squinting down from his high seat.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Excellent,” said the Jurg, nearby, smiling eagerly down at Nagrod. “We’d be glad of our cousins’ counsel.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Nagrod glanced around the Urgod Ur. It was a small room, and it smelled of sweat and unwashed flesh. All of the goblins within were respected and clever -- the pillars of Acklish society, guiding their people for generations -- but they had been cloistered in rooms like these for more than three weeks. No one was permitted to enter or leave, except by under the strictest security (a collar of consumption was locked around Nagrod’s neck even now, despite his own high status). These were the inevitable requirements for independence in a hostile world run by vicious and subtle wizards.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“What word, then?” asked Bilgurd the Marrowed, his lips tight and his face skeptical. “What is Curd’s decision?”</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Weak-kneed and short-eared, this lot,</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> thought Nagrod, studying Bilgurd for a moment. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">But we’d best be united.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Curd will accept the Archon’s offer,” said Nagrod, flatly. “Our heritage is worth any war. We hope that Ackle will join us in this.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Curd is bold,” said Bilgurd, as his compatriots murmured to each other and exchanged significant glances.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Several goblins looked particularly at the Jurg, who had fixed an expression of solemn approval on his face. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">He must have hoped to take the lead</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, thought Nagrod. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">His forge has hummed this past month, if the news is correct. Yet if that Hod is in favor of the deal, then where can opposition lie? Someone must have stood in the way of consensus.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I believe this speaks with leather lungs,” said Sub Gol, nodding. “We have gone back and forth a hundred times and more. ‘They have given us wands,</span>’ ‘they have given us power,’ ‘they will give us youth’... But Curd has it right! Our cousins have seen through to the truth of it: that this is a chance we may never get again -- a chance to take back our birthright of true will-work. Ackle can soar again in gold and diamond, as it was before the Edict of Hortensius.”<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“It would be a mistake,” said Bilgurd. He was looking at Nagrod when he said it, and Nagrod met Bilgurd’s eyes with firmness. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Ah, here we are. You’re the one.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“In only a few years, that same Edict has been repealed,” said Bilgurd, “or its modern equivalent, anyway. And wands are nothing to mock.” He reached into a shiny leather dueling holster at his waist and withdrew one, holding it up. Like most goblin wands -- with a few notable exceptions -- it had seen little use. They all had them, anyway. “Generations of goblins fought and died to regain these sticks. Caislean-i-Cahaenn rose under Crad the Callow for them. And now you and others would agree to attack the very Tower that gave them to us?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Are we Beasts, then, truly?” asked Sub Gol, his voice ridged with scorn. “Like a whipped dog, returning to the hand that held the lash because it has thrown us an old crust? There is no doubt about this ‘Archon’ and his power, or the power of his allies. That was shown us in spectacular fashion. And he offers us something we might never regain, otherwise -- things not in the gift of the Tower. We cannot know in what shape the Archon will take control of things, but surely it will be in the same subtle fashion as the Tower… and thus we will have all the Tower gave us, plus all the Archon promises, and a powerful new friend-- who owes us greatly, to boot! If we are to be the catspaw of a Dark Lord, let it be the one with the greater pay. Should we make a terrible new enemy rather than a terrible new ally?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Why do we quarrel so? The debate was split and sundered, but now Curd has come down with us,” pointed out the Jurg.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Nagrod nodded, putting an expression of gratitude on his face. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">And yet this still might turn either way. And should they decide wrongly, what will stop Curd from reconsidering?</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> The Archon’s messages echoed strangely in Nagrod’s mind, and it was intolerable that this discussion might turn out poorly.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Ackle must make up its own mind,” he said, “and not let our decision overly influence your own. But I should say that we heard much the same arguments along much the same lines… as though we should be grateful to the Tower, as though we owe it -- </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">him</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> -- anything. And for myself, I do not count it a favor when my neighbor ceases to beat me, and I do not reckon any debt might spring from the mere cessation of injustice.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“The Tower is a wizard,” retorted Bilgurd, “not </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">every</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> wizard. You propose to betray him and those who have worked to right the wrongs of the past. We would show no honour, and no gratitude, and no </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">fealty to contract</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">.” His voice was heated. “We must not be cowards and hide our specific treachery under a general cloak. Let us at least admit what we do, if we do it… we would abandon our honour, as we knife the wizard who has helped us more than any other in generations.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">There was a moment of quiet at this comment, as all took a moment to reflect. Then Sub Gol shrugged, leaning forward in his stone seat. “Very well, so be it. Our children will thank us, and our children’s children, and ask only why we endured servitude for so long before taking action once more, as our forebears once did. I do not think we should pass up the opportunity to ally ourselves with this Archon -- this new Dark Lord. He is mighty. Nor can we in good conscience turn away from our ancient birthright… the techniques of will-work that we thought long lost.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“And while it is true the Tower does not represent all wizardkind, that is rather the point,” agreed Nagrod, eyeing Bilgurd closely. “Would you wager everything on honour?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Bilgurd replied with hot words, and now the Jurg and others joined him, worried about flimsy ideas and trivialities. Nagrod responded with persuasion and pressure, and many others echoed him.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">But truly, everything had been said at that moment, and it was on these arguments that the decision of Ackle would be made. As so often, the further hours of argument would come to nothing -- there was no real exchange of ideas or harrowing of their merits, but only a war of mental attrition and emotional manipulation. Within one day more, the Acklish had made their choice.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Who would ever wager everything on honour, after all?</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">John Snow Center for Medicine and Tower School of Doubt (The Tower)</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">May 19th, 1999</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">The same day</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Like almost everyone, the simplest way for Hermione, Esther, and Hyori to travel to the Tower was with a Safety Stick. They used one: Esther and Hyori held on to one end, and Hermione took the other. She bent it sharply, and it broke. The three of them whirled away with a wrench, sideways to reality and away.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">The Matchless Vault of the Unsleeping, Seogwipo, Jeju, South Korea</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">May 19th, 1999</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">The same day</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">In 1976, a team of treasure-hunters from Hangzhou discovered the entrance to the Matchless Vault of the Unsleeping, seeking it out from scraps of rumor and cryptic maps. Their search had taken long years, but the rewards would be worth it. The Matchless Vault of the Unsleeping was said to hold an ancient hoard of enchanted silver -- a vast wealth from the time of the Tamna.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">There were layers of traps and seals. A front gate, guarded by faceless inferi. A twisting passage, deadly at every step. A sealed inner gate, locked behind a puzzle-door of bismuth bronze. An antechamber thick with poisonous fumes.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“When we discovered the true location of this deathtrap, buried at the base of Mount Halla, we were a party of twelve,” wrote Guang Mu in </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">An Exploration Ten Fathoms Deep</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">. “By the time we had pierced through to the inner chambers, we’d lost half our number.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Once inside, though, the six remaining treasure-hunters were gratified to see gleaming silver, piled in heaps of coins and stacked in ingots as large as a wizard’s head. But in their haste to take hold of their prize, they forget their caution.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Chi Guo rushed forward and plunged his arms up to the elbows into a pile of coins that filled an iron coffer, scooping them out in great handfuls,” wrote Guang Mu. “He had poured them from his palms back into the chest, causing a deal of noise. When he turned to me with an expression of great delight, though, we became aware of another sound. It was a quiet rasping from many sources: scale on stone and horn on metal. We had awoken the final guardians.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“The basilisk struck from another chamber like an arrow, flying through the air the length of its body. We retreated, covering our eyes lest the beast turn its gaze on us, but it was preoccupied with poor Chi Guo. I had only an instant’s impression of his body, stiffening and turning grey even as the great serpent entwined itself about him and began to pull him apart and reduce him to dust.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“We fled, but in our terror we neglected the door. This proved to be a fatal mistake for some, for it gave opening to a second monster: the deadly terrasque. It burst forth from a pile of silver, screeching with fearsome noise, and gave chase.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Should you ever be so unfortunate as to encounter one of these fell beasts, you may know it by these signs: it stands twice the height of a wizard, and its body is composed of shiny red rock. It has six legs of crystal, a broad shell of rough stone, and a lion’s head of obsidian and stinking saltpetre.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Horrified, we attempted to block its path with web and ward, but it brushed aside our spells. In a trice, the terrasque had seized Zeng Zhang in its mouth. He fought bravely to the last, but perished. He was soon followed by Duo We.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I was forced to draw upon the Killing Curse, only to find to my dismay that it had no effect on the creature of rock. It was only by the quick reactions and clever thinking of my remaining allies that we rallied, depriving the terraque of its footing with the Butterball Charm, and then sealing it away within the rock, fortifying this makeshift tomb with the stoutest barriers.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Nothing further could be done about the basilisk or the Vault. We sealed the latter away and posted a guard, then went to seek aid. A plan was necessary for our return. And this time, we would be triumphant.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">As told by Guang Mu, his group gathered reinforcements, including a noted hunter of dark wizards, and returned to work their vengeance. They were able to draw out and defeat the basilisk, defeating it with little loss of life. Its prized flesh and fangs were parceled out and added to the great wealth that the group took from the Matchless Vault of the Unsleeping.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The Vault has since become a place for historians and archaeologists to examine, searching for traces of the unknown witch or wizard who deposited their treasure in its coffers and tamed two of the most fearsome of known beasts to their service. There was little evidence to be found: a handful of unknown runes and a few tool marks on some of the ingots.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">On this particular day, however, no one was present at the Vault when a cloaked figure arrived, borne on a chariot of fire. The visitor did not pause at the entrance, which was covered by a modern barrier of stone and steel; they said a soft word. Then they walked forward and the barrier swung open without complaint, despite its locks and seals.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The front gate was denuded of its undead guardians. The twisting passage was cleared of its clever traps. The puzzle-door on the inner gate stood open. The antechamber was fresh and pure. And the inner chambers were empty, ransacked of their silver and decorated only with a giant, yellow snake skull, locked within a display case.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">But the visitor had no interest in any of these, walking with a brisk step through the gate, down the twisting passages, within the puzzle-door, and past the antechamber. They walked to one of the inner chambers, to the point where one wall met another. Their pace never slowed as they stepped sideways into an invisible seam, turning sharply to the side and up and beyond in some impossible fashion, entering a hidden passage that had been cleverly and maddeningly concealed in two dimensions.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The visitor met no apparent consequences for the loss of a dimension, though certainly common sense (and geometry) must imply that such a transition would be the immediate death of anyone foolish enough to attempt it. But in defiance of reason and Euclid and Edwin A. Abbott, the visitor simply moved down the corridor.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Shortly, the visitor reached the apparent end of the corridor, where ceiling and floor met a wall. But the visitor pushed forward through the wall, emerging with unhurried step in another place, far deeper within Mount Halla.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The air within this new chamber was stale and close, thick with the powdery dust of long ages and filled with the steady whisper of scale on stone and horn on metal. It was black night in the room, and the visitor summoned a light to hand with a thought.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The light illuminated a great and crowded room.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Basilisks hissed in their dozens, sleepily and irritably raising their heads as they awoke from long hibernation, and terresque shifted lethargically where they lay in their rocky sleepless mounds.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The visitor raised a hand in command, and began.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">John Snow Center for Medicine and Tower School of Doubt (The Tower)</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">May 19th, 1999</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">The same day</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Wake up, Hermione,” said Harry. She opened her eyes, smiling… although it was a bit odd that Harry was there. Usually they just unstunned her and the Returned in the Receiving Room, and she walked into the Tower under her own power. It was better for her image. Had Harry finally left the Tower, for the first time in years?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">No, she was in the clinic. In one of the cubicles. Esther and Hyori weren’t there.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">She couldn’t move. When she tried, she could feel cold metal on her arms and legs, with more restraints over her waist and chest.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Oh God.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">She heaved, but the metal didn’t yield even slightly. Goblin silver?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Was this really the Tower? Was that really Harry?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">How could she get free without killing him? She searched her mind, considering the spells she could cast without wand or significant gestures.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“It’s all right,” Harry said, reassuringly.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">She was not reassured.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Harry, what are you doing?” she asked. She kept her voice calm.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Žižkovské divadlo Járy Cimrmana, Prague, Czech Republic</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">May 19th, 1999</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">The same day</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Dobrý den!” called out a cheerful female voice. Jakub glanced to his left, across the street, where an attractive young woman was waving at him from a doorway -- the entrance to a theatre. She was on the short side, with a generous chest and wide hips. She was wearing a strange sort of green dress, which was so long it touched the pavement underfoot and which came so high on the neck that it even included a little collar. It looked more like a costume than clothing, and Jakub wondered if she was promoting a play. He glanced at his wristwatch… he had a little time before he needed to get home. Curious, he paused and glanced both ways along the street, then crossed.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Co pro vás mohu udělat, slečno?” he asked, smiling, as he walked up to the actress. She smiled back at him. She had a very wide mouth and a little button nose, making her appear almost like a doll.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Ahoj!” she replied, cheerfully. “Máš něco v plánu na dnešní večer?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He was, in fact, busy that evening: Hana was expecting him. They were going to go dancing. But Jakub could still find out what was going on, here -- what the promotion might be. Maybe Hana might like to skip the clubs tonight, and come see a play, instead. “Ještě nevím,” he said, smiling and shrugging (maybe even flirting a little, but he wasn’t a monk, for God’s sake). “Proč se ptáte? Napadá vás nějaké místo kam bychom mohli zajít?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The woman shrugged back at him, turning her head slightly and smiling coyly. She reached into a long pocket of her dress, making a show of it, and pulled out a stick. “Ano, napadá mě jedno specifické místo. Potřebujeme vaši pomoc. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Confundo</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Jakub felt a tingle run through him, as though he’d been plunged into warm water. It was odd, but somehow reassuring at the same time.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Jdi dovnitř a čekej na další pokyny. Jdeme do války,” the woman said, and Jakub found himself nodding and agreeing, since of course he had already intended to go inside and wait quietly for further instruction.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He pushed open the door to the theatre. The lobby was empty, but of course he was supposed to just walk right on past the ticket counter and on inside. That was just obvious to him.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Every seat was occupied already, he saw with some disappointment. Even most of the space in the aisles was already packed full of other people -- random men and women of every shape and size and age. Jakub frowned, and pushed along the outer edge of the theatre, finding a corner that wasn’t quite crammed full of some of these other patiently waiting people.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Once he’d found a space, he leaned against the wall and relaxed. He glanced at his wristwatch. Nothing to do tonight or ever, so he had plenty of time to wait until he was needed. It was clearly what he should be doing… just standing here and waiting until it was time to go and collect the weapons. Then they’d go off to war, of course. It was obvious enough.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Jakub closed his eyes and rested. Best to save his strength.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">John Snow Center for Medicine and Tower School of Doubt (The Tower)</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">May 19th, 1999</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">The same day</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">She’d had only a few seconds to think before someone stepped into the cubicle, past Harry.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">It was an older man with a pleasant smile. He glanced at Harry, but said nothing. He reached out to put his hand on Hermione’s ankle.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">The murderfields, Tír inna n-Óc</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">May 19th, 1999</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">The same day</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The murderfields were still and icy, as they had been for years without end. None of the cold chopped flesh moved, and sweet chunks of pain lay scattered as the lord of the lunar caustic had left them.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The milk rains had left a white frost on everything.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Kruwos,” whispered a voice on the wind, reaching from a cautious distance, out beyond the fields’ end. “Spondejo kruwos. Kruwos. Kruwos. Spondejo kruwos.”</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Kruwos</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, replied cold lips. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Kruwos.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">A ragged hand slid gently from beneath a ragged thigh, slipping out of the ground and up into the air. Milkrime crackled as the hand moved and thrust its fingers into a crevice. It pulled with nightmare strength, joints popping all around like sloppy mouths, until an entire arm was revealed. Then it released its grip and delicately reached back to pluck away a pale, loose band of flesh, setting it aside with care upon a withered labia near at hand.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The gaunt’s eyes were wide and staring, wet pools of black ichor in a taut white face. It smiled, and its teeth were madness.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The murderfields rustled and cracked. A leji-claw appeared, and then the long fingers of another gaunt.</span><span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The Unseelie rose again.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span>
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Meldh released Hermione, and smiled amiably. “There. All better.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">She looked back at him.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The world shuddered, as though in pain.</span><br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span></div>
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ADhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10211720060888169877noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8047698153058029905.post-30612973341840201582016-02-28T14:19:00.000-05:002016-03-06T00:11:00.045-05:00Significant Digits, Chapter Forty-Two: Commentarii de Bello<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b style="color: #222222; font-family: 'noto serif', georgia, serif; font-size: x-large; line-height: 27px;">Significant Digits, Chapter Forty-Two: Commentarii de Bello</b><br />
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<em><span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span></em>
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">CRAD: Now you understand that these are the deadly years for wizards. [Throws KARL’s bloodstained necklace onto the ground in front of ERIN.] The metamorphosis of the world has begun… no more the plaything of the tall and beautiful!</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">[The remaining ATTENDANT takes notice, abandoning the corpse of his friend. He jumps up and down with joy, yelling and grimacing with savagery and waving his torch.]</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">ERIN: The Lady O’Bruinan will save me.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">CRAD: [Strikes her across the face with a bloody hand. It leaves a mark of blood across her face. The blood is a symbol of violence.] Fool! I have destroyed Sontag, and should the aged Lady appear in my arena, here, I shall show her a taste of armageddon… as I did your mad lover!</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">[EXSES enters from stage right with a clamour of thunder, clad all in gold. In her left hand is a wand, and in her right is a spear.]</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">EXSES: I am come! I have seen the terrors you have wrought upon my people of Sontag, and I have brought my vengeance!</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">[CRAD and ATTENDANT cower back from EXSES. CRAD seizes ATTENDANT and pushes him at EXSES. She strikes him down with her spear, and there is another clamour of thunder.]</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">ERIN: My Lady! I never lost hope!</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">CRAD: No, no, no!</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">[CRAD wails and strips off his necklace of wizard teeth, flinging it to the ground. It lands next to KARL’s necklace.]</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">EXSES: Yes! I will bring the goblins low for their crimes, a deserved punishment for their deeds! [She raises her spear, holding it high.] Thus do I condemn them: let them scrape in metal and toil in tin! Let them fear to raise their heads, lest those heads be struck from their shoulders! The blood of Sontag demands it -- and let all know their just reward for such bloody deeds as have been done this day!</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">[CRAD collapses, wailing. ERIN inclines her head, and leans down to pick up KARL’s necklace. She pauses, and then brings her delicate foot down upon CRAD’s necklace, ruining it. ALL exit.]</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">[The stage darkens, and a spotlight focuses on CRAD’s necklace. It is a symbol of hubris.]</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">- “The Last Days of Exses O’Bruinan,” by S. Leigh, as staged in the 1979 London production.</span><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">John Snow Center for Medicine and Tower School of Doubt (The Tower)</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">May 19th, 1999</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">The same day</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“There,” said Meldh, lifting his hand from Harry’s wrist. “Think back, and see if you can remember anything.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry shut his eyes, standing silently. It was very quiet in the blank span of corridor where they stood, near the rear of the Tower -- there were no distractions.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">After a while, Harry opened his eyes again. “No, sir. I can’t remember anything about where Voldemort might be. And I seem to remember all about the Tower departments, otherwise. There’s no obvious gap that might provide a clue.” He paused. “Thank you, sir, for leaving me with everything else.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“It seemed cruel to take all of that away from you,” said Meldh, nodding.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Thank you, sir,” said Harry, smiling. His smile faded, though, as he said hesitantly, “Sir, before we go back to the others, I think we should talk about your succession to my place -- at least in the broad strokes, so I can begin thinking about how to help. I know that you believe the Lethe Touch to be infallible, but there’s no reason to risk it. It’s basic information hygiene.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Meldh waved a hand, dismissively. “There is no concern. I will take your identity and you will become a new person. We will alter the trajectory you have chosen for the world, using the tools you have put at my command.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“No, sir,” Harry said, shaking his head. “There are serious problems there. For one, the new terminal values you’ve given us are too…” He fumbled for words. “There’s too much internal conflict, sir. It shows on our faces, and it will lead to strange behavior at some point. It will be like an Asimov story with the Three Laws… outside observers will be able to deduce from aberrant behavior that there are new underlying rules. Many people are very loyal to me, but no one is </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">absolutely </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">loyal, to the extent where my will and wishes are their most important goals.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“We have taken dozens of your allies here, but I have set up a pressure within them,” Meldh said. “They are enchanted in the same fashion as yourself, but there is a capacity for release by recasting the Touch and adding --”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“No!” said Harry, abruptly, holding up his hand. “I don’t need to know! Information hygiene.” Sheepishly, he lowered his hand, smiling a bit. “Sorry, sir, but there’s no need to tell me the command word… it can’t possibly help. Yes, you can trust me absolutely, right now, but what if I were to get free somehow? The best weapon you’d have in that situation would be your control of almost all of my closest friends… I’m going to be substantially weaker if any attack on you risks killing Draco or Moody -- or even if your death would just leave all of my friends as your servants, forever.” </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Do not worry, Mr. Potter,” said Meldh, kindly. “There is no risk that you will go free. No one has ever defeated the Lethe Touch by sheer willpower, and there is no spell known to you or any of your allies that could dispel the enchantment. We now possess the only real trust that can ever exist between two people.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“What about my Unbreakable Vow, sir?” asked Harry. “It’s an obvious problem… what if you ask me to do something that might destroy the world?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Meldh folded his hands in his sleeves. “You will not be able to comply, of course. But the results would be the same if I asked you to fetch me a Lethifold’s smile-- you could not do it, but neither would the Touch fail. I spent some time examining your mind, Mr. Potter, and I assure you that there is no power known to you that poses a threat to me.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry fell silent, and leaned back against the wall of the corridor. Meldh waited, patiently. After a time, Harry spoke up again, saying, “When I think about possible contingency plans for something like this, it seems obvious I would have prepared something and stored the memory in a Pensieve, or just erased it with such care as to leave no traces. Of course, if I thought of a contingency once, I should be able to think of it again, so it would also be necessary to erase the memories that led me to the plan in the first place.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Then we’re no better off for the wondering,” said Meldh, chuckling mildly. “You cannot worry or defend against the unknown, since it can take any shape. The key to great strength is defending against every known, whether it appears a threat or not, and staying </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">hidden</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> from the unknown.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I disagree, sir. It’s possible to plan for the unknown -- you can make a path for it or put in place some contingency that embraces a host of possibilities. And I am fairly sure that I must have at least </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">tried</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> to do so. The way magic works, it was never an outlandish idea that someone old and powerful might show up and take offense. I knew for certain that people like Nicholas Flamel were out there. Given the long history of the world and the fact that magic was once much more powerful, it was actually more likely than not that there would be some immortals out there.” Harry shrugged. “I should have perhaps even foreseen you yourself, sir. The inventor of the Horcrux spell? It seems obvious, in retrospect. Maybe I </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">did</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> foresee it, actually.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Meldh looked amused. “You and Voldemort share the same opinion of your abilities. You will forgive me for saying that I do not, Mr. Potter. My victory was not a difficult one, and cost scarcely even a pawn’s worth of trouble.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry shrugged. “That seems suspicious to me, sir.” Then he opened his mouth, as though to go on speaking, but made no sound. He grimaced and shook his head, accidentally rapping it against the wall and wincing.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Meldh watched him, and replied to the unaskable question. “No, Mr. Potter,” he said gently. “I do not think it is necessary to kill you now, out of fear of some possible trap you’ve laid. Rather, I will need your help.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Once I take my place as the new Mr. Potter, you will be by my side in some altered shape, as an adjunct and adviser,” he said. “I will release all others -- they will continue to serve ‘you,’ and the Tower will move in a new direction to </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">decisively</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> end magic. Your Muggle knowledge will be turned to proper ends… without your foolishness.” He chortled, amiably. “Some things can even be done immediately, to help stave off the end of the world and its people. There is at least one new ritual we may enact, based on your knowledge. To think what you would have let go to waste -- for the sake of some distant bits of fire!”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry looked at the ground, his face uncomfortable. “Sir, I considered it to be immoral, especially when there are alternatives that don’t increase entropy in the universe so much. And…” Harry fumbled over his words clumsily, as though many ideas were fighting for expression at the same time. “And many stars have the possibility of life, either now or in the future, and that risk is so apocalyptically bad that it overwhelms any benefit to an individual life here, and when we reach the second type on the Kardashev scale we’ll then be confronted with a loss of useful energy on a scale of… of… well, I don’t even know how to make a comparison! Obviously it would be like sacrificing our own Sun, but… well, it would be like a wiping out every scrap of phoenix flame that ever existed and could ever exist, all to save one person.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">His voice wasn’t rising, but it was filled with strange tension, as though he weren’t arguing with Meldh, but were arguing with himself. He kept talking, though, fumbling through in a rush. “And we might not even need to do that! The Advancement Agency has made amazing strides in only a few years. With reconfiguring parts alone, they’ll raise life expectancy. The prostate, the heart, the optic nerve, the retina, the spine, the knees, the teeth… there are all sorts of design fixes that will reduce the chances of morbidity. Making them a part of the standard rejuvenation and putting in greater security -- even perhaps with the aid of the Touch, sir -- will put us well ahead of the curve on a new Moore’s Law of lifespan.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“No,” said Meldh, flatly... that short and curt blade of a word. “We will not wait, not when the new ritual will be so simple to devise -- with some little study of your Muggle knowledge about the stars. Not one more minute, as the saying goes.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry choked a little in his throat, then hung his head, and made no reply. He stared at the floor.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“To think I feared to come here, considering it an unwarranted risk,“ marveled Meldh, shaking his head and gesturing down the corridor. “Come. We must arrange for the death of the fallen bishop, Bellatrix Black, and take what actions are necessary to suborn the absentee goblins, and set them, too, on the correct path.” He smiled at the thought. “Then I have some preparations to make before I step outside of this Tower to consult with my allies.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry began moving obediently, and they began walking back to the meeting room. Meldh glanced at him, and spoke, his voice kind. “The new immortals of the world, the ones that we choose to aid us in our cause, will have cause to praise my risk and your losses, Mr. Potter. There are endless stars in the sky… more than enough for every witch and wizard we might select.”</span><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">On the shores of the lake of teeth, where the black hills end, Tír inna n-Óc</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">May 19th, 1999</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Later that day</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Whispering teeth.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Fractal shadows.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Desolation.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“You have succeeded… well done,” said the third figure -- Nell. Her congratulations were light and pleasant, but none the more convincing for that.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Thank you,” said the first figure -- Meldh. “We have swept the board.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The second figure said nothing, only watching them both.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“You have Touched the boy-king… will you leave him in charge?” asked Nell.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“No,” said Meldh. “I will take his shape and his identity. He has built a formidable apparatus, and I think that few threats now exist that could stand against it.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“You do not think that you might be, perhaps, overconfident? Is your control already so sure?” asked Nell.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Meldh paused and did not reply for a time. The second figure, silent still, turned a face of slithering shadow to regard him, watching intently.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“My pride prompts me to deny you, but </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">mirgo que n'a qu'un trpu est bientôt prise</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">… yes, perhaps you are correct,” said Meldh, finally. “Mr. Potter himself said as much to me, not an hour ago. I had thought to use the goblins as an excuse to change policy, but even a goblin army may not be sufficient to rouse enough alarm and stem the suspicion of his allies.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“If you require further assistance, then you shall have it,” said the second figure.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“We are gambling a great deal,” agreed Nell. “You shall have every support we can offer.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Then so be it,” said Meldh. “I will not turn away one ounce of assistance. And for my part, I find that I will not have need of the Stone of the Long Song, so long as you would still be willing to lend its power on occasion, Madame.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Of course,” said Nell, and the shadows writhed in some distant imitation of a smile.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“No,” said the second figure. “That shall not be sufficient. Now is not the time for conservative policies. We must take this opportunity to act. Our hand is in play -- we will make it a fist. Now is the time to act. We will do as we have not done in many years. Sontag once thrived and threatened, rich on the concentrated lore of the Peverells, and made a perfect plum to be plucked. You fear preparations against you? Let us swamp them in violence.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Is that not hasty?” asked Meldh.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Even Nell seemed startled by the proposition. “I will commit all to the enterprise, if necessary, but I think --”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“We will raise mighty forces. Armies. I will act with all puissance at my command,” said the second figure, as though the others had not spoken. “Not only the goblins, strong with the restored knowledge of their ancient will-work. Also the visc and lejis of this place will take breath again, driven by the gaunt-horrors. I will break the cycle of the unsleeping, and bring forth your long-vanished terrasque and basilisks. Muggles in their hordes will take the eaters on themselves. They will march, we will sacrifice many… and take the opportunity to wipe away the magics of London, Boston, and Hangzhou.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I am not sure that…” said Nell, hesitantly. “We have not acted on such a scale since…” She shook her head, darkness swirling. “Never. This is audacity truly worthy of Merlin. And unspeakably risky.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Thus shall it be, Perenelle du Marais,” said the second figure. He did not wait for a reply, but turned to Meldh, and stated, “Thus shall it be, Heraclius Hero. We will sweep the world with discord and blood, crush a thousand artifacts and burn a thousand scrolls, and raise such fear as has never been seen.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">There was a desperately long pause, when none of them moved. They were not the sort to act in haste, despite the brutal decisiveness they could bring to a conversation. All Three waited, patiently, for each of the others to think through and come to terms with the new shape of the world to come.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Tentatively, Nell said, “In the face of such a threat, those remaining wizards will unite behind the Tower. Behind you.” She looked back at Meldh.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Behind </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">us</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">,” corrected Meldh, mildly. “And I think we will have no resistance, then, in a push to redouble the Statute of Secrecy’s strictures and limit the scope and growth of magic. The plan will need further thought to arrange all of the pieces, but there will be resources to spare, now that I have mastered the Tower.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“You disposed of Bellatrix Black and Voldemort,” said the second figure -- a question that was not really a question.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I have made arrangements for the death of the Black woman, but there are... complications with Voldemort. I actually have much to say to you about Horcruxes at another time. I have sealed Voldemort away, however, and erased all memory of his hiding place. It will suffice, I think,” said Meldh.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Kill Potter, as well,” said the second figure. “Whatever his lore, the risk is too great. And we need no more </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">complications.</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“As you wish, although the odd patterns of his brain have been fruitful,” said Meldh, untroubled. “I will strip his mind of what else might be gleaned, and then end him.” He inclined his head, gently. “I will send signal for our next meeting presently, after concluding such matters. We will plan for our war and arrange our pieces.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Yes,” said the second figure. “Consider, each of you, the utmost of your might. We will spare no energy or lore in the conflict to come. Victory must be certain for us to take such a risk.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">All three departed, each their separate ways.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Whispering teeth.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Fractal shadows.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Desolation.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Tír inna n-Óc endured.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span>
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">John Snow Center for Medicine and Tower School of Doubt (The Tower)</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">May 19th, 1999</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">The afternoon of the same day</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Upon his return to the Tower, Meldh appeared tired. He walked with heavy feet out of the annex next to the Receiving Room, where he’d performed the ritual. His fingers were still bloody, wet with the necessary components of a trip to the land of the Unseelie.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">For a moment, the assured and calm wizard was gone. He looked the same… dusky skin, dark eyes, broad lips. But he looked weary and battered, and it was enough to bring a worried Moody to his side with gruff but concerned questions. Meldh waved away the Tower’s spymaster, and stepped through the golden oval of the Tower entrance. Harry waited just inside, frowning and unhappy, accompanied by Diggory. Both young men looked immensely relieved to see their master alive, though their worried glances at each other showed their distress at his state.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Sir, we’re holding some people in Material Methods,” said Diggory, speaking first. He and Harry walked along with Meldh down the corridor, slowly, towards the clinic. “Madame Bones, Percy Weasley, Councilor Reg Hig, and seven aurors reporting for their normal shifts. All stunned and waiting for you. And there is regular Tower business… people to heal.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Good, good,” said Meldh, vaguely. “Harry shall go and attend to healing. But I must rest. Keep the prisoners stunned and secured for now. All else is well?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Ackle and Curd have both sent away emissaries from Minister N’goma,” said Harry, studying Meldh closely. “And Hermione Granger sent a message to let me know she’d be here this evening. All is well with your allies?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Fine,” said Meldh. He sighed, heavily. “Ah, but… forgive my weariness, but there is such </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">violence</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> in the offing, Mr. Potter. I confess that I did not anticipate it, and the very thought makes me ache for my garden and my home and my temple. I fear I will not see them for a great while, and that is not a discomfort I have needed to endure for many years.” He shook his head. Harry touched him on the arm, reassuringly, and the older wizard glanced down at the hand and smiled a small smile.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Sir, I’m sorry, but we should prepare for Granger,” said Diggory, breaking in on the moment. “She is resourceful and her Returned are insane.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I am too tired, young man,” said Meldh. “Mr. Potter, make plans accordingly.” He sighed again. “I must rest. There will be war soon, and the world will shake because of it. A great and fearsome god calls for blood. That is not something I have seen for centuries. I must rest and think.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry took hold of Diggory’s arm, restraining him, and they stopped in their tracks. Meldh continued on, moving slowly. He vanished from sight into the clinic.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“This is for the best, Cedric,” said Harry. “I’m not sure that he would be able to appreciate the threat that Hermione could present, but we do. Let’s make a plan.”</span><br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-weight: 400;"><i>I think we are in rats’ alley</i></span><br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;"><i>Where the dead men lost their bones.</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-weight: 400;"><i>“What is that noise?”</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-weight: 400;"><i>The wind under the door.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-weight: 400;"><i>“What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?”</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-weight: 400;"><i>Nothing again nothing.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-weight: 400;"><i>“Do</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-weight: 400;"><i>You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember</i></span><br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;"><i>Nothing?”</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-weight: 400;"><i>I remember</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-weight: 400;"><i>Those are pearls that were his eyes.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-weight: 400;"><i>“Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?”</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-weight: 400;">-”The Waste Land,” T.S. Eliot</span></div>
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</div>ADhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10211720060888169877noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8047698153058029905.post-10444931636711426822016-02-20T15:20:00.001-05:002016-06-10T11:45:08.448-04:00Significant Digits, Chapter Forty-One: Pithos<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b style="color: #222222; font-family: 'noto serif', georgia, serif; font-size: x-large; line-height: 27px;">Significant Digits, Chapter Forty-One: Pithos</b><br />
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<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">[The goblin warlord CRAD THE CALLOW and two ATTENDANTS enter, stage left. CRAD, a loathsome beast with a foaming mouth, wears filthy animal skins and a necklace of wizard teeth. His hands are covered in blood. His ATTENDANTS are dressed in similarly barbaric regalia, and each carries bright torches. They stand before ERIN and KARL, triumphant.]</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">CRAD: Look at the princess! Now that I, Crad, the revenging angel of goblinkind, has come to spill wizard blood… now she cowers! This is the price your people pay for their crimes. It is natural for vengeance to follow foul deeds, as one season follows another... and this is my harvest season… and your season of death!</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">ERIN: I am a noble witch of Britain, sir, and I do not cower. That is a thing for beasts.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">KARL: [Boldly] And goblins.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">CRAD: [Gnashes his teeth and jumps up and down, waving his arms.] Still you defy me, though this miserable village lies in ashes?! Though every beast lies dead, and even the flax smolders in the fields?!</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">KARL: We do.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">ERIN: And so shall we ever. The choice between right and wrong is as clear as the difference between night and day. And if there were aught others to witness this, perhaps in some later day, then I would declare to them that they need only use their eyes to tell the difference between good and evil! And what seeing wizard, witnessing the ugliness and needless cruelty of evil, could fail to promise to seek the good of their own kind?</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">- “The Last Days of Exses O’Bruinan,” by S. Leigh, as staged in the 1979 London production.</span><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">John Snow Center for Medicine and Tower School of Doubt (The Tower)</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">May 18th, 1999</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">The same day</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Why did you keep this place a secret to so many, Mr. Potter?” asked Meldh, calmly. He glanced around the small room as they emerged from a nightmarish corridor of traps and wards and locks -- including even a five-minute waiting period that considerably amused Meldh.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The room was still sparsely furnished. There were stacks of cassette tapes and several auto-players sitting in a thick mass of Lovegood Leaf. There was a small wooden stool, with a yellow legal pad and mechanical pencil set upon it.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">There was a black box.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry didn’t answer for a moment, glancing over at the box, which remained silent. He walked over to the auto-players instead, where a quiet voice was reading a book-on-tape aloud. Harry bent down and turned it off, and the recorded sentence was strangled mid-word: “His professions might be sincere; but in the situation where fortune had placed him, it was scarcely poss--”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Mr. Potter?” prompted Meldh.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“This is the second Tower,” Harry said. “Before this, there was another facility… one that was part of Hogwarts. There was… an attack. A powerful wizard who had been driven insane with grief. He said that he wanted us to bring back his child, but I think it was a form of suicide for him. He’d planned it -- arranged for a message to be sent from the future to stop us from using Time-Turners to stop him. He killed Hermione. Killed her phoenix.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry sighed. “At that time, I’d transfigured Voldemort into a small stone, so that I didn’t have to kill him. But during the attack, Hermione threw me to safety, and when I landed, I lost the ring. And it was then that I realized that if I’d been seriously hurt or killed… well, Voldemort could have awakened or been freed, with the Philosopher’s Stone right at hand. Moody had warned me of this before, and we’d taken additional measures, but… well, that plan wasn’t going to work. Of all the possible solutions to keeping hold of him, I’d been taking one of the riskiest possible. So I set to work finding a solution. It was easier than I’d thought… many wizards in the past had worked on transferring or creating consciousness in artificial environments, enough to be actually worrying. This form of mandrake, when properly prepared, holds his consciousness. But I knew that many people wouldn’t share my ethics about going to such lengths -- that they might prefer more lethal solutions.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I see,” mused Meldh. They both looked at the box for a moment, contemplatively. Voldemort remained silent.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“You are mistaken, though, Mr. Potter,” Meldh added. “It was we who sent that message. We’d known the gentleman for some time, after he intruded on our meeting place. An early attempt at an intervention in your affairs. Ineffective, I’m afraid… but perhaps that’s for the best, now that I consider the matter in hindsight.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry’s eyes were closed, and he staggered to the side. He clutched for the wall but fell short, dropping to one knee. He gasped, “Killed Granville… so many people… sir, I can’t… I’m sorry…”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Meldh shook his head and smiled kindly. He walked over to Harry and bent down, putting a comforting hand on the young man’s back. “It’s all right, just give it a moment. This is my fault, I’m afraid… I have changed very little in you. Just your… ah, there is no word. Just your </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">telos</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">. The most important things for you. So there is some conflict. But my alterations cannot be overcome. Fear not.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Fear,” said Voldemort, suddenly. Meldh turned his head sharply and stood up straight at the sound, but did not appear alarmed. As ever, his expression was pleasant. It suited the older man well.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I am not aping you,” continued the voice from the box in neutral male tones. “That is a suggestion.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Meldh didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he walked closer, scrutinizing the black box. After a moment, he said, “I do not accept your suggestion, but thank you for it. You are Tom Riddle? Or is it the more recent name -- Professor Quirrell -- that you go by?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I have had many names,” said Voldemort. “Please address me as best suits you.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Very well, Lord Voldemort,” said Meldh, smiling. “I am a visitor to the Tower. You may call me Meldh -- an old word from my youth.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">There was a pause, then Voldemort said, “Your implication is obvious. But that is not a credible lie. I will thank you not to insult my intelligence, Meldh, if we are to speak.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Oh?” asked Meldh, raising his voice slightly to be heard over Harry’s gasping sobs, as the young man struggled to control himself.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“While I do not know if my faculties have been affected by this prison, I am not yet a gibbering moron,” said Voldemort. “Accordingly, I am not credulous enough to accept the existence of such antiquity without rather more proof than that. It is apparent that you have directly interceded to enforce your will on Mr. Potter in some manner. Such an intervention would come at some risk, no matter your abilities. If you took even the most miniscule of risks regularly, even only once in the span of each century, then it is not credible that you would be here, alive. Fate is fickle.” The voice from the box formed an artificial chuckle. “On that, you may take my word.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Interesting,” said Meldh, pleasantly. He did not comment further, but tilted his head to one side. He lifted one palm and stretched it to the box, and whispered some words with syllables as harsh as knives.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">After some time, Meldh lowered his palm and raised his eyebrows. “Ah. This box. There used to be three of these. I do not know if the others survive. But this is well. Destroying this one will ensure that, even if the others exist, they are useless for their other purposes.” He smiled, gently. “Kári Orden would be amused to see one of her boxes used as a zoo.” He leaned forward, reaching out his hand as though to touch the box. He stopped short, however, his palm held over the fine black surface. A whisper of red light flickered across the box’s surface.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“You little tyrants have always been useful. You swirl like a whirlwind, drawing lore and devices into your chaotic storm. You kill off rivals, steal items of power, and break open hidden hoards. And eventually, thanks to a hero -- and sometimes with the help of the Lethe Touch or the Ritual of Home or the Dustukhíascue -- you and much of what you’ve gathered are destroyed.” Meldh straightened back up, smiling again. “You do the world much good with your attempted evil.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Across the small room, Harry was gathering himself to his feet, finally. His face was reddened with emotion, and his hair had come loose across his shoulders. He looked as though he’d been to war.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“You are here to end me,” said Voldemort.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Oh, yes,” said Meldh. "Sixty years after my last victory over you, when we played at <i>shatranj</i>. A poignant moment, perhaps."</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Then I am in the most enjoyable position of advantage. All roads lead to my will. That has not been the case for some time,” said Voldemort. “You will forgive me for taking some pleasure in the situation.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Sir, he has cast a unique spell -- a new version of the Horcrux spell,” said Harry. His voice still sounded strained, but he was upright and trying as hard as possible to help. “If he is killed, or manages to kill himself, or even if he is simply returned to a human brain that the spell recognizes, then his spirit will be free to resurrect in another place. We developed a way to detect the Horcrux network and have destroyed many of them, but many others still remain… including at least one that is far beyond our means at the moment.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“My contingencies are numerous, laid over the course of many years and reinforced during the year of my return,” said Voldemort. The bland voice conveyed a hint of mockery, somehow. “With the Goblet of Fire and the Resurrection Stone, two of the most potent artifacts still in existence, I have laid my traps.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Meldh nodded, smiling pleasantly, and glanced back at Harry. “Is that so, Mr. Potter?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“No, sir. As far as I can tell, Voldemort never had access to the Goblet of Fire, despite what he says,” Harry said, slowly. Voldemort made no reply or contradiction. “It is locked away in the Department of Mysteries… they consider it Cadmean Class: too dangerous to use or research. It was kept in a vault that is inside of some sort of magical lake or pond or something -- some security to put it beyond everyone’s reach without the Line of Merlin -- and it has been there for many years, since they stopped holding the Triwizard Tournament. Even I’ve never seen it, although I did spend some time looking for its companion device -- or the pieces of it, anyway.” Harry held up his left hand, clad in a fingerless glove much like the one he would ordinarily be wearing on his right, and tapped the smooth round decoration that was slightly raised from its palm. “Ancient and powerful enough to be effective decoys for the real Philosopher’s Stone.” Harry paused, thoughtfully, and a drop of sweat trickled down the side of his face. He added, “But I suspect that the Professor only said this because he wanted that information, since he anticipates going free once killed.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“And will he, Mr. Potter?” asked Meldh, gently.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Some time ago, some researchers with the Tower and the Unspeakables -- Mafalda Hopkirk, Dolores Umbridge, Luna Lovegood, Basil Horton, and Nemeniah Salieri -- adapted a Dark Detector to be extremely sensitive and able to detect even the weakest of magical energies. It didn’t have much initial use, since in any magical area, the background magical energies would swamp it. But more recently, we developed that,” Harry answered, pointing at the Lovegood Leaf. “It consumes ambient magic in the air. It’s proven to be useful in allowing us to employ Muggle devices alongside magical ones, sir, but when combined with thaumometers, we are able to trace even very faint magical connections such as Floo networks... or a network of Horcruxes. He has many… but he is now separate from all of them except the Resurrection Stone, since they are all outside of the Tower. This is a world apart. But while the Resurrection Stone or any other Horcrux is present in the Tower within the Mirror... yes, he could go free. It is best not to kill him, sir.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“These are things I saw in Mr. Potter’s mind, Lord Voldemort, and all quite true,” said Meldh, turning back to the box. “You might understand why I was interested, since you have correctly divined that I… implied a rather greater age than is strictly accurate.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">There was a long pause.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Lord Foul,” said Voldemort.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Archon Heraclius Hero,” corrected Meldh, still smiling. “But yes, I am known to history as the ‘Slithering One’ or ‘Lord Foul,’ thanks to the very effective tales of four famous witches and wizards.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry was staring openly at Meldh, awe and disgust and pain all in combat on his face. “You’re Herpo the Foul… who invented the Horcrux spell? Who fought Rowena Ravenclaw, Godric Gryffindor, Salazar Slytherin, and Helga Hufflepuff?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Yes. Good people, all -- or rather, well-intentioned. But even then, in my youth, I saw further than such as they. I knew the dangers of will-work -- broaching other worlds and inviting them into our own. Even then, I could not understand why so few wizards understood the lessons of Atlantis.” Meldh shook his head, ruefully. “The great school of Hogwarts had been prophesied -- indeed, prophecy was perhaps the very thing that led those four to band together, for what else but great glory and great threat could have done so? -- and so I attempted to intervene. A mighty stronghold of magical education and research was not in the best interests of the world, and I wished to save us all,” said Meldh, agreeably and without a trace of pride.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“You failed and died, if the stories are true,” said Voldemort.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Yes. But I was not gone, thanks to some precautions. And my efforts were noticed by another,” replied Meldh. “But of that we shall not speak.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Very well,” said Voldemort. “Then your purpose remains the same? I wonder if Mr. Potter is still able to appreciate the irony? Are you intact in there, behind this spell of control?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“The Lethe Touch,” said Meldh, helpfully, smiling again.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I have read of it,” said Voldemort curtly. “So, Mr. Potter -- do you see the irony?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Yes, Professor,” said Harry, closing his eyes once more and wrapping his arms around his stomach. “It’s me. And I can see the irony.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“What is the irony?” asked Meldh, curious.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“We have the same goals -- maybe even many of the same values, sir,” said Harry. “Or rather, I have one goal now, to serve you as best I can, but before --”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Meldh shook his head and waved his hand dismissively. “I understand, it’s all right,” he said. “You mean that we both wish to save the world.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“And yet you fundamentally disagree, Mr. Potter. It is not a question of truth or evidence, is it?” asked Voldemort. “You have the same purpose in the same world, and yet you disagree. And how was that disagreement resolved?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“With force,” said Harry, reluctantly. “My mind was altered against my will.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Meldh glanced with interest back and forth between Harry and the box. “I do not understand the messages hidden beneath the surface, here, but I have observed your minions often enough, Mr. Potter, to know that you have no objection to force. You have several individuals in your employ whose efforts are directed almost exclusively to force -- stunning Muggles and providing them with new memories as you deem fit.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Weaponizing cognitive dissonance,” said Harry, nodding again, even more reluctantly. “But the Professor is offering me a lesson on dominance, not ethics.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I see,” said Meldh. “Well then, I believe we have spent enough time at this. Enough time here.” He adjusted the front of his simple robes, and looked around them. “This is a threat that you did not have the heart to end -- a threat that you still call ‘Professor.’ A threat that has managed to worm within your heart and mind, despite being imprisoned and powerless. The world has nothing to gain from this creature’s existence, and much to lose.” Meldh did not appear saddened by his words, but neither did he seem happy -- or even cold. Rather, he spoke with a quiet and inoffensive resignation. “Unless you have something else you wish to say, Lord Voldemort?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Will you entertain argument?” asked Voldemort, calm in his own right.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I will listen to anything you wish to say, but no, I will not change my mind,” said Meldh. “I am sorry. You are too dangerous, and your restraints are too uncertain. My purpose has not changed since the fields of Alto Alentejo, among the broken marble of Estremoz, where I led my tarasque and Dementors in a great battle against four titans from prophecy. Neither the double death of a Hero and his name, that day, nor the long passage of millennia since have altered my purpose, which I have sought in a thousand different ways on a thousand different days. I will not give you a cruel and false hope. Your fate awaits, and will not change.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I see,” said Voldemort.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry’s hair was wild, half-covering his face. Some strands stuck to one cheek, wet with tears.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Then let me say this,” said Voldemort, speaking with leaden seriousness. “It is not too late.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Meldh smiled, but didn’t reply. He listened.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Truly,” Voldemort went on, “you even now have the chance for an equitable and peaceful solution. If you undo your control of Mr. Potter and his little friends, he will not seek vengeance for what you have done. Astoundingly and against all sense, he will be willing to work with you -- to find a path forward. He believes he is a hero, and he believes heroes must always show mercy and seek the path of nonviolence where possible. He is not troubled by the conflict between effectiveness and mercy that is obvious to you and me.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“To all appearances, you have found an easy victory here. That should be the most obvious of warning signs. Mr. Potter’s footsteps are littered with the corpses of those who once thought him their catspaw. And I assure you, as a ragged and trapped spirit who once opposed him, that Mr. Potter’s cataclysms are all the more terrible for their lack of malice. His cruelty is beyond even my own imaginings, for it results from misguided mercy… and should you be so fortunate as to survive, you will not even have the consolation of hate.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Take my advice, old one. Relent. Recant. Retreat.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Meldh waited to be sure Voldemort was done, then mildly replied, “I think not.” He sounded amused at the thought. “Your kindness is appreciated, however. Why not simply enjoy the thought that the boy will destroy me in due course? He himself has no knowledge of any such plans, I assure you, but why do you show such benevolence?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Voldemort laughed. It was a cold, mocking laugh, twisting the limits of the generic male voice. For just a moment, it sounded exactly like the Professor Quirrell that once was: cynical and clever, cruel and caustic. A broken man who was without joy or love, and who found solace only in the cold pleasure of ambition fulfilled and dominance achieved. Mentor and monster.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I am offering you fair warning and a peaceful alternative,” Voldemort said, and there was triumph in his words. “If you truly do not understand that these words are the greatest damage I can do to you, then you will deserve your fate.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I hope that you find comfort in such thoughts,” said Meldh, softly. He turned to Harry. “Do what we discussed, please, Mr. Potter. The world is more important than sentiment.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Yes, sir,” Harry said. He pulled his wand out of his sleeve. He and Meldh both walked over to the entrance to the extended space -- the narrow corridor buzzing with traps and wards.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry pulled a lump of tungsten from his pocket. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">“Geminio</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">,” he cast on it, twirling his wand over its surface. One lump became two, and after a moment, that became four, then there were seven, then twelve, then twenty. Within seconds, metal began to clatter from Harry’s palm. He tossed what was left in his hand across the room, scattering it, and the tungsten continued replicating itself even as it flew through the air: thirty-three, fifty-four, eighty-eight, lumps of metal raining down, cracking loudly on the stone and a black box that shivered with red light.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry and Meldh stepped back into the corridor, and Meldh gestured at the door. Thin blue crystal grew from the ceiling and floor, covering the entrance. It was translucent, and through its cerulean screen the two wizards watched as the room rapidly filled with replicating metal. Normally, it would decay and vanish before too long. But the Philosopher’s Stone, embedded in Harry’s right glove, could make it permanent. It was not a trick he’d often used, since it threatened the illusion of “special Transfiguration webs” that they used to explain the feats of the Tower healers.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">After a very short time, there was no more room left in the small chamber beyond the blue crystal. The replicating metal filled all available space. The two wizards could no longer see anything but a blue-tinted irregular wall of metal. Harry ended the Gemino Curse with a touch of his will, lowering a trembling wand to his side. His teeth were gritted, and the back of his robes was dark with sweat.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Meldh folded his arms, and they stood there, quietly. Gently, the older wizard asked, “Would it help you to take a moment?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Yes, sir,” said Harry, laboriously. “I’m sorry… it’s difficult to manage my feelings.” He shuddered and wrapped his arms around his stomach, clutching himself and bending over slightly.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I understand,” Meldh said. He reached forward and touched the blue crystal screen with one finger, and an opening appeared -- no more than a palm-span wide. A few chunks of tungsten fell through and free, but the pressure from above kept most of them in place.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry tried to stand up straight and raise his wand, but shuddered again, bending back over. He gasped, “I just… I’m…”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Let me help you,” Meldh said. Gently, he lifted Harry’s arm, raising it until the wand in the young man’s grip was at the level of the hole in the screen. “You may say goodbye, if you wish.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Goodbye, Professor!” Harry screamed.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">His face reddened as he screamed it again -- screamed it as loudly as he could.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Goodbye, Professor! Goodbye! I’m sorry!”</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Screamed</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> the words... to try to be heard through the mass of metal, to try to be heard through everything.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">There was a reply. It should have been impossible, really. Harry had cast the Thoughtsay Ritual himself, following the dictates of parchment scrupulously, and it should not have been able to get so </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">loud</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">. But it happened, nonetheless, by whatever trick or manipulation. And that reply was not forgiveness or kindness or pleading.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">It was scorn.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“<i>Bah</i>!” howled Lord Voldemort with a cold laugh, a last word of mockery and hatred, and then the voice failed with a warble and squeal of magical sound.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">There was silence.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Meldh frowned. “No grace, even now. A sad end. Do it,” he commanded.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry closed his eyes and touched his wand to the pieces of tungsten in the room. After a moment, they gently slipped out of shape, flowing together, forming a solid mass -- an immense plug of metal, filling almost the whole room and burying Voldemort in a metal coffin ten feet thick.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Then Harry lifted his other hand and pressed the Stone of Permanence, loose in his grip, to the surface of the metal.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">And that was the story of Tom Riddle.</span><br />
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<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
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<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione’s Mobile Mary, Powis Castle, Wales</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">May 19th, 1999</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">The next morning</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione awoke with tears on her face. She’d been dreaming of Granville. She could hear the echo of his cry still -- hear the joy of it.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Hermione?” said Esther, pushing open the door to the Mobile Mary gently, peering inside the darkened space. Morning sunlight was visible outside, bright on the gardens of Powis. “Sorry, but there’s a message for you from Harry. You asked to be woken? Are you all right?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Wiping her face on her sleeve, Hermione nodded, sniffling. She sat up. “Yes… just a bad dream. What does Harry want?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Esther held up a parchment. “Nothing serious, it seems like… he just wants you to come around. Says he has someone he wants you to meet.”</span><br />
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<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Πρὶν μὲν γὰρ ζώεσκον ἐπὶ χθονὶ φῦλ᾽ ἀνθρώπων </span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">νόσφιν ἄτερ τε κακῶν καὶ ἄτερ χαλεποῖο πόνοιο </span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">νούσων τ᾽ ἀργαλέων, αἵ τ᾽ ἀνδράσι Κῆρας ἔδωκαν. </span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">αἶψα γὰρ ἐν κακότητι βροτοὶ καταγηράσκουσιν. </span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">ἀλλὰ γυνὴ χείρεσσι πίθου μέγα πῶμ᾽ ἀφελοῦσα </span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">ἐσκέδασ᾽: ἀνθρώποισι δ᾽ ἐμήσατο κήδεα λυγρά. </span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">μούνη δ᾽ αὐτόθι Ἐλπὶς ἐν ἀρρήκτοισι δόμοισιν </span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">ἔνδον ἔμιμνε πίθου ὑπὸ χείλεσιν, οὐδὲ θύραζε </span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">ἐξέπτη: πρόσθεν γὰρ ἐπέλλαβε πῶμα πίθοιο </span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">αἰγιόχου βουλῇσι Διὸς νεφεληγερέταο. </span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">ἄλλα δὲ μυρία λυγρὰ κατ᾽ ἀνθρώπους ἀλάληται: </span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">πλείη μὲν γὰρ γαῖα κακῶν, πλείη δὲ θάλασσα: </span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">νοῦσοι δ᾽ ἀνθρώποισιν ἐφ᾽ ἡμέρῃ, αἳ δ᾽ ἐπὶ νυκτὶ </span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">αὐτόματοι φοιτῶσι κακὰ θνητοῖσι φέρουσαι </span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">σιγῇ, ἐπεὶ φωνὴν ἐξείλετο μητίετα Ζεύς. </span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">οὕτως οὔτι πη ἔστι Διὸς νόον ἐξαλέασθαι. </span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">At first the tribes of men had lived upon the earth</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">apart and free of evils and of tiresome toil</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">and hard diseases, which have brought to men their dooms,</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">because by hardship mortal men are quickly aged.</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">But with her hands the woman raised the jar's great lid,</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">released all these, devising grievous cares for men.</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Alone there, Hope, in her indestructible home,</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">remained within, beneath the lip, nor by the door</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">escaped, because the vessel's lid had stopped her first,</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">by will of aegis-bearing, cloud-compelling Zeus.</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Among the people wander countless miseries;</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">the earth is full of evils, and the sea is full;</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">diseases come by day to people, and by night,</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">spontaneous, rushing, bringing mortals evil things</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">in silence, since contriving Zeus removed their voice.</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">And thus from Zeus's mind there can be no escape.</span></em><br />
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<span style="font-weight: 400;">- Hesiod, “Works and Days” (trans. Hugh G. Evelyn-White)</span>
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ADhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10211720060888169877noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8047698153058029905.post-13386172313252190692016-02-14T02:23:00.000-05:002016-02-20T15:20:44.417-05:00Significant Digits, Chapter Forty: The Thing with Wings<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b style="color: #222222; font-family: 'noto serif', georgia, serif; font-size: x-large; line-height: 27px;">Significant Digits, Chapter Forty: The Thing with Wings</b><br />
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<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">KARL: You think you are safe here, in your village utopia? War is upon us! Hear the sound of drums. The enemy approaches in scant minutes, and our hourglass flows so quickly... witness the last of the time! Lords and ladies… I beseech you! Wake up and attend to your own hour of doom! Flee!</span></em><br />
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<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">ERIN: We hear. We understand. But we will not run. We will not abandon Sontag.</span></em><br />
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<b>- </b>“The Last Days of Exses O’Bruinan,” by S. Leigh, as staged in the 1979 London production.<br />
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<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
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<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">John Snow Center for Medicine and Tower School of Doubt (The Tower)</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">May 18th, 1999</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">One day later</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Draco’s office in the Tower was in the rear of the complex, where it had been expanded. He had originally been situated near Material Methods. It might have been quiet there at the moment, with the goblins all shut up and withdrawn into Curd and Ackle, off doing gobliney things (presumably comparing ear length or bathing in rubies). But as soon as the dodgy little blokes were back to work, hammering out more absurdly large golden gloves, then that area would become intolerable: unfortunate smells, clamorous noise, and a horde of chest-high half-elves swarming underfoot in the corridor.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Now he was comfortably ensconced next to the new offices of the Vision Verge, instead. They were almost all wizards and witches, except for the one centaur, and they mostly did quiet things involving lenses and the like. It was uninteresting work -- what possible use was there for the tiny Protean-Charmed little toggles they were making? -- but also a peaceful little corner of the oft-bustling Tower.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Dearest Mother</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, he wrote, leaning over the parchment on the desk in front of him.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">All is going well -- better than we could have hoped. There are plans to reorganize the way the Tower operates, now that a new Receiving Room will be built to accommodate the Ten Thousand. That has meant a second Terminus to be in charge, and a second command structure for it, and now the whole question of who reports to whom has been upended. The Westphalians are all in a clamour about the new addition, as well, and are arguing that the Americas should also have their own Receiving Room. If they win, then simple pride will oblige the construction of a fourth Room for the Free States, Nigeria, and any other African states that join.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">In fact, I believe that the Tower will become a proxy body for the Confederation, which will soon mean, of course, that it will become subject to votes from that body. Potter is a soft touch, and he won’t be able to flout the Confederation forever without the excuse of the Independent opposition. That will be an opportunity for many, including us. Good fortune floats into our hand like a ripe dirigible plum.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Draco continued in this vein for some length, setting forth his pretended expectations with just enough vagueness to appear plausible. He laid out a vision of a potential path to power within the Tower -- and more importantly, made sure that this vision was transferable: a blueprint for others to follow, as well.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">When he was done, he took a parchment razor and notched the lower-left corner of the first page twice, then folded and sealed the packet. Draco would send it to his mother, and she’d know it was meant for others to see. It would be “stolen,” and reinforce his efforts at tempting a few choice individuals into the fold.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">There was a loud knock at his office door.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Draco looked up, irritated at the interruption. He glanced at the big watch on the wall. He was expecting his “spy” and ally Dolores Umbridge at ten o’clock, but he’d expected to have time to write a genuine dispatch to his mother in addition to the fake one. They’d built something special over these past years with their Honourable, and he had no intentions of letting it -- or their relationship with each other -- decay. “Who is it?” he asked, curtly.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“There are some who call me… Tim,” said a voice from the other side of the door.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Come in, Longbottom,” Draco said, sighing in annoyance.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Neville opened the door, glancing around the room as he stepped inside. At some point in the years since he and Draco had first boarded the Hogwarts Express, Neville had grown tall and handsome. He was a bit gawky, but with an obvious strength in his wiry frame. His eyes were bright and his smile was wide and he was utterly intolerable.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Harry wanted to know if you had a minute,” Neville said. He squinted at a statue in the corner -- a beautiful sculpture in gold of a fat-bodied cobra with numerous heads, coils piling up beneath it and a single broad hood loomed behind its heads.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Fine,” said Draco, checking the wall-watch again. He dropped the cover over the inkwell built into his desk and cleared the parchments to one side. He included the fake dispatch among them. He’d send it later.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Neville jerked a thumb in the direction of the statue. “That’s new.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“It’s from Thailand,” said Draco, turning to regard it. “Not a real beast. ‘Ananta Shesha,’ a fanciful notion of the Muggles… They say that it holds the entire world on its hood.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Neville regarded it closely. There were tiny scales pricked into its surface, and each tiny snake-head wore a delicate crown. “So he’s trod down by everyone else, despite all his crowns?” he asked, lightly.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Draco ignored the jab for a moment. He adjusted his robes as he walked around the desk, and he kept his voice mild as he replied, “One day, they say he will uncoil.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Neville scowled as the Slytherin stepped past him and out into the corridor. Draco turned to give him a level look, and spoke over his shoulder, “And then, he’ll be all that’s left.” Draco smiled coolly. “Ananta Shesha: ‘that which remains.’ ”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Not his best work… but then, it was only Neville, who spent most of his day wallowing with Muggles and play-fighting with them.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Draco walked briskly down the corridor, past the Verge, and along the hallway squeezed between the Conjuration Conjunction and Extension Establishment, the latter filled with annoyed people snapping at each other irritably. There had been serious malfunctions in the latest slicebox prototypes. They were intended for the creation of a second pocket world, which would also be put into orbit out past the sky, but they’d been rupturing instead. One researcher had nearly been killed by an accidental backlash that had bisected her at the waist.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He turned left, moving past the entrance to Material Methods, and then pushed open the door to the meeting room, striding on inside. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">It’s important not just to look like you know what’s going on, but to appear to actually be in command of it, </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">his father had used to say.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">There were a few people in the meeting room with Harry. A couple of aurors, Percy Weasley, and Cedric Diggory. No Bones and no Mad-Eye… nothing about the Tower or politics or anything foreign. Probably government... </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He considered likely possibilities as quickly as possible as he nodded to those sitting at the table and walked over, past the aurors.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Was this about his mother? No, they’d leave that alone, no matter what. They knew better than to get between Draco and his family. They knew he was a Malfoy above all.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Had one of his minions gotten out of hand? Draco did an inventory of the likely suspects -- the lowbrow pawns who’d run most of Knockturn Alley. Gem and his people were in Howard Prison for another three months… Laura Lock and Tallow Enser were still in hiding in Kent and unwilling to come out. That left Jean-Luc Bigby and Mortimer Kainen. They’d been kipps by trade six years ago, collecting loans and insurance. Had they gone back to that and gotten picked up after hexing the wrong person?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Was this more personal? Had they started getting information from Bellatrix, finally -- penetrating the unfathomable protection of her insanity?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Hello, Harry,” Draco said, standing behind an empty seat. He rested his hands on it. He waited just a fraction of a second before turning to the other two, saying, “Diggory. Weasley.” A gentle reminder of the order of things. “What are we on about this morning?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Just the usual, Malfoy,” said Cedric, with his customary badly-disguised air of scorn. He’d had difficulty accepting the new reality in the Tower: Draco as ally and not defeated enemy.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Draco smiled a knowing smile, and pulled his chair out. But he didn’t sit down, pausing.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">There was something wrong.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Draco didn’t know what it was, but he knew there was something wrong. He glanced from face to face, again. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but he felt the disquiet in his guts.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">What is it? Is it Mother, after all? No, Harry would tell me in private first, if that were it. Was it a misunderstanding -- the uncovering of a “plot” to overthrow Harry, and it’s been misunderstood?</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He could see it, now, all of a sudden, as they looked back at him. It was their expressions. Harry and Diggory and Weasley all seemed to have their attention somewhere else. Not as though they weren’t paying attention or anything so obvious -- but rather, it was as though they were distracted by a noise or presence that he couldn’t see. It was subtle… but then, Draco’s tutor in the social graces, Master DeCampo, had always said that manipulation was the most delicate dance of all. These were three people struggling with their guilt. He could see it.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Why do they feel guilty?</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I think --” Draco began, but he could already feel the presence of the aurors close behind him.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">A wand jabbed into his back.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Draco smirked, despite the roiling of his stomach. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Did Harry seriously think I’ve never considered the possibility of betrayal? “There are only three certainties: death, betrayal, and hag’s teeth.”</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> He’d personally made a portkey to his own office within the Tower. Portkeys couldn’t take him outside the facility, but they could travel within its bounds -- to a prepared escape cache.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“This is a mistake, Potter,” he said. He considered the appropriate </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">bon mot</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> to leave in his wake, and fixed Harry’s eyes with his own. Harry looked conflicted, his face uncertain. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Uncommitted. Ultimately, not enough will to carry this out. </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Draco felt more confidence at the thought. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">This might actually be a good thing.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">A hand rested lightly on his shoulder from behind, from someone unseen.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Egeustimentis</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">,” he heard.</span><br />
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<br />
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<span style="font-weight: 400;">After the necessary adjustments, they all sat down together. The Master took Harry’s usual seat. They began to discuss what seemed to be the next step.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Trying to ambush Mad-Eye,” said Draco, shaking his head. “It sounds almost like a… like something that is untrue by its very nature.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“A contradiction in terms?” suggested Cedric.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“A paradox?” offered Harry.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Draco nodded at Harry. “A paradox. Like burning water. Or a lucky elf.” He shook his head. “ ‘An ambushed Moody.’ Impossible.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Well, we’ve hit critical mass, I think,” said Harry. “We have enough people to do it, but not so many people that we’ve been found out. Most of the aurors on shift yesterday and during the night, and everyone on shift today -- and now Draco. If we act now, we might even keep it from getting messy.” He looked hopefully over at the Master.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Yes,” Meldh said, nodding gently. “The changes I have made are not… subtle. The Lethe Touch takes centuries to master, but even my skill is not enough to disguise such a change in, ah, </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">priorities</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, shall we say?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Draco nodded in agreement, as well. “I knew something was different when I walked into the meeting. And there’s no sense in wasting an asset that might help the Master later. You’re right, we should act immediately.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry leaned forward, using one hand to brush the end of his ponytail back over his shoulder. “Is there any risk the Lethe Touch will wear off?” he asked Meldh. “If it has a time limit, we should make sure to set up a schedule -- maybe a system to keep an eye on each other.” He paused, thoughtfully, and wagged a finger at his Master. “If we’re going to help you, you’re going to need to start telling us things about what you want and your assets.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Meldh raised an eyebrow. He leaned forward and folded his arms on the table in front of him. He had a mild look on his face -- amused curiosity, as though he were looking at children. “Oh?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Are you fishing for information, Harry?” asked Cedric, frowning suspiciously.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Well, yes,” said Harry, contemplatively. “It’s interesting. I suppose I’d always assumed that mind magic like Imperius would come with an underlying change in personality and methodology. Maybe I’ve been making comparisons to Muggle techniques that don’t serve -- things like brainwashing. Instead, it’s more like Muggle politics than anything else… the dark side of rationality, where ideas don’t have inherent value, but only matter as… as... “ He made a gesture. “As soldiers. In politics, whether or not an idea or theory reflects reality is less important than whether it helps or hurts my team.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Meldh’s face darkened. He rose from his seat, slowly. “How can you speak this way? How have you defeated the Touch?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry shook his head. “It’s not what you think. I serve you above all else, Master Meldh. But you didn’t lobotomize me. I’m capable of introspection -- I can recognize that the change to my priorities wasn’t predicated on rational assessment of the situation.” He grinned, good-naturedly. “More knowledge is better, even about yourself. You’d be amazed how many times I’ve had to talk about this --”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Lecture</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> about this,” Cedric put in, sighing.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“-- but it’s true,” Harry continued, unperturbed. “There’s no danger to knowing how your own mind works, including all of the biases that damage your ability to make rational decisions. We’re incredibly biased towards acting according to your instructions, Master, and it wouldn’t serve you to pretend that’s not so.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“It would be less creepy, Harry, if you would just make your peace with it,” said Draco, frowning. “Accept that this is the way it is, and don’t overthink it.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“No, no,” said Harry, quickly. “That’s just it! You’re conflating the idea of resisting the change in our minds with the idea of </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">understanding</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> it.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“This is not useful,” said Meldh, quietly. He’d become mild again, apparently accepting Harry’s explanation, and lowered himself back into his seat. “We will finish planning, so that we eliminate all threats. Then we will take the time to prepare our moves for the future… what pieces we keep and what pieces we sacrifice. We will adjust our strategy, so we can move towards my chosen endgame -- not your madness of healing Muggles and throwing things into the sky. Magic must have its end.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry looked momentarily flummoxed, opening and closing his mouth a few times. Draco smirked, watching. Eventually, Harry found words again, frowning. “Yes, sir.” His frown became surprise, as though he’d intended to say something else.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Draco turned his attention back to the Master. “Moody is due to come in today at some point for an intrusion attempt, since it’s an even-numbered day. I suggest we prepare a fake repeater in the clinic, and ask him for help.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“There have been a few people who have been unhappy with their rejuvenation who have tried to convince us to do the process again,” Cedric explained. “It’s against policy, since it’s too time-consuming and it takes time away from others. If a healer is rejuvenating someone for the second or third time, that means there’s someone else in actual need of rejuvenation who has to wait in suspension. We had three French wizards who caused a problem about this, a couple of years ago, and backed up the queue so badly that several people came very near to dying. We keep a sharp eye on répéteurs ever since.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Moody has prepared for this sort of thing,” said Harry. “I know for a fact. One of his jobs is to be paranoid about everyone.” He stabbed a finger onto the surface of the table. “Even </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">me</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">.” He turned to Draco. “One level won’t be enough. We need levels and levels if we want to have any hope, here.”</span><br />
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<br />
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Alastor Moody was waiting until just before midnight. People got sloppy at night -- forgot to check their corners, lost track of everyone in the room, and other laxness. He hadn’t done a night intrusion on the Tower in months. By that time, they’d be wondering if he’d already managed to get in… they’d start double-checking the patients already in the clinic and verifying the identity of everyone in the halls. Added to their fatigue, it might be the edge he needed to get to Harry and “assassinate” him.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He smiled to himself as he checked the Glenwallace Traps on the doorframes of his house. This was going to be a fun one.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">It helped that he was in a good body. A tall and healthy man with a dark complexion and brown eyes -- nondescript but usefully vital. There was a lot to be said for the usefulness of sheer physical health when it came to break-ins, although the stealth value of a small child or an obese man wasn’t to be shunned.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">A small bell rang twice, and Moody frowned. Owl in the hutch. He checked the front door and the windows, and then went to the hutch. It was carrying nothing but parchment, so he opened the swivel-door barrier and let the owl through, and plucked the message free.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">REPEATER IN THE CLINIC. WE NEED A QUIET REMOVAL AND TO MAKE SURE THIS DOESN’T HAPPEN AGAIN. APPLY PERSUASION.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">It was signed by Malfoy.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">A trick? A trap? Alastor knew where at least 75% of Malfoy’s little gang were, and they were almost all neutralized. Assuming he could be wrong by as much as a fifth, and that Malfoy might have gotten leverage over some of the mid-level aurors -- maybe a Terminus on duty -- or maybe Malfoy himself had been suborned by a larger operation or a powerful individual, maybe the Three. Or just an attempt to curry favor. Or rather, more subtle: an attempt to appear as though he were currying favor, so as to be taking an obvious hopeless action in a safe way while putting forth another plan.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Might also be the Chinese or Americans, making a try now that they had their foot in the door. He wouldn’t put it past that lousy little Hig, who was all helpful and sweet now that the Westphalians had what they wanted.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">It was also just barely possible that there was no ulterior motive to the situation or message. He chuckled out loud at the thought.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Alastor snatched some leaves of parchment from the writing desk near the hutch and wrote three terse messages in his crooked and crabbed hand, ordering a change in the shift commanders at the RCP and the Ministry, and sending a further letter to a cold-drop. Unlikely Malfoy or anyone else could have sway enough to manage every single shift commander. He sealed them with a hasty Verification Charm to match his wand, and sent them on their way.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He checked the Glenwallace Traps again, and the other Dark Detectors while he was at it. Then Alastor pulled on his gear and checked it over. He studied his appearance in the glass for a long moment, but he looked safely ordinary.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The safest way would be to Apparate to the Ministry and then take a secure Floo, but they’d be expecting that and it would, ironically, make him more identifiable. No, as so often, the best way was the more direct and fastest. A Safety Stick.</span><br />
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<br />
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<span style="font-weight: 400;">It had looked wrong, right from the start.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Alastor walked into the clinic from the Receiving Room to find a repeater, all right -- someone with the unblemished skin and youth of the rejuvenated. He was arguing in the middle of the clinic with a healer, who was calmly trying to redirect the repeater back into a cubicle.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">But there were also seven aurors.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">There was not any reason for there to be seven aurors. That was far too many. The three on shift here would have been sufficient, and an additional one from the Receiving Room would have been an abundance of caution. Sending four aurors in as reinforcement for a minor difficulty like this wasn’t just a waste of resources: it would actually cause the very problem that they tried to avoid when repeaters showed up. Repeaters needed to be soothed, reassured, and sent on their way without a fuss.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Protocol was well-known. More than that, it was just common sense. And these weren’t new aurors to the Tower, either, he noticed. They were old hands; people with experience, and no known ties to any other power that he knew. But here they were, where they shouldn’t be, all standing in bunches.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Time to address the likelihood that this was a Malfoy trap for him (or a trap by someone else).</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Alastor backed out of the clinic and turned to the auror standing farther down the corridor, the one he’d just passed. “Pirrip!”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The idiot turned. “Sir?” He’d just cleared Alastor mere moments ago, exchanging passwords.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Go tell Harry that there’s something very suspicious with the repeater in the clinic. Then come back at speed. Bring another hand with you -- someone with battle experience,” Alastor barked, sharply. He waited just long enough to see Pirrip on the jump, then turned and strode back into the clinic.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">But scarcely was he inside before he heard a scream. He whirled to see that Pirrip hadn’t even made it out of sight down the corridor -- the young auror was down, thrashing on the ground. Gutclench Curse or something similar.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Almost without thinking, Alastor sidestepped to the right, and without a pause charged into motion, out of the clinic. Behind him, he could hear voices shouting and spells being cast. Not all focused on him -- whatever this was, he still had allies. He barely thought about his reactions as he raised the purplish light of Azarian Fire behind him, throwing himself to the side once he was clear of the doorway to the clinic. The Fire erupted behind him with a rush of smoke, and he took the opportunity to crouch low and lean back around the doorway, snatching at the goblin-silver door just to one side. A spray of Bertram Bolts sizzled through the air over his head as he hauled at the door, and it smoothly slid into place.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He needed to get to Harry. Alastor took off at a dead run.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He didn’t pause over Pirrip, not even breaking stride as he sprinted down the corridor over the lad. He spared a look to his right as he went past the entrance, but he could already see that the Receiving Room aurors had sent two of their number to assist him (traitors to stab him in the back? No, Madagascar and Nimue hated each other, that hate was more reliable than most things) and so he could rely on the alert being raised.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Down past the Advancement Agency, still sprinting, plucking a potion from his belt with his free hand and dropping it behind him, Alastor cursed. Whoever was behind this was causing chaos, but how could they think they’d win? That they’d get control of the Tower -- they didn’t even know what the Tower really was, or what happened here. Did they think to learn the “special webs” that made “Tower Transfiguration” possible here? Had they figured out the Stone… were they just trying to steal that? Alastor hoped that Harry had his wits about him, and that he’d put on one of the decoy gloves as soon as he was threatened. The decoys each had a fragment of an ancient and ruined cup embedded in their palm, where the Stone went in the real glove -- if anything was stolen, let it be one of them.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">But it was much worse than he thought. Charging around the corner, taking the turn at a momentary crouch, wand raised, he saw that they’d already gotten to Harry</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> oh Merlin oh no --</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry was on the ground, and a knife was buried in his chest. Blood was spreading around him.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">-- check behind, nothing, run forward, call for help, two bringing up the rear to watch your back --</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">There was so much blood already, was the boy already dead? His shoes were wrong. He had to be saved, he had to be saved, there was no one who could take his place, not really.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">-- move to the side, wand up, there’s someone Disillusioned, see the shimmer, no bother with removal, wide-angle attack, get down --</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He dropped into a crouch again and raised his wand to Vom Tag, reaching out with his mind. He focused his will into the necessary shape and pushed away from him the thought of a grandmother’s eyes and sparkling blue lights. It was devilishly tricky to aim, but he just needed to get it </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">out there</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> and he felt with relief the rush of arctic wind as it swept in a torrent away from his fingers, ripe with cold.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He brought up more Azarian Fire in front of him almost in the same breath, but never took his eye off the corridor. The blur of distortion that was his enemy made a movement, redirecting his attack. A skillful turn. Foolish to do it so well, they revealed too much about their style. Possibly meant to tempt him into overconfidence.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">-- </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">no time for this, no time no time, use the arch you can make it secret again later like the last time --</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Alastor whipped three rapid-fire curses at his opponent, buying a half-second to reach into his robes. He felt the metal ring in its pocket, and snatched it free. Lunging to the side, he snapped his wand forward, shouting a curse powerful enough that his own ears ached from the pressure of its passage.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">And he hurled a metal ring at his enemy, urging it to work. He needed it to work. He needed it to </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">save Harry</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The Arch of Ulak Unconquered, the most perfect prison ever devised, swelled impossibly as it sailed through the air. Within moments it had ceased to be a thing of physical reality, and had become a force of nature, transforming from a slender metal ring into a burnished hoop the size of a man.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Alastor’s foe was fast: he had time to try two full spells as the Arch flew at him. Both spells, a rush of wind and a blaze of fire, were swallowed by the Arch so thoroughly that they might never have existed. The Arch was a thing unyielding and unknowable -- the last sanction of Alastor Moody, the reserve he retained against any betrayal.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">And then the Arch dropped down, encircling the enemy, and then the enemy was gone. There was only the empty metal hoop of the Arch resting on the stone, and Alastor brandishing his wand, and the aurors on his heels running in lockstep, and a dying Harry Potter-Evans-Verres. Whose shoes were wrong.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Whose shoes were wrong.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Trap</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">There was only a moment between the realization and unconsciousness, but that moment was long enough for Alastor to understand. A fake Harry meant a fake enemy, already in control of the Stone. That meant a fake attack. That meant a set-up in the clinic, assisted by the Receiving Room. That meant no one raised the alarm. That meant everyone was in on it.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Constant vigila</span></em><br />
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<br />
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<span style="font-weight: 400;">After Moody was theirs, the two aurors took away Kraeme’s body, still transfigured into the shape of Harry. On Meldh’s instructions, they put it in the clinic for the moment, until arrangements could be made. The Arch was more difficult. Moody himself had to whisper arcane words to it before he could lift it, releasing Cedric from a prison so complete that the Head Auror had not even been aware of the passage of time.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Everyone took a moment to recover.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">But only a moment.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Now, then,” said Meldh, turning to Harry. The Tower was blinking away tears, but with awkward shakes of his head that suggested he wasn’t aware of it. “I believe now is an excellent time to visit a certain black box. There is a threat we need to address… and I think on a more permanent basis than you are willing to do.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry felt an ache within himself, but no conflict within his will. The new arrangement of his mind carried him forward, as inexorably as a satellite sailing through space, and he nodded readily.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">It was time to visit Voldemort.</span><br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span>
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<b style="color: #222222; font-family: 'noto serif', georgia, serif; font-size: x-large; line-height: 27px;">Significant Digits, Chapter Thirty-Nine: The Compresence of Opposites</b><br />
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<em><span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span></em>
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span></em>
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span></em>
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. The same was in the beginning with God. All things were made by him; and without him was not any thing made that was made. In him was life; and the life was the light of men. And the light shineth in darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not.</span></em><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>- </i>John 1:1-5<br />
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<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The end came without notice or noise.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Auror Kwannon came in, waved Auror Kraeme over, and murmured something. Kraeme nodded and left, and Kwannon took up position behind Harry in the meeting room. He gave her a nod, but it didn’t merit comment -- it could be as simple as a bathroom break, and it happened all the time, and he trusted Kwannon just as much as Kraeme.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry went on with his meeting, talking with Luna and Umbridge about the next steps for the sfaironaut program. Frustratingly, the biggest problem seemed to be conflict between their two sfaironauts, Basil Horton and Ron Weasley. They were refusing to work together. Luna wanted to sack them both from the program and find someone new; Umbridge was determinedly defending Horton, and thought only Weasley should be grounded.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">After twenty minutes, they hadn’t reached a consensus. “I’ll decide about this next week, after speaking to both of them,” Harry said, sighing. He folded up the parchments in front of him, and swept them to one side.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“All right, Harry,” said Umbridge sweetly, turning to look at Luna with an obvious look of triumph. She looked back at Harry as she got up from the table. “You’ll see, once you speak to them. The difference is striking -- a gawky boy versus an experienced man.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“A lot of experience,” said Luna, cryptically, as she too stood up. Umbridge blushed. Harry sighed.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Thank you,” he said, shaking his head.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“You’re due in the clinic?” Luna asked, as Umbridge left with a flounce.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Not for an hour,” Harry said. He leaned back in his chair. “I’m going to do some reading, I think. It’s been --”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Mr. Potter?” came a voice at the door. It was Kraeme, back again.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Yes?” Harry asked, glancing over. He’d been planning to go chat with Professor Quirrell, bringing the captive-in-a-box some more books on tape. He’d been able to make more time for that lately. It was good to have those sorts of conversations again -- ones where he didn’t have to hold back or go slowly -- and he’d be irritated if some nonsense emergency got in the way of that today. It was always some prankster students hoping for his favour, or a small-time warlord testing the Tower’s defenses.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“You’re needed in Material Methods, sir. One of the goblins showed up, finally, and he wants to speak to you about what’s been happening with them,” said Kraeme. She looked mildly concerned, which was unusual.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Fine,” said Harry. “I’ll be glad to know what’s going on in Ackle, that we’ve gotten to this point. I don’t need a group of angry and sullen Beings… we already have the centaurs for that.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Good luck, Harry,” Luna said, heading out the door ahead of him. “Try to get them back… we need them.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Of course, Luna,” Harry said, parting ways with her. He walked down the hall.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">As he rounded the corner, though, he was surprised to find a stranger standing there, flanked by several healers from the clinic and six or seven aurors. Umbridge was also standing next to the man, smiling.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Wha --” said Harry, but the man had already darted forward. Harry jerked back, instinctively. Almost as quickly, he shoved one hand into the opposite sleeve to snatch out his wand. But the man’s hand was fast, and it touched his wrist, and it was too late.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Egeustimentis</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">,” said the man.</span><br />
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
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<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry Potter-Evans-Verres existed. This was true. And there was more of him, elsewhere and here. So much of his being was held back from him, excluded into another place, even as the entirety of his mind was laid out before him and subject to the careful touch of his enemy.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He watched, and felt nothing but idle curiosity.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry’s mind was laid out in front of him. It shifted from shape to shape in the way of something in a dream, somehow without ever changing while at the same time being in constant flux. He could see hormonal drives, deep impulses, passing memories, flighty sensations, and everything else that made up his cognition, but that knowledge was far from him. He could even see a rigidity that stiffened its way through parts of his mind, a visible Unbreakable Vow that kept his thoughts from ever taking certain shapes… but that sight meant nothing to him. Harry was a speck, a fragment, a mote of consciousness.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">A man was there -- the man who had touched Harry. His enemy. Harry knew that, somewhere and somehow far away. But it didn’t matter. With the flicker of self left to him, Harry observed.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Hello there, Mr. Potter. You look older than the last time I was able to watch you,” said the man. He was of middling height and uncertain ethnicity, with dark skin but an Asian cast to his features. He wore robes of extraordinary simplicity and extraordinary quality. His hair was thinning on top. His eyes were brown, and calm.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I am Meldh,” the man said. “Or so you can call me. It is an old word of my youth.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry absorbed this information, and felt it pass through his consciousness, out into the larger part of his mind, where it met with a shiver of doubt. Only a sliver of Harry was aware, though, and it had no room for such complexities as reaction or speech.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“You are safe, Mr. Potter. I am not going to kill you. When we are done, you will be changed, but you will be alive. Do not try to resist. There is no method available to you that would allow you to resist the Lethe Touch. Your Occlumency is a child’s toy, more suitable for games than protection. Nor would it be well for the world for you to try to resist… believe me when I say that it is for the good of that world that I act,” said Meldh. “Magic must perish, if life is to survive. This is the legacy of Atlantis. This is the legacy of the Prince of Enchanters, Merlin. For years beyond counting, I and others have preserved that legacy. We have moved our pieces as we could, and watched magic fade.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Meldh stepped out through Harry’s mind, shifting gently to shoulder his way past rippling curtains of curds that reeked of whiteness. “You are unpredictable and strange, Mr. Potter, so I have left you little of your wakefulness. Who knows what unconventional preparations you might have laid up in your mind, hidden away from our scrying in your Mirror-bound Tower? I take no risks. For now, though, this means we cannot have a conversation. I apologize for that.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He slid his fingers into a white ripple, and parted it. He looked curiously at the parting. “So many unusual ideas... “ He smiled. “Here we are. Ah, ah, ah... prophecies are at work? ‘</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Only by seeking the scorpion and the archer, locked beyond return, shall the crux succeed. By this path shall death be defeated for the banished father.</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">’ And what does that… ah, I see.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Meldh plucked at a grey burr, and lifted it up for inspection. It drew a tangle of its fellows along, like a springy mat of thorns. Meldh examined the section of burrs. His face changed from curiosity to surprise, as though he’d understood something.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“A clever use of the Spirit Stone, if you have deduced the answer correctly. I admit that this is… clever. Genius, even, considering the way in which you obtained the Stone from our pawn.” He shook his head, chuckling. “It is fortunate indeed that I came here, if this was your plan. ‘Defeat death’...? What would such an event look like? If you spent even a moment thinking of alternate outcomes or possible interpretations, you would turn away in horror and take your own life. You decided your preferred meaning, and seized it.” A pause, as he plucked at nearby bristles and burrs, contemplatively. “Your guilt drives you to these lengths, not your good sense.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Meldh dropped the vinegar-smelling lights in his hands, allowing them to settle back into a glowing three-dimensional web that rippled with pulses of energy. There had been no transition from fibrous thorn-tangle to web of lights, and somehow both were still true. Meldh traced a handful of the web’s strands, an acid tang accompanying every pulse of light under his careful fingers, until he reached a bright node.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Other prophecies… a boy fated to bring down a great house, but that is no matter. This Lawrence boy might just as well fulfill his part by causing the destruction of some noble manor, rather than any great shift in your little political game. Your attempts to change his attitude were a waste of time.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Ah, here here here…” Meldh said, snatching at a bony protuberance, pulling at it until it stretched like yellowed taffy. It distended from the great knobby mass of bone, and it seemed to impart meaning to the wizard as he worked it with his fingers.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry watched from some other place, both here and there. His world was constrained to the moment, as though he were a brute animal. It was shallow and wonderful.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Yes,” he said, “you are the child who will ‘</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">tear apart the very stars in heaven</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">.’ And if that is indeed you, then you will also ‘</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">rend asunder the fires of the sky</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">’ or </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">‘tear open the eyes of heaven</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">’ and other such phrasings. A nexus of prophecy, all surely referring to one child and one decision. Unmistakable, even to Nell’s toppled queen, Dumbledore.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I suppose you can’t be blamed. You have done your best, your very best, with what you had and what you knew. You are master of the world -- or at least, you could be master, with a flick of your wrist to bring your opponents into mate. Or near enough to make no matter,” Meldh paused for a moment. “Few enough have ever been able to make that boast. Perhaps only Merlin. But your goals have been misguided, even foolish, and you have not made the most of your opportunities. For years now, you have had access to some of the deepest lore. But you have wasted your time on frivolities -- ‘lifeboats from Earth,’ honestly?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The wizard shook his head, chuckling. He walked to a new place along the outside of the bony mass, and touched a polished knob that stuck out prominently. “Combining the Muggle and magical is not a new thing, despite your arrogance. What has it given you, besides trinkets up high in the air? Let us see.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He pushed the knob aside and scooped his hand into the surface of the bone, distending it as he forced his fingers deeper inside. He drew out a thick handful of whiteish bone, sculpted out in a column by his careful but insistent hand.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“What is this?” He examined the thoughts. “Some mawkish combination of old philosophy and new ‘science’ and something Merlin once said? Well, all that is…”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">There was a heavy pause, a pause as weighty as iron, as Meldh’s voice died. He looked stunned by what he’d found. He took a step back, and then he threw up his hands, his face reddening, snapping, “You realized </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">this</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, and you </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">discarded </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">the idea?!”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry, a mote of pleasant consciousness, observed this anger with distant interest. He could see changes in the whispering rattle of long serrated teeth moving in the immense jaw that now represented his mind; Meldh held one long incisor, but others were moving in a swirl up and down, revealing in some unimaginable fashion that a part of Harry was upset. The mote that was Harry saw himself struggling mightily, and finding no purchase.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“You even believe that you want to keep everyone alive, and I could have credited your good intentions. But you do not even seem to understand the contradiction in the fact that you’re willing to sacrifice human lives out of fear of some insanity that will happen in --” Meldh paused and swiped at the large incisor’s surface, scrutinizing it. “-- a ‘googol’ of years. It’s stupidity of the highest order, and it shows why you are such a threat.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Meldh swept his hand forward, seeming to let release his anger at the same time that he released the enormous tooth in his hand, letting it slide from his grip and settle back into its rattling place. He sighed. “The implications of this… even beyond the practical benefits… ah, but you know so little, ultimately. An idiot genius, placing his pieces on the board with a fool’s luck. And how much corruption here, spreading through you like a rot! Tom Riddle within you and Tom Riddle without you, and you becoming more like both.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He shook his head, and placed his hands on his hips, looking down at the gobbets of thick fat that hung in the air all around him. “It is good that I came, though I was afraid. Not only will I stop you from your foolishness, you provide me here with new knowledge a thousandfold beyond what I ever could have hoped. I can find no metaphor from the game of kings… suffice to say that your mad insight will raise me beyond where even centuries of effort has brought me.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The fraction of Harry that was awake, the mild observer, saw motion within itself. A planned uprising of mental discipline -- the buried power of years of practice at introspection and systematic thought. He couldn’t touch it, and knew it not, but he could observe it.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He had been a creature of the mind for so long. Heuristics and biases, Occlumency and Vows. He was not ancient and was not powerful, but he was a creature of the mind. He was the master of his mind, and no one else.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">That distant mind swelled in shudders, setting the constellation of grease into a rhythm. It pulsed and built to a crescendo, striving mightily to take possession of itself. A powerful tremble ran through his entire mind.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry and Meldh observed, calmly.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">His mind subsided. It became quiet. It conceded.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“First,” Meldh said, reaching out to guide two droplets of fat into each other, “we must make some changes. Your Unbreakable Vow might have saved us all before now -- it is truly unbreakable, even for me -- and we must be grateful for Tom Riddle’s foresight, but it will be all the better when you are wholly mine, instead.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry Potter-Evans-Verres observed his master, and felt nothing but idle curiosity.</span><br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span>
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ADhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10211720060888169877noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8047698153058029905.post-9976176627931317912016-02-03T15:52:00.002-05:002016-02-08T00:58:42.343-05:00Significant Digits, Bonus: Draco<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b style="color: #222222; font-family: 'noto serif', georgia, serif; font-size: x-large; line-height: 27px;">Significant Digits, Bonus: Draco</b><br />
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<em><span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span></em>
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Pursuant to an agreement, I grant and confirm to Armand </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Malfoi </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">the Vale of </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Haxburn Downs</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, with the Manor of </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Haxburn</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, and the Chapel of </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Haxburn</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, &c of the gift of </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Osmundus Æþelindus</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, Earl of </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Haxburn</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">. I commend it to the </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Use </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">of the selfsame Armand </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Malfoi </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">with all good thanks for his </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Service</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> for he has ever been a </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">True Friend</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> and </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Loyal Servant</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> of my </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">House</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, and I know it shall ever be </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">So</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, and I do charge Armand </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Malfoi </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">with the good </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">maintenance </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">and </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">safekeep </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">of the </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Treasury of the South West</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> with all my Trust.</span></em><br />
<br />
- <em><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Grant of Lord-Enchanter Assurence de Chute, two years before his untimely death</span></em></em><br />
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<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
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<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></em></div>
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire, England</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">February 12th, 1997</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">A year ago</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Put the samovar on,” Draco said, gesturing at the tapered silver device and glancing at Gregory. Three domovoi were visiting that evening, and they tended to be particular about such niceties. It was probably part of their unrelenting feelings of inferiority towards the British, as though Merlin’s heirs were to blame for their position on top of the Confederation or their legacy of powerful magic. The Russians always wanted to be treated with every little courtesy, and bristled at any perceived slight.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Not that Draco would have it any other way. It was an easy lever to use, and required nothing of him but a bit of forethought. Everyone should be so pliable.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Gregory Goyle obliged, twisting one of the handles of the samovar. The device was an elegant piece, with two stylized dragon’s heads protruding from the top. It began to heat itself with a quiet hiss. “What’s the plan?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“You bring them in, and then go and tag their brooms. The Thunderer has been spreading gold around, looking for ways to co-opt the Honourable. I want to know who’s been helpful enough to be the point person for his emissaries,” said Draco. “Once you’ve done that -- and check out their people, see if there’s any opportunities there -- then you’ll join us and play the heavy.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Draco paused, then spoke to the air, curtly. “Dobby.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Barely a breath passed before the elf appeared, stepping out from behind a curtain. It was rude to apparate into the middle of a room, of course… proper house elf etiquette required a furtive entrance. The bedraggled little creature’s bony face was pained with anxiety. “Master?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Pack for a journey. Mother and I, both. Cold weather. Riding, formal blacks, formal greens, and lounging,” Draco commanded. “I’ll want to be ready to go by the time my meeting tonight is concluded.” He turned away, gesturing dismissively.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Yes, Master,” said Dobby, eyes wide. He gently stepped back behind the curtain.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Will Carrow be here for the meeting?” Gregory asked, looking uncomfortable.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Yes,” said Draco, giving Gregory a direct and cold look. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">What of it?</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, his face said.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Fine,” said Gregory. Nothing more. He busied himself with arranging the furniture appropriately. He removed the two light wooden chairs from the room, levitating them out and replacing them with heavier armchairs. There were five of these: two set in close pairs and one separate, near the fire. Draco would take the single chair, of course, and allow the visitors to choose their own seats.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">How the Russians arranged themselves would be valuable information. If two sat and one stood nearby, it would show that they were choosing solidarity in some respect -- usually indicating nervousness or conscious opposition. If all three sat immediately, it would show comfort and ease, suggesting Draco could easily advance the relationship by taking the domovoi into his confidence that very evening. If there was hesitation, the process and order in which they sat could be observed: who was the leader, who deferred to others, and so on.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Poor little domovoi, coming to Malfoy Manor.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">They were necessary for the future, though -- not just entertainment. Draco had a significant power base in Britain and many admirers abroad -- the international subscriptions to </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Unbreakable Honour</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> were almost equal to the domestic numbers -- but he’d never be a credible player on the world stage until he had some firmer connections with some of the globe’s more reliable leaders. Voters were all well and good, but if you wanted iron in the glove, you needed some of the better sort on your side. You needed some tyrants.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">There was a creak in the hallway outside, and Draco froze. Gregory snatched his wand up, his face hard.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“It’s I,” came the smooth voice of Amycus Carrow, “your Uncle Amycus.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Come,” said Draco.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The door opened, and Amycus Carrow entered. Tall and gaunt, the spymaster of the Honourable and old ally of the Malfoys was wearing black robes with shiny buttons, fastened tight up to his chin. The dark shadow of some scraggly whiskers were visible on his upper lip, and his hair was clipped very short.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Draco, my boy,” said Carrow. “So good to see you.” His eyes flickered over the length of Draco’s body, the way they always did -- a possessive and lingering look. “Nacreous liver,” he murmured, bizarrely and almost inaudibly. He seemed almost hungry.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Hullo, Mr. Carrow,” said Gregory, just a touch too loudly. He put a smile on his face as a shield.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Carrow started slightly, as though he hadn’t realized Gregory was there, and swiveled his head to glance at the other man. “Gregory,” he said in acknowledgment.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">As usual, Draco was forced to admire the performance of Mad-Eye Moody. It wasn’t simply the perfection of the acting, although that was so masterful that not even Amycus Carrow’s nieces suspected the subterfuge (it helped that they were never permitted to spend much time with him, or to ever be alone with him: the uneasy parent’s usual precaution against an “acrohandula”). No, the true magnificence of the performance was that Draco knew -- he </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">knew</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> -- that Moody was putting on this perfect imitation of Carrow at the same time as he played the part of Draco’s spymaster while </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">also</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> watching out for Harry Potter’s interests </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">and</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> remaining constantly vigilant of immediate threats. It was the virtuoso exhibition of a masterful fanatic.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Was your excursion useful, Amycus?” Draco asked.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Moody -- no, it was impossible to think of him as anything other than Amycus Carrow -- Carrow pursed his lips. “Yes… I think so. You are the only one who can credibly promise such gifts to the Thai. They won’t step out ahead of China, for fear of being left alone in the cold, but they will drag their feet as much as they may. The Ten Thousand are never quick on the stick, but I don’t believe we need to worry about them joining the ranks of our enemies, any time soon.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The dragons’ heads on top of the samovar opened their mouths, hissing twin streams of steam. Their eyes glowed a dull red.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Draco walked to one of the room’s tall windows, and stood there for a moment, looking out at the night. He could see one of the towers of </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">The Declaration of Intent</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, and it was a sharp reminder of the importance of the stewardship of assets.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“We will give them nothing they can use -- ideas of promise, but no application. Dead ends,” said Draco. “A taste of power, but nothing to tip our hand or upset the balance in the Ten Thousand.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“They aren’t fools, my boy,” said Carrow. “They won’t be so easily misled. If a bitch will bear no pups, you don’t just cut its throat… you also give your elf a lesson with the knife.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Draco thought of Dobby, and smirked. “If an elf is left so poorly trained, then there’s no one to blame but yourself.” He reversed Carrow's metaphor, making it more to his liking: “We will throw a treat to our foreign friends. The Thais, the Russians, those Americans… old allies and new, they’ll learn the potential power of joining us. We have people within the Tower and in the Department of Mysteries to assist.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Such as Umbridge won’t get you what we need,” said Carrow, stroking his chin.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Stolen secrets won’t be the sole bait. There will also be simple advancements harvested from the Muggles. There is remarkable power in these techniques… power that will astonish even you, Amycus,” said Draco, turning to the side and regarding Carrow again. “The principles of Mendel can reshape the flesh of beasts in a fashion more safe and more stable than even the feats of the fabled sarkamancers of the Eleusinian Mysteries. You think it is an accident that Loony Lovegood is meddling with Devil’s Snare? The methods behind her madness are a coin for us, too.” He snapped his fingers. “And we will also buy trust with deceit. Already and at this very moment, I am acting to set up a rival to the Honourable -- a rival that will conspicuously fail, and in the process cost our erstwhile allies any investment they might make.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Your lovely mother... she's off selecting your chosen fools,” said Amycus, nodding slowly.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Taking a meeting -- she is considerably enthused about the project. I believe it amuses her to hand-craft a rival. Traps made of people are an elegant thing.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I would have been able to assist in this, had I known ahead of time, my boy.” Carrow folded his hands in front of himself, tilting his head slightly to the side. His right eye twitched. “A mistake.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Draco’s expression became cold, and his eyes narrowed.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Carrow stared back, unblinking.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">There was a long pause. Then Draco drew a breath, and spoke with cold care. “You presume too much, </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Carrow</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Gregory stood up a little straighter, and squared his shoulders; a subtle and appreciated signal.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Draco turned to face Carrow, and brought his palms together in front of himself. He drew them apart across his chest, and as they parted, his father’s cane appeared in the gap, growing as Draco spread his hands, until the Lord Malfoy could grasp the snake-headed silver handle and bring the other end down to the floorboards with a sharp crack. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Draco raised his voice, beginning loudly, all thunder and lightning “</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">I am</span></em> <em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Draco Malfoy, and I… I...</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">His voice trailed off. Draco lowered his gaze. He fell silent. He let his shoulders slump slightly, as though the wind had been taken from his sails. He stood like that, and held it. Waited.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Lord Malfoy?” asked Gregory, hesitantly.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“No,” said Draco.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Gregory drew a sharp breath.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Draco raised his eyes again, glancing at Gregory. “No,” he said again. “This is too important. It is too important for grandstanding.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Then he met Carrow’s eyes with a steady gaze, and his voice was quiet. “No speeches, no grandeur, no orders. I tell you here tonight, Amycus Carrow, that this is the sticking point for a hundred generations of wizardkind. If we fail, then the world will be a darker and sadder place.” Draco thought of a silver light he’d once seen… a pure glow that had overturned so many lies with its very existence, filling him with such an argent awe that it changed his world in a heartbeat. He imagined that light gone forever, and let that sorrow fill his voice. “If we fail -- if we let one trick slip by or fall short by an ounce of wit, then our world will become a Muggle-made thing of immortal monsters. We are confronting an existential threat: a looming power that might not only end us, but end everything we hold dear.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He shook his head. “So no threats and no foolishness. If you don’t have the mettle to hold to your place and do your part, even when it harms your pride, well -- go, and may your chains sit lightly upon you.” He raised his cane -- a mere symbol and a powerless prop, but wasn’t persuasion the mightiest thing of all? -- and he pointed it at Carrow. “But if you have honour, and you’re with us… then you are </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">with us</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, and you will </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">heed your place</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">.”</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Apophasis.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Before he’d even finished speaking, Carrow had fallen to one knee. “I can offer nothing but my apology and my fealty, Lord Malfoy.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Gregory looked as satisfied as the kneazle that caught the cracklebit. He crossed his arms, and a smile lurked at the corner of his mouth. He looked a foot taller. He looked like faith fulfilled. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Master,” said Dobby, emerging from behind a different curtain. “Your visitors are here.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Let them in,” said Draco, without taking his gaze off of Carrow. Dobby disappeared back behind the curtain once more. Draco lowered his cane. “Goyle, go meet them.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Goyle left, his face revealing barely-disguised triumph. The story of this moment would travel. Draco smiled.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Carrow and Draco were alone. There was only the quiet hiss of steam, rising dangerously from twin dragon heads, to keep them company.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Bah,” said Carrow, rising off of his knee and standing up again. He snatched out his wand and as he waggled it, almost too fast to follow, the warm crackle of wards settled on around them. Privacy screens, above and beyond the ones that already layered the Manor.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Draco didn’t say anything -- didn’t rub it in. There was no need.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Try that again, Malfoy,” he said, glowering, “and you will get a rather different reaction. Goyle will be spreading the story of how you lost an ear, instead.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Draco watched him coolly. “And damage everything we’ve been building? You have more discipline than that.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Maybe. But also too much discipline to be afraid to upset the applecart, if need be,” replied Carrow.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Before you do, be quite certain it’s worth it. One only gets one chance at ruining plans like these.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Plans like these? Your mother is setting up some small circle of idiots to take a fall, sucking some Cappadocian money with them as they go, eh? Helping build up the Honourable to draw in all the enemy?” said Carrow. He stabbed a finger at Draco. “Or is it a cover for your own efforts to set up an independent base of power?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I’m not above a fall-back plan, Mad-eye,” said Draco, “because I am not an idiot. If something happens to Harry, or he goes too far, or anything else… well, I don’t intend to wager everything on one game of pitch-and-toss. But my fall-back lies in the Honourable: they are my ‘independent’ base of power, if need be, not some momentary troop of patsies. That is why the Honourable are loyal to me, personally. Harry knows that. You know that. And you both understand it, too, I think.” He fixed Carrow with a harsh look. “Don’t pretend to purity. I know you have your own private plans.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Not that he </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">knew</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, really, but there could not be a safer assumption.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“There’s a difference between preparation and betrayal,” said Carrow, in a most un-Carrow-like growl. “Which are you at, I wonder?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Continue</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> to wonder,” pronounced Draco, curtly.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Aye,” said Carrow, slowly. “Well. You may believe you can bludger Potter in the back, if you get the opportunity. And maybe you’re right. He’s clever, but soft. He trusts you. But I don’t.” </span>Carrow gave Draco a hard stare, and his very face was a reminder of his capacity for subterfuge. “But be careful thinking you can play a deeper game than me, boy. Many have tried... and gotten no deeper than six feet.”<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Lord Draco Malfoy,” said Gregory, opening the door across the room, “of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Malfoy, Britain’s last and best defender of the honour of wizardkind and the fate of magic.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Draco turned to regard the door, cane in hand, and his face slid into a courteous smile of welcome. Three men with hard faces but indifferent grooming stepped into the room ahead of Gregory. They had the weighty air of importance. One of them wore a brooch of emeralds-and-alicorn, while another openly carried an old wand of the Slavic style, two feet long and bladed. They all wore the red woollen cloaks of Russian domovoi: the decision-makers of one of the great peoples in the wizarding world, no less magisterial than the Wizengamot. These were men who had held lives in their hands, who had scrutinized their subjects down to the curve of their soul, who had begun and ended wars as they saw fit.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Now they were come to Malfoy Manor.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Carrow and Goyle walked over to stand beside Draco. Draco’s smile broadened.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Please, gentlemen,” he said. “Sit wherever you like.”</span><br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span></div>
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<b style="color: #222222; font-family: 'noto serif', georgia, serif; font-size: x-large; line-height: 27px;">Significant Digits, Chapter Thirty-Eight: The Ineluctable Modality of the Visible</b></div>
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span></em>
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span></em>
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">“What stories do you mean, and what fault do you find in them?”</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">“The fault one ought to find first and foremost, especially if the falsehood isn’t well told.”</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">“For example?”</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">“When a story gives a bad image of what the gods and heroes are like, the way a painter does whose picture is not at all like the things he’s trying to paint.”</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">“You’re right to object to that. But what sort of story in particular do you have in mind?”</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">“First, telling the greatest falsehood about the most important things doesn’t make a fine story -- I mean Hesiod telling us about how Uranus behaved, how Cronus punished him for it, and how he was in turn punished by his own son. Even if that were true, it should be passed over in silence, not told to foolish young people. And if, for some reason, it has to be told, only a very few people -- pledged to secrecy and after sacrificing not just a pig but something great and scarce -- should hear it, so that their number is kept as small as possible.”</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">“Yes. Such stories are hard to deal with.”</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">- Plato, </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">The Republic </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> II.377e-378a</span><br />
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">John Snow Center for Medicine and Tower School of Doubt (The Tower)</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">May 17th, 1999</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">The same day</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Well, that was a waste of two hours,” drawled Draco, as he walked into the Pairing Partnership. He closed the door behind him, and the Lovegood Leaf rustled. “I suppose I never really considered just how tedious it would be to watch a gaggle of Muggles for any length of time.” He shook his head, and swept one hand along his hair, smoothing it.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Didn’t enjoy the movie?” asked Harry, turning in his seat away from the computer screen. Auror Kraeme, nearby, kept a close eye on Draco. She was leaning with her back against a large metal cabinet, arms folded -- but eyes sharp.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“You should call them something different, too. ‘Movie’... it just emphasizes how primitive the entire thing is, compared to a real play.” He affected his high-pitched Muggle Voice: “ ‘Wow, look, they’re </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">moving </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">just like real people would, if only we had taste enough to go watch an actual troupe of performers!’ </span>”<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“They used to be called ‘talkies,’ ” Harry said, wryly. “So it could be worse. But ticket sales at the movie theatre go up every week, so I’m not sure that everyone agrees with you.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“It’s the thing to do, like eating at Siegfried’s. People are sheep, and right now you’ve set out some new paddocks. That doesn’t mean there will be any long-term success. Grindelwald was a fanatic for painting, they say, but it’s not as though Hungary is full of painters</span> <span style="font-weight: 400;">today. After Grindelwald was locked up in Nurmengard, most of the artists went back to sculpting. If you want people to become </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">actually interested</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, not just intrigued by the novelty, then you need to make movies about things that they care about. Not Muggles with guns,” Draco said. He pulled a chair over next to the EEG machine, where Harry was sitting in front of the attached computer.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I am not going to start a production company,” said Harry, shaking his head. But he froze in the middle of the gesture and frowned. “Well, actually, I guess there’s no reason why we </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">couldn’t</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> do that. They could begin with adaptations of some famous wizard plays, and cast some of the same actors, probably.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Ah yes, one more industry dominated from first to last by Harry Potter,” said Draco. “No, I don’t think you’ll be doing that. It will hardly help generate an appearance of real success if you look to be propping up your Muggle ventures like that. No, I think we need to decentralize a little.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry laughed. “Malfoy Productions?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Draco glanced over at the auror by the wall, within earshot, wordlessly. Harry followed the glance, then looked back at Draco with a smile. “A Vow of secrecy, don’t worry.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The Lord Malfoy nodded, and went on. “Well, I was thinking of a joint venture with some Americans, actually. It wouldn’t be difficult to start up a similar movies theatre in Tidewater. There’s an old Westphalian ally with deep pockets, Littlebrook Strongbound, who might like to get ahead of your bosom friend Hig on something. Too much gold and control slipping through his fingers… and I think he senses the leash slipping around the Council’s neck.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“You’ll need visible capital to start something like that,” said Harry, “since Malfoys have typically been invested rather heavily in flying castles, which are not known for their liquidity. And the finance sector hasn’t been your friend over the past few years.” Traditional private usury was almost extinct in Britain, along with the corresponding interest rates. “Too many people are paying attention.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Yes,” said Draco. “A visible success to explain the new money, and I’ll whisper in a few confidential ears that it’s really Cappadocian gold -- payment for steering things their way, here.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I was thinking Amycus Carrow as a source, actually,” said Harry. “If you’d taken control of some of his assets, it would be a tidier explanation.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“The Carrow sisters might not appreciate the news that I’ve taken control of some of their uncle’s properties and loans, Harry,” said Draco, raising an eyebrow. “They’ve already been through rather a lot.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">It was subtle and quiet, but those words were question and concern and accusation, all at once. It wasn’t like Harry to forget about innocent bystanders -- and whatever their ideology, the Carrow sisters were certainly innocent of anything that might merit dragging them through any more ugliness.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“You’re right, of course,” said Harry, shaking his head. He rubbed his forehead, sighing. “I’m distracted -- not at my optimum self today.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Mm,” Draco said, in noncommital acknowledgment. “Anyway, if the Cappadocian plan doesn’t seem enough, add another layer for the clever folk: have Moody ‘investigate’ the possibility that I’ve co-opted one of the Tower arithmancers, and that the windfall is actually your money. You’ve already been working on building up their mystique for years, so rumors of a rogue arithmancer would help with that, as well.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“All right,” Harry agreed. He sounded unsettled.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Have you been sleeping enough, Harry?” asked Draco. “Or have you been spending half your time in the clinic tending to mermaids with mumps and Squibs with splinters, and the other half in here, scanning people’s brains as they cast Goat Into Goblet?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Why would anyone need a spell to… no, never mind,” said Harry, rolling his eyes. “Yes, I’ve been getting plenty of sleep. There’s just been a lot to keep track of. Managing the Tower and Britain -- and well, the world -- just keeps getting more complicated, especially without Hermione around.” Draco pursed his lips, and Harry rushed on. “It’s been good to rely on you, of course… but uniting the Treaties hasn’t actually simplified the situation.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“And you keep finding new projects,” Draco said, agreeably. “Like ancient discoveries one of your Unspeakable or Tower minions brought back to you.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry looked surprised. “How did...” He followed Draco’s gaze to a nearby table, where a box of Macadam’s Easy-Apply Melters was still out, and made a face. “Maybe I </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">am </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">tired,” he muttered.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“The only reason you’d need repair strips would be if you were trying to fix something you couldn’t transfigure,” said Draco, smiling. “And that’s a short list. Something we can use?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“A book about Merlin,” said Harry. “It’s given me some ideas, but nothing I can use -- unless I decide I’d really enjoy the entropic heat death of the universe.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Draco didn’t ask. “Then maybe give it a rest. Honestly, you should probably take a vacation. You have the government and the Confederation and Tower research and all of your little side projects, like the stupid movies and the sfaironauts and your theory of magic research. And you’ve been at this pace for… well, since we met. You can’t keep it up forever; you’re only a Ravenclaw.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Maybe I just need some smarter Slytherins to help,” said Harry. “Whatever happened to Vincent Crabbe?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Still trying to get something working in Knockturn Alley,” Draco admitted. “He’s never really forgiven me, and I rather think he’d like to be a power of his own. He backed a chandler’s, but unfortunately I understand that investment’s gone pear-shaped recently.” It was an elegant retort and reminder of Draco’s subtlety, but Draco didn’t gloat, and allowed himself only the slightest smirk. “Anyway, just think of taking a few days off. Leave government to that gawky frump of a Weasley, the world to Bones, and everything else to Moody and me. Catch up on your reading.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Eventually I’m going to take an entire </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">year</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> off… I’ll go to Japan and spend my days having fun in the lab,” said Harry. “But not yet. Things are still delicate. I’ll be fine.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I have a feeling this ‘eventually’ is scheduled sometime after everyone in the world has become free and immortal, there’s a city on the Moon, and you’ve been able to take a quick little jaunt to Atlantis to pick up Dumbledore from outside of Time,” said Draco. His voice was gentler than his words.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“We’re one minute from midnight, Draco,” said Harry, firmly. “Muggles have had the capability to destroy the world for generations, now, and it’s only by the grace of Petrov it hasn’t happened yet. I’m not going to introduce wizards to science and then take a vacation at the most delicate point. It’s too dangerous. Look at Edgar Erasmus and how we’ve had to juggle people like him, to keep everyone safe.” He shook his head. “Merlin tried to shut down the forward march of knowledge, since he thought that magical power was spreading too quickly and too easily. I don’t think he was right about the solution, but that doesn’t mean he was wrong about the problem. We have to keep tight control over things for right now. It’s too dangerous for everyone, otherwise.”</span><br />
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Elsewhere in the Tower</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">The same day</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Healer Owen Wilifred frowned. There was something very strange going on, here.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He glanced down at the patient, who was lying unconscious, immobile, and safely stunned. An older man of indeterminate ethnicity -- Asia or India or someplace. Clearly never rejuvenated, and no external symptoms. But when Owen moved his wand lower on the patient’s abdomen, he kept seeing the same thing: absolutely perfect internal organs, without a single flaw or oddity.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The diagnosis convivium seemed to be working correctly; when Owen placed his wand on his own stomach, the spell suite produced a vivid mental image of his intestines gently shifting. There was a familiar series of benign nodules along the outside of his colon, and his duodenum looked just as oddly lumpy as usual. But when Owen returned the wand to the patient and focused the diagnosis convivium back on him, there was not a single cyst, scar, or other irregularity. And no matter where he looked, it was the same. The patient’s body was as perfect as the illustrations of a medical textbook, and that was simply strange… </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">especially</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> since he was complaining of general aches and pains. They didn’t appear to have any irregularities at all, much less a condition that would cause any suffering.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Owen considered the possibilities. It was conceivable that the patient just happened to be a bizarrely perfect specimen who had never had any sort of trauma, despite what appeared to be at least six decades of life. That was very unlikely, though. It was also possible that the man -- Mr. Khan, by his intake parchment -- had been seriously hurt and had received magical healing to most of his body. But that usually left traces; skele-grow, for example, left bones with a distinctive (if harmless) spiral pattern of nonlamellar and lamellar.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The most likely explanation that occurred to Owen, though, was also the most alarming one: that the patient had been one of the first wizards to receive rejuvenation. If that were the case, it might explain the fact that his appearance was still middle-aged. In the earliest days of the Tower, Owen had heard that they’d sometimes omitted the cosmetic restoration. If the patient had been one of the first to be rejuvenated, it might also explain why they didn’t have any treatment records for him. Many of those early records had been lost in some sort of fire, years ago.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">It was also possible that Mr. Khan had been rejuvenated more recently, and had been granted special exemption from the cosmetic restoration. That was very rare, however, and it wouldn’t explain the lack of a Tower record for the procedure.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">At this point, Owen really couldn’t go any further without waking up the patient and eliminating some of these possibilities. He was beginning to be worried about time, though. The clock said that he had only about fifty minutes before Harry’s next pass through the clinic. The Tower enchantments required Harry’s express touch before any healing transfiguration would become permanent, so if Owen didn’t get this solved and the healing done quickly, he’d be stuck with Mr. Khan until the next scheduled pass -- three more hours.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Did he need an auror when he woke up the patient? Probably not. Mr. Khan wasn’t important or powerful enough to have any sort of file, and he didn’t have his wand, like every patient. Plus, Owen wasn’t a bigot or anything, but he hadn’t been able to help noticing that Mr. Khan’s wand was so battered-looking that it must be second-hand (or even third-hand).</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Still, protocol was protocol. The security at the Tower was incredibly complex, considering the difficulties of admitting and treating powerful strangers from all over the world, but it wasn’t infallible.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Owen stuck his head out of the screened-off examination cubicle, pushing aside the curtain. He called down the hall, “Wake-up here, need an auror!”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">A bored-looking auror came striding on down past the rows of cubicles, nodding. “Anything I need to know?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“He’s a bit funny in his guts. I think he might have been an earlier rejuvenation -- back before the Tower moved to this facility. I’ve heard about them… you were here then, right?” said Owen, handing over the sparse file that they’d started on Mr. Khan in the Receiving Room.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“No,” said Auror Madagascar. “I was stationed somewhere else, then. But I heard the same thing.” He flipped open the file, but it had virtually no information beyond a few uninteresting personal details like place of origin (the Vedic Kingdom, though he was admitted via the Godric’s Hollow pole), number of siblings (seven, all deceased), and the like. Madagascar shrugged. “Wake him up.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Owen did so, after making sure a privacy spell was on and that Madagascar had raised the basic safety wards. That was just standard -- some people didn’t react well to waking up from the stunning effect of the Safety Stick or Safety Poles. A majority awoke as calmly though they were waking from a nap, but some people become disoriented and alarmed.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The patient opened his eyes, gently, and blinked a moment. He tilted his head and took in the healer and the auror, then glanced around. A flicker of some expression passed over his face -- not the usual fear or uncertainty or pain, but instead a shadow of apprehension. But it was gone as quickly as it came.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Am I all right?” Mr. Khan asked. He closed his eyes for a moment, and let out a long sigh.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Owen smiled. “You’re fine, Mr. Khan. You’re in the John Snow Center for Medicine. In the Tower. My name is Wilifred Owen. I’m a healer here. This is Harry Madagascar -- he works here with me. We wanted to ask you a few questions, but if you need a moment to get oriented, take your time.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The patient sat up, nodding. “May I stand up? Is that all right?” he asked, mildly.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“No, sorry,” said Owen. “It might make you dizzy. Just give it a minute.” He stepped back next to Madagascar, but the auror waved him to the side. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Clear line of fire</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, thought Owen, and restrained the temptation to roll his eyes.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Mr. Khan shifted where he lay on the cot, moving carefully. He was wearing very simple brown robes, worn through in spots with use.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“You told the healer you’d been feeling pains?” asked Owen.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Yes,” said Mr. Khan. He turned to look at Owen, and then at Madagascar, and then jerked his head downward, sharply, cringing. He reached to his chest with one hand, and grimaced. “Again.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Owen frowned, shaking his head. “I don’t know what could be causing that... “ He stepped forward again, lifting his wand. Behind him, he heard Madagascar move to one side -- finding a good angle for a clear view. “Tell me, have you been here before, sir?” Owen set his wand on Mr. Khan’s chest, and stared at the blank white wall of the cubicle as he focused on the view of the patient’s organs afforded by the convivium. Everything looked pristine.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Mr. Khan murmured something, quietly. Owen lowered his head a little. “Pardon?” The patient reached up and gently touched Owen’s elbow, and repeated himself in a whisper.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I said, </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Egeustimentis</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">.”</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">And Owen went away for a while, and he and Mr. Khan were alone for a time in some narrow space. It seemed like hours, though it was only seconds.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">While they were there, Mr. Khan made some changes to the way Owen thought about things. Owen distantly observed the process, and found it interesting. It was as though Mr. Khan were simultaneously very large and very small, peering down from a great height at Owen’s mind -- even as he moved within it. Owen’s mind, Owen noted, was a ceaselessly sliding mass of a thousand thousand thin layers of slippery jelly, undulating and quivering as they slithered into and over each other. Simultaneously, it was an intricate tracery of vinegar-smelling lights that touched each other and flared bright and faded. And it was a stabbing prickery of needles stabbing in and out of dark shapes that quietly sighed. And Owen’s mind was other things as well, as need be.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Mr. Khan moved things and explained to Owen that he needed Owen to be a slightly different sort of person. Not very different, but different enough to help Mr. Khan. After it had all been explained, it made sense. They spoke for a long while. All the while that they spoke, Mr. Khan was moving jelly/lights/needles/switches/teeth. And at the end of this time, Owen had been both persuaded and altered, and he wasn’t sure where the persuasion had ended and alteration had begun, or if there was even a division between the two, or if there was even a difference.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Owen agreed it was probably best that Mr. Khan set up a way for him to forget about the whole thing. Mr. Khan set up a pressure in Owen’s mind, waiting to be released by a command word -- thoughts and impulses forced out of place and bent into tension, ready to spring out along a chosen path. He would leave only the one pressure, Mr. Khan explained, because he didn’t want to hurt Owen. When Mr. Khan triggered the release of that pressure, Owen’s mind would snap back into place along that chosen path… and Owen would forget that he’d ever treated Mr. Khan, helped Mr. Khan, and even that he’d ever known this Mr. Khan existed. By that time, everything would be all over.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Everything would be all right, Mr. Khan said. They’d sort everything out.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">And then</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Wilifred, you all right?” asked Madagascar.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Owen turned around. “Sure. Just can’t figure this out.” He shrugged, and turned away from the patient. “Mr. Khan, just relax for a moment. Let me get another healer to consult. We have some excellent people on staff here at the Tower, and we’ll do what it takes to sort everything out.”</span><br />
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Begin by asking students to consider how a rumor might spread among a population. Suppose on Day 1 a single person tells someone else a rumor, and suppose that on every subsequent day, each person who knows the rumor tells exactly one other person the rumor. Have students ponder, discuss and answer questions like: “How many days until 50 people have heard the rumor? 100 people? The whole school? The whole country?”</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">In the situation with the rumor, the number of people who have heard the rumor doubles every day; this is because, each day, every person who knows the rumor tells it to a new person. In other words, there is a 100 percent transmission rate: 100 percent of those who know the rumor spread it to someone else. A transmission rate this high means that the number of people who know the rumor will grow very quickly. In fact, in this simplified exponential model, one person could spread the rumor to the entire population of the United States in less than a month!</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">- Patrick Honner, “Exponential Outbreaks: The Mathematics of Epidemics."</span><br />
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<b style="color: #222222; font-family: 'noto serif', georgia, serif; font-size: x-large; line-height: 27px;">Significant Digits, Chapter Thirty-Seven: Pip Around the World</b></div>
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<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Portkey Office, Ministry of Magic, Whitehall, London</span></em><em><span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span></em><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">May 17th, 1999</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Hullo!” said Pip, smiling at the gent at the Official Business desk.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He looked up wearily from a thick ledger, squinting at Pip. “Hello.” He stared at Pip with red-rimmed eyes, and waited. Pip smiled brightly back at him, expectantly. Finally, the man said, “Can I help you with something?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Auror Philip Pirrip, here to pick up some portkeys,” said Pip, his smile dimming slightly at the reception. He rather thought people would be recognizing him at this point -- that word would have gotten around. He knew he was only one of a dozen people on similar errands today, but still... His smile brightened again as he leaned forward and said, meaningfully, “On business for the Tower.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The official stared at Pip for a moment, then looked back down at the ledger. He ran his finger down a column on the left, and then the one next to it. “Pirrip, Philip… yes. 875 Oxtail Red.” He looked back up at Pip, and shoved back from his desk. His wheeled seat squeaked rhythmically as it bore him over to a bureau along the wall of the office. The man didn’t even bother to get up, but just pushed himself along with his legs as he trailed an index finger along one row of small drawers, then down to another. All of them were progressively darker shades of red. When the official had found the one he wanted, he yanked it open. “Here we are, then.” Another scoot of his chair brought the man squeaking back to his desk and Pip.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The official put a velvet sack on the desk. “Hangzhou, Bangkok, Cyprus, and return to the Ministry. All labeled. Don’t mix them up.” He took a quill from his desk and made some notes in his ledger, shoving the sack over to Pip.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Thank you,” Pip said, scooping up the sack. He opened it and checked inside, just for a quick count of the grimy old envelopes inside. There were four, sure enough. One of the envelopes was open -- it looked to have an old biro inside.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“They’re all there and all correct,” said the man behind the desk, and Pip looked up to see him frowning in disapproval.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Just checking,” Pip said, uncomfortably. “After that thing the Weasley twins did, it just --”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">They’re all there and all correct</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">,” said the official again, grindingly. He slammed the heavy ledger shut, and his inkwell rattled on the desk. They didn’t like to be reminded of when the Weasleys had replaced all the Russian and Hungarian portkeys. Everyone who’d tried to go to Moscow had ended up in the third-floor loo, instead.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Well, there was no telling from looking at the bloody things, anyway, Pip supposed. He’d just have to hope he didn’t end up somewhere nasty. Or if not, at least someplace dry.</span><br />
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Yu’s Library, The Court of Rubies, Hangzhou</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Hullo!” said Pip, his face serious. “I’m here to pick up a parcel for Mr. Harry Potter-Evans-Verres.” He did his absolute best to project an image of power and foreign might, tilting his chin upward and slightly to the side. It was a haughty look, he thought -- the look of someone who had looked death in the eye and triumphed.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Are you okay?” Sunny Chow asked from his side. He turned to see the Wizengamot’s Special Envoy to the Court of Rubies staring up at him: a short woman with plain features. She was looking at him, frank curiosity in her hazel eyes.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Pip deflated slightly. Maybe his jawline wasn’t strong enough to pull that off.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“No parcels here,” said the librarian, his English heavily accented. He shook his head, and swept one palm around the room, as though to draw Pip’s attention to the towering, haphazard stacks of books and piles of scrolls that occupied almost all of the long and wide room. “This is the library. You want the owlery. That way, sir.” He pointed to one of the doors.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“No, Zhongying,” said Chow, waving a hand dismissively. “This is Auror Pirrip. His Excellency He Jin has left a package here for the auror. It’s going to a Mr. Harry Potter-Evans-Verres. His Excellency would have left this here himself.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I will check,” said the librarian. He turned and made his way to a corner of the room, stepping lightly among stacks of books that were easily twice his own height. They swayed unsteadily, simply from the touch of air left by his passage, but none of them fell.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Why a queer way to sort everything,</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> thought Pip, watching a pyramid of scrolls. A stray scroll slipped from its place at the top of the heap and skidded halfway down the side of the pile, only to catch on the curling corner of a companion and hang there, precariously. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">And this place would be a nightmare to defend. Must be like this for protection against theft, and maybe camouflage. Hard to browse, but maybe that’s not something they want people doing.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The librarian pushed aside a false panel in the wooden wall, and withdrew a metal case. He opened it, and Pip saw it was filled with glowing phials of memories. The librarian squinted at them, then nodded, slowly. He turned back to them. “Yes, there is something here for you. I apologize for my rudeness. If it would not be too much trouble, I must use precautions before I retrieve your package.” He gestured at one of the few clear areas on the floor, and Pip saw that there was a faint outline of chalk there in the shape of a circle.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Pip glanced at the Special Envoy, but Chow had nodded easily, and was already stepping into the circle. He joined her. “What is this?” he muttered, uneasily. “Ward?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Not quite. Do you know the writings of a Xiang Yu?” Chow whispered back. The librarian rummaged in his robe, pulling his wand from some interior pocket. Pip shook his head in the negative.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Well,” Chow said, as the librarian pointed his wand at them, “let’s just say you don’t want to move.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Peskipiksi rendehoushan</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">,” cast the librarian.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Almost without transition, Pip and Chow were encircled by an orange screen of some kind. It stretched in an unbroken column from the wooden floor to the wooden ceiling, and Pip could feel the heat of it on his face. He didn’t start in surprise, but his wand was already in his hand, and he held the first stage of the wordless Drill Breaking Hex ready in his mind. But they didn’t seem to be in any immediate danger, as long as they didn’t move, and Chow was standing calmly next to him with her arms folded.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Pip could see through the orange. It was some manner of liquid, and small eddies and swirls moved lazily through it, but also thin enough that it was translucent. The librarian was visible through it, and Pip watched him as he stepped to one side of the room, and levitated a short stack of books to one side, uncovering a Pensieve. He added a memory to it, and then immersed his head.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Less than a minute later, the librarian rose from the basin, and turned to the chalk circle. He whispered the command word inaudibly, and the orange glare vanished as quickly as it had come.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I apologize to you, Special Envoy and sir auror,” the librarian said, inclining his head slightly. “The parcel was left here under some special circumstances, and we were not permitted to know about it.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“It is, I am told, a matter of some security and secrecy,” said Chow. “The fault is ours, not yours.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The librarian inclined his head again, and turned to the wall where he’d retrieved the memory. He took hold of a seemingly random wooden panel and pulled on it, and the board telescoped out from the wall, revealing itself to be a large cabinet with numerous small cubby-holes apparent in its surface.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He pulled on the knobs of four of the drawers in sequence, and the last one slid open at his touch, allowing the librarian to slide his hand inside. The mouth of the cubby was too small for this, but it obligingly distended to permit him to reach inside.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">I bet that if you do the sequence wrong, or choose the wrong little drawer, or something else like that, then you could lose your hand that way,</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> Pip marveled. It was a good idea, but he’d bet it led to a lot of accidents. He’d have to tell the Ministry about it. Maybe they could imitate it, and a certain rude squeaky squinty git at the Portkey Office might be a little more polite in the future.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The librarian slowly and gently pulled out something from the hole -- a book. No, part of a book. The ragged edges of torn binding showed that it was just a few dozen pages and a cover, ripped free from the whole book. The librarian turned and offered the packet to Chow, inclining his head again. She accepted it, bowing slightly in return, and turned to hand it to Pip.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He took it, and glanced at the cover. Not Mandarin, but an English book. Not new binding either, and it looked at least two or three centuries old. But it was also clearly the </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">re</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">binding… a glance at the exposed back page showed that it was truly ancient, tinted yellow and marred with small imperfections in the parchment. The longskin goat had been bred in the fourteenth century, making the original book at least six hundred years old. It had seen some mishandling, too… affixed inside of the cover was a scrap of parchment that was clearly only the middle part of a page. None of the text was legible to him, which was probably just as well.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Pip looked at the cover again. The book was by Harry Lowe, according to the gilt letters. </span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">The Transmygracioun</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, it was called.</span><br />
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">resisted them with its power. Our people took hold of the knowledge, and have donne great things. Likewise in the future, there will be invaders. But thei shall take the whole world. Fear shall come with them, and ruin. There lies the doom of which I have spoken to you. Þis shall not last. There shall be new maistery, and new maisters to take the place of the old. I have seen þis, and so I say to you to come þis key. The fires of the soul are great and burn</span></em><br />
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">The Wizarding Bank of Bangkok, Bangkok, Thailand</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Hullo!” said Pip, peering over the counter. “Anyone here?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The bank building was dimly lit and poorly maintained. The floor was beautiful marble, but it was marked with innumerable scratches and scrapes. The long front desk was similar, made of a creamy soapstone marred with long gashes all along its surface. The place looked deserted, without even a guard, which was rather odd for a bank. It was somehow stranger, though, when Pip noticed that there also wasn’t any furniture. No stools were behind the counter, no message boxes or unsummonable security boxes were resting on it, and there weren’t even any chairs for customers.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“ขอโทษ… ขอโทษ!” called a voice from a back room, speaking in rapid Thai. A moment later, a chubby man with dark skin shuffled out into view. He was wearing a loose white robe and linen trousers, and he was barefoot. “สวัสดีครับ.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Sorry, do you speak English?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“คุณพูดไทยได้ไหม?” came the reply from the man, who looked puzzled.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“What?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“อะไร?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Is there anyone here who speaks English?” Pip said, desperately. He’d just assumed that the bank would have someone who spoke English. Maybe that was silly, but English had been the wizarding language of the world for centuries. Almost everything the Confederation did was in English.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Prasong!” called out the man, turning to shout over his shoulder. “Praaaaaasong! Prasong! คนอังกฤษ!”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Yaaaaa!” called a response, sounding irritable. “ฉันกำลังมาาาาาาา!” Another man emerged from the back room. He looked identical to the first. For a moment Pip worried that he was turning into a Muggle and a horrible person, but realized after a moment that the two were twins.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Hello, sir?” said the second twin. He had a strange way of speaking, ending each sentence as though it were a question. “Welcome to the Wizarding Bank of Bangkok? Can I help you?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Yes, hullo. I’m here to pick up a parcel? Auror Philip Pirrip, from Britain?” said Pip. He glanced around the room. “Is everything all right here?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Yes? Only English parcel here, I think?” said the man, nodding. “No problems?” He turned to his brother and said some things rapidly. They sounded like questions but were apparently instructions instead, since the other man vanished into the back again, nodding repeatedly.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Pip and the anglophone stood there in silence, awkwardly. The Thai man yawned hugely, rubbing at his face. Pip wondered if he’d just woken up. It was rather late here, after all.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Where is everything?” Pip asked, speaking up to break the silence.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Everything what?” asked the man.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Well, this is a bank, right? Where are all the… banking things?” Pip finished, lamely.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The man shrugged. “We don’t want things to be stolen? Money is in the vaults, so we can keep it from people… outside?” He flapped his hand at the door.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“But what’s to stop someone from just… going back there and going into the vaults? Only you’re here to guard the place,” Pip pointed out. “In Gringott’s, they have all sorts of guards… wizards and goblins both.” He paused. “Are there loads of goblins back there or something?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The man scratched his face, looking thoughtful at the question, then shook his head. “No, no… all the guards down on the sub-level? And Prethang and I are สควิบ… ah, Squibs? We just work?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“This doesn’t make any bloody sense,” said Pip.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The Squib (could that be true?) shrugged. “One way into the bank? Naga live there, and they eat magic? If you are magic or have magic, they will eat you? So we go through the waterfall and down to the bank?” He shrugged again. “Guards down there, though, if you worry?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Pip studied him. “That can’t be true. There’s not a kind of beast that only eats wizards. Professor Kettleburn wasn’t good, but he wasn’t so bad he’d have left that out.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The man just shrugged a third time, and said nothing. The pair stood in silence until his twin returned bearing another torn piece of book. It was the same book, Pip saw immediately. The last page was mostly gone, with only the first third still present. The rips looked like they would fit together.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The auror left without ever getting an answer, though he would make a full report. He never would find out the secrets of the Bangkok Bank… or a great many other things.</span><br />
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
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<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Alle of these things I have told you, but there is one thing I have not told you. Þis then hear, and then I shall be donne. At the end of his tyme, Merlin seiden then he hadde a great prophetie, but that he would not explain it. He seiden instead these words, and bade rememberance. “The Achaeans have brought many knowledge to owr island of Britain. Thei came to us as invaders, joyning with the little and the færie and laying waste to our places of power. Ac Britain is a strong land, and it</span></em><br />
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<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Cypriot Hold, Cyprus</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Hullo!” said Pip. Some of the cheer had worn out of his voice, but he still tried to keep his best foot forward. It was like his mum always said: Act like a troll and folks will treat you like one.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The woman who turned towards Pip to fix him with a wary look was intimidatingly tall and extraordinarily beautiful. Thick waves of black hair were swept up into a loose and long ponytail that nearly reached her back, and her formal robes were a glimmering metallic fabric that clung to her body with the tailored precision of enchanted garments. Her eyebrows were sharply sculpted, slashing in skeptical curves over enormous brown eyes.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Auror Pirrip?” she asked, her voice a throaty burr. “From the Tower?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Pip thought he must be floating.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Yes,” he managed. “It is I.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">She studied him for a moment longer, then nodded. “I am Lady Feri Sarah Ellesmere Önder, of the Noble House of Önder. I have a parcel for you, if you wish it.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Pip nodded, and tried to keep his smile from stretching to silly dimensions. “Thank you, Lady Önder. That would be appreciated.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“This way, then.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Pip fell into step next to the Cypriot as she led the way out of the Hold. It was a fragile-looking building of fluted glass columns and diamondine crenulations, and it looked all the more delicate for the damage that scarred its sides. Fire had taken some of the columns, and great melted rents had eaten into the walls behind. When the Tower had fought back against Independent aggression around the world, the Cappadocians had seized the opportunity to attack their ancient enemy once more. Even at this hour, three goblins were at work repairing a column. The wizard who owned them stood nearby -- an immediate reminder that this was a barbaric country in some ways. It was scarcely believable that the bloody slavers here considered themselves British.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Why has your master requested this book of me?” asked the Lady Önder as they walked, speaking quietly. “It is the greatest treasure of my House. I’d know the purpose of its journey.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I don’t know, madam,” Pip admitted. “He wants to read it, I suppose. My, ah, ‘master’ is the Tower, and he seems to want to know everything.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Their path took them down the streets of Magical Cyprus, walking on smooth stones that had seen thousands of years of foot-traffic. There were few others on the streets -- a single vendor selling aromatic snacks of roasted nut-and-fruit pastries; a pair of young women out for a romantic stroll, arm in arm; and a collared goblin carrying a caged owl.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Your master thinks he already knows everything, I think,” said the Cypriot. She stopped at the door of a grand home of green stone. It was very British in appearance -- looked rather like pictures Pip had seen of Malfoy Manor, in fact -- with the exception of the elegant minaret that rose from the roof peak. A crest was worked in gold into the stone above the door -- three arms bendwise couped.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“What do you mean?” Pip asked.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The Lady Önder opened the door. “The Treaty, and now its successor, have brought much good to me and mine. But there is also a great deal of… direction in it. Matters that I had thought long settled are re-opened, and there is even some… well, some might call it ingratitude.” She stepped aside, and gestured. “Please.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Pip nodded, and entered. “I am sorry to hear that you feel this way, madam. Cyprus and Britain have always been close.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The Cypriot smiled sharply. “Not always. But yes, for a long time we have followed the leadership of your country. At times, we have been the only ones to do so. In the minds of many, this should earn us some measure of respect from Britain. A friend does not like to see another friend take advantage.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“You don’t like the interference,” said Pip. It was cool and dark inside the home, but it was obvious that the House of Önder was enormously wealthy. There were low couches of white bicorn leather, an expensive-looking scrying mirror on one wall, and a vase with a towering arrangement of silver flowers. A wide staircase led up and out of sight.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“We do not,” said the Lady Önder. Her voice was chilly. “Things have now been arranged so carefully that we have no alternative. That doesn’t mean we need be pleased with that change, or the other changes that will be forced on us.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I’m sorry that it is disturbing the relations between our countries,” said Pip, summoning his best diplomatic turns of phrase. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Yes, terribly sorry to be interfering in your bloody slavery, you crazy pile of kneazle-kak. Can’t use house-elves like civilized people? What a bother for us to disturb your traditions. I’ll try to get out of your hair as soon as possible so you can get back to sipping baby blood out of your goblin-skull goblets, or whatever it is you do here.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Mithri!” called the Cypriot, raising her voice. “The Britisher is here. Bring me the book.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">There was a quiet scraping sound from above. “Yes, Lady Önder,” called back a tired voice.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The owner of the voice made his way to them. The steps sounded wrong -- a thump and a scrape -- and the reason became apparent as speaker came down the stairs, into the lights at the front entrance. It was a goblin, and he had only one leg. He used a crutch, hobbling slowly and carefully down the steps. The Being had very short ears for a goblin, but a long nose. The nose had a kink in the middle. It looked very tired, although at least they’d seen fit to give it decent clothing: a white tunic and necktie. The steel of a collar was just visible under the tie. There was a book under its free arm.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Here you are, Auror Pirrip,” said the Lady Önder, as her slave offered Pip the book. “I do not expect to see it again. I hope it brings your master ill.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Thank you, Lady Önder,” said Pip. “Thank you for everything.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Everything?” asked the Cypriot, frowning, as Pip walked to the door.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Yes, everything,” Pip said, as he left. “Please believe me when I say that you have made me very proud tonight. Twice.”</span><br />
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
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<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
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<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">as bright as the stars.” At þis there was silence, and then protest, and then dismai, for none could understand these words. Thei were once more trublid. Mundre of the Brook took these words and set them down, and from him they passed to his son Mundre, and from him thei were taken by Togrod Teulu, and recovered from the little in the time of Yæl, who passed them to me. I have set them for you, that they may not be lost. So we are complete, and my tale is donne.</span></em><br />
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<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Safety Pole, Godric’s Hollow</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">The same day</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Hello,” said a kindly-looking older man. “I wonder if you could help me?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The auror and the healer on duty at the Godric’s Hollow Safety Pole were deep in a hand of Dragon Poker, but the healer was dutiful, and he dropped the cards without a thought. He ignored the sour look on the auror’s face.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Of course, sir. Are you feeling all right?” said the healer, drawing his wand.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“A little peaky,” said the man. He accepted the offered hand of the healer, nodding gratefully. “It’s been a worry.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Ah, no need to worry any more,” said the healer. “Everything will be all right.”</span><br />
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
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<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Alle of these things I have told you, but there is one thing I have not told you. Þis then hear, and then I shall be donne. At the end of his tyme, Merlin seiden then he hadde a great prophetie, but that he would not explain it. He seiden instead these words, and bade rememberance.</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">“The Achaeans have brought many knowledge to owr island of Britain. Thei came to us as invaders, joyning with the little and the færie and laying waste to our places of power. Ac Britain is a strong land, and it resisted them with its power. Our people took hold of the knowledge, and have donne great things. Likewise in the future, there will be invaders. But thei shall take the whole world. Fear shall come with them, and ruin. There lies the doom of which I have spoken to you. Þis shall not last. There shall be new maistery, and new maisters to take the place of the old. I have seen þis, and so I say to you to come þis key. The fires of the soul are great and burn as bright as the stars.”</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">At þis there was silence, and then protest, and then dismai, for none could understand these words. Thei were once more trublid. Mundre of the Brook took these words and set them down, and from him they passed to his son Mundre, and from him thei were taken by Togrod Teulu, and recovered from the little in the time of Yæl, who passed them to me. I have set them for you, that they may not be lost. So we are complete, and my tale is donne.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry Lowe, </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">The Transmygracioun</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, passus tertius decimus </span><br />
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<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Alla dessa dagar som kom och gick</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Inte visste jag att de var livet</span></em><br />
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<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">All these days that came and went</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Little did I know they were life</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span></em>
<span style="font-weight: 400;"><i>- </i>Stig Johansson</span></div>
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ADhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10211720060888169877noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8047698153058029905.post-47534007702210251092016-01-16T17:22:00.002-05:002016-01-24T02:23:50.113-05:00Significant Digits, Chapter Thirty-Six: Jagannātha <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b style="color: #222222; font-family: 'Noto Serif', Georgia, serif; font-size: x-large; line-height: 27px;">Significant Digits, Chapter Thirty-Six: Jagannātha</b></div>
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<em><span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span></em>
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">After Ten Years of Effort, it must be admitted that ſacrifice cannot be Undone. Having ſacrificed the Life of the plant, no Power ſufficed to return that Life to it. We muſt conclude that ſome Harms are Irreparable in this Mortal Coil, and when a ſubſtance has been Unmade and its Eſſence Created into a Paſſage for Forces of Magick, then that ſubſtance is utterly Gone from this Earth. To be Otherwiſe would mean a flaw in the courſe of Time Itſelf, for that which has been Done would be Undone in the paſt. Diſaſter would come on the Heels of ſuch a remedy.</span></em><br />
<br />
- <em style="font-style: italic;">Ruminations on the Workings of Ritual, </em>Bartleby Bertram<br />
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<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
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<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Powis Castle, Wales</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">May 16th, 1999</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Two weeks after Bellatrix Black's attack</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">It was warm outside, warmer than it had been all spring, and the Returned were watching the peacock. The bird was a brilliant blue, and it had been walking in idle circles nearby for almost ten minutes now. Several times, it had stopped and spread its plumage, its head shuddering and throat working rapidly as the great feathers rose and fanned out, their magnificent colors and Argusian spots on display. By unspoken agreement, the Returned all sat and watched quietly.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione thought there was only the one peacock -- or at least, she’d only ever seen one. It had shown up two years ago. Both winters since, the peacock had been seen every time the gamekeeper put out food for the many pheasant. It stood out, unique and bold and beautiful, crowded in among the dull brown game birds as it dipped its head to snatch mouthfuls of grain.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Now the bird was alone, across the clearing from where they sat on their transfigured stools and rough wooden chairs, but it seemed no less singular. It twitched its head to one side, turning to stare back at them, and rippled its feathers.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“παγώνι,” whispered Nikitas. “English?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Peacock,” replied Susie, her voice also at a hush.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Tonks sat hunched over, her legs crossed and folded hands shoved between her thighs. One foot was vibrating with agitation. Her hair was a phantasmagoria of colours: blue and greens as vivid as the peacock chased each other down individual locks, only to be swarmed with streaks of black that would then erupt into platinum blonde.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Finally she bent forward and groaned, a long and low sound. The peacock froze in place, then bobbed its head suspiciously staring in their direction. Urg rose from his seat beside her and stood next to her, as tall standing as she was sitting, so that he could put a comforting hand on her back.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione called over, her voice quiet, “Tonks, are you --”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“The clouds aren’t white they’re all different colors like grey and blue and yellow and others,” Tonks interrupted, her voice a strained and rapid whisper. “I saw a man in the alley behind Gringott’s once when I was little and he put his hand on my bum and I kicked him so hard that he sat down and said oh. On the seventieth page of my seventh-year Potions textbook I used to leave a quill-end so that I could find it quickly because it had all the distilling instructions and that was hard for me. I like chipped beef on toast but only if it’s hot because otherwise it reminds me of nasty things. Baby mandrakes sound like children and they scream and scream but they don’t have any lungs so I don’t know where does the air comes and goes.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Jessie had joined Tonks and Urg, rising from her transfigured chair and crouching down with her. She put a tight arm around the metamorphmagus’ waist. “Shh, it’s okay.” She glanced over at Hermione, her hollow eyes worried.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The peacock lowered its feathers and moved with unhurried but purposeful steps, away from them and into the undergrowth. All the motion was making it nervous.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Tonks took a deep breath, sucking it between tight lips as though it were painful.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Esther, who was sitting closest to Hermione, whispered, “She’s getting better.” She glanced over at Charlevoix, as though for confirmation, and the French witch nodded her agreement.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione watched Tonks for a moment before replying. “Yes. But slowly, and painfully.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“She’s an Occlumens,” said Esther. “We should be thankful.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione nodded. They all sat for a while, waiting for Tonks to collect herself.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">She’d been forced to drink a full draught of Veritaserum during the attack by Bellatrix. Fortunately, Esther had been nearby, knocked unconscious by the Killing Curse, and upon waking had been able to rush to the clinic and get a phial of antidote. Most of the truth potion was purged before Tonks could be too badly poisoned, leaving only what Harry had called “Prak syndrome” (</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Life, the Universe, and Everything</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, page 223, her brain automatically supplied) and what magical medicine called Uncontrollable Utterance Ailment. It sometimes occurred with people of a nervous temperament when using more than two drops of Veritaserum, and it was one of the reasons why more than three drops were never given -- not even to people known to be skilled in Occlumency, who were able to defeat small doses.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The danger wasn’t the babbling of thoughts and secrets. After all, there </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">were </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">no secrets among the Returned, not really. They had nothing but absolute trust and their own special, insuperable love. No, the danger was that the burning compulsion to tell the truth, any truth, all truth, could damage the mind. Victims of interrogation accidents could be left crippled, unable to sustain normal chains of thought for any length of time.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“You are all right,” said Urg to Tonks, seriously. “We’re here.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I won’t be able to go back to being an auror,” whispered Tonks. “I won’t, not anymore.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“No, love, you’re wrong,” said Susie. “The healer said there wouldn’t be any permanent effects. Esther got you in time.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“No, it’s over,” said Tonks, shaking her head, hunching down and hugging her legs. Her voice was ragged. “They don’t let you come back after something like this, a St. Mungo’s something.” But the words were barely out of her mouth before she rushed on, more words following in a rapid strained stream. “They don’t let you look through the display robes at Madam Malkin's because they’re afraid they’ll get wrinkled but they told me it would be okay if I just looked at the pretty velvet one. Computers are stupid and Harry spent years just to build a toy and now that’s all he’s going to do. Odette’s fingers look bad and won’t stay healed and just go back to being scarred no matter what and it’s because she gave them up to bring back Hermione but she shouldn’t have done that just because they’d gotten hurt she should have used a toe. I really want to have children someday but I like hairy men and hairy men usually smell and I hate that so really I don’t even know what to do.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Urg just patted her on the back. Charlevoix looked down at her hands, folded in her lap, thoughtfully, her expression unemotional.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Better just to get right to it</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, Hermione thought. She’d brought them together for a reason -- well, before the peacock showed up.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I wanted to talk to everyone. I have been thinking about what we should do, going forward. It doesn’t seem like it will be too much longer before every country is part of the new Treaty. More and more, they’re worried about logistics, about how to efficiently treat the entire world’s magical population, and Squibs, and eventually even Muggles. There will eventually be something that’s beyond that… beyond the Treaty, when even all the Dementors are gone.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">She paused, glancing around, but they were only listening to her, attentively, with the exception of Tonks. Hermione went on.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“It seems strange to be saying this -- strange even to be </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">thinking</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> this -- but that’s the truth. I don’t think we can or should stop doing the right thing. ‘Save one life’... I’ll always believe that, and I’ll always try. But… well, what else? It’s maybe time to start thinking about the implications of eternity.” She stopped again, awkwardly, then shook her head. “It’s just… a few weeks ago, Charlevoix and Esther told me they wanted to get their own place, together. You know that. And Tonks, you </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">will</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> go back to being an auror, like you wanted. But I just wanted to say, now, before we get back to that point… Well, I wanted to say that those things make me so happy, and so proud. It’s want I want for all of you… </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">when you want it</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, that is.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">She sighed, and smiled a small smile, both sad and happy. “I love all of you. You are my heart. And there will never come a day when I won’t want you around. There’s no rush -- literally no rush at all, we have </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">forever</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">. But it’s okay to think about yourselves, now, if you can. The world is on the right track. Things are going to be okay.”</span><br />
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">The Ministry of Magic, Whitehall</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">May 17th, 1999</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">When Amelia Bones visualized the world, she pictured a herd of bicorn, milling around and tossing their heads. Each nation pushed to go its own way, bellowing and butting its head against obstacles, and only rarely did two beasts move in the same direction. To start a stampede, you needed leadership and you needed something so loud that it would startle the whole herd.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">At this moment, Bones was writing a letter to a Korean official, intent on spurring the state to join the stampede into the Treaty for Health and Independence. China was threatening to bolt, and Thailand had already vowed they would not stand alone among the Ten Thousand if China went its own way with the rest of that bloc. That solidarity gave them too much strength and too much bargaining power. So right now, the best thing for the Treaty was to break off a strong but small state from the Ten Thousand, while at the same time offering the Court of Rubies an illusory opportunity to split Russia away from the new Treaty.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The entire enterprise was complicated and delicate, and so Bones did not relish the knock on her office door. She looked up in irritation at the sound.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Come,” she snapped. She returned her attention to the letter, trying to finish the sentence before she forgot the phrasing she’d chosen. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">The Court of Rubies has nothing but your best interests in mind, Chancellor Lee, </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">she wrote, </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">and while I might have my own views on the subject, I urge you to listen to them.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The door pushed open, and she glanced up. It was Reg Hig, looking his usual self with his lump of a nose and unshaven chin.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Madame Bones, do you have a minute?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;"> “Yes, Councilor. Come in, please,” Bones said. She swallowed her irritation without a second thought, ensuring she looked calm as she stood up. She offered her polite smile -- no warmth, but cordiality.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Thank you,” said Hig. He sat down in the chair in front of her desk, and Bones sat back down.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“How can I help you? Was there something from yesterday’s meeting you wanted to follow up on? I know we’re both concerned about Bellatrix Black, and I’d welcome any solution you could offer. The American skill with devices is well-known.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“There were a few things I wanted to talk about, Madame Bones,” said Hig. “The rumours I’ve been hearing about your goblins getting ready for a new uprising, for one. Also I wanted to discuss the provisions in the Treaty for a timeline towards more rights for Beings. I’m not quite sure that will end up being workable for centaurs, who don’t have the same faculties as wizards, and so we need to discuss alternatives.” Bones opened her mouth, but he was already continuing, “But the most pressing matter is a concern I have about Mr. Potter.” Bones subsided, looking expectant.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“After the meeting the other day,” Hig went on, “Mr. Potter and I had a chance for a brief conversation about those Vanishing Rooms and the new trade that’s starting up now that the tariffs have been lifted. But he did also have occasion to ask me about laws in the United States about magical research safety. He wanted to know what the most restrictive law we had might be -- what could the longest sentence someone could get in an American jail for endangering others with dangerous Transfiguration research.” Hig paused, leaning forward, fixing his eyes on hers. “Now why might he have been asking that, I wonder?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Bones smiled, genuinely. Harry was still so young, sometimes, and didn’t always think through on the implications of his words in a larger world. It was charming, in its own way… his method of earnest honesty. He certainly never hesitated to admit he was wrong or apologize for unintended offense. But Harry was, after all, barely an adult.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Councilor, I promise you unreservedly that we are not doing any research anywhere in the Americas. All of our research is done here, in the Tower, or in Antarctica. As sinister as Mr. Potter’s question might have sounded, it’s actually a good sign -- once you know the explanation. I see no harm in telling you that we have a wizard locked up in Nurmengard whom we caught when we first began strongly pushing back against Honourable and Independent aggression. He’d already been sacked from the Tower for failing to consider the safety of others as he did his research, with his memory altered to prevent him from continuing that work. When we took him into custody again, we found that he hadn’t stopped that sort of dangerous research, and so he was brought before the Wizengamot.” The proceedings were sealed, so Bones still tried to remain as vague as she could be while still being credible. The Council of Westphalia had ears everywhere, and the less they knew about this, the better. “Unfortunately, we couldn’t sentence him to the sort of time he deserved… precedent is ample on this matter, and a lengthy term in Nurmengard would have drawn attention.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“There are other options in such cases,” said Hig. “When such things come up in the Americas, it’s usually dealt with in a less official manner.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Bones nodded. “That is the usual way, of course. And several of us advised Mr. Potter of that fact -- about the way the world really works. At the time, he said that the law might need to change, but he wasn’t going to go throwing people in prison for dangerous ideas. He insisted on strict surveillance, instead.” She shook her head, ruefully. “Mr. Potter is an idealistic young man.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“So you believe this is good news, because he was asking about possibilities for sending this dangerous researcher to an American prison, instead. It could be done, I suppose, although there are simpler ways.” Hig considered. “Strange, though, that he would change his mind and become more interested in practical methods for solving such problems. It seems unlike Mr. Potter, as far I know him.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“In recent weeks,” said Bones, “he has seemed to be a little more hard-nosed. He sounds more like he did when he first came to Hogwarts as a boy. It is, I think, a good thing. At that age he was bold enough to face down the Wizengamot to save his friend… that sort of grit will only help us in the difficulties to come.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hig nodded, leaning back. “I see. I suppose that is one perspective. I am happy to have your word that there are no secret research stations in the Americas, at least. Let’s talk of those other matters. The centaurs. Now, I’m certainly glad we’re not moving the other way, and the young Lord Malfoy isn’t pushing us to allow centaur hunts anymore. But don’t you think this is a little extreme?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Bones had a ready reply, and Hig had a prepared argument. It was far too long before Bones could return to her letter, and by then she’d forgotten her train of thought. Damned Americans.</span><br />
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Fort, Mumbai</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">May 17th, 1999</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">8:00 a.m.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The Yazdani Bakery was already full of people, everyone crammed in around the tiny tables as they sipped chai and passed around slices of brun maska and ramekins of butter. Many were local Irani, but the bakery was famous enough so that other sorts of people had come from farther away. There was even a timid pair of German backpackers in one corner, enormous dusty packs stuffed under their seat, holding hands as they shared a chai.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">An older man slipped through the door. He wore a white shirt over his lungi, and he waved away an approaching waiter, seeming to know where he was going. He squeezed between two tables, then stepped around another.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Arriving at a table near the rear, the man stopped and folded his hands in front of himself, standing there. Two younger men were sitting at the table, eating ginger biscuits and brum maska. A third chair was empty.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">After a moment, one of the young men glanced at the other, and then looked up at the stranger. “Not much room… sit with us, uncle?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Thank you,” said the older man with a smile, also speaking in English. He nodded and pulled out the chair, lowering himself into it with care. “Very crowded.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“It’s the workmen who are at Chaphekar Chowk,” agreed the young man. “They come here first and spend an hour over their chai.” He pushed the plate of biscuits closer to the older man.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Have a biscuit, uncle,” said the other young man, gesturing at them. “We have too many.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The man shook his head slightly, smiling again. “No, thank you.” He leaned forward, looking closely at the fellow who’d asked him to sit down. “Excuse me, but might you be Rushad Irani? Is that right?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The young man smiled widely, raising his eyebrows. He glanced over at his friend, but the friend also smiled and shrugged. The first turned his attention back to the stranger. “Yes… sorry, we have met?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The older man chuckled, reaching out to put a hand on Rushad’s forearm. “I feel almost that it is so… I am an old friend, Kumar Khan. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Egeustimentis.</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Rushad looked blankly back at the other man. His friend frowned and leaned forward. “What?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The other two both ignored him for the span of a few seconds, then the older man let go of the Rushad’s arm and turned to the friend. “I knew Rushad’s mother when we were in school. She was fast with her samhitas! Always much better than me.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Yaa, so?” said the friend in amazement, smiling again. “And you are in a Muggle cafe, uncle! I thought we were the only ones who liked it here. Rushad, this is so crazy.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Oh, the brun maska -- very very good,” said the man.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">As though he’d been lost in thought, Rushad fluttered his eyelids, then gave his head a little shake. He frowned, but only for a moment. Then a slow smile spread back over his face. “Jāt khāli-yé! This is so good!” He turned to his friend. “Mr. Khan always did so much for us, my mother always said. Helped us in very bad times. I have always wanted to do something for him.” Rushad’s face lit up, and he dug inside of his pocket. “Here, here… here, uncle.” He produced a small case in black goatskin, the size of his palm.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Rushad, what?” said the other young man, looking aghast at his friend. “Your portkey?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Yes, yes… here, please, sir. Take it, take it… a trip to London,” said Rushad, pressing it into the man’s hand.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“You saved for months for your trip, Rushad! That is fifty cauldrons!” said the friend. He looked uncomfortable, as though privy to something too private for an outsider to see.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Mr. Khan saved my family!” said Rushad, almost harshly. “This is only a part of our debt.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Yaa,” said the friend, uncertainly. “Well --”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Thank you, Rushad,” said the older man, bowing his head slightly. “Thank you so much. It has been a very, very long time since I was in London.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“No, I thank you, Mr. Khan… it is good to be able to do something for you.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I should go, and let you return to your breakfast among the Muggles. Such a generous gift… thank you, Rushad,” said the older man, solemnly. He rose to his feet. The two young men also stood up politely.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Please, Mr. Khan, while you are in town, will you visit my mother? She talks of you still,” said Rushad, clasping the older man’s hand.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I will try,” said the man, smiling. “You are a fine young man, Rushad.” He turned to clasp the friend’s hand. “And it is good to meet you, too. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Egeustimentis.”</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The friend stared back at the older man blankly for a moment, then nodded, slowly. Rushad frowned. “What is the matter?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Blinking rapidly, his friend turned to him. “I think that --”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Egeustimentis Ba</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">,” said the older man. Then, without another word, and pausing only to scoop a handful of ginger biscuits from the table, he left. He moved carefully around the other tables in the crowded bakery. Then the older man was out the door, and gone.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The two young men stood there. After some time, they both sat down back in their seats -- but slowly and clumsily, like sleepwalkers. Their neighbors at another table noticed, and one young lady made a joke at their expense while her companion chuckled.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">They stared off into space for a while. Then Rushad reached for his chai, and lifted it to his lips. He sipped it, casually, and reached for a ginger biscuit. There were only a couple left.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Rushad leaned over and frowned at the plate. He looked up at his friend. “You ate all the biscuits.”</span><br />
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<span style="font-weight: 400;">From the journal of Edgar Erasmus, as written in his cell in Nurmengard:</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">They don’t understand. Little men with little minds, and they don’t understand.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">These Muggle ideas are simply too great to be ignored, too magnificent to be left where we found them. That is what so few understand. Yes, there is a risk, I acknowledge that… but don’t they realize the </span></em><em><span style="font-weight: 400;"><u>stakes</u></span></em><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">? How many generations of wizards have warned about the fading of magic, when our wands will be </span></em><em><span style="font-weight: 400;"><u>sticks in our hands</u></span></em><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">? But I think no one has really paid attention to actually doing something. We have <u>propositions</u> we can </span></em><em><span style="font-weight: 400;"><u>try</u></span></em><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">. Wipe out or send away all the Muggles of Scotland -- will the flame of the Hebridean Black wax stronger? Purge the mudbloods of Cyprus -- does a <s>Cyprusian</s> <s>Cyprian</s> Cypriot light glow brighter?</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">But there’s no one to do such things, and so men of genius must take the matter into their own hands. </span></em><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Magic decreases with every generation, replaced with a milksop sort of imitation.</span></em><em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> <u>So we must seize new ideas where we find them</u>. If </span></em><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">little men</span></em><em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> denounce that innovation because it comes from Muggles: more </span></em><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">fools</span></em><em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> they! If </span></em><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">little men</span></em><em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> denounce that innovation because it poses some petty risk: more </span></em><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">fools</span></em><em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> they! </span></em><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Damn that boy in his tower damn him damn him damn him for the imbecile he is.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">And all the better since I can see the shape of ideas yet to be realized -- </span></em><em><span style="font-weight: 400;"><u>true and new</u> advances in magical thinking</span></em><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">. It’s in the air with these new thoughts… testing and sorting, the new “journals,” all of that. Waiting to be discovered. A <u>genuine new idea of magic</u> -- a <u>new insight</u> into how it works. If that were found for the first time in generations… </span></em><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">amazing new power</span></em><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">. It is impossible to overestimate how <u>great the power</u> such a discovery could bring. <u>And these fools </u></span></em><em><span style="font-weight: 400;"><u>stand in the way</u></span></em><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">!!!!</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">My research is gone twice over, even the very <u>knowledge</u> of it taken from me and stoppered behind glass. But I will not be deterred. My sentence will be over in a trifle of two years, and I will have much time to think. To discover a new law of magic will be to </span></em><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">become a <u>power</u></span></em><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">.</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span></em>
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span></em>
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span></em>
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<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Cromwell, our chief of men, who through a cloud</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Not of war only, but detractions rude,</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Guided by faith and matchless fortitude,</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">To peace and truth thy glorious way hast ploughed,</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">And on the neck of crowned Fortune proud</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Hast reared God's trophies, and his work pursued,</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">While Darwen stream, with blood of Scots imbrued,</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">And Dunbar field, resounds thy praises loud,</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">And Worcester's laureate wreath: yet much remains</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">To conquer still; Peace hath her victories</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">No less renowned than War: new foes arise,</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Threatening to bind our souls with secular chains.</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Help us to save free conscience from the paw</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Of hireling wolves, whose Gospel is their maw.</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span></em>
<span style="font-weight: 400;"><i>- </i>John Milton</span></div>
</div>ADhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10211720060888169877noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8047698153058029905.post-29168898702810751552016-01-09T21:00:00.002-05:002016-01-16T17:22:48.430-05:00Significant Digits, Chapter Thirty-Five: Mascon<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b style="color: #222222; font-family: 'Noto Serif', Georgia, serif; font-size: x-large; line-height: 27px;">Significant Digits, Chapter Thirty-Five: Mascon</b><br />
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<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
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<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">300 miles above the Earth</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">May 16th, 1999</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Now </span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Pocket is away,” Basil Horton said into the radio. He folded the controls to the waldo back into the wall, and the sturdy little arm, moved by the Protean Charm to mimic the movement of the controls, collapsed against the outside of the ship, out of sight beneath the viewport. He watched the satellite, freed of the waldo’s grip, float away. “Floating free of the ship -- I don’t see any problems.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He waited for a response, squinting at the Muggle device, irritably. There was none. Scowling, Basil got to his knees in the small space between the pilot’s seat and the wall, pushed down by the ship’s inverted floating charm, and tapped the bulky black radio box. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Probably waited until now to give up the ghost. Would be typical. Everything works fine until the very moment it becomes important.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He tapped the microphone on the headset again, and repeated the message. There was still no response… just the quiet crackles or hissing. At least it had electricity, and the speaker still seemed to be working. Basil cursed the very name of Marconi and got back to his feet, stooping significantly. He was a big man with an athletic build, even if he’d gotten a bit soft around the middle in recent years, and he couldn’t stand comfortably in the ship without rapping his head against the smooth goblin-silver ceiling.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The entire ship was ridiculous, really… just a big silver ball. When that Ronnie Weasley boy had taken the first trip up, everyone had been all agog about “making history” and claptrap like that. The ginger idiot had the biggest, stupidest grin that Basil had ever seen when he got into the ship, and called out some Russian word before they closed the hatch -- sounded like “Poor yeah cally” or some nonsense.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Should he get out the spare, or the repair kit? He could fix the damn thing, he knew… it was one of seventeen Muggle devices that they’d trained him to repair (sitting in a desk in some miserable little Muggle classroom like a wandless nitwit). Maybe something was wrong on the RCP’s end, instead.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Basil tugged gently at the lead coming out of the back of the radio, to see if it had come loose on either end. The gobbos had needed to bore a small hole through the surface of the sphere, so that the Tower could slap an antenna along the outside, after discovering that the ship became more and more radio-impenetrable by the day. Had that lead gotten loose outside, or had one of the seals fouled it up somehow? Could the seals strangle off the flow of the signal, somehow? Basil considered. He didn’t think so.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Annoyed, he turned and peered out the viewport. The brown satchel of the pocket world was visible, securely fixed to a Mitsubishi platform and surrounded by the white plastic Leaf spheres that protected the electronic sensors, thrusters, and other Muggle components. It seemed to be unharmed, but it also wasn’t adjusting its attitude or showing any other signs that the staff at the RCP had taken control. They didn’t seem to have heard him; they were still waiting to hear that the pocket was clear.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Maybe the radio had died -- killed by a nearby enchantment or his own spells? There should have been enough Leaf inside the casing to protect it, absorbing ambient magic and preventing the accompanying electromagnetic interference, but the ship had been put into orbit with the Vanishing Cabinet on the </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Monroe</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, their first satellite… that could have been too much magic for the radio to endure.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Basil thought about the Tower’s words when they’d been talking about possible equipment failures and the necessary redundancies. “My father always says that firm percussive maintenance is part of any good troubleshooting toolkit,” the young man had said -- speaking in that way he had, both patronizing and making an annoying show of being considerate. Hard to believe that everyone in the Ministry fell all over themselves to try to please the kid… in Basil’s opinion, Potter had just been lucky in his friends. He was riding back-broom after the Goddess, holding onto her coat-tails. Someday soon, she’d take over, and Potter would be put in his place.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Basil? Are you clear of the pocket? We have its camera, now, but we don’t see you,” buzzed the radio, and not even the crackle of static could hide the sweetness of Dolores Umbridge’s voice. Basil smiled, then leaned over and gave the radio a single good thump with the palm of his hand. It squealed and fell completely silent. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Bugger.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He took another glance out at the pocket world, which was floating further and further away, and then sighed heavily. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Merlin’s nose, there’s nothing for it but to get to it… Muggle junk.</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> Basil opened the supply kit and found the pouch labeled “A6,” and began the process of getting out the backup radio (bulkier with even more Lovegood Leaf to shield its components) and connecting it to the antenna lead. He should have enough time to try broadcasting. If it didn’t work, he’d use the Vanishing Cabinet and a Quotes Quill, however clunky that solution might be. He wished the bubblers had enough range that they could just use them, or that they’d hurry up in the Vision Verge and get some other magical solution.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">After almost fifteen minutes of laborious fiddling, Basil shoved the broken radio into the pouch and grabbed the headset of the new one, turning the frequency knob until the display showed the correct number. “Hullo… Dolores, am I transmitting?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Basil!” said Umbridge. “We were worried,” she cooed. “Everything all right?” He could picture her as she spoke, that curvy beauty. Basil grinned.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Fine, fine. Pocket is away and I’m well clear. Bit of trouble with this Muggle junk, but I’ve sorted it out,” he said into the radio.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Well done, Basil,” Umbridge said, sounding a bit tinny over the radio -- but still sweet. “We’re getting a good connection with the pocket. Keep an eye on it, wouldn’t you?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Basil shifted around the pilot’s seat and sat down in it, radio still in hand. He rested his free palm on one of his guidance sticks. “Of course, madame.” He willed the stick to move -- as though he were flying a broomstick, funny enough -- and the ship shifted slightly so that he had a clear view of the satellite.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He watched as one and then another of the thrusters fired in short bursts, and the satchel-carrying satellite, with its completely mental marriage of Muggle and magical materiel, moved gradually… presumably, finding a stable orbit.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The radio crackled. “Everything looks good on our end. How is it up there? Are you receiving still?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Five by five,” Basil replied with a touch of irony, and smiled as Umbridge tittered. “Yes, everything looks good.” He watched as the satellite slowly spun in place, and settled back a little into his seat.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The whole thing was truly remarkable, he had to admit. He never would have dreamed of this sort of thing when he was a younger man -- it was more than impossible, it was inconceivable -- beyond what he could have imagined. But these days… well, everything was speeding up and there were new ideas and new devices every week, it seemed. Anything seemed possible in a world where </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Muggles</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> could fly beyond the end of the air. Basil and most everyone else might poke fun at the antics of the Muggles and their crude, fragile world… but they’d lain down there in the mud and looked up at the stars, and reached for them. It was inspiring, really.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">After the satellite was safely in orbit, floating precisely where it should be, according to its onboard sensors and the tracking data they were collecting in the increasingly well-staffed RCP, Basil stayed in position for some time. He stared out at the steady dots of light that were scattered in the black like glittering alchemist’s sand.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Basil knew the plans -- what they wanted to do. What the Tower wanted. He wanted to send wizards out there… out among those stars.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">It had started small -- sending up the </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Monroe</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> with its onboard Vanishing Cabinet, and sending the goblin-silver ship through that Cabinet, carrying a Weasley, for a test run of twelve minutes. Half of the onboard equipment had failed and one of the seams on the viewscreen had leaked, but Weasley had come through it unharmed. He’d made another trip three days later with new equipment shielded against ambient magic. Basil went out the next week, and by now between the two of them they had nearly twenty hours of flight-time.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">And now they had the pocket world -- the “slicebox world,” as some called it -- in orbit as well. After testing its stability, they’d be bringing out the airlock chamber in pieces from the </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Monroe</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> and locking it on outside of that brown satchel. They’d pump the vast chamber full of air and put some of the more useful Transfiguration wards in place as a safeguard. Then they’d slap a high-powered, long-term, </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">upside-down</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> Floating Charm on the whole giant cavern to float everything towards the “ground,” just like the ship Basil was in. It would be its own little world.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">There would be a lot of testing, of course. Basil was friendly with one of the gobbos -- good bloke, even if he was a Puddlemere supporter -- who had told him that the Tower already had some of the people in Material Methods working on a way to transport huge amounts of soil and water. There were even some specific sites in mind, such as some wetlands in the American South. Of course, even after they filled the big thing with dirt and water and whatever, it would still be experimental. Basil supposed they’d leave rats and flies in the pocket world for a good month before even beginning human testing, and the first planned permanent residents would be acromantulas.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">But the trajectory was clear. Wizards in pocket worlds, out in space.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Basil sat there for a long time, and watched the stars.</span><br />
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
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<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">John Snow Center for Medicine and Tower School of Doubt (The Tower)</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">May 16th, 1999</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Trade?” asked Harry, leaning forward on the stool. He reached over and moved the microphone away from the shiny black box. The box flickered with a pulse of reddish light as he did so.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Voldemort fell silent, the bland male voice going quiet for a few beats. Any pause was a message -- surely Voldemort had already considered whether he’d be willing to trade more information, and what questions he might ask in return. A pause this long was very nearly a shout -- a strong reminder that the voice in the box had leverage. Harry smiled.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Yes,” came the answer, eventually.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“You discovered the Chamber of Secrets of Salazar Slytherin. I’d like to hear about that… whatever you could share.” </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">I’ll cast a wide net, first.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Very well. In exchange, I would like to know more about your Tower,” replied Voldemort.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Vetoed,” Harry said immediately. He didn’t need to think about it: he’d set some hard rules about what information he was willing to trade, and some things fell entirely out of the range of acceptable discussion. And this was spectacularly dangerous information.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry remembered.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">“Tell me what you can do.” No answer.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">“Tell me what you are.” No answer.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">“Help.” No answer.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">“Root.” No answer. In fairness, that one had been rather a longshot.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">“Noitilov.” And with that -- at that word, which really should have been obvious, since why have any backwards-meaning runes on the device at all, honestly it didn’t provide any security and just looked silly, you just needed to spent thirty seconds with a microcasette recorder to figure it out -- the Mirror changed. The image of Harry and the Hogwarts room behind him vanished. In its place, the Mirror displayed </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">question</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Not the word “question,” or a symbol like a question mark, or really any other visual communication. Instead, the very idea of questioning was reflected in the Mirror. This was obviously sheer semantic nonsense since an amorphous concept had no physical reality that could be represented with light, and Harry thought it was ridiculously silly. Obnoxiously, it continued to be true.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry considered what he would ask of the Mirror.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">“Show me the world where the phoenixes came from.” He could try to verify some of the information he already had about the Mirror, and maybe discover more about how it worked.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Nothing happened. Still only: question.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">“Show me my extrapolated volition.” Nothing.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">“Show me my coherent extrapolated volition.” Nothing.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">“Noitilov detalo partxe tnere hoc.” Nothing.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Different attempts at pronunciation also had no result.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">There was only the question, staring back at him. What question? What was it asking? Voldemort had said that the Mirror was supposed to possess morality -- didn’t that imply intelligence? Or that it consulted some external intelligent to make moral assessments of a person or situation or request? Could every possibility have been programmed into it ahead of time? Or did it borrow intelligence or morality from the viewer somehow?</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">What was it asking?</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Did it want to know what he wanted?</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again. He stared intently at the Mirror and said, his voice fervent with desire, and spoke his will.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Sorry,” Harry said again, returning to the present. “Can’t do it.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Within the Tower, the Killing Curse had no power to take life. Here, the human spirit clung to the flesh more tenaciously than anywhere else. It was a plane of life and possibility, accidentally discovered -- or accidentally </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">created</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> -- during those hesitant experiments with the Mirror, years ago. That secret was beyond price.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">It didn’t matter that Voldemort was stuck in the box. There was not even the slightest reason to risk it, and the rules of their trading game stated that Harry had absolute veto power.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“More about this box, at least --”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Vetoed,” Harry said again, interrupting.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">This was easier. Harry simply didn’t know much about the box. Neither did the Unspeakables. It was clearly an item of significant power, and bore every mark of being goblin-made, but the only information that the Department of Mystery had on record was that it was intended to be an unbreachable prison. Tentative investigation, carefully done to avoid piquing anyone’s notice, had turned up more than a few possibilities for the box… but no definitive answer.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Those would both obviously be off-limits,</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> Harry thought. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Next will come a slightly more subtle question, which I will feel more obliged to answer. </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">But that didn’t serve. No, it would be another level further.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“All right, then,” said Voldemort. There was a tone of resignation in the voice -- he had been getting more and more adept with using the magically-generated speech to convey emotion or emphasis. “Tell me about Ms. Granger, then. What have the effects of the Gattai Ritual been on her?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry could see no reason to avoid this question. It seemed harmless, and was certainly something that Voldemort would be genuinely curious about.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Vetoed,” he said. Just because he couldn’t spot the plot at work, or understand what Voldemort might gain, didn’t mean he had to agree to the first mysterious step.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Tell me about some new person, someone interesting,” replied Voldemort, almost immediately. There was an odd warble to his last word. Harry supposed it was the artificial voice’s version of “irritation.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“All right,” said Harry. He felt confident he could make a harmless selection.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“You have already seen the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets -- the hidden door had a mural of Salazar fighting a jötunn. We took a different passage, one of many that Salazar wove through Hogwarts and required the castle to maintain, but had we continued down the first path, we would have come to the Chamber proper. It is a large stone vault in a plain style, rather like the Tower of Mendoza, lit by a green light. I assume we would also have found the bones of a basilisk, fallen and defanged where I left it, but at the time that I first discovered the Chamber, the basilisk was very much alive and dwelling within a ludicrous statue of Salazar Slytherin himself. It ignored me, and did not look upon me, and would not speak to me despite my commands in Parseltongue.” Voldemort paused. “I was a young man, then, and not as rich in lore, but I had wits enough to recognize the telltale shape of the statue’s joints, and magic enough to know the minor enchantment which gave mobility to the design. All of the statues in Hogwarts have the same purpose. I could see the expected next step.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“When animated, the statue attempted to engage me in an old game of gestures which had been popular for many centuries in Salazar’s time. It is a game of symbols with a vocabulary of hand-signs, combining them in sequences of three, and one attempts to back one’s opponent into a position where they can take no action. It is forgotten today by all except the most learned.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I was poor and unpracticed at the game, knowing about it only from hoary scrolls, and I swiftly lost. The basilisk ignored me when I commanded it to assist me, replying that it had ears only for victory. I played the game again with the statue, which moved its stone limbs with flawless strategy.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Some hours later, I was finally able to win by playing the Pestle, the Dragon, and the Worm. The statue of Salazar bowed to me and returned to its former posture -- arms crossed, intending to be imposing. Only then would the basilisk speak to me, asking me to produce something called the ‘writ of the blood,’ in preparation for the second trial.” There was another pause from the box, accompanied by a buzz. Harry had heard this imitation of a sigh before. “I admit that I lost my temper, then, and acted out of turn. I cast the Killing Curse thrice in succession, deliberately missing the basilisk each time, and I made some sort of speech -- the bold words of an ignorant boy, threatening and demanding in Parseltongue.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“This, too, was within the expectations of Salazar Slytherin, it would seem, for the basilisk hissed its laughter and asked me what I would know of it.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“You destroyed the basilisk, so you must have been satisfied that you’d learned everything it could teach you,” Harry said. “How did that work?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“It was a matter of some months, Mr. Potter. An intellectual game between the basilisk and myself. It was compelled to cooperate with me, but was also driven to continually assess my motives, worthiness, and will… this meant that it did not merely spill its secrets. It required things of me… further trials, and it would accept no bluffs. It was a… harrowing time. And I think that is all I will speak of it, for now.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry didn’t press the issue, yet, by asking about specific spells or rituals. That treasure trove still existed, and had incredible value, but there was no reason to press the issue. And as far as Harry could verify, the story was true. He’d been to the Chamber of Secrets, and found only a statue and a skeleton.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Tell me of an interesting person, then, Mr. Potter,” said Voldemort.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry considered who would qualify as interesting while still being harmless. “All right. There is a young man named Lawrence Bradwian whom I met a few months ago. He has a prophecy about him, supposedly… he is said to be fated to ‘bring down a great house.’ You’d think this would result in him being shunned by everyone else with noble blood, but instead he seems to be quite popular. He’s a Slytherin, but almost seems a Gryffindor… rescuing a half-giant from persecution, breaking up a Euphoric ring, and accidentally helping me recover an artifact.” </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">One of your oldest Horcruxes, which we then destroyed</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">along with dozens of others we’ve found by tracing the paths of the invisible links between them with the most sensitive magic detector ever created,</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> Harry thought, remembering the device Luna’s team had created. “He even badly assaulted a classmate and framed him for an attack on the Tower, with the goal of becoming… I don’t know, my protege or favorite? He’s a Silver Slytherin, so I think he was more misguided than anything.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“And I expect you did not expel him or arrange for his removal, ensuring no large disruptions in the political scene? Instead, did you take him aside for a gentle scolding?” asked Voldemort.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Well,” said Harry, “rather more than that. But yes, I arranged for him to learn what real intrigue and danger and fear are like. I never put him in any real danger, but I think the experience might have been enough to actually change his mind. That’s harder to do than one might think.”</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Like when you tried with me.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I recall. Be careful you are not being overconfident.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry shook his head. “He’s back in his normal student role, and one of the Silver Slytherin mentors -- a Tower auror -- is keeping an eye on him.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“It is a disturbing thing to hear how little you have learned from your own story, Mr. Potter. Do you not think that someone in a position of power should perhaps be wary of an adventurous and precocious young man with a prophesied role in great events? Does that not, perhaps, call anything to mind?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“The thought had occurred to me,” Harry said. He felt a moment of sadness… Voldemort should be speaking in the acid tones of a sarcastic Professor Quirrell for this moment of mocking pedagogy. He paused, then asked in a natural tone, “Willing to do another trade? I’d like to hear about the Resurrection Stone, if you’re willing to discuss it.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">It was tempting to add a diversionary turn of phrase, such as “wherever it may be” or “if I ever got ahold of it,” or the like. But in the absence of body language and nonverbal cues, Harry had to be even more careful about his phrasing to avoid revealing to Voldemort that they’d already </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">captured</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> the Resurrection Stone, along with Bellatrix Black.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He had plans, and had uncovered some of the designs and powers of the Resurrection Stone -- including some truly surprising things about the Peverell “brothers,” but that didn’t mean verification wouldn’t be useful.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“No… I think not, Mr. Potter,” replied the bland voice of Voldemort. “I know you have grand designs, and I do not object to many of them. But I will not help you in that, I think.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Okay, Professor,” said Harry, already deep in thought over his next possible question. “But let’s talk about something else. Let’s talk about some theories of magic. I have been doing some reading of both old and new ideas… tell me about how this theory sounds.”</span><br />
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Powis Castle, Wales</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">May 16th, 1999</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“So tell me honestly, Simon: how do you think we stand, right now? There are no big threats on the horizon, and no reason not to take every bit of necessary time to make sure they’re okay,” Hermione said. “We can let the world wait until they’re feeling better.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Esther is quiet. She doesn’t say much... it’s like before. Tonks is… I don’t know,” said Simon. His voice sounded flat and tired, and the hollowness of his eyes was more pronounced. These had been rough weeks for everyone.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione turned to Nikitas Seyhan, who was sitting quietly at the table with them. The young man had been here at Powis for months, and seemed to regard it as his natural home… certainly he appeared to have no desire to ever return back to Cappadocia. His twelve years in Göreme had wiped out most of his memories of his old life anyway. He had learned some decent English, received a new face, and grown close to his caretakers here… the people like Jessie and Simon who had looked after him, in the time since his liberation. He’d Returned, and he looked likely to stay.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Nikitas? What do you think?” she asked him, gently.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He looked surprised that she’d ask, and after a moment began to appear almost panicked.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“It’s okay, dear,” Hermione said with her best reassurance, smiling. She leaned forward to put a hand on his shoulder, patting him softly. “Just take a moment and think. Esther, Hyori, and Tonks all went through a lot on Walpurgisnacht. You know them. How do you think they are doing?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Hyori,” Nikitas said, awkwardly, “only ever just one word.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“That’s normal,” said Simon.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Nikitas hesitated, then went on. “Esther does not talk. Before, she talked much more.” He paused again. “Tonks…” He trailed off, frowning, and finally made a pained face and shrugged, discomfited.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“It’s okay,” Hermione repeated, warmly. She turned back to Simon. “We take as long as we need. Get in touch with St. Mungo’s… let’s get some outside help. This is different from dementation.”</span><br />
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Khecheopalri Village, West Sikkim, India</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">May 16th, 1999</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The mountains of Sikkim lie far to the north in India, in a region balkanized by the vagaries of history and war. They are cold and high and proud, counting the mighty peak of Kangchenjunga among their number. One of these mountains cradles the lakeside village of Khecheopalri, twenty miles away from the nearest sizable town. It is a small village, with perhaps two dozen buildings and eighty residents. Few Muggle tourists ever visit, except to see the holy lake -- said to be a footprint left by Lord Shiva -- and the last time a wizard came to stay was during the eighteenth century.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Even at this time of year, it is cold in Khecheopalri. When an older man left the small village temple, he traced his fingers on the surface of the bell, and found it unpleasantly cold. He pulled an old shawl closer around his shoulders, and walked off down the path away from the temple, slowly.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">After some time, he reached his home. It appeared as modest as its neighbors -- two rooms and a garden. A small pile of broken and discarded chhang gourds lay in one corner of the garden. The man entered the building, nodding a hello to one of his neighbors, Dorji, who was outside, trying to enjoy the warm sunshine, sheltered from the wind behind her low garden wall as she wrapped momos.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">After some time, the man emerged. He went to the small wall that separated his garden from Dorji’s, and addressed her politely in Sikkimese Tibetan.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Dorji-la, I am going away on a small trip to Siliguri. I may be gone some time. I wonder if I could ask you to tend to my garden, in my absence?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Dorji was already nodding and waving in agreement before he even finished speaking. “Yes, yes. Not a problem. We have been neighbors since I was young, and my garden and yours are one. But you go away so seldom! I hope there is no tragedy, umdze.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“No, no tragedy. Just a small matter of a property to which I must attend,” said the man, smiling. “It is not a happy journey, and full of risk, but that is life.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I hope that you have good results, umdze,” Dorji said, smiling and placing another momo on the growing pile.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Thank you. I hope so myself, as well,” the man agreed, nodding solemnly.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Let us play a game of shatranj when you return… it has been too long since you schooled me in my ignorance, umdze,” she said, and returned her attention to her cooking.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I would enjoy that,” said the man. He returned inside of his home, to make preparations for leaving.</span><br />
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">“And were we not saying long ago that the soul when using the body as an instrument of perception, that is to say, when using the sense of sight or hearing or some other sense (for the meaning of perceiving through the body is perceiving through the senses)—were we not saying that the soul too is then dragged by the body into the region of the changeable, and wanders and is confused; the world spins round her, and she is like a drunkard, when she touches change?”</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">“Very true.”</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">“But when returning into herself she reflects, then she passes into the other world, the region of purity, and eternity, and immortality, and unchangeableness, which are her kindred, and with them she ever lives, when she is by herself and is not let or hindered; then she ceases from her erring ways, and being in communion with the unchanging is unchanging. And this state of the soul is called wisdom?”</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">“That is well and truly said, Socrates,” he replied.</span></em><br />
<em><br /></em>
<em>- Phaedo</em>, Plato<br />
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<b style="color: #222222; font-family: 'Noto Serif', Georgia, serif; font-size: x-large; line-height: 27px;">Significant Digits, Bonus: Science</b><br />
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<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">John Snow Center for Medicine and Tower School of Doubt (The Tower)</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">October 3rd, 1998</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Mr. Abercrombie, Ms. Ryan. How can I help you?” asked the dean, glancing at his wristwatch. “It must be important if you’ve come to see me during my office hours this week.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Visiting the dean was relatively simple, but annoyingly tedious: you simply pinned a note to the front of your robes about office hours, then snapped a Safety Stick. Few students ever bothered, especially considering how intimidating the former prodigy and current magical titan could be. His inaugural speech to the Science Program students hadn’t been especially impressive -- a great deal of fuss about a “pale blue dot” -- but some of the new students in the Program had felt faint just from being in the Tower and in such proximity to the great man. Craig Abercrombie and Siobhan Ryan thought this visit was necessary, however.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">As usual, every team in their year of the Science Program had been given their project on Sunday. In this instance, each trio of students was handed a small brown box containing the broken shards of a vase and a small card of information. Craig, Siobhan, and Perry Paderau got a box full of white-glazed pieces decorated with delicate designs in blue and green. The card had informed them that this was formerly an Art Nouveau vase created by Leon Solon, and told them that they were required to “repair the vase” without magic. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">You may use magic in any way you please during the process, as long as no spell directly touches or affects the pieces of the vase. Points will be awarded based on the completeness of the restoration, overall aesthetic effect, and creativity.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Well, sir, it’s just got to be Muggle glue, right?” said Craig. “Nothing else you can do. Not much of a challenge. We were wondering if you might talk to Professor Syracuse about it, and get him to change it a bit.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I suggested this assignment, actually,” said Dean of the Science Program Harry Potter-Evans-Verres. He leaned back in his chair behind the huge wooden table, adjusting his glasses, and gestured at a pile of books at one end of the table. Craig recognized some of the textbooks from the science program and several books on pottery styles and history, along with a handful of note-filled parchments.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">There was a brief pause as the two students absorbed this information, then Siobhan spoke up. “Sir, I’m not sure it fits with some of the other projects we’ve done. They all needed… well, you had to think about them. This will just be… tedious. Gluing things together.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Don’t underestimate the value of patience, Ms. Ryan,” said the dean. “Having the fortitude to do something annoying and fiddly is a key aspect of good science.” He pushed himself back from the big table, and stood up, gesturing vaguely. “A few rooms away is a project I’ve been working on for </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">years</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, trying minor variations on the same thing over and over again to try to find the exact shielding that will work for my purposes. And I’ll probably keep working at it tomorrow, and next week, and so on. If you’ve decided on a way to complete your project, don’t quit just because it seems tedious. Most worthwhile things are tedious at some point, so you should get used to tedium… as long as it’s for a good purpose, and not just busywork.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“This is just different than Professor Syracuse’s previous assignments, that’s all,” said Siobhan.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Craig nodded in agreement, and then his face lit up. “There was something about this sort of thing in one of our books…”</span><br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He walked over to the pile of books and notes that the dean had indicated. He leafed through them until he found what he was looking for: a copy of </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Surely You’re Joking, Mr. Feynman!</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> Craig opened it and began flipping through it, rapidly.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Some of the previous weekly projects from the Professor of Engineering had been:</span><br />
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li><em>Construct a way to view a basilisk with sufficient clarity that it could be effectively fought. Any means allowed, Muggle or magical.</em> Entries included glasses with mirrors built into them, blindfolds enchanted with <em>vitalis revelio</em>, a purchased pair of Muggle night-vision goggles, and a simple piece of parchment inscribed with the words, “Use the Killing Curse and then view it as much as you want.”</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li style="font-weight: 400;"><em style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: 400;">Build upon last week’s work studying Muggle agriculture, and suggest a new way to improve it in a well-structured essay. No minimum number of inches. </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Answers were almost universally centered around either the use of magical creatures (interbreeding, pest control, etc.) or the production of fresh water (wide-scale weather management, enchanted saltwater filters, etc.) The most successful team pointed out that simply using Vanishing Rooms would result in the biggest improvement to Muggle agriculture, eliminating all the problems of preservation and transportation.</span></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li style="font-weight: 400;"><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Go to the northeast corridor, take the second stairwell, go left down the hall, and enter the eighteenth room on the left. Once the door locks behind you, your team will have one hour to escape. You may not use your wands. You may bring anything else with you that you wish. </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Students brought lockpicks enchanted with flawless function, battering rams transfigured to a small size, bottles of magical fire or Bundimun acid, and other things. Most plans had needed to be altered somewhat after the door vanished.</span></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li style="font-weight: 400;"><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">This is a Muggle device known as a “mousetrap,” used in place of the Vermexous Charm. It is missing the spring which would normally power it with mechanical energy. Make it work. Points will be awarded based on the effectiveness of the trap on a living mouse and creativity. </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Most teams succeeded to get the trap to work, replacing the spring with twisted rope or other solutions. The two winning teams, however, found more innovative approaches. One team had put a lump of poisoned bait on the trap and ignored the device’s original purpose. The other had tied the broken mousetrap to the back of a hungry kneazle.</span></li>
<li style="font-weight: 400;"><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Write an essay in three parts: (1) Where is an example of the Pareto Principle at work within Hogwarts? (2) Where can you find an example of the normal distribution in Hogwarts? (3) Identify a place where you would normally expect to find an example of either concept, even though it is not present. No minimum number of inches.</span></em></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li style="font-weight: 400;"><em style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: 400;">Golden Snitches have been immobilized and hidden throughout the fifth floor. Find any Snitch, but remember that most sensory spells will not be effective. Do not go past the mungbeans or you will certainly become lost. </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Only two teams had won. The first had gone and purchased a new Golden Snitch in Hogsmeade, pointing out that the rules didn’t state </span><span style="font-weight: 400;">which</span><span style="font-weight: 400;"> Snitch they needed to find. The other had researched the history of Quidditch’s most famous cheaters and found a little-known fifteenth-century charm to divine the location of a Snitch. It used a distinctive wand motion. The following month, the Seeker for the Slough Sizzlers was fined a hundred Galleons and barred from competition.</span></li>
</ul>
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">After a moment of searching through the book, Craig had found the part he wanted.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Sir, remember when Mr. Feynman goes to Brasilia and talks to them about what they do with their science education?” Dean Potter nodded; it was one of the more famous parts of the book. “Well, sir, Mr. Feynman says they have to choose a way because of ‘a good reason, a sensible reason; not just because other countries do.’ </span>” The student tapped the spot in the book.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Yes, Mr. Abercrombie. But I assure you, we’re not doing this project just because other engineering classes do it this way.” The dean smiled indulgently, and the expression paradoxically made him look very young. He was only a few years older than them, after all.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Yes, sir, but maybe you’re assigning this project because you’re doing the sort of thing you think that Mr. Feynman would do?” said Craig, questioningly. He closed the book and set it back down with the rest.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Siobhan frowned, shaking her head. “Well, I don’t know if that’s it, Craig. I just thought...”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“It’s a good point,” said the dean, looking thoughtful. “When I was younger, I spent quite a bit of time feeling frustrated with my teachers, and wishing I had a truly talented and creative tutor. I wasn’t quite prepared when I got my wish.” He fell quiet for a moment, and the students waited, a bit impatient despite their awe. The dean was either referring to Albus Dumbledore or David Monroe, and it was a dramatic reminder of how close they were to history… but they still wanted to leave as soon as possible.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I’ll think about it,” said the dean. “And before I give any more suggestions to Professor Syracuse, I’ll write out some clear lesson objectives. Cleverness isn’t a substitute for pedagogy, I suppose.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Thank you, sir,” said Craig and Siobhan, just slightly out of unison. They seemed discomfited by the end of the conversation; Craig was tugging at his robes nervously and Siobhan was visibly sweating. They left without another word.</span><br />
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<br />
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
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<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The ensuing week was relatively normal -- or what passed for normal in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry’s Science Program, which was not known for its normality. The lower-form students (in their first two years of the Program) scurried in small packs from one class to another, learning the rudiments of seven core subjects and one elective. The upper-form students spent their time with fewer professors, studying the rudiments of a few branches of science and doing labs. It was a ruthlessly intense program, and more than half of the students quit during their first year.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Professor Syracuse’s afternoon class on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays was a group of fourth-years. They had a swagger about them: they’d survived three years of a course of study that was already legendary for its difficulty, surpassing even the Salem Witches’ Institute’s “Trial by Fire” graduate school of languages. In another year, they’d be choosing independent courses of study in magical science in the School of Doubt, working with Tower or Unspeakable researchers -- or even just beginning careers, if they wanted. They would be the third graduating class of the Science Program, and they were on top of the world.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Truth be told, the swagger in these fourth-years might explain why Professor Santo Syracuse agreed so readily to the vase project when it was suggested by Dean Potter-Evans-Verres. Such an assignment had good prospects for teaching some arrogant teenagers a little humility.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Sit down, sit down,” snapped Professor Syracuse. “Paderau! You heard me! Sit down and be quiet! We have no time for your nonsense -- the ladies aren’t impressed. If you want to impress them, learn your equations.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The boy in question stood up from where he’d been crouched between two witches and walked around their station back towards his own in the back, wearing an expression of aggrieved innocence. He sat down between Siobhan and Craig, making as much noise as possible as he settled his elbows on the high table and his rear on the stool. His partners exchanged a look of annoyance behind his back.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Professor Syracuse watched him intently for a moment to be sure that the admonishment had been effective, then brightened as he turned to the class as a whole. He was a thin man of average height, and gloriously bald, with a shiny pink scalp and a mouth that twitched from side to side when he was excited. He was often excited.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Today we’ll spend the first hour on project presentation, and then after the break we’ll be doing more work on friction,” the professor said, rubbing his hands together in anticipation and illustration. “We’ll try to hammer at least a few basic principles into you, so that you’re only woefully ignorant, and not completely ignorant. It will be a rich, full day.” He waggled his eyebrows in anticipation. “Okay! Get out your projects -- whatever you have, get it out, even if it’s just your notes! You can put your binders away for now. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Do not</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> spill your flobberworm mucus or murtlap essence, or you will be cleaning </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">everyone’s</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> station at the end of the afternoon.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">There was some shuffling and murmuring as people got themselves sorted, taking out whatever their team had managed to complete that week. All six of the teams appeared to have put together something in order to repair the vase, but as everyone looked around, they saw a variety of solutions.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“What did we get done, guys?” Perry Paderau asked the other two, in a hushed voice.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“ ‘We’ didn’t get anything done… </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Craig and I</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> did finish something, though,” answered Siobhan, annoyed. She was arranging a closed box in front of herself, carefully.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Don’t be that way, Ryan… it’s been crazy this past week,” said Perry, frowning. “My dad wants me to come work for him when we get done this year, and so I’ve been trying to get some extra help from Professor Sprout in the evenings.” Perry’s father grew Sopophorous beans for export.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“You didn’t do anything, you just let Siobhan and I do it, and now you’re going to take credit,” said Craig, irritably.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Perry turned to him, and spoke in a harsh whisper, “Hey, you’re not the one who’s expected to spend the rest of his life with baskets of Mooncalf dung and a pair of silver scissors, okay? Do you know how </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">often</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> you need to sharpen silver scissors?” He scowled. “I did all the work to get us out of that room last month, when the door vanished, so have some mercy, will you?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“This is the only time,” said Siobhan.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Fine!” said Perry, a bit too loudly.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Quiet over there!” said Professor Syracuse, darting his gaze at their team. He frowned. “Again, Paderau? One point from Ravenclaw!” Perry groaned and slumped forward on the table. “Okay, first team… Jess, Raphael, Sally… what do you have?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Two boys and a girl rose from their stools and walked awkwardly to the front table. They set a vase down, carefully, as well as two small bowls. The vase was small, brown, and extremely plain.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Our solution was simple. We had a broken vase, and we needed to make a working vase -- to ‘repair’ it. So it seemed to us like the best thing would be to just make a new vase, rather than trying to remake the old one.” She gestured at the table, and one of her teammates dipped his fingers into one of the small bowls, lifting out a palmful of brown powder. “We took the pieces of the original vase and ground them down into dust. Then we took that dust,” she gestured again, and another teammate displayed a handful of dark clay, “and we added water, turning it back into clay. We didn’t use any magic on the pieces, before or after we ground them down. We didn’t even use </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Aguamenti</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> to create the water -- we just used the tap.” She sounded very proud.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Then,” she said, gesturing at the brown pot, “we made a pot, and asked a house elf to put it in the kilns for us the next time they fired something. We got it back this morning, and here is the pot: clean and new, and in one piece.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The professor approached the front table, frowning. “Full marks for creativity, and I suppose this is a ‘complete restoration.’ </span>” He picked up their pot, and examined it. “I am actually surprised that this worked. I wouldn’t have thought that you’d be able to grind it down and then just re-fire it. The vitrification… hmm…”<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Professor Syracuse drew his wand and tapped the side of the pot twice, saying, “</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Aparecium</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">.” The pot and the bowl of clay changed color -- very slightly, tinting itself just a bit pink. The bowl of powder, on the other hand, turned red. The professor turned to regard the trio of students, eyebrow raised. “Oddly, very little of the invisible dye seems to have found its way into your new pot… almost as though you just mixed a little in with new clay, after discovering that your plan wouldn’t work.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">They muttered some excuses, but the professor was already waving them back to their seats. “If you want to remedy your low score today, then I’d suggest you each write me thirteen inches on why you think your plan didn’t work, and what you should have done instead. I’d also suggest availing yourself of the library, this time around. If you’d done even a bit of research -- or if you’d been paying attention when we discussed ceramics -- you’d have known about why this wouldn’t work.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Professor Syracuse turned back to the class. “Next.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The next two teams had simply glued the vase back together. One of the teams had done much better than the other, and had clearly taken the time to choose a specific kind of glue and practice, while the other team’s vase had small chips missing and beaded lines of overflow dried along the seams. It even leaned a bit to the side.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Professor Syracuse commented on patience and conscientiousness as each team presented their work. The team that would go last watched in dismay, since it was obvious to everyone in the room that they had done the worst job -- their glue didn’t even look dry. One of them muttered a charm under their breath, and tried to subtly position their box so that it hid her efforts to use the warming spell on her work.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Next.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The fourth team had tried hard for the “creative” and “aesthetics” points as a strategy, and had used the pieces of their broken vase as a mosaic on the outside of a different vase, breaking them into even smaller fragments and arranging them in an attractive pattern. They held up drawings they’d copied from a book with a Quarto Quickening Quill from Queevel's, showing different examples of mosaics in art around the world, as well as a large diagram indicating the best way to fit the pieces and stick them in place. They were a very thorough group, and the class was just lucky that they hadn’t had time to make a diorama of a Pompeiian antechamber. They looked to be leading the class this week, easily.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Next,” said the professor, gesturing at Craig, Siobhan, and Perry.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The three of them got up. Siobhan carried the box with their project in it. She set it down, stood in front of it, and took out the vase. The white vase stood tall, and patterns of blue meshed with patterns of green on its surface. All of the pieces had been placed neatly where they belonged, but despite this care, the seams were clearly visible. Indeed, they gleamed with gold. Thick lines of the metal traced the joints between each piece. It was ostentatious, calling attention to the damage rather than trying to hide it.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Perry looked horrified. “This looks like we went mad,” he hissed to Siobhan.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Shut up</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">,” she whispered back, fiercely.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“We wanted to do a technique from Japan called ‘kintsugi.’ It’s a traditional Japanese craft, and part of an approach that doesn’t try to hide the history of a piece of broken ceramic, but instead make that history part of the visible story of the piece,</span>” Craig said, sounding a bit wooden and rehearsed. “We couldn’t find a shop that sold the sort of lacquer that would work, which comes from a special tree, so we experimented with different things -- potions and some goop from a Doxy nest and that sort of thing that we thought might work.”<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“This is Skele-Grow, reduced by half,” said Siobhan, and she carefully lifted the pot and held it up. “We added a tiny bit of bone to activate it, and dusted it with some powdered gold. Not a lot, and it turns out to be cheaper than you’d think --”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Because it’s very ductile, so it can be made extremely thin,” interrupted Perry, smiling as he was won over.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“...and so our receipts still only total up to about five Sickles,” finished Siobhan, after an annoyed glance at Perry.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Wonderful!” exclaimed Professor Syracuse, looking positively delighted. “It looks beautiful -- and it shows not just creativity, but real scholarship. This is actually -- my goodness -- this is actually something specifically mentioned to me by the dean when we discussed this project! He is quite a Japanophile, in fact, and we discussed the </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">wabi-sabi</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> aesthetic in particular!” The professor shook his head, marveling. “I know we don’t have </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">any </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">books on the topic… how exactly did you learn about this technique?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Ah, well,” said Craig, thinking about the notes on the table in the Tower that he’d read while looking for the Feynman book. “We remembered what you said about ‘social engineering’... it’s easier if you start with half the solution. So we asked around.</span>”<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The top sheet had read:</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Santo, one final thought on my suggested assignment for next week:</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">I don’t want to step on your toes, or make you feel like you have to give this. We promised you broad discretion when Minerva first came to you about your position in Killarney, and that hasn’t changed. This is just an idea I thought would be fun. The idea here isn’t just to make it difficult or tedious, since students will encounter enough of that without our help. But we’re giving them only the rudiments of a scientific education here… I want to challenge them as much as possible. I mentioned kintsugi to you as one possible solution to the project, but it’s also a metaphor for the wizarding world. You’re a Muggleborn, and you were ostracized for relying on Muggle science for your research on mermaids and evolution, so you know what we’re up against as we try to change society. These students are golden, but we have to make them strong... so they can hold together a broken world.</span></em><br />
<br />
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<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">-H</span></em></div>
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<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
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<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">I think it goes back to my high school days. In computer class, the first assignment was to write a program to print the first 100 Fibonacci numbers. Instead, I wrote a program that would steal passwords of students. My teacher gave me an A.</span></em><br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">-Kevin Mitnick</span><br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span>
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<b style="color: #222222; font-family: 'Noto Serif', Georgia, serif; font-size: x-large; line-height: 27px;">Significant Digits, Chapter Thirty-Four: Directoire Exécutif</b><br />
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<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">When we look for a guiding hand, where do we look? Ever upwards, ever upwards! The stars above radiate a divine influence, and it washes over everything. It gives shape to the lesser seers and to our own wishes, and it gives magic to the flower in the field and beast in the fold. Their unknowable will provides for the oddities of magic. Why does a certain word have effect with a certain wand? Upwards, ever upwards! It is the will of the stars! If you wish to find a pattern to the world, then you must look only upwards… ever upwards! That is the secret of all magic.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">-</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">excerpted from Lord Runcible LeValley‘s translation of </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">The Stars Our Destiny</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, by Guileford Wednesday</span><br />
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">What possible congruence of theories or schemes could explain the many aspects of magic in the world? It is an outright impossibility, and any attempt to square the circle must reckon with the seemingly innumerable contradictory and unfathomable aspects of the magical world. The blanket assertion that the stars are at work is not explanation enough.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Gamp’s Law of Transfiguration, which sets limits seemingly imposed by culture and custom? The inherent magical properties of the subjects of magizoology and herbology, where unthinking flora and fauna both defy consistent categories? The law of sympathy that underlies many rituals or potions, drawing upon either a metaphorical intimacy or a synecdochal partiality to a power or target in order to channel the effect? The potent accidental magic of the underaged, which seems to have no relation to any theory of practised magic, but instead dwells in a realm of will, wishes, and wild randomness? The linguistic uniformity of high ritual and new spells alike, with onomatopoeic properties to incantations which range from the most ancient syllabaries to last week’s innovations? Wordless or wandless magics, which rely upon a twist of thought or frame of mind to produce the intended effect -- even when that twist or frame bears not the slightest resemblance to the spoken spell?</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Magic is a mystery by its very nature, and each field and aspect of study deserves its own theories -- they cannot be reconciled with each other in some grand schema. In every age, and even in our own waning era, the only advancements have come from dedicated transfigurationists, potioneers, magizoologists, enchanters, and the like… never from the grand madness of addled “magical theoreticians.” Magic is a gem with many facets, through which we may shine light from many directions. But try to shine light through them all, and you produce no illumination: only confusion. Try to combine these facets into a single face, and you produce no lens -- not even the manifold lights of Wednesday’s much-beloved stars: only fragments.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">-</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">excerpted from </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">American Mage</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">’s review of same</span><br />
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
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<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></em></div>
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">On the shores of the lake of teeth, where the black hills end, Tír inna n-Óc</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">May 15th, 1999</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Three weeks later</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Once upon a time, a city of tents and pavilions stood here, illuminated by its own small sun. Bundiwigs and lejis would run in laughing circles before gladsome parties of elegant gaunts, while the visc let tissue-thin wings carry them in lazy loops overhead. When their sun darkened, it would be time for the sharpening.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">But all of that was in the past, and no one today remained to tell that story. There was only the gentle whisper of tooth on tooth as the ivory waves rolled upon the shore… and a certain quiet wail hidden in the wind.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Three figures stood in the uncertain grey light, their dream-flesh composed of intricately moving shadows.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“So then,” said the first figure. “Our American witch and her organization are gone -- years of management, wiped out by incompetence and chance. And now the British bishop has been captured, wasting more of our time. Entire </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">days</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> of our time, considering the effort spent in scrying for her location, altering her to our needs, capturing her pawns from hither and thither, and using the Touch to maintain our position. Our situation has worsened, and the Tower remains beyond our sight or reach. We cannot trigger the Lethe Touch and protect ourselves. We are </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">exposed</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The second figure listened silently. After the first was done speaking, it turned to regard the third creature of living shadow, inviting the conversation to continue.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“And so we need a next move, Meldh, to build on this one,” replied the third figure. </span>“It seems clear that the attack worked in its essentials. The Tower was breached and its defenders defeated. Yet there is little discussion in the British gendarmerie about changing their defenses. There is no reason not to awaken Tineagar and send her to the attack. We still have the wolf at Busan -- if we double the force we send, then they will succeed by main strength. There is little risk.”<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“The risk is that we would be wasting our time, enacting the same foolish plan again, and we would be risking leaving the American in their hands, as well. She has much of your lore, Nell -- would you see it released back into the world, to strengthen and perpetuate the threat of magic?” Meldh’s voice was strident.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Success will mean we might eliminate the risk of exposure through Bellatrix Black, as well as the threat of the Tower, and cut off the entire threat of this new approach to magical discovery. A few charms and Brittonic rituals are a small risk,” said Nell, dismissively.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“When your toes are at the brink, every handspan of distance counts. What if it is the spread of the Babylonian Garden that pushes us over?” retorted Meldh. “I do not doubt you equipped your bishop with that ritual, in addition to a pack of howling idiots. What if the boy employs it in conjunction with the Philosopher’s Stone? How many of him do you wish to face?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“A direct hand is needed,” said the second figure, interjecting. “You were correct in our last conversation, when you said as much. We have passed the point where we can hope to deter this new regime. By the time any further action can be taken, all the world will be united. It is time to take control, and employ this new tool that has been readied for our use.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">This suggestion, phrased in the mildest of tones, struck the other two like a physical blow.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“You will venture forth and risk yourself? That is... surprising,” said Meldh.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Not myself. You.” said the second figure.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">This prompted an even longer pause.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I am not certain that is wise. Putting myself beyond your sight, protection, and aid… I would be submitting myself to greater dangers than I have encountered in centuries.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I will enrich you with my own lore.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I am grateful,” said Meldh, although his tone of voice suggested otherwise. “And yet it would be risky beyond ken. The dangers are… formidable. I am more accustomed to moving other pieces. That is the sure way: observe and touch at a distance. Until this moment, there was much to be learned even by simple correspondence games. And then a whispered word or the gift of a bit of knowledge… that is the way to do it, I think.” But rather than assertive, Meldh’s words were hopeful.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“You are powerful and wise, and more than capable,” offered Nell, who had been quiet during this exchange. “And you would have all of our support. You are the master of the Touch -- it was you who reshaped the pyromancer we employed in our first attempt to curtail the boy, and neither of us could have done it better. If any of us must take control --” (and her tone left no doubt that it was as good as settled) “-- then it can be no other but you.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“We cannot wait and attempt influence by less immediate means. New devices appear every month. They defy the very grasp of the earth. The risk is untenable,” said the second figure.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I understand,” said Meldh, slowly.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The second figure spoke reassuringly. “The Mirror, late of Atlantis, proves to be the means by which the Tower has escaped us.” Meldh and Nell both moved slightly, and had they visible faces rather than fractal shadow, surprise might have been evident there. “It is being used in a manner that is crude but effective -- a single realm of the boy’s choosing, with passage left unspecified. All may enter, and all are subject to its strictures… but it is another world, out of reach. When you do this, it will be yours, along with the Stone of the Long Song.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Nell turned sharply at this, saying, “But --”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“His,” affirmed the second figure, and Nell fell silent.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Very well,” said Meldh. “But we will act with completeness, then. We have our pawns in the goblins -- rouse them. And a secondary line within Britain. If I am to personally intervene, then I require everything we can bring to bear. If we succeed, I will not begrudge whatever extra time is necessary afterwards to hide our hand.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The other two agreed, solemnly, and for some time they discussed the ways in which they would ready themselves. Eventually, they departed the realm of nightmare-stuff. The dark shore was once more unpeopled, and only a gaunt’s lost wail within the wind was left to suggest it had ever been otherwise.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Tír inna n-Óc endured.</span><br />
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">John Snow Center for Medicine and Tower School of Doubt (The Tower)</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">The same day</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Okay then,” said Harry Potter-Evans-Verres, Dean of the Science Program at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, head of the Tower School of Doubt, key advisor to a series of expendable Ministers for Magic, chief architect behind the development of entire new fields of wizardry, and guiding hand behind the course of the world. “I would like someone to seriously explain to me why we are calling them sfaironauts, and why I can’t change it.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">There was a series of groans from around the table. Cedric Diggory crumpled up a wad of parchment and threw it at Harry, while Amelia Bones and Alastor Moody gave each other despairing glances. Draco Malfoy looked annoyed, Percy Weasley looked uncomfortable, and Luna Lovegood probably would have looked bored if she had been paying attention (she was thinking about fish). Reg Hig didn’t react at all, only glancing up from the stack of parchments in front of him.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I would like to discuss Bellatrix Black,” said Bones, folding her hands in front of her on the meeting room table.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry sighed, and appeared to resign himself. “What about her?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Alastor and I agree that she cannot remain in Nurmengard. It’s not secure enough,” Bones said, glancing over at Moody. The handsome young man said nothing, but his roving eye -- now back where it belonged, after long hiatus -- whipped around to fix itself on the youthful Supreme Mugwump. “It has taken fully a week and an entire dedicated staff to begin to engage her mind, and we are nowhere near the depth of penetration necessary to extract secrets or spells from her, but recent events are a different thing. She has seen, well…” Bones trailed off, pursing her lips.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Her mind is nastier than a Hungarian Horntail and twice as dangerous,” said Moody, finally. “It’s like she’s taken an Unbreakable Vow to fight all intrusions into her brain.” He paused, and his eye spun in his head. “Not a bad idea, actually.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry shook his head. “If you’re looking to move her somewhere more secure than Nurmengard, the obvious question is: why is there anywhere more secure than Nurmengard? Whatever you’re doing better in that other place, do it at Nurmengard, too.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I maintain that we’re being short-sighted about her, Potter,” said Draco, frowning. Cedric nodded in agreement with the blond boy, paused as though he’d realized what he was doing, and then turned his attention back to Harry.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“The ticking ‘blastbomb’ scenario?” Harry asked, rubbing his forehead. “Look, we’ve spent years and years trying to heal people in St. Mungo’s with severe mental trauma, and so have Muggle doctors. It’s possible there are some things that can be done to the brain that can’t be fully recovered. If Bellatrix Black’s mind has been… well, made into some sort of maze, then it will just take a bit longer to get what we need from her. We’re not going to tear it free and damage her, not if it could leave her beyond repair.” He looked around the table, but too many faces were skeptical. “If Hermione were here, or one of the Returned, they’d agree with me. ‘Save one life,’ remember?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“This ‘one life’ might be risking that ‘whole world,’ Potter. You wouldn’t hesitate to kill her in battle if it was necessary to save the lives of others. This is the same thing. The fact that it’s just less pretty and less obvious doesn’t make it any less true,” said Draco. “Does anyone here doubt that she is going to suddenly disappear from her holding cell, and in six months we’ll be facing her and two hundred wereknarls or whatever?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Cedric shook his head at that and held up his hand. “No, no, please let’s not get back into the ‘sick or evil’ discussion. Let’s keep it on Nurmengard for a moment.” He looked back over at Moody. “Our people posted there have been doubled. She has two decoys, one of whom is </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">herself </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">convinced she is Bellatrix Black. And there’s probably at least two other plans in place that I don’t even know about, despite one ordinarily thinking the head of the DMLE </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">might </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">rate inclusion on all of that sort of thing. And of course, beyond all that, it’s still Nurmengard: one of the most secure places in the world. Where could you possibly move her?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Here,” said Moody.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“It’s --” began Draco, but Moody cut him off.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“The magics that Dumbledore left to help you build this place can’t be replicated elsewhere,” lied the head of security, smoothly. “Dumbledore’s rituals prevent scrying and prevent intrusion -- they even make the Killing Curse as dangerous as buttermilk so long as you’re in the Tower. But we can’t do it in other places, yet. No place can be made as secure as the Tower. If you’re going to insist on soft-shoeing the interrogation process, then she needs to come here. We’ll expand -- new wing in the back. You wanted that anyway.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I did. And it will give us an opportunity to keep working with her, and maybe keep her mind intact. I don’t know if she can become a fully-functional person at this point,” said Harry, unwilling to be turned to the new topic. His voice was cool with anger as he continued, “but it’s possible, especially on a long enough timeline. It’s also possible that kicking her brains apart to get inside of them is something that might have permanent consequences, no matter how long the timeline.” He glanced over at Draco, lips tight. “And killing is when you have no alternative. We have an alternative, so we’re taking it.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“And if she wasn’t alone? How about the ‘Three?’ ” said Draco, cool as well. “If they exist, and they’re not just an obvious bit of misinformation from one rogue American,” he continued, ignoring Hig’s abrupt attention and sharp glare, “then they might have had a hand in this. They, and not Voldemort, might have been the source of this, ah, ‘Multi-Form Ritual.’ ”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“It wasn’t Voldemort, and so that leaves Limpel Tineagar or the Three as the likely source,” said Harry, firmly. When Cedric gave him a skeptical look, he tapped the lightning-bolt scar on his forehead. “I know it wasn’t him.” Cedric nodded, acceptingly and with a hint of sympathy on his face.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Then can we risk them intervening? Surely we need to know about them </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">now</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">,” said Draco, pushing his point home by rapping the table sharply with his knuckles.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“ ‘Save one life,’ ” said Harry again, shaking his head.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“How about saving more than one, instead?” retorted Draco. “How about saving all the lives we lose if we wait too long, or open ourselves up for another attack? How many people were lost to the time-lock Bellatrix cast when she attacked? How many of her werewolf soldiers are still alive and sane?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“If you start maiming minds because it’s convenient,” said Bones, frowning, “then I begin to wonder what we’re fighting to protect. Let’s not go down the path of the ‘greater good,’ if possible. It has an ugly history.” Moody again said nothing, although he clearly favoured Draco’s way of thinking.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“If we can just resolve the matter of Nurmengard, as Mr. Diggory suggested?” broke in Percy, tapping a finger on a parchment in front of him.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Right, then,” said Harry swiftly. “We’ll expand. Alastor is right, we were going to do it anyway. I’ll be glad of the greater leg-room, too. Unless there’s an objection?” </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">There was none.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“How will we do the transfer?” asked Cedric.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Moody’s eye wobbled over to point at him. “I’ll be in touch.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Will Ms. Granger be assisting? I think that would make us all feel better,” said Percy, with an apologetic glance at Cedric.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“No argument here,” agreed Cedric, with a broad smile. “But I understand she’s at Powis for the time being. She deserves the downtime.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“She’s as likely as most to work out how that ritual works, and better than anyone to actually try it,” said Moody. “So I </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">hope</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> she’s not just resting and scourging blood out of her sleeve.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">This was a rather more grim note than Moody had perhaps intended, and there was an awkward pause. Draco shot him an annoyed glare, and Percy looked a little pale.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Don’t forget,” Harry said, gently, “that her sleeve was still bloody when she began trying to heal that Bellatrix.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Mm,” grunted Moody. “Shame the ritual ran its course. If it had been permanent,” he said, and his eye whipped around to regard Harry, accusingly, “then we’d have two of them to interrogate.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry ignored him. They’d had this discussion several times already, and he expected it to become a common one (not just in the Tower, but among humanity). What are the ethics of creating new sentient beings, when you knew they faced an uncertain or unpleasant end?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“It would be helpful to be able to send Ms. Granger to China, I think, when she has had her rest,” said Bones, interrupting Harry’s train of thought. There was the slightest hint of judgment in her tone. “Now that the recent conflict has been, er, resolved --” and she gave Draco an ambiguously intent glance “-- she can begin representing the Treaty once more.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Draco smiled, and raised a finger, as if in reminder.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“The Treaty for Health and Independence,” Bones said with a heavy air.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hig lowered the parchment he’d been reading, and turned to stare at Draco with his dark little eyes. He let his gaze linger for a moment in warning, and then it broke into warmth and a pleasant smile. “Health and Independence indeed… and more importantly, an end to all the unpleasantness of recent years.” He turned his attention to Bones. “I concur with you. The Goddess is far and away the best envoy we could send. I don’t think the outcome is in doubt, now that Russia, the Sawad, New Zealand, and the Caucuses are all with us -- and now that all the concessions they demanded are in place. But don’t forget Cappadocia… they’re still out of the fold. A bad example. We need the best envoy to ensure that China or Thailand don’t try to forge their own way.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Or we could bring Cappadocia in,” suggested Draco.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Oh good,” commented Cedric. “I was just saying to myself, ‘I sure hope we repeat the same arguments every single time we meet, oh Merlin, am I glad we’ve gotten so much blonder around here.’ ”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Bones cut in over Cedric’s sarcasm. “I agree with Councilor Hig.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Myself as well,” said Percy.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“After she takes the time she needs,” said Moody, roughly.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Measured thrust will be easier if we use something similar to those goblins chargers,” said Luna, nodding, as though her words were somehow germane to the conversation.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The discussion hiccuped around her interjection.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“So do we wait until she feels ready, or should I go and see how she’s doing?” asked Cedric, hopefully.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“The goblins haven’t been able to come in to Material Methods for several weeks -- something political going on in Ackle, according to Urg. Preparing for a major meeting of the Urgod Ur, I think,” said Harry, seizing on Luna’s words. “But we can prototype something on a smaller scale in the meantime.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Bones gave Harry a despairing look, then glanced back at Cedric. “No, the ‘Goddess’ is diligent enough, as you well know. She’ll be back when she’s ready.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Let’s pick this back up tomorrow,” said Hig, smiling indulgently and gesturing at Harry. “Other things are pressing, clearly.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Harry?” said Moody, leaning forward.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Unless Percy has something else?” said Harry, rising from his seat.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“No, sir,” said Percy. He was smiling. “It looks like everything is working out.”</span><br />
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">The propaganda agents of the Tower have been toiling away in rotten old England, trying to convince you that the Walpurgis Night War was a resounding victory for the forces of meddling and the armies of colonialism. But thankfully, they protest too much.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">In reality, events since that night, when the world teetered on the brink of destruction, have proven to be far more favorable to the Independents and their British counterparts, the Honourable. The leader of the Honourable and one of the voices of the Independence movement, Lord Draco Malfoy of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Malfoy, was only barely able to keep a smile of satisfaction off of his face when interviewed at Siegfried’s this past week. “Virtually all of our demands have been met,” Malfoy said to this reporter over a Muggle meal of squid-ink pizza and cranberry foam, “and we are very happy with the changes to the Treaty for Health and Life.”</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">When asked about concessions, the handsome young nobleman was more coy. “The negotiators for the Independents, who kindly invited me along, did have to give up some things in negotiation, of course. I understand that Russia has reluctantly agreed to contribute their own aurors to help protect the Tower. Thankfully, that will also let them keep a close eye on it,” said Lord Malfoy, with a twinkle in his eye.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">The Honourable leader conceded that he would be ending publication of his long-running journal </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Unbreakable Honour</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, due to new responsibilities. “I understand that the Thunderer and several of the Emirati Councils insisted on having representation within the Tower, if their people were going to be expected to cooperate. A reasonable request. But to my surprise, they thought my long… association with Harry Potter would make me the best person to keep an eye on things in some sort of executive capacity.” Lord Malfoy did not appear to be unhappy at the prospect of exercising oversight on his old schoolyard rival.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">A representative of the Tower has called the outcome of negotiations between the two treaty organizations an “equitable outcome.” But the results would appear to be markedly in favor of the Independents, regardless of the spin you might be hearing.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">-Excerpted from “A New Age,” by Sylvia de Kamp in </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">American Mage</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">.</span><br />
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</div>ADhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10211720060888169877noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8047698153058029905.post-33674727195968527182015-12-23T10:31:00.003-05:002015-12-23T10:31:44.765-05:00Significant Digits: Next Chapter Delayed Three Days<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It occurred to me that both my family and the extraordinary editors who help make <i>Significant Digits </i>would probably appreciate it if I didn't try to get a chapter out on Saturday. Apparently there are several sorts of holidays -- two people's birthdays and a really short day, I guess? -- and things going on.<br /><br />So the next chapter will come out on Tuesday, a few days after the scheduled time.<br /><br />There is also a pretty fun bonus to follow it. It's about half-written, and it's prompted by my gratitude to all you readers and to the surprising number of people on my Patreon.<br /><br />Happy holidays to everyone!</div>
ADhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10211720060888169877noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8047698153058029905.post-45529655947357290222015-12-20T01:06:00.002-05:002015-12-29T19:27:25.668-05:00Significant Digits, Chapter Thirty-Three: Walpurgisnacht<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b style="color: #222222; font-family: 'Noto Serif', Georgia, serif; font-size: x-large; line-height: 27px;">Significant Digits, Chapter Thirty-Three: Walpurgisnacht</b><br />
<b style="color: #222222; font-family: 'Noto Serif', Georgia, serif; font-size: x-large; line-height: 27px;"><br /></b></div>
<span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span><span style="font-weight: 400;">Trigger warning: violence, dismemberment, and death.</span><br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</div>
<span style="font-weight: 400;"><span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span></span>
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span></em>
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">JUPITER: Je dirais donc: “Jeune homme, allez-vous-en! Que cherchez-vous ici? Vous voulez faire valoir vos droits? Eh! vous êtes ardent et fort, vous feriez un brave capitaine dans une armée bien batailleuse, vous avez mieux à faire qu’à régner sur une ville à demi morte, une charogne de ville tourmentée par les mouches. Les gens d’ici sont de grands pécheurs, mais voici qu’ils se sont engagés dans la voie du rachat. Laissez-les, jeune homme, laissez-les, respectez leur douloureuse enterprise, éloignez-vous sur la pointe des pieds. … Et que leur donnerez-vous en échange? Des digestions tranquilles, la paix morose des provinces et l’ennui, ah! l’ennui si quotidien du bonheur. Bon voyage, jeune homme, bon voyage; l’ordre d’une cité et l’ordre des âmes sont instables: si vous y touchez, vous provoquerez une catastrophe. </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">(Le regardent dans les yeux.) </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> Une terrible catastrophe qui retombera sur vous.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">ZEUS: Well, I'd say something like this. “My lad, get you gone! What business have </span></em><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">you here? Do you wish to enforce your rights? Yes, you're brave and strong and spirited. I can </span></em><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">see you as a captain in an army of good fighters. You have better things to do than reigning over a dead-and-alive city, a carrion city plagued by flies. These people are great sinners but, as you see, they're working out their atonement. Let them be, young fellow, let them be; respect their sorrowful endeavor, and begone on tiptoe. ... What, moreover, could you give </span></em><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">them in exchange? Good digestions, the gray monotony of provincial life, and the boredom — </span></em><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">ah, the soul-destroying boredom — of long days of mild content. Go your way, my lad, go your </span></em><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">way. The repose of cities and men's souls hangs on a thread; tamper with it and you bring </span></em><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">disaster.</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> (Looking him in the eyes.) </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">A disaster which will recoil on you.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">-</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Les Mouches</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, Jean-Paul Sartre</span></em><br />
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">April 30th, 1999</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">John Snow Center for Medicine and Tower School of Doubt (The Tower)</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Now</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry snapped his fingers.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">To his left, through the open door back into the Establishment, he could hear several people gasp at the gesture -- those who knew the legend. But in front of him, the two iterations of Bellatrix Black only stared at him.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“What was that, little man? Another ultimate weapon?” asked the one on the left, her voice mocking. Her right eye was only a torn nugget of ruined red flesh, bloody on her cheek, but it didn’t seem to bother her.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">In spite of himself and in spite of everything, Harry felt a mad giggle rising. He fought it back.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Yes,” he said. “Yes, you could say that.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“The Empty Fort,” the two witches said, almost in unison. An identical expression of contemptuous glee was spreading on each of their faces.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Where is the Dark Lord?” asked the one on the right. They raised their wands again, pointing them at Harry.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Muffliato</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">,” said Harry, for some semblance of privacy, “I cut off his hands and wiped his memory and turned him into a rock. But I was worried that wasn’t enough after it almost went wrong, and so I ripped his mind out of his body and imprisoned it in a fungus that I keep inside of a fancy box.” He paused. “Did you want the box? I can have it gift-wrapped, I suppose.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Stalling billy dolly,” said the one on the right, sneering. She cocked her head to the side.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Twist a while and you’ll tell a truer tale,” said the other. Her tongue poked out of her mouth, pinkish and crude, and licked blood from her upper lip.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">From the corner of his eye, Harry could see movement. He raised his left hand sharply, to signal whoever it was to stop.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“No, that’s the truth, actually,” he said, calmly. “But I will trade you an even better one, if you answer a question of mine.” He had many, actually. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">What is that duplication spell? Did Voldemort know it? It duplicated your arm -- could it duplicate any artifact? Is the ritual sacrifice permanent, or can you heal that eye later?</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The Bellatrix on the right giggled. “No time, billy. Bumbling bungling billy. I’m heavy with the milk of your death.” Then the levity vanished from her face, suddenly and completely, and her lips tightened. “Twist.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Crucio</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">,” cast the other.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">And there was pain.</span><br />
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">ORESTE: Il y a des hommes qui naissent engagés: ils n’ont pas le choix, on les a jetés sur un chemin, au bout du chemin il y a un acte qui les attend, </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">leur </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">acte; ils vont, et leurs pieds nus pressent fortement la terre et s’écorchent aux cailloux. Ça te paraît vulgaire, à toi, la joie d’aller </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">quelque part?</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> Et il y en a d’autres, des silencieux, qui sentant au fond de leur cœur le poids d’images troubles et terrestres; leur vie a été changée parce que, un jour de leur enfance, à cinq ans, à sept ans… C’est bon: ce ne sont pas des hommes supérieurs. Je savais déjà, moi, à sept ans, que j’étais exilé; les odeurs et les sons, le bruit de la pluie sur les toits, les tremblements de la lumière, je les laissais glisser le long de mon corps et tomber autour de moi; je savais ui’ils appartenaient aux autres, et que je ne pourrais jamais en faire </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">mes </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">souvenirs. Car les souvenirs sont de grasses nourritures pour ceux qui possèdent les maisons, les bêtes, les domestiques et les champs.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">ORESTES: Some men are born bespoken; a certain path has been assigned them, and at its end there is something they must do, a deed </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">allotted</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">. So on and on they trudge, wounding their bare feet on the flints. I suppose that strikes you as vulgar—the joy of going </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">somewhere definite</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">. And there are others, men of few words, who bear deep down in their hearts a load of dark imaginings; men whose whole life was changed because one day in childhood, at the age of five or seven— Right; I grant you these are no great men. When I was seven, I know I had no home, no roots. I let sounds and scents, the patter of rain on housetops, the golden play of sunbeams, slip past my body and fall round me and I knew these were for others, I could never make them </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">my </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">memories. For memories are luxuries reserved for people who own houses, cattle, fields, and servants. </span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">-</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Les Mouches</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, Jean-Paul Sartre</span></em><br />
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">April 30th, 1993</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Office of Harry Potter-Evans-Verres, Hogwarts, Scotland</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Six years ago</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">It had been difficult to visit his parents, as always. It wasn’t that it made him unhappy, exactly, or even that it was uncomfortable. It was the sense of loss that bothered him, waiting in the wings.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">There was always a huge amount of things to talk about. Mum would always ask after Hermione and Draco and Minerva, although she didn’t want to hear about the “politics” or the “magical things,” but about how Minerva and Draco were coping with their losses, or about how Hermione was doing so much better these days. She’d met Granville, Hermione’s phoenix, at Christmastime, and had been so charmed that she’d been rendered speechless. Granville had given her a feather, and Mum kept it on her vanity mirror.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Dad had his own interests and endless suggestions. He made spirited attempts to talk about magic, but really the possibility of reforming a society was what he always wanted to talk about, sitting down with Harry at the kitchen table for long chats. They’d both read their Heinlein, Asimov, Gibson, Stephenson… they would sit down after dinner and debate possible routes for a future society for hours, talking until their tea was cold and the rest of the world was asleep. How could you intelligently plan for a world of eternal youth, with no disease or poverty? What steps did you need to take now, and in what order? Harry had the sense that his father thought the entire thing was still a bit unreal, and that Harry might be exaggerating his own role in the world these days… but what Oxford liberal sci-fi fan could resist the opportunity to talk about the way a society </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">should</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> be run -- a potential Church of All Worlds, or Foundation, or Freeside, or Neo-Victorian England, depending on the choices they made?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">His father had paused at one point, last night, to marvel at that. “Do you really think you’re capable of making these decisions, son? Do you think anyone could make them in your place? Account for every possibility and plan out an entire civilization?” A pause. “Does anyone even have the right to try?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“If I could leave it up to the wisdom of crowds and market forces, I would,” Harry had replied, staring at the kitchen table. “I can’t, and there’s no one else to take my place. I have my Fellowship, and I’m not going to refuse the Ring just because it seems impossible or arrogant. I have to try.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">His father was thoughtful for a quiet moment, and then smiled. “Does that make me Elrond?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry had rolled his eyes, even as his heart answered, </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Yes.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">But through all of his visits, Harry knew -- even if they didn’t -- that he was going to have to stop coming to visit. Not forever -- not on the scale at which mankind would be operating soon, an unlimited life of unlimited possibility -- but for a long time. Already, he’d been coming to visit less often. Soon, he was going to have to ask them to come visit him, instead. And eventually, he’d need to resign himself to letters. He probably should already have done that for their own safety, if for no other reason. They were risking an eternity of life and he was risking the fate of the world every time he had contact. Harry had needed to think about the possibilities (never refuse to think about something, not even once), but he didn’t like to dwell on them. Kidnapping, blackmail, torture… it was the fate of the world and the species in the balance.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">So ever since Harry had returned to Hogwarts, massive defense force and five decoys going along for the ride, he’d been quiet. He’d spoken to Minerva and given her word from his parents, and then gone straight up to his office through the twisting corridors and up the moving stairs, and when he got there he’d exchanged only the barest of pleasantries with Hermione while getting the Stone back from her and destroying his facsimile. Harry hadn’t been unfriendly, but he didn’t feel like he had the emotional energy to discuss his feelings, so he’d kept some distance. He got to work on that day’s patients as they were cleared and escorted by the aurors, and stayed quiet and polite and distant.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">When Draco had gotten there, he’d taken in the look on Harry’s face at a glance, and hadn’t said much more than good morning.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The first two patients of the day had been easy enough. The first, an older man, had needed his right arm healed from the long and painful twisting that had come from a curse in his younger days. Certain curses were beyond the power of healing spells -- indeed, sometimes that was their whole point -- and it had been a wonderful thing to see the look on the man’s face as his pain faded away for the first time in thirty years. The man had moved and flexed the hand that had been frozen into a claw for decades, and eventually had begun to weep. Harry had accepted his thanks, refused his money, and sent him on his way.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The second patient was even easier: a child born with a chronic seizure disorder. Potions could keep it in check, such as the Caesarian Draught (a potion which had nothing to do with obstetrics, Harry had discovered after one amusing misunderstanding), but that was ruinously expensive. Even taking extraordinary care, it had been easy for Harry to repair the lesions on the child’s brain. Unfortunately, he hadn’t been able to figure out the cause; the shapes of the lesions, as best he could tell, didn’t really point to any specific pathology. Harry had made notes and consulted a manual on differential diagnosis of atypical neural lesions, but had needed to chalk it up to hydrocephaly at the moment and put off further research until later.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He thought he’d have time to dig into it that afternoon. The aurors were slow to vet potential patients, much to Harry’s frustration, and despite his wish to scale things up, he probably wouldn’t get to see many more than twelve patients that day. He needed to bring on more healers and more aurors, or work out a different system.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry was ready when the two aurors escorted in a third patient. It was another older man, and it looked like another easy case. The man had terrible burn scars on the lower part of his face, covering his chin and one of his cheeks with pale, knotted tissue. The man’s eyes were wide, staring around with obvious alarm. It wasn’t uncommon. Across the room, for example, Hermione was healing someone who’d come in so terrified they were outright sobbing. It soon passed.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Well, </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">usually </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">it soon passed. Harry glanced at the corner, where a short brunette woman was sitting quietly, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes vacant. One of the rescues from Azkaban -- a French woman named Charlevoix. She, too, had been rescued from pain, only to remain in a state of near-catatonia. She broke out into screams if she was separated from Hermione. They let her stay.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Hello, sir,” Harry said. He tried to make his voice warm, and mustered up a smile. “Just lie down on the bed, there, if you don’t mind. There’s nothing to worry about… you’re going to feel a lot better, very soon.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The old man lay down without protest, gingerly reclining on the bed. Harry sat in a chair next to it. He lay his wand on his lap. The man was frightened. “Are you all right, sir? Nervous?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry glanced at the aurors who escorted the man. One of them shrugged -- nothing to contribute. They stood silently at the foot of the bed: an obvious presence of force. It was just a precaution, as were the twelve other aurors in the room. Everyone was carefully screened and had to submit to Veritaserum before they were permitted to receive healing, and before entering they were disenchanted and dispelled and everything else an auror could do. Precaution was taken against Imperius and Confundus… even against false or locked memories. There were traps and wards and yet more traps, and outside assault was as impossible as they could make it.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I… I don’t… I’m sorry,” murmured the patient with a quavering voice.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“For what?” Harry asked, smiling.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I came for… for my face and chest. All burnt, long ago. I’d forgotten…”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry made the connection. “You’d locked away the memory of how it happened?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Not me. St. Mungo’s. They’d had to… I couldn’t... I…” The man’s face twisted, stiff flesh on his chin rippling, and he clenched his eyes shut. Tears began to roll down his cheeks.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I’m sorry you lost that protection,” Harry said, gently. “We can help you with that again, if you want. Or we can put you in touch with someone we work with… a type of special healer who helps people with problems that they can’t face and don’t want to forget.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“The boy… my boy,” gasped the man. Harry just sat quietly. There was nothing he could say -- he needed to just let the man take a moment to work through whatever had happened.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Th-- There was a fire…” said the man, haltingly. “My fault. I wanted… I’m Salvatore Starr, maybe you’ve… I am a pyromancer. There is none greater in Britain.” Harry hadn’t heard of the man, but that wasn’t that surprising. Despite everything that had happened, he’d only learned about magic itself two years ago. There was still a lot of common knowledge that had escaped him, and there were famous magical researchers that he’d never heard of, Chocolate Frog card or no. Harry glanced at one of the aurors again, and the auror nodded in confirmation.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The patient raised his arms up, and hugged himself. He turned onto his side, away from Harry. “So many have been hurt. I myself… There was a fire. There was a terrible fire. I wanted to find a barrier against all flame. Ever since the fall of Sontag… I wanted to find a way to stop it… stop such a fire--” The man stopped speaking, his voice strangled away into a pained squeak by his grief.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“An accident? With your research?” Harry said, gently. The wizarding settlement of Sontag had been burned in the second goblin rebellion of 1612. It had been long-abandoned by that time -- making its destruction more of a threat than a real attack -- but it had still been considered a tragedy. None of the wizards present then had been able to extinguish the magical flames the goblins had wielded against Sontag, and the incident was always described in history books with an ominous tone.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“My boy… he…” Salvatore's shoulders shook, and he lapsed back into silence.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Sir…you had a son, sir?” said the other auror. He sounded surprised -- that must not have turned up in their investigation.</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> Usually they were so careful… so slow that I have been </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">complaining</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> about it.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The first auror asked, “Are you quite sure that--”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Not my child,” said the man, his voice thick. “My nephew. A Muggle. But he was like my child. I loved him like my child. My boy. My boy...”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The auror nodded slowly. “Yes, sir.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I’m so sorry, sir,” said Harry. He stood up, as quietly as he could. “We’re going to have you back another day, I think, sir.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Salvatore rolled back over, suddenly, and snatched at the hem of Harry’s sleeve with a desperate hand. The aurors drew their wands so quickly that Harry barely even saw them move, but didn’t intervene.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Wait!” said Salvatore, his voice harsh. He slid his legs to the side and sat up on the bed, not letting go of Harry. “You’re the Boy-Who-Lived. You can… I know you can…”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I can’t bring back the dead, sir. I’m so sorry, but I can’t…” </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Not yet</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, thought Harry, looking over at Draco, who was sitting with Hermione at the other end of the room, helping her with her patient. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">But I will. I have promises to keep. I will.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He looked back down at the patient. “I’m so sorry, but I can’t bring him back. I </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">wish</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> I could, believe me I do, but I can’t.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“He would stay with me, sometimes. I had a room for him. He loved dragons. Always loved dragons. I used Welsh Greens, sometimes, and he would sit behind the wards and stare for hours at them. Big posters of dragons all over the walls. Wanted to see a Chinese Fireball, one day,” husked Salvatore.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I didn’t know he was in the house... I didn’t know he was in the house… I would never have been experimenting if I’d known they were going to come early. My sister and my boy… The cursed fire, I thought I could stop it with my new ward. I thought I had it. I never would have… I didn’t know...” The man’s voice broke into a sob. Then it cut off, and his eyes fixed themselves on Harry again, coming back from some far-off place of grief and regret. “Bring back my boy. I know things… I went far abroad when I was young. I know how to do things. I have many things. You can have all my knowledge, everything I have. Bring back my boy. Bring back Davey.“</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry shook his head again. This had gone on long enough, and even though it seemed cruel, he needed to defuse the situation before it got out of hand. “I’m sorry, sir.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He raised one hand to give a signal to the aurors, but paused, staring past them at the entrance to his office, where a piece of parchment folded into an airplane had just glided into the room. It was one of the memos they used at the Ministry of Magic, lazily propelling itself with slow flaps of papery wings.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Bring back my boy,” said Salvatore again, more quietly. “Please… I’m begging you. I know you have the power. I have much to offer. Old rituals and ancient spells, long forgotten by all others. I have sacrificed much to gain them -- done grim things for grim people -- but I will give them over to you. I have been to the nave of Beatus Payens and I have been to the land of the Tuatha… I have traded power for power, to learn all I could of flame and fire. You can have all that I know. Every rune in my books. Every bit of flame. Please… you must. I didn’t… oh Merlin… I didn’t know he was there, he was an innocent, don’t you see, I didn’t know he was there. Bring him back.” He steadied himself. “You must, Harry Potter.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The aurors were moving on their own account, and one of them came to Salvatore’s elbow. “Master Starr,” he said, gently. Harry pulled away from the patient. Salvatore didn’t resist, but didn’t let go; his hand remained suspended in the air, clutching at nothing as Harry’s sleeve left his grip.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Please, sir,” said Salvatore, but the urgency had left his voice. It sounded flat and full of sadness.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry stepped towards the memo, which was sailing along sedately, and held out his hand. The parchment plane landed on his palm. Behind him, the auror helped Salvatore to his feet.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">When Harry opened the parchment, he found that it really was a standard Ministry memo, sealed and embossed in the normal way. But it was a very long way from home. The seal was cracked in the middle, and the rest of the memo was creased into squares and crinkled with two parallel lines: the thing had been folded up and sent here by owl. Harry opened it, frowning.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The top few inches of a newspaper had been pasted to the parchment: that evening’s edition of </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">The Daily Prophet. </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">There was no time marking, but it was only the early afternoon -- this was a message from the future. At least four hours, but perhaps as far as six.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">TRAGEDY: POTTER ATTACKED, CLINIC RAZED</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Nothing more.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Why send only this? </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry thought. But there was no time to think it through. When given an anonymous warning, the course was clear (or at least, seemed obvious enough to Harry): react quickly, but in an unorthodox way. He couldn’t ignore the message, especially since it might have come from the future, but if you reacted predictably to an anonymous warning, then you were only granting your enemy the power to control you.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry’s thoughts moved in a flash. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">First-level response, standard lockdown. Vulnerable to specific kinds of attacks. Obvious alternative -- evacuation -- has the same problem. Brief message and unorthodox delivery style that bypassed other viewers… points to some betrayal or widespread attack… an owl takes twelve minutes to get here from the Ministry… an ally there, betraying a conspiracy? Why anonymous? Warning was sent from as far as six hours in the future… a message there, clearly. The attack will happen within the next six hours… it will do serious damage, but since this message was sent, we have the power to mitigate or change that. </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Still, though, the first question was dragging on his thoughts, demanding attention: </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">If you’re going to help, why send only this? Is the future outcome -- the alternative that prompted the message -- so terrible that you don’t want it known?</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“You </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">must</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">,” said Salvatore from behind him, raising his voice again. Hermione and Draco were looking over in alarm, now, and the pair of aurors with their patient and the ones at the door had drawn their wands.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Harry Potter, I </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">demand</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> it. He </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">cannot </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">remain gone -- remain burned.” Salvatore’s voice cracked at the last word. “You </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">will</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">And with a sinking feeling in his stomach, Harry realized another possible reason for the message.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Sabotage from the future. Information cannot go any further than six hours back in time. So right now, at this moment, we can’t go back and prevent--</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“You </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">will!”</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> said Salvatore again, and Harry hadn’t even turned around before he felt the bloom of heat on his back.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">“This is an insane thing you’re trying, boy,” </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Moody had said to them, last year. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">“There’s too much evil and too much madness in the world. Too much damn randomness. You can’t account for everything. We can test the people who visit, but any security system in any fortress is based on keeping people out. It’s not like in the Muggle world. A Muggle without a weapon is about as dangerous as a dog. A powerful wizard without a wand, on the other hand, could be tasting your blood within minutes. You can’t secure your most important assets -- you, the Stone, Voldie -- if you also need to allow open access to them. It’s an impossible problem.”</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">“That just means that no one has ever been prepared or paranoid or clever enough,” </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry had replied, with far too much self-assurance. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">“No problem is impossible.”</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Immobi</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">nnghhh,” Harry heard one auror say, the spell cut off in a grunt of pain, an instant before he felt a sweeping force pluck his legs out from underneath him and lift him into the air, like the scooping palm of a gentle giant. He was hurled across the room in a tumble, the world spinning around him in a confusion of red and grey, before hitting the opposite wall hard enough to drive the air out of his lungs. He found himself looking up at Hermione, Draco, and the pair of aurors that had been escorting her patient. The aurors had jumped in front of the other two and the patient, and were already acting -- indeed, they had reacted so quickly that one of them had already raised a shield of brightly-glowing silver spheres the size of golf balls.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Salvatore barely even used incantations, and had no wand, but he had filled the air with flame, nonetheless. In moments, it had blocked out everything from Harry’s sight but its own bright light, tumbling and toiling in the air like a living thing. He could smell hair burning and knew that he was on fire, and he beat at his head and face, flapping at himself and trying to smother the flames, screaming. He had a moment’s glimpse of the aurors -- they were burnt and burning, too, one of them also screaming, his face a blackened thing. Draco tackled that one, putting his wand to her chest and trying to do something. Hermione was already standing, her own wand raised, casting curses. Charlevoix was cowering behind her, her arms wrapped in front of her head in an attempt to protect herself. Hermione’s pale face was lit a hellish orange by the fire-glow.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry couldn’t follow the combat, couldn’t find his wand, could barely hold on to his </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">sanity</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> as he yanked his robes up and tried to smother the flames on his body with them, ripping them with desperate yanks until they moved freely and slamming them down again and again to try to beat out the fire.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">By the time he had put out the flames, the room was already so full of smoke that he was coughing and choking. He couldn’t find his wand, oh god </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">where was his wand</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">… what did he have… He jammed his hand into his pouch and tried to choke out some words, but he could only cough and hack, doubling up, and god he could barely even see, everything was just a reddish-orange haze. What was the sign language -- he couldn’t remember, it was gone from his head -- couldn’t breathe couldn’t see… Just thick smoke everywhere.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry could hear someone chanting, and if he hadn’t already been panicking, he probably would have dissolved in terror when he recognized the words. “</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Az-reth. Az-reth. Az-reth</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">.” He remembered Voldemort saying that, and he remembered the thing that had come at that call.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The red-lit smoke turned scarlet.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Someone grabbed his legs, and Harry kicked at the hands, wildly. They snatched him with incredible strength -- inhuman strength-- and he felt himself lifted bodily as he was hauled into the air. He would have screamed again, but when he tried to draw a breath it came with the burning harshness of smoke, and he spasmed with coughing again, sucking poisonous air and choking on it.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The hands threw him, and he was flying.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He landed hard, smashing into a corner of stone, and felt a riot of pain in his ribs, made worse by his hacking and coughing. But the air was fresher where he’d landed. His thoughts were a confused stream -- where was he, why was he in the hall, what was happening -- but he could breathe. He sucked in the air and the dimming world grew sharper.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry rolled onto his side, still gasping, and looked back at his office. Thick black smoke was roiling inside, pouring out in a dense cloud. He was -- oh god, his ring was missing, where was his ring <i>where was Voldemort?</i></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">As he watched, it began to thin, and he could make out shapes within it. Figures shouting words and casting spells, colored light tinging the smoke. One figure stood at the center, surrounding by a bright glow of scarlet that highlighted it like a silhouette against the sun. That broken man. Salvatore. His Fiendfyre was some monstrous snake, and it was burning away all the smoke in the room as it lashed out again and again. There were five aurors still standing, protecting each other and the patient and Draco and Charlevoix. Harry knew that more would be on the way, here within the minute.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">And there was Hermione.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">It was impossible to fight Fiendfyre, of course. Nothing could beat that, not that they could imagine. All you could do was hope to avoid it, and even </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">that</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> seemed impossible. But somehow, she was doing it. Every time it lashed out, she would leap or dodge or duck, sending another curse Salvatore’s way, forcing the creature of hellish fire to return to him. The aurors poured on their own attacks, a blur of aggressive spellcasting that Harry could barely follow. The very nature of the Fiendfyre consumed most curses, but even that extravagance was beginning to prove insufficient. Salvatore was badly wounded. Blood was pouring out of a ragged hole in his stomach, and he was missing some fingers on one hand.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry could hear the man screaming, over and over. “NO! NO! NO!” He screamed and threw waves of flame, beat back attacks with living fire, and flooded the room with heat and smoke. “</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">You can’t!</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">” he screamed.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">An instant later, a curse hit him in the chest, and he collapsed, his face lifeless.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The Fiendfyre flared up and roared with leprous flame, surging larger and larger as the control left it, and it ran free. It grew brighter and brighter, its wide coils and thrashing head swelling.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">An auror fell, obliterated to the waist by flame. Another had already lost an arm. Draco was screaming. Harry could see Hermione fall, withering like a leaf in the summer heat.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Granville called. The phoenix’s cry was piercing and pure, like the voice of a god.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry saw the creature for only a moment as it flashed past him, soaring with the speed and determination of an arrow. It swept overhead with a streak of golden flame.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">It never hesitated. It flew at the Fiendfyre with a courage and joy so pure that Harry’s heart broke to see it.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Gold met scarlet. With a sound like thunder, both vanished. Nothing was left in their wake but stinking smoke and the echoes of a phoenix’s last call.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He felt hands on him again -- an auror, roughly pulling at his wounds and laying a wand on him.. More were racing in past her, charging towards his office. Spells cleared the air, cleared his view.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He saw burned and dying aurors, thrashing. Several of them still standing, staggering and injured but with wands raised high. Draco, weeping. He saw a green-stone ring on the floor, ignored by everyone by the purest chance.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He saw Charlevoix, her hands a tangle of charred flesh. Cradling something.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Cradling Hermione.</span><br />
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span>
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">ÉLECTRE: Il fait beau. Partout, dans la plaine, des hommes lèvant la tête et disent: “Il fait beau”, et ils sont contents. O bourreaux de vous-mêmes, avez-vous oublié cet humble contentement du paysan qui marche sur sa terre et qui dit: “Il fait beau”? Vous voilà les bras ballants, la tête basse, respirant à peine. Vos morts se collent contre vous, et vous demeurez immobiles dans la crainte de les bousculer au moindre geste. Ce serait affreux, n’est ce-pas? si vos mains traversaient soudain une petite vapeur moite, l’âme de votre père ou de votre aïeul? Mais regardez-moi: j’étends les bras, je m’élargis, et je m’étire comme un homme qui s’éveille, j’occupe ma place au soleil, toute ma place. Est-ce que le ciel me tombe sur la tête? Je danse, voyez, je danse, et je ne sense rien que le souffle du vent dans mes cheveux. Où sont les morts? Croyez-vous qu’ils dansent avec moi, en mesure?</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">ELECTRA: The sun is shining. Everywhere down in the plains men are looking up and saying: </span></em><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">“It's a fine day,” and they're happy. Are you so set on making yourselves wretched that you've </span></em><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">forgotten the simple joy of the peasant who says as he walks across his fields: “It's a fine day”? </span></em><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">No, there you stand hanging your heads, moping and mumbling, more dead than alive. You're </span></em><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">too terrified to lift a finger, afraid of jolting your precious ghosts if you make any movement. </span></em><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">That would be dreadful, wouldn't it, if your hand suddenly went through a patch of clammy mist, </span></em><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">and it was your grandmother's ghost! Now look at me. I'm spreading out my arms freely, and I'm </span></em><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">stretching like someone just roused from sleep. I have my place in the sunlight, my full place and to spare. And does the sky fall on my head? Now I'm dancing, see, I'm dancing, and all I feel is the wind's breath fanning my cheeks. Where are the dead? Do you think they're dancing with me, in step? </span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">-</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Les Mouches</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, Jean-Paul Sartre</span></em><br />
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Wearily, Harry mounted the stairs to the workroom of the Headmistress. In his pocket were four phials of blood from Vincent Crabbe, obtained after two hours of intimidation and veiled threats. Moody had helped, along with two aurors Moody had trained himself -- an older one named Hedley Kwannon, and one barely out of training named Nymphadora Tonks. The glass phials, filled with the blood of Hermione’s enemy, clicked against each other as Harry climbed the stairs.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He pushed open the door. It was silent inside. Reddish light from the dawn illuminated the alchemical diagram on the floor: nested and interlaced circles and pentagons surrounding a central pentacle. He’d been here once before, when he first demonstrated partial Transfiguration -- so long ago! -- and the room didn’t look to have been used since that visit.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Mad-Eye’s not here yet. We have to wait,” said Draco’s voice from his left. Harry started, and stepped forward to see that the boy was sitting at the base of the circular wall, head slumped forward.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“How are you, Draco?” asked Harry, quietly.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“This was your fault,” Draco replied.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I know.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“No, you don’t, you stupid piece of arrogant filth,” said the Slytherin boy, but there was no anger in his voice. It was disconcertingly flat, with nothing but weariness and sorrow -- the sorrow of someone who had been required to endure too much, too soon. “You think that you just made a mistake. You’d do the same thing all over again, but you’d just be sure to include one more trap. One more level of manipulation or cleverness. You don’t see that the entire thing is… impossible. It’s just impossible, and you won’t see that, and Hermione just keeps </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">listening to you</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, and now </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">she’s </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">paid for </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">your </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">stupidity</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">.</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I know.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“And even worse, this is just another reminder of why I was stupid to ever trust you -- to ever get involved in this asinine little play. Your goals are… mad. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Insane</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">. But you don’t recognize that, since you don’t recognize any limits to… to… to </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">anything</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">It was more than that, of course. It was even more than the terrible suffering and temporary absence of Hermione, as badly as that, too, had hurt the other boy. There was something more.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">You’re worried that I can’t deliver on my promises… that you’ve placed hope in false prophecies and a false prophet. You’re wondering if I am just a freak prodigy of Muggle science who looked really impressive in schoolyard antics, since he had a whole other world of tricks to steal, and who got lucky once… but who might just not be able to cut it in the real world.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Draco looked up at him, and the boy looked unspeakably sad -- like he’d lost something precious.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">You’re worried I’ll never be able to bring your father back, after all.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Draco, there is--”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Shut up,” interrupted Draco, his voice hardening. “Shut up and let’s just wait without talking. You’re always </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">talking</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, but it didn’t help her, did it? Her phoenix burned and she burned. And now she’s dead, again, just like she was afraid would happen.” Draco’s eyes were red, but dry. “She told me that… those months when she was trying to get her Patronus. To meet your </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">expectations</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">. She told me that she was terrified of dying again and that she thought that was probably the reason she couldn’t do it. ‘I wake up screaming sometimes, Draco,’ she said.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Stop,” said Harry, squeezing his eyes shut.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Draco sounded more like he was scolding himself than Harry. His words were black and bitter. “And now she’s all burned up and dead again, and it’s your fault again. Because you don’t understand what is </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">possible</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, and you </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">talk</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> and you </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">push</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> -- oh, Merlin, it always sounds so insane when you first start talking, but by the end of the conversation it’s the </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">rest of the world</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> that seems insane, and how could I ever think that </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">made sense</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">? How could anyone be that damned arrogant?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry turned away, blindly. His eyes burned with hot tears. For a moment, despite all of his resolutions, he almost called on his dark side: to cool him and calm him and solve this problem. The cold emptiness of Voldemort’s thought patterns would have been preferable to this. Null was better than negative.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">But he didn’t, because one did not abandon carefully-considered decisions during the exact sort of situation for which you had prepared them. All he could do, instead, was sink to the stone, slick with dust under his fingers, and cry.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">After a time, his shoulders stopped heaving, and his breathing slowed from great shuddering gasps into quiet evenness. Draco had said nothing, and hadn’t moved. When Harry pushed himself up into a sitting position, he saw through a smear of tears that the other boy was just staring at him, dully, with red-rimmed eyes.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I…” began Harry, but he found that he didn’t have any words. He fell silent again.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Eventually, he stood up and drew his wand. “</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Scourgify</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">,” he cast, his voice heavy. The spell cleared away the dust. Putting away his wand, Harry opened his pouch and reached in. “Cauldron,” he said to it, and felt the metal lip of a small cauldron leap into his hand. He pulled it free of the pouch, which distended to permit its passage, and set it in the center of the diagram.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry sat down next to it, and took the phials of blood out of his pocket. He set them down next to the cauldron.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Draco pushed himself to his feet, and walked over. Digging into the pocket of his robes -- </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">still the same burned ones, had he not had a chance to change? no, of course... he left them on for effect</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> -- he pulled out a small bag of soft bicorn skin and dropped it down next to the other objects. The flesh of a servant, willingly given by Odette Charlevoix.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Moody would be here soon, with a piece of bone from Hermione’s father. He had insisted on doing this part himself, saying that he didn’t trust anyone else to invisibly infiltrate Happy Smiles Family Dentistry, stun one of the owners, extract a chip of bone while the man was unconscious, and fix any memories afterwards. It was a thankless task, and Harry thought that some part of Moody’s insistence was probably repentance. Moody blamed himself for the attack, almost as much as he blamed Harry. “We weren’t paranoid enough,” he had said, bitterly. It was as heavy an indictment as he could deliver.</span><span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">They waited in silence.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Finally, Harry spoke again. “I tried. I tried as hard as I could. I thought through everything and planned it out and assembled every bit of information… I counted forty-three known threats and planned for eight kinds of unknowns. We had just… </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">layers</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> of security and plans.” Draco knew most of them, of course. He’d helped, along with Moody and Hermione and Bones.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">There were fat folders, stuffed with parchments -- or had been, anyway, before the fire ate the hidden boltholes that had been serving as safes. Dossiers on people and information on countries: </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">CHINA. Overview: Continued worries about European and British dominance in magic, may seek to strike before new regime rises. Often isolates self and seeks to extend power over Ten Thousand, but pragmatic leadership points to a willingness to shift tactics, if seems advantageous. Traditional value for immortality, connected to long specialization in potioneering. Informal and formal power structures largely mirror each other; little vulnerability to factionalization but suggests opportunity to shift key functionaries and alter trajectory of entire country. </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">And so on. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Plans within plans, contingency upon contingency: living and adaptable Matryoshka dolls whirling in a furious dance. A location that couldn’t be stormed by force, allies watching other allies, security measures and magical wards that could cut off the life of an attacker in moments. And none of it had done any good when the mind of a powerful wizard had broken. He had died, but so had others. So had Hermione.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“It’s not your fault that you can’t do the impossible. It’s only your fault that you </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">try</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> the impossible, and other people pay for it,” replied Draco. He stared down at Harry. “You can’t plan for everything. The world is dark and people are vicious. Even the good ones are vicious, and the bad ones are worse, and the crazy ones do things you couldn’t possibly predict. You can’t control the universe, Harry Potter-Evans-Verres, you miserable, arrogant little scrub.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry was silent once more, and looked away, unable to meet Draco’s gaze. He hugged his knees. Draco turned away, walking heavily towards the door.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">There’s too much evil and too much madness in the world</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, Moody had said.</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> Too much damn randomness.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">You can’t control the universe.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I don’t accept that,” he whispered, as much for himself as for Draco.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“What?” demanded Draco, turning back around, his voice incredulous -- angry now, where he hadn’t been before.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I don’t accept that,” Harry repeated, more loudly. He looked up. “</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">I do not accept that.</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“You can’t--”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry lurched to his feet, swaying slightly, his kneecaps popping from the sudden shift. There was iron in his voice, now. It wasn’t cold iron; it wasn’t the chill metal of his dark side, icy with hateful clarity. It was iron at a white heat. He glowed with it.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“No,” Harry said, his voice as certain as a hammerblow.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“No,” he repeated.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“No,” he said again.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I do not accept that. I do not accept death. I do not accept decline. I do not accept madness. I do not accept randomness. They are all part of the universe, and they are all important… but I do not -- </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">mankind does not</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> -- have to accept them,” said Harry. “If you want out of this, then say so. If you want to lead a different life, then you </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">know</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> I won’t begrudge you that. I will make that happen, and that choice I once gave you will always be yours: you may choose another path and you will not hear a word of regret from me. Your preferences are sacred. So if you think this can’t be done… go.” Harry’s face was grim. “But I’m not going.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry walked towards Draco until he was inches away from the other boy. Iron was bright in his words.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Right now, there is a little girl somewhere in the world. She’s a small thing for her age, with big eyes. She loves her big brother. She wants to be just like her mother when she grows up. But tonight, there will be an accident. A rotten tree will collapse as the little girl climbs it, and she’ll tumble to the ground, and she’ll land badly. And she’ll die. And then her big eyes will be gone, and her brother will never see her again, and she’ll never grow up to be like her mother. Everything she ever was or will be: gone and dead and buried.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Her brother will deal with his grief, in time, and may even find solace and strength in stories about how death is necessary. Her mother will cry and hurt, but in time it will hurt less, and she’ll focus more on her son, and eventually the loss will fade until it’s just a nagging ache in her heart -- that never quite leaves. And the world will go on, because it’s happened every day in every way, and we have learned how to manage the loss.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">But it doesn’t have to be that way</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">. And I don’t just mean saving that little girl, or Hermione, or even your father, Draco, but every little girl and friend and father. People die every day and they always have but I </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">do not accept it</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">But something of Harry’s heat had communicated itself with his words, and Draco’s eyes were lit as bright as the red glow of Fiendfyre. He seized the front of Harry’s robes, twisting his fists in them, and shoved as hard as he could. Harry stumbled backwards, foot skidding, and only barely kept his balance.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Do you think I </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">want them to die</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, you sanctimonious idiot? Are you even </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">listening</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> to me? I’m saying that it doesn’t matter </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">how much you want them to live</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, because the world is too complicated! You’re </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">denying the data!</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> You want to do things that no one has ever done, and do them all at once which no one has even </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">dreamed of doing</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">. Not Dumbledore, not Salazar Slytherin, not the Peverell brothers, not even Merlin the bloody First Enchanter himself! The greatest wizards in the history of the world only barely attempted some tiny fraction of your insane fever dream! You want to rule the world and end death, good and fine, and you want to end poverty and sickness and make everyone equal and put goblins and other trash up on a pedestal and all that other fluffy </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">nonsense</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, fine!” Draco was shouting, now. “But it is </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">impossible</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">! It is just </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">impossible</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">! To do any </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">one </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">of them was beyond anyone’s power, even those who tried, much less </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">all of it at once!</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> And by trying to do it, you’re going to burn down this world and everyone in it, and it is just </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">beyond arrogant and stupid to look at the world and declare that you are going to change it so much and so fast</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, and we are all </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">suffering </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">because of</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> that!</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry roared back at Draco, his voice larger than himself, as though it were echoing the cries of others, of legions, “I don’t give a </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">damn</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> if it is impossible! I don’t give a </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">damn</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> if no one has ever done it or tried it or dreamed it in the history of the world! ‘Impossible’ is a little word and a petty one -- it’s the word of small minds and small imaginations, and I </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">reject it</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Draco opened his mouth to say something, but Harry continued over him, shouting now, white iron in his words and eyes and heart, a white glow suffusing him as a glow from his wand waxed brighter and brighter.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“We are standing on the brink -- at the moment of crux between peril and paradise, Draco! We are caught at the edges of two singularities, held equipoise at their event horizons, and it is </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">terrifying</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, but when they offer you the Ring you don’t reject it with the word ‘impossible!’“</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Draco shouted back, lunging forward to stab a finger into Harry’s chest: accusatory. “</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Not everything is possible in this world!”</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">And Harry replied, quietly, caught with a sudden stillness as clear as the sweet ring of a tranquil bell, “Draco. There are more worlds than this one. We’ll find one where we can save everybody." His voice caught with emotion. "Impossible just means you haven’t figured out how to cheat.”</span><br />
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">JUPITER: Pauvres gens! Tu vas leur faire cadeau de la solitude et de la honte, tu vas arracher les étoffes dont je les avais couverts, et tu leur montreras soudain leur existence, leur obscène et fade existence, qui leur est donnée pour rien.</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">ORESTE: Pourquoi leur refuserais-je le désepoir qui est en moi, puisque c’est leur lot?</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">JUPITER: Qu’en feront-ils?</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">ORESTE: Ce qu’ils voudront: ils sont libres, et la vie humaine commence de l’autre côté du désespoir.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">ZEUS: Poor people! Your gift to them will be a sad one; of loneliness and shame. You will tear </span></em><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">from their eyes the veils I had laid on them, and they will see their lives as they are, foul and </span></em><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">futile, a barren boon.</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">ORESTES: Why, since it is their lot, should I deny them the despair I have in me?</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">ZEUS: What will they make of it?</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">ORESTES: What they choose. They're free; and human life begins on the far side of despair.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">-</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Les Mouches</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, Jean-Paul Sartre</span></em><br />
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">April 30th, 1999</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">John Snow Center for Medicine and Tower School of Doubt (The Tower)</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Now</span></em><br />
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Pain has an element of blank, and Harry suffered for some uncertain amount of time, twisting before Bellatrix Black’s Cruciatus Curse. It was pain on another level -- beyond the sort of suffering that should have been possible with mere nerves -- a torture that transcended physicality. His very existence was in agony.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Eventually, it stopped, and Harry found that he was lying on the floor of the corridor some distance down from where he’d begun. They’d moved him. He was soaked in sweat and shaking, and his throat was hoarse from screams he hadn’t even know he’d been making.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The other Bellatrix was casting spells, sealing them off from the Extension Establishment. She cast them so quickly and so fluidly that Harry thought that she might have been able to hold off every single one of his gathered allies, striking them down one by one as they attempted the corridor.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">His torturer stood over him, leering, crazed. “Little dollies are dead. Your stupid slut of a mudblood is dead. I killed her. Your aurors are dead. And now you’re going to tell me where the Dark Lord is, or we’ll start killing everyone else.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry tried to calm his panting and sobbing. He separated it from himself, and closed his eyes. After a moment, he opened them again, fixing them on the witch. “I’m sorry. I want you to know that. What happened to you should never happen to anyone, and I am so sorry that it did. We’re going to get you help.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">All amusement vanished from her face. She looked bored, and contemptuous, staring at him with eyes of darkness and blood. “There is no help, little billy. And you have no way out.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry closed his eyes again. “I know. I thought, maybe… I thought others could do this with me. That maybe they could take my place if they worked together. That I could be free. And maybe that will happen, someday. But sometimes a person gets lucky enough, or unlucky enough, to be put on the spot. To be the crux of things. And I had a friend, once -- a phoenix -- who taught me never to shy away from that.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“You talk like my Lord,” said the other Bellatrix. The one standing over Harry nodded, a look of fascination on her face. The other added, “But you are a wretched little homunculus, and now you’ll learn a lesson.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Impossible little billy boy,” sneered the witch standing over Harry, and leaned forward, her wand pointing at his chest. “Time time time.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I’m sorry, Bellatrix. I don’t accept this,” Harry said.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">She sneered, and then stopped, swaying in place. She looked shocked.</span><br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Blood blossomed from her chest, welling through the fabric of her clothing.</span><br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Bellatrix Black gurgled. Her remaining eye opened wide, and her mouth worked up and down, speechlessly. She tilted her head to the side, and her face trembled. She didn't understand.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Behind her, the Cloak of Invisibility slid to the floor, a</span><span style="font-weight: 400;">nd Hermione Granger pulled her fist from Bellatrix’s back. B</span>lood splattered Hermione's determined face. Bellatrix collapsed like a broken doll.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“No!” shrieked the other Bellatrix, whirling and raising her wand, but a hail of curses from behind Hermione cut her down and cut off her scream. Stunned and bound and silenced and paralyzed, Bellatrix Black toppled over, her face still distorted in shock and fury and hatred.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I found a way to cheat,” said Harry.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Mr. Potter!” called Pip from the corner at the end of the corridor. He was staggering forward, seemingly about to faint, but was supported by J.C. Kraeme. She had his arm around her neck and was holding him up. They trailed behind Hyori, who had her wand up and still fixed on the two Bellatrixen as she strode down the hall. Her face was grim -- but less grim than usual.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione glanced over at him and nodded as she knelt next to the witch she’d felled. He could see her wand sticking out of her belt, but it was broken. The last two inches were missing, exposing the raw reddish strand of dragon heartstring at the core. Useless.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry winced as Hermione plunged two fingers into her own left arm, and yanked free her spare wand. She set it to Bellatrix’s chest, and began casting, working to heal the wound she’d caused and save the life of the insane villain.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He sighed, lowering his head to the ground. And then he just lay there, still, for a moment, and smiled. Harry smiled in spite of everything. Because of everything.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Out of sight, down where the north and south corridor met, he knew that the entrance to the Tower stood, unharmed. A golden oval, bright-shining and standing with impossible solidity.</span><br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span>
This was Harry's world, and impossible things could happen.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">JUPITER: Rentre dans la nature, fils dénaturé: connais ta faute, abhorre-la, arrache-la de toi comme une dent cariée et puante. Ou redoute que la mer ne se retire devant toi, que les sources ne se tarissent sur ton chemin, que les pierres et les rochers ne roulent hors de ta route et que la terre ne s’effrite sous tes pas.</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">ORESTE: Qu’elle s’effrite! Que les rochers me condamnent et que les plantes se fanent sur mon passage: tout ton univers ne suffira pas à me donner tort. Tu es le roi de Dieux, Jupiter, le roi des pierres et des étoiles, le roi des vagues de la mer. Mais tu n’es pas le roi des hommes.</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">JUPITER: Je ne suis pas ton roi, larve impudente. Qui donc t’a créé?</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">ORESTE: Toi. Mais il ne faillait pas me créer libre.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">ZEUS: Know your sin, abhor it, and tear it from you as one tears out a rotten, noisome tooth. Or else — beware lest the very seas shrink back at your approach, springs dry up when you pass by, stones and rocks roll from your path, and the earth crumbles under your feet.</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">ORESTES: Let it crumble! Let the rocks revile me, and flowers wilt at my coming. Your whole </span></em><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">universe is not enough to prove me wrong. You are the king of gods, king of stones and stars, </span></em><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">king of the waves of the sea. But you are not the king of man.</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">ZEUS: Impudent spawn! So I am not your king? Who, then, made you?</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">ORESTES: You. But you blundered; you should not have made me free. </span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">-</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Les Mouches</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, Jean-Paul Sartre</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span></em>
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span></em>
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span></em></div>
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<b style="color: #222222; font-family: 'Noto Serif', Georgia, serif; font-size: x-large; line-height: 27px;">Significant Digits, Chapter Thirty-Two: Levels</b><br />
<b style="color: #222222; font-family: 'Noto Serif', Georgia, serif; font-size: x-large; line-height: 27px;"><br /></b></div>
<span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span><span style="font-weight: 400;">Trigger warning: violence, dismemberment, and death.</span><br />
<strong><br /></strong>
<strong><br /></strong>
<span style="font-weight: 400;"></span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-weight: 400;">At some point in the past few minutes, all of Hermione’s confusion and anxiety and sadness had been swept away, leaving only the cold and clear consideration of tactics.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">I need to stop Bellatrix, protect Harry and Draco and a roomful of dignitaries to preserve this new peace, and get the Resurrection Stone. And to save any aurors that I can still rescue.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">I can directly command the aurors and my Returned, and probably also get the Boston Brahmins and the Siberian Rakshasa, if necessary.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Bellatrix is, without question, here for Voldemort. Harry said that she didn’t seem capable of caring about anything else -- she might have plans and secondary goals on his behalf, but her purpose is clear. She’ll want Harry, since she’ll rightly assume he knows where Voldemort is kept. She is one of the most fearsome witches of her generation and has access to spells and power we don’t have, but she also spent years in Azkaban and has been forced to resort to a single desperate attack with a massed army of psychotic, enslaved werewolves.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">No, that doesn’t make any sense. She wouldn’t risk herself in an attack like this without some sort of trump card -- some way to defeat all the massed forces she knows are present here. Some way to defeat me. That would mean risking Voldemort’s last chance at freedom, and if she were unhinged enough to do that, then she wouldn’t have waited this long and prepared this much. She has some additional force or power at her command… even beyond Fiendfyre.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Plans danced in her mind, considered in their permutations and in their costs. No time for optimal planning or more than one level of preparation -- they needed direct response, and they needed it before Bellatrix managed to pass through the trapped south corridor.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Massed attack with Returned… no, narrow constraints make us all vulnerable to any unknown threat or renewed werewolf attack. Lure into open room and trap… no, would sacrifice too much ground and put her too close to assets.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Direct attack, flank her and cut off any reinforcements, set up a second layer of defense and trust to Harry for a third layer. She’ll go for him -- assume he knows where Voldemort is kept.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">There, yes, that was it. No time to second-guess. She committed.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Here’s the plan,” said Hermione, throwing the Cloak of Invisibility to Hyori. “Take this and go around the back, to the rear of the clinic. Have them let you through -- you know the sequences? -- so you can flank Bellatrix. Stop at the Establishment on the way and tell Simon and Esther to come here to guard ‘Harry.’ The Americans and Siberians should stay with the real Harry and prepare to swarm Bellatrix if she makes it that far… he should make a false Voldemort, just in case.” Her last words were as much for the benefit of Harry’s bubbler in the corner as Hyori.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hyori caught the Cloak and sprinted from the room without another word, her lips pursed.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Tonks, who was lifting the meeting room table onto its side for a barricade, glanced over at Hermione. He had already fashioned himself into a perfect simulacrum of Harry, and had torn the collar of his robes to make them look more masculine. “And you’re going to go try to duel my dear Auntie Black, are you?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Yes, in order to protect your dear cousin Draco and everyone else,” said Hermione, working her fingers in her gauntlet and heading to the other door.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I’m Harry’s distant cousin, too, actually, along with half that room of muckity-mucks,” said Tonks, cheerily. “All our families have been snogging each other for a thousand years.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“A proud legacy,” said Hermione, smiling. She drew her wand.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Don’t die, mudblood!” called Tonks, after her.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“You either, blood traitor,” replied Hermione, and then she was through the door and heading to the south corridor, breaking into a run.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">She could already see the auror as she rounded into the corridor. He was standing at the corner with the south corridor, putting up runes. Probably runes of balance, out of the hopes that it would damage Bellatrix’s Fiendfyre chimera. He didn’t run.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">A brave man</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, she thought, and pushed into a flat-out run, arms pumping. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Balance probably won’t be enough to save his own life, but it’s most likely to slow her down. He’s willing to die to buy us a few more minutes.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">She raised her wand, holding it level as she ran, and then flicked it twice to the left -- “</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Lagann!” --</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> and then with a sharp rising jerk towards herself -- “</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Impedimenta!</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">” The auror’s location wards broke under her first spell, and he was jerked off his feet with the second, sliding towards her, legs flailing. She leapt as she reached him, one powerful stride carrying her ten meters forward and over him. Hermione had the briefest of glimpses of a look of absolute awe on the man’s face -- Auror Salamander, she recognized him -- and then she was past him. She lowered her body into a lunge and turned herself, and her feet skidded over the stone. She came to a neat stop at the corner, standing over the body of the fallen auror. Everything was red and scarlet. There was Fiendfyre.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">And there was Bellatrix Black.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">It was hard to see her past the chimera, which was lazily pushing at the stone of the floor, kneading it with lion’s paws as it vitrified and bubbled. But she was there. A tall woman with a strong jawline, she was dressed in black leather leggings and a ragged gray tunic, belted at the waist. One of her arms was black and misshapen: an enchanted prosthetic. Bellatrix had a wide smile on her face.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Ten green bottles, standing on the wall,” she sang, loudly. Her voice was high-pitched -- too young for her age. She tilted her head, and stared at Hermione down the length of the corridor. Dozens of carbon nanotubes blocked her path… but they wouldn’t withstand an instant of Fiendfyre.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Bellatrix Black!” shouted Hermione. “My name is Hermione Granger! I know you’re here for your Dark Lord… let us give you what you want!” She glanced down at the body of the auror, and leaned over to grasp it with one hand and give it a powerful shove away from her. The fallen auror tumbled end-over-end towards the meeting room.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Ten green bottles, standing on the wall,” repeated the other witch, and bubbled with a moment of insane laughter.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Can you hear me? Can you understand me?” shouted Hermione. She tensed her fingers on her wand, and flexed her other hand within her gauntlet.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“And if one green bottle should happen to fall...” said Bellatrix, and raised her free hand. She gestured, and her Fiendfyre chimera jerked upright and lurched forward. The scabrous black lines channeling through the thick flames pulsed, and the broken-necked goat’s head riding atop the nightmare’s back lolled to one side.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Bellatrix!”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“There’ll be nine green bottles, standing on the wall!” shrieked Bellatrix and waved her hand again. The chimera leapt into the air and blazed forward, flaring bright with hellish flame. It surged towards Hermione, and it was so hot that it was destroying the nanotubes before it even touched them -- she could hear the rapid staccato clicks as they broke. The chimera flared and crackled and melted the surface of the corridor into glass as it surged towards Hermione, and nothing stood in its way.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">And she had a moment, then, to remember.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Pain. Heat. A sweet stink in her nostrils. Her hair crackling as it burned. No knowledge of her body, which had gone far away -- only pain and panic. Somehow she’d lost track of herself, even though she knew on some level that she was thrashing and screaming and there was no Granville oh god Granville was gone. But no, that level of knowledge was going away. The world was going away. She was fading burning dying. There was one level, and it was blackness.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione remembered, and as time separated into a series of instants, she felt her stomach clench with fear. She felt herself ready to scream. She felt the blackness, waiting.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">But in the next instant all of that was gone, and she was brandishing her wand and shouting her defiance, stamping her heels into the stone beneath her until it cracked.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">And in the next instant Hermione could feel the </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">smile on her face</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> as the chimera flared even brighter -- red and crimson, everything was dyed red and crimson -- and she heard the loud crack of seals coming loose.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Then the chimera was jerked violently to the right and down, spinning helplessly. Thousands of pounds of air pulled it along, sucking with hurricane force at its fire-formed body. Its snake-tail whipped around and hissed angrily, only to be caught up by a different force and wrenched in another direction. Hermione’s shout was lost in the roar of wind, and she felt herself lifting off of her feet. She buried her gauntlet into the wall with an extravagant punch, pushed down on her embedded heels, and held her ground.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Buried in the walls were forty extended spaces, linked into a system. They were as large as possible, and they were filled with nothing… not even air.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The chimera had time enough to buck twice in the air, its lion’s body flexing, and then it splashed into the wall of the corridor with a wash of mad-red flame. Three of the vacuum chambers, exposed by the Fiendfyre flames that had melted into the walls, sucked air by the gallons. They exerted over a ton of force on the corridor, expressed in a hurricane of sucking wind. The chimera shockingly managed to hold itself away from them for a moment, straining to pull away with whatever magical force that gave it motion. Hermione could see the lion of black and red flame roar without sound... and then the chimera was torn apart, rent into scraps of scarlet and ribbons of red, spread out and scattered and dissipated.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">According to legend, Fiendfyre could not be stopped or killed or contained. The ritual was the incarnation of a creature of flame and hatred, and nothing could stem its destruction.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">That hypothesis, however, hadn’t held up under testing.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The wind died in a few moments, as ball valves were sucked into place. Hermione pulled her gauntlet free from the wall with a rattle of stones, and glanced to her right. Auror Salamander had been pulled back towards her, but was already back on his feet, running towards the meeting room.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Bellatrix was also standing up. Behind her, four long gouges in the stone showed where she’d held on -- she must have dug her own new hand into the wall. Something of which to take note: that device probably had other powers, as well, if she’d gotten it from some hidden hoard.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Stupefy</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">,” cast Hermione, and threw herself low and to the side. Bellatrix’s own silent curse came in reply a moment later, a rippling wave of purple crystal that swept over Hermione’s head. Hermione kicked herself back to her feet with a nimble motion, whipping her wand around and raising a rapid and disposable Roger’s Shield. The multicoloured disc of light unfolded from a single bright line just in time to intercept a second wave of crystal shards. Translucent pieces of the shattered projectiles scattered everywhere, and Hermione could feel them patter into her hair.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Classically trained duelist, but acts without the rhythm of convention. Voldemort’s work. She’ll have something up her sleeve that I can’t counter -- some wardbreaker or elemental conjuration. And even beyond that… she’s just better than me. I need to get in close and press my own advantages.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">A thick wash of fog rolled forward from Bellatrix, but Hermione interrupted with a rapid-fire burst of minor hexes, fired from around the edge of her shield. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">That fog’s slow and flashy, that’s a trap</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">. Without time for another thought, Hermione cooled her mind into a receptive calm and extended her will, thrusting forth the thought of blue November and the smell of burning leaves. A ward of prisms burst into existence, blocking the corridor from top to bottom, and Bellatrix’s hidden curse, the Slow Blade of Unusually Specific Destruction, which had been cruising sedately but invisibly forward, burst like a soap bubble.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">I need to--</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">But the thought was interrupted as both the prisms and Roger’s Shield exploded towards her, shattered by a blazing beam of white-hot light. Hermione felt a hot wave of pain as the energy clipped her right shoulder, and then she was tumbling backwards from the impact. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">So fast, </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">she thought, but there was </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">no time</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> and she rolled to one side and thrust out her hand, pushing herself upright with a powerful motion just in time to avoid a sticky gobbet of grey liquid, which landed in a pulsing sphere on the stone and exploded into a fine mist.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione recognized the spell and held her breath, but there was just no time to prepare a counter-attack. She could already see a white glow building in intensity at the other end of the corridor, and could only swirl her wand and raise it to Vom Tag, pulling an eruption of grey stone up from the floor. The beam of light broke against the stone with a sound like shattering glass -- </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">the pattern, I see it</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> -- and Hermione threw herself to the side again, smashing into the side of the corridor, as a Killing Curse passed through the space in which she’d just been standing.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Then Hermione seized her advantage while she could. She smashed her clenched and gauntleted hand into her shield of stone, bursting through it with a golden blow, and barked, “AquaCem!”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Sticky foam rushed out of the gauntlet, seething and swelling as it flooded down the hallway towards Bellatrix. Hermione couldn’t see it, thanks to the stone that protected her from any backflow, but she could hear the sizzle of spells, muffled by a corridor crammed with foam.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">She had a moment. Bellatrix would be delayed for at least a short time. Time enough for Hermione to prepare, and time enough for Hyori to get in position. She didn’t dare hope that she’d just ended the fight; even if she’d managed to surprise the other witch and actually catch her in the foam, there were any number of ways Bellatrix could escape.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Ventus</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">,” she cast, clearing away the mist. She took a deep breath, and considered her options. </span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">I should have kept the Cloak, and had Hyori take Simon and Esther with her</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, she thought. She’d been wary of sending anyone without perfect concealment around to the north corridor, since more werewolves might have been on the way. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">But I made my decision, and it’s done. Hindsight bias be damned.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">So how do I get in close? </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">She took a quick inventory, trying to think of some way to get to the end of the corridor before Bellatrix could react. Her broom was too slow and vulnerable. Explosives? No, that was silly and impractical, even if it was theoretically possible. She couldn’t bubble and have the Anti-Disapparation wards taken down (even if that was something they could easily so), for obvious reasons.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The foam hissed, and some of its stiff grey bubbles poured through the hole she’d left in the stone shield in front of her. Hermione could hear a crackling sound, growing louder by the second. She had another foam charger, should she…</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Oh. Wait, no, that’s crazy.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">But she couldn’t think of </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">why</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> it wouldn’t work, and she didn’t have anything better, and this needed to end before more people got hurt. So there it was.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione turned and smashed her gauntleted fist into the stone behind her. She twisted her hand violently, and a small shower of broken rock came loose. Pulling the gauntlet free from her hand, she pushed hard on the underside of one knuckle. The spent foam charger came loose, and she pocketed it. She replaced it with a spare wind charger from her pouch, locking it into place next to an identical one. Then she shoved the gauntlet into the hole she’d made, backwards. It faced the opposite end of the south corridor, where Bellatrix was still dealing with the foam.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The sound of crackling had very nearly reached Hermione, and the air was almost unbreathable with an acrid smell. There was some sort of chemical reaction -- had Bellatrix set the foam on fire, somehow?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The answer came in seconds, as Hermione’s shield of stone began to sizzle. The top melted at the same time that holes appeared along the surface, and Hermione could see the thick yellow mist that was eating away at the rock. She’d changed the foam into some sort of airborne acid.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">How oddly helpful.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Bullesco</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">,” cast Hermione, and the Bubblehead Charm swelled up and around her head. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Here goes… well, something. </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">She put her back to the gauntlet, facing the end of the corridor and Bellatrix squarely. Then she raised her wand.</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">“</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Ventus! Ventus! </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Kavo!”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Two gusts of wind swept the airborne acid back at Bellatrix. It was the obvious counter-attack, meaning it was an obvious trap -- the dull yellow glow of two Bertram Bolts whipped from out of the swirling acid, which had obscured their passage.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">But Hermione had also triggered the two wind chargers in her gauntlet. Twin gales of compressed air, released in a moment from their extended space, swept her up and down the corridor, over the curses, bouncing painfully against the ceiling and turning in an awkward tumble. She lost sight of Bellatrix as she spun, but saw the yellow fog of acid vanish in a glimmer of light -- the Obliteration Charm. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione hit Bellatrix’s shields with one tense leg. Her ankle twisted to the side violently with the impact and she crashed to the ground, arms akimbo and head cracking into the stone sharply. Bellatrix’s eyes were wide with shock and anger and crazed delight. Her false arm held her wand delicately between three fingers, still pointed forward. She brought it down to point at Hermione. “</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Avada--”</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione lashed out with her uninjured foot, sharply striking Bellatrix’s wooden arm. The blow would have broken any human arm, but the smooth-grained wooden arm -- oddly delicate in appearance, all shifting layers, an intricate mesh of components -- was only knocked away.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Silly stupid scum,” hissed Bellatrix, hopping backwards and out of reach.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione could see the other witch’s eyes clearly, in this instant as she scrambled to her feet. They had a burning intensity to them: the fever brightness of madness. But she saw more than that, and her heart ached as she recognized that there was a hollowness behind her gaze. A hungry distance that lay somewhere in those crazed dark eyes.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">You never Returned, even when you left Azkaban. You carry your Azkaban with you.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">It was a moment of recognition. A moment of hesitation.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Bellatrix’s wand danced in a complicated swivel and bob, and she tapped it on her chest. “</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Amandher Penkue!”</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The air shuddered with a pulse of magical power. Hermione felt it in her bones. One of Bellatrix’s eyes popped wetly, exploding from the socket into a small burst of black dust.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">A sacrifice. An old spell.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Here I am,” said Bellatrix Black.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Here I am here I am,” said a second Bellatrix Black.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Here I am here I am here I am,” said a third Bellatrix Black.</span><br />
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Pip could barely stand. He was very near </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">toverislot</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, and he could feel his will ache with overexertion. </span> <span style="font-weight: 400;">He would pass out soon -- should have passed out a while ago, actually.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Despite knowing this, somewhere in the back of his mind, he didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop. Pip crushed the crowded hall with attack after attack. His back against the clinic door, he fought screaming madmen. He broke their bodies and rent their flesh, casting spell after spell, chaining together one effect after another. He fought without stopping, without resting, without thinking.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Pip fought until there was no one left to fight.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The hallway was a ruin of gore and wrecked humanity. Broken or abandoned wands were strewn in and around the smoking remains of their owners. Someone was wetly wheezing, trying to curse or scream even as they drowned in their own blood. Pip leaned on the wall, his vision swimming -- but wand at the ready.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The door to the clinic clanked loudly, and swung open behind him. Pip turned, wearily, to see that witch from the Returned -- the angry-looking Korean one. Her wand was out, but she appeared to be missing her other arm. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">No, an invisibility cloak. Bugger, I </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">am</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> tired.</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> She stared at him for a moment, narrowing her eyes with scrutiny.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Hullo,” he said.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Come,” she replied, handing him a phial. The label read, “PEPPER-UP POTION.” Then she pushed past him, breaking into a run, throwing the cloak over her shoulders.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">I shouldn’t drink this</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, Pip thought, as he swallowed the potion. He felt it burn down into his stomach, boiling in his guts. Thick heat spread throughout his limbs, and his ears burned.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">I’m too tired… I’ll just sit down here and take a rest. Forget the lockdown protocol, let the clinic aurors go fight, </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Pip thought, as he raced down the corridor after the vanishing Returned, slipping on blood.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Mum would want me to let someone else take their turn… bollocks to this, I’m going to go have a nap</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, Pip thought, as he began to raise his wards for what felt like the thousandth time. New strength was rising in him, but it felt artificial and thin -- the false energy of a strong cup of tea in the wee hours of a long watch.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He could hear Bellatrix’s voice as they neared the junction of the north and south corridors. She was chanting something, but there was some strange effect -- it sounded like a chorus. Like there were--</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Three of the bloody crazy bints. All fighting Hermione Granger.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">It was impossible. Everything about it was impossible. It was impossible that Bellatrix had duplicated herself somehow -- it wasn’t even an illusion, they were all doing different things! -- since there had never been any magic like that, not that he’d ever heard. It was impossible that anyone could cast so many curses -- so many Killing Curses! -- with such speed and viciousness. He’d heard stories, but to see it…</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">And it was impossible that the Goddess was </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">still alive.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">But she was. She ducked and threw up shields and cast curses and lashed out with her fists and feet. Killing Curses streamed past her, but she slipped gracefully among them, pausing only to rip away wards from her foes or attack them. She moved faster than anyone could move. She was dancing between the raindrops.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Lagann</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">! </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Stupefy!</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">” Pip shouted, and immediately wished he’d kept quiet. His spell smashed through the shields of one of the Bellatrixen, but his stunner hit her wooden right arm and had no effect.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Oh hell,” Pip said, as that Bellatrix (Bellatrix #1? Bellatrix A? Bellatrix holyhellrunaway?) rounded on him, leaving her doubles to fight the Goddess. Like the other two, she was missing her right eye. A bloody socket wept crimson down her cheek.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Silly dolly,” hissed Bellatrix A. “It’s time to--”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">But her words were cut off suddenly, turning into a wet gurgle as a red slash appeared across her throat. Blood began to spurt from the wound, and Bellatrix A staggered backwards into the wall, clutching it with one hand as she tried to clamp her fingers over her throat with the other. Her wand dropped to the floor.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">In unison, the two other Bellatrixes whirled. They spoke in one voice.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Avada Kedavra</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Both curses flashed through the air and vanished into nothingness. There was the sound of someone collapsing to the ground.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Stupefy!”</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> cast Pip again. The stunner missed, but it did force the two standing Bellatrixen to adapt and raise new shields, distracting them for a further precious instant. It gave the Goddess a moment to snatch a knife from a pouch at her waist. She renewed her attack, casting three Bertram Bolts in as many seconds and lunging at the nearest Bellatrix.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Her target whirled to bring up her artificial arm and wand. The Bellatrix deflected the Bolts with an instantaneous Roger’s Shield, and continued the motion to intercept the knife with the enchanted wood of her forearm. It was a marvel of combat.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Something didn’t go as the Bellatrix expected, though, since the knife punched right through the prosthetic. It was a small knife, and its silver tip only just breached the other side of the relic-arm, but it was something.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Lagann! Lagann! Lagann! Reducto! Reducto!” </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Pip began casting, trying to capitalize on the momentum. He kept his distance and only tried to support the Goddess, because he could feel a vast lethargy welling up from his guts. The potion was wearing off. He didn’t give up. He wouldn’t give up.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">“Thank you for saving the Goddess and the whole Tower,” breathed Cedric. He shook Pip’s hand, and then held on. He didn’t let go as he looked into Pip’s eyes. “I… I don’t know how to say this, but… I’d noticed you, before. When you were on duty. I noticed you in your auror’s robes. Your eyes.”</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Pip dodged to the side with a desperate effort, contorting his body to avoid three precise blasts of Hippo’s Fire. “</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Lagann!” </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">he cast. “</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Depulso! Reducto! Glacius!</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">” He was slowing down, dimming, fading. Everything began to get darker, and it felt like he was fighting in knee-deep water. Water that was rapidly rising, and making him sluggish and dull. He pushed himself. He pushed himself beyond where he ever thought he could go.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">It felt odd to be sitting at the head table, next to Headmistress McGonagall. But they’d insisted. It was only proper for the new Head of Slytherin to take the place of honour. “I want you to know,” said the Headmistress, with a softness in her Scottish voice that he’d never heard, “that Hogwarts owes you a debt it can never repay. The name of Slytherin has new meaning, thanks to you. Let them all be Silver Slytherins in your mold. Let them strive to live up to the name of Pirrip.”</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Everything was slow. Too slow. A bolt of fire hit Pip in the leg. He felt the pain as though at a great distance. He couldn’t bring up any more shields, couldn’t manage any difficult curses. He cast stunners and disarms, and even that took so much effort that it felt like his soul was being scraped raw. “</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Stupefy! Stupefy! Expelliarmus!</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">” Anything to make the Bellatrix react and fight him -- to distract her -- needed to distract her -- needed to save the Goddess…</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">“I’m so proud of you, Philip. Your dad would be so proud of you.”</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Then he felt a curse hit him in the stomach. Too slow. Couldn’t avoid it. Didn’t feel like anything, though. The world tilted and rocked as he fell, crumpling to the ground. Couldn’t feel his legs. Couldn’t feel bloody anything. Everything sideways. Everything dim.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Pip could see the Bellatrix he’d been fighting turn around. She touched her wand to the one with the slashed throat. After a moment, the hand of the fallen Bellatrix twitched and clenched itself. It scrabbled around, looking for a missing wand.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The Goddess was putting up layered shields, trying to outpace the other Bellatrix, whose prosthetic hand seemed to be moving more slowly. They were getting smaller -- the whole fight was getting smaller. Everything was shrinking, as though he were being drawn back into a tunnel. A dark tunnel.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Bellatrixen A and B joined their sister. Dull shapes, moving far away. A thick fog. The Goddess was fighting. But it wasn’t… wasn’t working… she couldn’t…</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Dimly, Pip watched as Bellatrix Black and her two duplicates cast the Killing Curse. They cast it in quick succession, and they cast it flawlessly. This time, Hermione Granger was too slow.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">One of the Killing Curses hit her. Colors were dim, and Pip’s mind was fading, but still he saw the green bolt strike her in the chest.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He saw the Goddess die.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Two of the Bellatrixen sprang forward, down the corridor and out of his sight. Pip watched them go with the distant thought that this was important… that this mattered… but he couldn’t quite…</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Almost as an afterthought, the last Bellatrix turned to him. He watched, dully. He tried to keep his eyes open. He felt for his wand with numb fingers. He needed… he had to…</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;"> “</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Avada Kedevra.”</span></em><br />
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry had done everything he could. He entered the Extension Establishment with his most commanding air and had informed everyone that there had been a security breach. The defence had been easy to organize. Draco was there to publicly and cordially avow that the Honourable and Independents had no hand in the attack, and that the same honour which compelled their defiance of tyranny would compel them to defend innocent lives. Harry suspected that, even if Draco hadn’t been there, he would have met little opposition. This was his place of power and his fortress, and those in attendance respected such things.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Politics were still a necessity, though, and having Draco with him helped. The Slytherin was able to make awkward requests with such beautiful elegance that they seemed like compliments. Per Aavik-Söderlundh-Ellingsen and the other incompetents were ushered off to the far corners, where they wouldn’t be in the way. The process was considerably eased when Harry sent the Brahmins -- a grizzled, enormous pack of battle-hardened witches and wizards -- next door, to fetch some of the Mobile Marys and other extended spaces. Fully half of the gathered crowd was dispersed among them. Everyone who would be a liability, or who declined to risk themselves, was put out of the way in that manner, and there was room to maneuver and plan.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">But then that was arranged, and he’d worked with Draco and Cedric to deploy the British aurors and the Brahmins and their Siberian counterparts and some of the Returned (Urg, Charlevoix, and Susie) in strategic positions, and everyone was weaving wards and shields that were (frankly) far better left to them. Harry stood where he was politely asked to stand by Buckeye Dave of the Brahmins.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">And he had to watch the bubbler and wait.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Tonks-as-Harry made her own preparations with Simon and Esther in the meeting room. They laid magical traps and wards and shields. They made plans. Harry watched and listened to them.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He waited.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Draco stood nearby, talking quietly with his mother (who kept giving Harry hateful glares) and Gregory Goyle. Harry wished they could keep talking, openly, like before -- even just about the situation, much less everything else that had happened over these past few years.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry thought about everything that could be lost today. He thought about Dumbledore’s wise words about war and loss, seven years ago, in a room filled with monuments to the fallen.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">“I see that you still do not understand. I think you will not understand until the day that you -- oh, Harry. So very long ago, when I was not much older than you are now, I learned the true face of violence, and its cost. To fill the air with deadly curses -- for any reason -- for any reason, Harry -- it is an ill thing, and its nature is corrupted, as terrible as the darkest rituals. Violence, once begun, becomes like a Lethifold that strikes at any life near it. I... would spare you that lesson the way I learned it, Harry.”</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Would Harry learn that lesson today? Would he learn that there were never enough levels to a plan -- never enough layers of deception or preparation that could save everyone?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He’d rejected that principle, then and every other time he thought about it. Dumbledore had shown him the costs of war, and had challenged him: did Harry really think he was smart enough -- that </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">anyone </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">could be smart enough or prepared enough or powerful enough -- to fight a war without loss?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Dumbledore had tried to point out that violence was often unpredictable, and seldom neat. They spoke of history -- Gandhi and Churchill and Grindelwald -- and they spoke of slippery slopes. And still, all around them, had been the evidence of loss. Dumbledore had done everything he could to avoid war, and when it came, he had led the forces of goodness. He had been the most powerful wizard known to the world, and he had somehow discovered the Word of the First Enchanter and had listened to every prophecy held in Britain, and </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">still</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> he had suffered grievous losses in the wars against Grindelwald and Voldemort.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I do not accept your answer, Headmaster,” Harry had said at the time. It had been a childish refusal to engage in an argument on its merits, really. “You are willing to accept balances of power where the bad guys end up winning. I am not,” he’d said.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">“Refusing to accept something does not change it. I wonder now if you are simply too young to understand this matter, Harry, despite your outward airs; only in children's fantasies can all battles be won, and not a single evil tolerated.”</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry had hated the bullying at Hogwarts. He’d been willing to disrupt the school to stop it. If that had upset Lord Jugson, he’d been willing to arrange for Lord Jugson to be exiled. If that had upset Lord Malfoy and his whole Wizengamot contingent, he’d been willing to break Malfoy and every single one of them -- or all of them at once, if need be.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">For the sake of ending bullying, Harry had been willing to conquer the world.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Was that right?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry drew his wand.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">It wasn’t the Elder Wand. The Elder Wand was hidden in the Tower, guarded by a thousand traps. It would have been foolish to carry it: Harry was clever and creative, but no duelist. Any unguarded moment and he could be “defeated”... no, better to keep it safe and hidden until he had need of it.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">This was Harry’s wand. Eleven inches long. Holly. Phoenix core.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">What would Fawkes say to him now?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Noise from the bubbler. Harry’s attention snapped over to it. Charlevoix, standing to his left, stepped closer to watch.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">They could see three versions of Bellatrix Black entering the meeting room. There was fighting -- hard to make out from the bubbler’s limited vantage point. Esther was casting curses, and so was “Harry.” Simon was already down. He was just visible at the bottom of the bubbler’s view. He wasn’t moving.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Flashes of light. Some sort of trap triggered, and the picture on the bubbler was whited-out. When the view returned, Esther and one of the Bellatrixen were both out of sight. Either they were out of range of the bubbler’s vision, or… something else. He could hear a sharp intake of breath from Charlevoix.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">But now it was Tonks against two Bellatrix Blacks, and no one could have won that battle. Harry cringed as the two attacking witches disarmed “Harry.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">One of the Bellatrixen moved, and her back blocked Harry’s view of Tonks. The other one was pulling something from within her belt. They struggled with Tonks, who wouldn’t cooperate, finally settling on </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Incarcerous</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> to bind him. They forced him to open his mouth, poured something in. A potion. Veritaserum. A </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">lot</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> of Veritaserum, more than anyone could ever use on someone they wanted to keep alive and sane. Enough to wrest the truth from Mad-Eye Moody himself.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I’m Nymphadora Tonks, I’m not Harry Potter! He’s oh Merlin no no no he’s back through that door, in the Extension Establishment with everyone else no no no Merlin I’m so sorry Harry I’m so sorry Hermi--”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Avada Kedavra</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">,” said one of the two remaining Bellatrix Blacks. Harry closed his eyes, and felt bile rise in his throat.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He’d taunted Dumbledore. Hurt him on purpose. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> “And that's why I can destroy Dementors and you can't. Because I believe that the darkness can be broken."</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The two witches laughed -- insane and hideous laughter -- and vanished from his view.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry heard laboured breathing, and turned to see Charlevoix’s shoulders heaving. Her cheeks were wet with tears.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Fucking bitches,” said Susie.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Buckeye Dave gave orders to the Brahmins. Марат gave whispered commands to the Rakshasa. Cedric gave direction to the aurors.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry waited.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He remembered what Dumbledore had written to him -- the last word in that conversation, delivered after the good man’s sacrifice.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">There can only be one piece whose value is beyond price.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">That piece is not the world, it is the world's peoples, wizard and Muggle alike, goblins and house-elves and all.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry lurched into motion. First a step forward, and then another. Then he knew what he was doing and knew it was what Fawkes would tell him to do.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He broke for the door.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Angry and dismayed shouts broke out from those important enough to object, but what could they do? Stun him? Who would dare stun Harry Potter-Evans-Verres and ruin his clever plan? Draco called out something in alarm, but Harry couldn’t understand him. Wouldn’t understand him.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He was out the door and into the hall.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Bellatrix Black was there. So was a second Bellatrix Black. They stood side-by-side, ten meters away. They stank of death and madness.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry skidded to a halt, almost falling forward, awkwardly. He kept his wand at his side, deliberately, but raised his other hand.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He snapped his fingers.</span><br />
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Note: I’m sorry.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">The next chapter will be posted in two weeks. It will be titled “Walpurgisnacht.”</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span></em>
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span></em>
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span></em></div>
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<b style="color: #222222; font-family: 'Noto Serif', Georgia, serif; font-size: x-large; line-height: 27px;">Significant Digits, Chapter Thirty-One: Esse Quam Videri</b><br />
<b style="color: #222222; font-family: 'Noto Serif', Georgia, serif; font-size: x-large; line-height: 27px;"><br /></b></div>
<span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Trigger warning: violence, dismemberment, and death.</span><br />
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Dum spiro spero.</span></em><br />
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">PERILOUS PEACE PROCESS PROCEEDS</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">by Simone Sprout</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Delegations from more than thirty magical states will meet today at the Tower at Hogwarts for the start of important peace talks related to the recent unrest around the world, along with influential representatives to the Confederation and key Wizengamot members. The different groups will meet with Minister for Magic N’Goma and her deputies, and the Minister has requested that Dean Harry Potter advise and assist the peace process. The summit will focus on resolving the issues dividing the signatory states of the Treaty for Health and Life and the more recent Treaty of Independence, including aspects of the Tower’s rejuvenation process that have come into question, the intrusiveness of Safety Poles and their associated facilities, and questions about representation of Beings in local governments.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Yesterday’s conflicts, which sprang up between Health states and Independent states, brought violence to places as far-flung as Antarctica, the United States, Paris, and Cyprus, and as nearby as Diagon Alley, Godric’s Hollow, and the Ministry of Magic. The skirmishes have led a general sense of fear and hundreds of wounded or captured wizards on both sides, although at press time it had become apparent that Russian claims about their prisoners were greatly exaggerated; fewer than a dozen British or allied aurors had been confirmed missing. </span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">In a statement sent to several news organizations, the leader of the group informally known as the “Honourable,” Lord Draco Malfoy, announced that he would also be present at the summit, speaking on behalf of the Treaty of Independence and the interests of a conservative faction in the Wizengamot. While his seat has been suspended for the past three years, Lord Malfoy is widely known to be one of the most influential figures behind both the Independents and the British Honourable.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">“We will address all of the issues that have forced the wizards of Britain and the world to rise up against this oppressive force,” wrote Lord Malfoy to </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">The Prophet</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">. “To name just one, the use of Muggle methods of arithmancy might have put more Galleons in everyone’s pocket, but they’ve also driven up the prices of even the most basic of goods. Since last year, Floo powder has been three Sickles a scoop. It’s a process known as ‘inflation,’ and the reckless abandon with which this Government and the Tower have been managing Britain must come to an end, before every house is forced to begin mortgaging their cauldrons to goblins just to pay for Floo powder! At minimum, more wizards must be trained in Muggle arithmancy, so that they can protect magic and the magical from the wandless hordes.”</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">A spokesperson for the Tower refused comment on Lord Malfoy’s accusations, saying only that “the Tower recognizes the legitimate concerns of many in Magical Britain and the world, and will act at the behest of Minister for Magic N’Goma to address these issues.”</span></em><br />
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Office of Harry Potter-Evans-Verres, Hogwarts, Scotland</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">November 20th, 1992</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">8:23 am</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Seven years ago</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Over there,” said Draco, pointing at one side of Harry’s office. “Just eight beds -- no, ten of them. They should be appropriately simple in style, but of good quality wood. And keep quiet about it, would you?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The house elf frowned, ducking his head down and shaking it from side to side briskly, like a cat worrying a mouse. “I’m most sorry, my lord, most sorry, but we cannot. Students are not permitted to order furniture, unless a prefect issues the request. I know you were allowed to order furniture by Professor Quirrell’s orders, sir, but he is no longer employed here. I am most sorry, my lord, but perhaps I could go check with your prefect?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Please just take care of it, Kuttle,” said Harry as he walked in through the door. His wand was out, and he was walking backwards, carefully maneuvering an enormous box of dull grey metal that was floating along behind him. “And treat all those sorts of requests from Draco just the same as if they came from me, please.” He paused and looked over his shoulder at Draco, who was glaring at him. “Sorry about that, Draco, they don’t--”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Mr. Potter, sir, I’m sorry, but you can not order furniture either. Unless I check with one of your prefects, or a professor? I am most sorry, sirs,” said the elf. He lifted his hands up to his ears and clutched them, nervously. “I have no choice, you see…”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Draco was smirking. “So the legend-in-his-own-time </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry Potter</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> still isn’t allowed to order furniture, either? He hasn’t been made Secret Headmaster or Professor of Self-Importance or anything like that? He still needs to trot off and check up with, ah, Robert Hilliard or another prefect before he gets a new chair?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Yes, my lord,” said Kuttle, twisting his ears in his hands. He was a bundle of busy energy, and he was holding one foot slightly off of the ground. It trembled as he stood there. It wasn’t clear if this situation was making him uncomfortable or if he just found it intolerable to stand still.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Well, it’s just--” started Harry. He floated the metal box over to a corner and let it come to a gentle rest, releasing his spell.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“What about curtains? Can he order curtains?” asked Draco, and now his voice was saccharine sweet.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“No, my lord,” said Kuttle.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I just--” said Harry, turning around indignantly.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“How about a goblet with his initials on it? Wait, sorry, I’m being silly. There wouldn’t be enough room on a goblet. How about a bucket?” said Draco, folding his arms in front of him. There was a look of tremendous delight on his face.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“No, my lord,” said Kuttle, vibrating in place with anxiety.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“You’re bothering him!” said Harry, frowning. There was no sense causing the strange creatures any discomfort. They had enough problems. He turned to the elf. “Please just speak to the Deputy Headmaster about it. I’m sure he’ll give you instructions.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Yes, sir!” said Kuttle eagerly, letting go of his ears with obvious relief. He snapped his fingers, and vanished, leaving only a nervous quiver in the air as he departed.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“It’s important to know the rules,” said Draco with a grin, walking over to Harry. “I was using the Socratic method to discover the exact--”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Listen, my melanin-challenged friend,” said Harry, “if you tease them, you’re going to end up with hardtack for your tea.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I have my own elf, anyway,” Draco said. He waved a hand dismissively, his sleeve swaying. The boy was wearing his Slytherin robes, even though he wasn’t technically a student anymore. In fact, by the laws of Magical Britain, he wasn’t even a </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">child</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> anymore. He was nobility and he’d achieved at least five O.W.L.s (seven, in fact), so he was an adult in the eyes of the government.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He pointed at the metal box, which was nearly as tall as Harry. “What’s that?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“A Muggle computer and some car batteries,” said Harry, brightening. “I know that it’s hard to get electronics to work around magic, but this is a half-inch of lead. I’m going to put a larger cube of lead around it with a sliding cover, and only then open up this one. If this doesn’t work, I’m going to try using plates of goblin-forged silver -- there are some big platters on a shelf near the Hufflepuff greenhouse that look pretty fancy, and I bet they’ll work. My hypothesis is that stray spells are to blame -- probably a particular sort of spell, too. Charms like Verdimillious or the like.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Muggleborns have been trying to get electronics to work -- mostly televisions -- in Hogwarts for fifty years,” said Draco, shaking his head. “You’re wasting your time, Potter. Think in terms of… think in terms of opportunity costs. You could be doing more useful things. We need some propaganda, for example. You’re terrible at it. And we need to sow some false leads about how we’re doing the healing -- the fake metamorphmagus research I mentioned.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I know, I know… I’m trying to get all of those things in motion, too. We’re going to optimize the world, and that means trying to coordinate a thousand different things and manage the million different consequences. Even the transition to a post-scarcity society, someday, is something we have to think about now -- whether or not we even want to do it.” Harry shrugged. “But I still need some time to myself. I’m not sure how long I could keep it up if I locked myself in a box and spent every waking minute devoted to other people. So… computer!” He smiled. “And I know other investigators have worked on this, but I bet those other investigators weren’t using the scientific method. Whatever the problem, we’ll probably end up just needing some sort of shielding. If nothing else, we can just keep transfiguring different sorts of insulation. In somewhere between a month to a year, we’ll be compiling code.” He rapped his knuckles against the lead box, smiling. The green gem on his ring clicked against the metal.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Draco nodded, but turned away, uninterested. He walked over to one side of the office and tapped his foot. “Ten beds here. And we’ll station some patrol-wizards over here and over there. Four in here, four at the entrance, and two down the hall. Ten more patrol-wizards to manage the journey here puts the security staff at twenty at any one time. A total of maybe sixty or so.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Moody agreed to this plan?” asked Harry, raising his eyebrows. “Bringing in the MPLE?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“MLEP,” corrected Draco, and Harry made a face. “And no, he hasn’t yet. But he will. He wants to close Azkaban, ever since he and Hermione went on that trip to Wales. And more staff will help.” Draco paused, as if considering his words, then spoke.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Forty-seven members of the Wizengamot. Five seats are just out of our reach on any vote -- Lestrange, Crabbe, Nott, Knop, and Carrow. Their </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">comes ad litem</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> are all old family retainers or allies, and they were all picked specifically to be beyond influence. McGonagall and Bones made a mistake with Jugson’s </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">ad litem</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, since they picked Clancy, and he’s a closet Euphoric. Still out of our reach, but we need to keep an eye on him in case someone else picks him up.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry raised a finger to interrupt, and Draco paused. “We might be able to fix that. I have plans for advancing the human body, and fixing the mesolimbic pathway is one of them. And you said ‘Nott’ twice.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Kno</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">p</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">,” said Draco. “New blood, from the nineteenth century.” He moved on. “My mother is exercising my own seat still, and that will continue. Same with Goyle’s, held by his uncle. Those are in reserve. Our independence is assumed, and the fact that we’re working together is still quiet. Even if it becomes known, everyone will draw the wrong conclusions. And Mother is certainly helping with every cutting comment she makes in public.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry nodded. Narcissa Malfoy was one of the leading agitators in the Wizengamot, decrying the “cruel tricks and nasty games of a corrupt government.” She’d rallied a contingent that had been thoroughly cowed, and given them confidence. She was beginning to be a political problem.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">It was an uncomfortable thing, and Harry didn’t want to dwell on it, so he remained silent. But he wondered about what had passed between Narcissa and the son with whom she was becoming acquainted. She, too, had lost Lucius, but she didn’t have the hopes that Draco had been given. She didn’t know about the possibilities of the future… about the world that might be, someday. A centaur had been proof of concept for Draco, but Narcissa didn’t have that.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Perhaps Draco had made her other promises. The dark magics of legend held similar -- if less palatable -- possibilities. A Malfoy ascendant, unrestrained, could make many things happen. Was that what Narcissa held, in lieu of Draco’s pure hopes? Or was Draco disconnected from her after ten years, and comfortable just leaving her in the darkness with her anger?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Of the remaining thirty-nine seats,” continued the Slytherin, and Harry returned his attention to his friend, “there are eighteen more held </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">suo jure</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">. No, that’s not… ah, sorry, the Noble House of Granger -- hoary with age -- is nineteen. You have six of them by loyalty, including your own. You have five more by conviction or self-interest. Greengrass is changeable, but she goes the way the strong wind blows, and pulls Brooks</span> <span style="font-weight: 400;">with her. That means that we need twelve seats of the remaining twenty-eight members: eight members </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">suo jure</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> and twenty of the Ministry’s members </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">ex officio</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">. And we only have five of those twelve.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry was already there. “But two of the </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">ex officio</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> members have connections to the DMLE. Nguyễn, whose wife is an auror at Azkaban, and Brandenburg.” So if they gave those members of the Wizengamot a reason to believe that their little fiefdom would grow, rather than shrink, that might win them over. “Okay, sold.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Moody will say something about how grizzled and experienced and paranoid he is, and then insist on full aurors instead of patrol-wizards,” said Draco. “And that will be the debate in the Wizengamot, too.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“And you’ll steer that, then? Bones is ours, and she’s a realist, but I think she should stay out of keeping the terms of debate where we want them. Secret support for expanding the DMLE would bring a backlash against her,” said Harry, thoughtfully.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“It would? Why, yes, Potter, I suppose it would,” said Draco, his face agast in pretend astonishment. “My goodness, what if everyone involved in the vote has ulterior motives? How dreadful!”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“You are annoying, and so is our system of government. We’re basically Muggle Indonesia.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“ ‘Everyone wants the Feverbreak, no one wants the flobberworm,’ ” said Draco, rolling his eyes. “It’s just how things are done.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Not for long,” said Harry. “Hermione and I have plans.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">At the sound of Hermione’s name, Draco’s face darkened. “You shouldn’t bother her with things like that -- she doesn’t need any more pressure.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry walked away from the metal box, over to his desk. “I’m not going to… exclude her, not with those sorts of plans. She wants to be involved. She </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">needs</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> to be involved.” He settled into the chair behind the desk, and sighed. “She’ll find her Patronus. We both know what kind of person she is.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Granger can’t handle this, Potter. She can’t cast it. And she’s killing herself with trying.” Draco said, moving to one of the chairs in front of the desk and sitting down.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I’m not encouraging her… I want her to rest, too. I think part of the reason she can’t do it is that she’s just exhausted. But… I’m not going to kick her out when she comes to me with plans. Or tell her to leave a discussion. When Lesath disappeared last week, she searched for hours -- and came to me even later with a plan for searching the Forbidden Forest. How do I tell her to stay out of it?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry remembered the look of the young girl when she brought him her notes about the relative merits of a spiral search, grid search, or strip search, asking for his input before she organized the aerial search. The search needed to not only be efficient (in case Lesath was in danger and lost in the Forest), but also provide for the possibility that his mother might be involved. But she’d looked like she was paper-thin with weariness, nervously plucking at the green-and-gold necklace that Draco had given her for her birthday two months ago. He’d told her that she needed to take a break… but he’d known that she wouldn’t and that he shouldn’t force her to.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Draco scowled. “It’ll be on your head if anything happens to her,” he said, with a note of warning in his voice.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“No, it won’t,” Harry replied, heavily. “And that’s the point. Sometimes things get bad for someone. Sometimes they get </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">really</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> bad. But that doesn’t mean you take away their choices. Because…” He gestured at the air, searching for words. “Because… sometimes you don’t know what a person’s made of. What they can be.”</span><br />
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">John Snow Center for Medicine and Tower School of Doubt (The Tower)</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">April 30th, 1999</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">5:12 pm</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Now</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Seal the hall!” shouted Pip, shoving wildly at the broken corpse that was slumped across his chest. He pushed it up and back enough to kick himself free, scooting out from under the body of the attacker. “Seal it! Hit the wailers, set up a perimeter!”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Fernández didn’t reply, but complied. He slammed the steel-bound door, and the air crackled as he engaged the seals, cutting the general ward and the rest of the clinic off from the north corridor with a shield of goblin silver and a dozen readied enchantments. Pip put a hand on the wall and hauled himself to his feet, jamming his fingers into a ragged scar on the stone for a hand-hold. His wand was already raised and pointing down the corridor again, although he didn’t even remember picking it back up.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He gathered his will, and put up a Prismatic Shield, pushing it out so that it intersected with the walls and blocked off the corridor entirely. Once it was stable, he began putting up the Umbrella Barrier Bauble Charm, the logical next step. J.C. Kraeme pushed him to the side with her shoulder as she stepped up next to him and began preparing second-step wards for when his Shield went down. He spared her just enough of a glance to see that she’d healed most of her face. The skin was shiny and red; she’d rushed through the job so that she could get back into the fight.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Pip didn’t even know how they got into this situation.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">One minute everything was as quiet as a Gryffindor brainstorming session: he was on post outside of the clinic in the north corridor, trying to think of something intelligent to say to the Norden auror stationed with him. Tilma Kulgora was extremely beautiful and tall, and he was fairly sure they actually knew each other from when he’d been at Nurmengard.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The next minute, the response abacus began clacking loudly and the attackers had already streamed out of the Receiving Room, charging down the corridor.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Their enemies were all men, covered in red scars and howling in between curses. They favored the Hontheim Curse, Hippo’s Fire, and other nasty dark curses, but they didn’t bother with tactics or shielding… or even the Killing Curse. They seemed entirely mad, raving with anger, eyes wide and mouths stretching in screams that were so fervent that the muscles of their neck stood out from their flesh.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Kulgora followed protocol, and spun her time-turner while Pip began to stun and </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Incarcerous </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">the attackers. Fernández and Kraeme joined him from within the clinic moments later, after ensuring that the pair of aurors in the discharge wing were ready for action. But even as the three defenders began taking down their opponents, there was an explosion of golden particles as Kulgora screamed and began to dissolve. Pip had just enough time to look over and see her time-turner malfunctioning, spitting bright motes of light that were eating away Kulgora’s flesh like bloody basilisk venom. Then she was gone in a final swirl of fragmented light, although her scream lingered, sounding like it was calling from some great distance before fading away. The burst of gold that accompanied Kulgora’s death sprayed out on the others -- it took off Kraeme’s face like a peeler and ate an irregular pattern into the stone of the walls. Kraeme collapsed behind Pip, blood pouring from her face, screaming.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Even as Pip fumbled with his free hand for his bubbler, he could hear a voice shout out of the resonator inside the clinic, yelling in the device’s quavery metal voice not to use time-turners, that there was a new spell, that there was an attack, that everyone should adopt Protocol Apple.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">It must be Russia, it’s always Russia,</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> he had time to think. And then there was no more time for thinking at all.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">It was hard to know exactly how long he’d already been fighting when Kraeme got back to her feet, but it was long enough that the corridor in front of them had been piled with bodies, two or three deep, and at least one </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Incendio</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> had scorched Pip’s left arm and the side of his neck. He understood, now, how they’d gotten through the Receiving Room. There were so many of them that they must simply have swarmed the aurors. They were fighting like Muggles -- using brute force and superior numbers to overwhelm. Even the most skilled fighter, they had warned Pip in training, couldn’t reliably win in close-quarters combat with more than three people. Madame Bones had put it bluntly: “You only have one wand and two hands.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Pip felt the Umbrella Barrier Bauble Charm set into place, although it was too noisy to hear the quiet tinkle of bells that accompanied the ward. Their attackers had closed the distance to Pip and Kraeme, now that Pip had stopped cursing, and they were already hammering on his Prismatic Shield. He pulled it out of suspension before it could be lost, and put his will behind it once more. Six attackers -- seven, no, </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">eight</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, with more arriving every moment -- were firing curse after curse into the shield. Three more were simply smashing the rainbow shimmer with their fists, squeezing into the corridor so that they could beat themselves bloody on it.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Pip felt a tap on his shoulder from Kraeme, and he released the Shield. The eleven attackers who’d forced themselves into the space fell forward into the Bauble Charm. There was a heavy thump to the air, so powerful that Pip felt his entire body shudder from the proximity of it, and the Charm triggered. An invisible wave of air expanded down the corridor with crushing force. In the narrow confines, all of its strength was concentrated. Most of their attackers were pulped against the stone walls, which themselves cracked and shifted under the pressure, while the rest were forced back to the entrance of the Tower, where the north and south corridors split off from each other.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">There was no time to rest; Kraeme had her own Baubles already cast, and they both moved forward a few steps, to give themselves a place to retreat if necessary. They could hear the low-pitched sound of the wailers in the clinic behind them, charged and ready, in case Pip and Kraeme fell and the seals were broken. Defense in depth.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The enemy surged forward, screaming and howling and cursing, some of them slipping on the blood and viscera that was thick on the floor. But Kraeme was with him, and they could handle this. Pip grinned, and drove them back, firing off rapid </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Depulsos</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">. Easy to cast, and it gave Kraeme a chance to lace into the packed mob with a Severing Charm, surgically placed.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">They’d keep up the teamwork until they had a chance to create another breathing space -- a moment to move forward and push back against the attack. If they could force back these lunatics to the Receiving Room, they could use the first door-shield. It didn’t matter if there was an army being sent in against them, not with that shield. They could lock it in place and wait for the rest of the DMLE to relieve them. Or even better -- leave it just enough ajar that they could flood the Receiving Room with something called “halothane.” Pip didn’t know exactly how it worked, but he’d been told its name and a rough idea of what it did, and that was enough to transfigure it. They’d put everyone to sleep. And if that didn’t work, if the madmen had presence of mind enough to counter such a simple attack, there were other things that could be done. They’d not only hold the clinic: they’d push these bloody bastards right out of the Tower.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Someone at the summit had betrayed them all, but they hadn’t reckoned on Tally Pirrip’s son.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">There was someone new at the end of the corridor, not just another raver. A woman in black. She kicked a shrieking man out of her way as she stepped into sight. She was calling something, but it couldn’t be heard over the tumult. The woman had a shield up, and it turned aside Pip’s first few sallies. Through unspoken agreement, he turned to fighting the lunatics, instead, driving them back with a flurry of curses delivered with such speed that he felt his magic strain. Kraeme engaged the woman.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">It was over in a moment, and Pip didn’t get a chance to say anything. He only heard the words, clearly this time: “</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Avada Kedavra!</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">” Kraeme fell to the ground beside him, lifeless and limp. The woman turned and stalked out of sight, away from the north corridor. She was going elsewhere.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Pip was alone.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The madmen howled and attacked.</span><br />
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<span style="font-weight: 400;">It was Moody’s plan, at its heart.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">“A well-designed security system must plan for the harmless, the foolish, the stupid, and the insane… and yet still defeat your most clever enemy. Herpo the Foul, creator of the Horcrux spell and one-time master of Greece, is said to have put it this way: ‘Your trap must be a windmill, engaging the intruder with each new blade and forcing them to react.’ Not that it did him much good, since he tangled with one auror too many in the sixteenth century. There’s a lesson, there, too: don’t brag in public.”</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The south corridor led to many of the smaller research stations and to the meeting room. Past those, there was Material Methods and the Survey Station and all of their incredibly valuable projects -- sfaironautical equipment, new weapons, and the lot. Plus the Extension Establishment was in the rear, and at the moment it was filled with a crowd of worthies and valuable hostages.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">It was possible to access all of those from the north corridor, by going through the general ward and discharge ward of the clinic, but the clinic was heavily defended. Goblin silver and intricate seals, the best that could be devised, had been set in place to seal it off in case of attack. This was both to guard any patients </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">and</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> out of the assumption that many attacks might originate from within the clinic.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The south corridor, on the other hand, was not designed to seal itself away and wait for help. It was designed to disable or kill any attacker who managed to get that far.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Draco had reacted with surprise and alarm when the abacuses began to clatter their alarm, and even Harry -- who had been expecting this for days -- jumped a little. He sprang to his feet.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“This is it. This has to be it,” he said. “She’s here. She’s brought it,”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry had been dropping hints in a subtle way for a long while, but had recently dropped the final plum before the press… and had made sure it was published. The artifact that he needed. The artifact that humanity needed. The artifact that was hidden beyond the reach of every divination he’d been able to discover in recent years. The artifact that Voldemort had woven into his Horcrux network. The artifact to which his chief lieutenant must have access.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Bellatrix Black. You have some part of the lore and power he gained as the Heir of Slytherin, evading the Interdict of Merlin, and you have things that I need. But all you need -- all you could ever need -- is Tom Morfin Riddle. And you know that we have him.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">It must have seemed inconceivable to her -- that Voldemort could be held prisoner by a stripling like Harry, and that the Tower could be impenetrable to every attempt to magical intrusion or scrying. It should have been impossible for Harry to do either, even with the assistance of the world’s mightiest wizards. And yet it was true. Interdicted knowledge and dark rituals wouldn’t help her. Voldemort was beyond her reach.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Lesath had been the clue -- or reminder, perhaps, that there was an outside threat that they could never hope to control. A fallback plan for Voldemort, who would have had plans within plans within plans.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Poor, poor Lesath.</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">What had he been doing, these seven years? What information had been stripped from him by his mad mother? Had he been forced to help her search for her Dark Lord? Did he still bear his misguided allegiance to Harry? Had he suffered?</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">“The Resurrection Stone, which could pierce any world</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">,” he had mentioned at the launch of the </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Monroe.</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> A small, careless mistake among other such small, careless mistakes.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">I have barriers you cannot break, Bellatrix. I hold Voldemort within them, your love and lord, Bellatrix. Come to me, Bellatrix. Bring me the Spirit Stone. And bring me yourself, and I will give you rest.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry turned to Hermione. “We need the Resurrection Stone. She will have it with her. She </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">must</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> have it with her.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“You should go to the Extension Establishment,” she replied, getting to her feet. “It will be safe. The Brahmins and the Siberians -- the Rakshasa -- are both there, along with the Returned. Send Tonks here.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry shook his head. “I need to be here.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Don’t you </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">have</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> to go… no, the Vow won’t make you… hell, this is not the time to argue,” said Hermione, gritting her teeth. “Like a play, indeed,” she muttered, as she turned to Draco. “He’s being an idiot. Go get Tonks and Hyori, and keep an eye on all those fancy people. And make sure no one over-reacts.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Draco walked to the table and picked up his cane. “Use your mirrors and tell that American to sort everyone out. He can get on a stepladder, he’ll do just fine. I’m not going anywhere.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“This is </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">embarrassing</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> and you’re both idiots,” said Hermione, snatching her bubbler out of her robes.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The resonator in one corner began vibrating. It was a fairly simple device -- a low-tech, low-magic way to communicate to the whole Tower in an emergency. The Protean Charm made any change to the source item occur in all linked items. This included vibration, such as the vibrations that produced sound. “Time-turners are compromised,” warbled the resonator, erring on the side of loudness instead of clarity. The mechanics had been difficult to work out. “Unknown magics from attackers. Protocol Apple. We are under attack and the Terminus is down. Protocol Apple. Protocol Apple. Protocol Apple.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Time-turners were compromised? But the enchantment to block time-turning took months to set in place… was this some of Voldemort’s interdicted lore, or…?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry touched his wand to the table, and thin seams appeared on its surface. He pulled up on one, and a mirror slid up and out of a recess. It showed the north corridor -- a view from the clinic door. There were aurors there, and they were fighting. He couldn’t make out the identity of the defenders from their backs, but he could see the attackers: screaming men in ragged clothes. Low skills, but there were dozens of them. Thankfully, the defenders seemed to be making short work of each one as they appeared, entangling and rending them apart with fire. There should be three aurors there, though… ah, and the missing one had probably tried to use a time-turner.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He opened a second display. The south corridor was similarly defended -- two aurors fighting a holding action. They were standing at the corner where the corridor turned; behind them was one wall of the Vision Verge. Doors to other departments were all visible -- Advancement Agency, Ypsilanti Yard, the Survey Station -- although the attackers seemed to have no interest in any of them. They were charging down the hall, pell-mell.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He could hear Hermione on her bubbler, calling in Tonks and Hyori, putting Reg in charge, asking if everything was okay. But his attention was on the image in front of him. He wished a view of the Receiving Room was possible. How many were dead there, already?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">One of the aurors in the south corridor conjured strong blasts of wind, forcing back their attackers for a moment, while the other knelt and touched his wand to the floor. The auror whispered the command word, and the traps engaged.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">With a series of tiny explosions, so quick they sounded simultaneous, pitons blew out of the walls as pneumatic pressure was released. Fifty metallic projectiles erupted from one wall into the opposing one, burying themselves into the stone at odd angles. Only one enemy was struck by the attack: a hooting man with long hair and half his face raked with red scars fell to the ground, screaming, as a metal bolt passed through his shoulder. The others only paused for a half-second, then leapt to the attack, screaming derision and madness.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The one in the lead whipped his wand forward, shouting a curse, but his voice broke into an inchoate scream. He staggered to the side as blood began pouring from his chest, and an invisible blade cut further into his flesh, sectioning out a wedge of meat and bone. He fell backwards, gurgling, and a second carbon nanotube bisected him. He died with bared teeth.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The other madmen screamed and twitched as they met the edges of invisible razors, cutting themselves as they tried to move forward or duck or jump. They fell all to pieces.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">New attackers appeared at the end of the hall, and the aurors brandished their wands, leveling them over the gore-strewn ruin. Beads of blood and gobbets of flesh were suspended in the air, but they went unnoticed, and the shrieking men, covered with scars, gave themselves terrible wounds on the first few razor-wires. The aurors assisted with the confusion, one of them putting up wards while the other -- it was Auror Kwannon, Harry could see now -- laid waste with Cutting Curses.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The illusion didn’t last long. One of the scarred men obliterated his neighbor with a wash of fire, and then snarled something and jabbed a finger at the corridor. Kwannon took him down during the pause, lashing him with wide wounds that brought the attacker to his knees, but the damage was done. Five other attackers -- as many as could wield their wands abreast in the corridor -- began to fire curses at the walls and aurors from afar. Those behind them howled and gibbered, climbing on each other to gain a narrow window through which to fling a curse at Kwannon and the other auror.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The pitons were easy to break free from the wall, and most of the attackers had no trouble blowing apart the anchoring on one side or another with </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Deprimo</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> or other blasting curses. They suffered Kwannon’s attacks in the meantime, falling wounded or dead until the floor at their end of the corridor was slippery with blood and viscera. She was using more gusts of air, as well, to knock them off-balance.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Despite this, they still had the weight of seemingly unlimited numbers. More than a hundred attackers had already poured into the north and south corridors, forcing their way through the golden entrance of the Tower. There were simply too many, and they managed to disable a dozen of the razor-wires before the gas reached them.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Individually, the tanks of cyanogen chloride were not very large. When Moody and two unnamed and grim-faced aurors had installed them within the walls, behind the firing nozzles of the razor-wire pitons, they’d wanted to work with small quantities. The gas caused choking, a burning sensation on any affected skin, blindness, and -- quite rapidly -- death. It didn’t need to be inhaled: any contact with the skin would burn and bite and sicken. Even with transfiguration protocols in place, they’d been worried about an accident going out of control. Harry hadn’t been able to be within sight, much less close enough to help… it was just </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">that </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">dangerous.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Immediately, the madmen began choking and spluttering, clutching their faces. All of their exposed skin was probably being affected, but mucous membranes were the most sensitive.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry leaned forward, squinting at the image. Was Bellatrix in that mess of thrashing and howling bodies? He glanced over at the other image. No, there she was, laughing and staring with wide eyes down the north corridor at the clinic. She must have gathered at least a little information about the Tower -- she must know there was nothing for her down that path. She had no reason to --</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">He shut his eyes, in spite of himself, as Bellatrix whipped her wand forward and sent a bolt of green coruscating down the corridor. It struck Kraeme, and she fell to the floor. And then she was gone, moving towards the south corridor. Heading for him.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry glanced over his shoulder to see Tonks and Hyori arrive at the meeting room. Tonks was just beginning to make the change to Harry’s appearance. She looked pale, but determined. Hyori looked as blankly belligerent as usual, her wand ready in her hand. Hermione was in a hushed conversation with them both -- telling them about all the traps, including the final one. No danger there: they were both battle-hardened and trustworthy.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Bellatrix Black and something like two hundred werewolves are attacking,” Harry called over to them. His voice was calm. He </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">felt</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> calm, against all reason.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Hide,” commanded Hyori, scowling at him and pointing a finger at the door. Harry just shook his head.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Hermione was digging in the pouch at her waist. “Harry, it’s irresponsible for you to stay here. Go to the Establishment with Draco, organize that line of defense.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I need to be able to speak to her,” Harry said. “It is </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">astoundingly </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">important that I speak to her.” He deliberately stopped his next words, which were going to be “if she even makes it this far.” </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Of course</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> she was going to make it this far. And she probably had tricks he didn’t know about, and plans of her own, and everything else. Was it really so important that he confront her -- that he look her in the eye and speak to her?</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Don’t worry, my trusted ally, there’s no way that the enemy and their ill-equipped army will manage to penetrate to the center of my fortress, past all of my traps. I won’t deny myself the pleasure of watching their demise. And if they do make it this far, then I want to look them in the eye when I defeat them with some of the most powerful objects in the universe that surely will never leave my control and threaten all of mankind.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Years of planning with Alastor, and you’re going to tell me that you think it’s sufficiently pessimistic to think pneumatic tubing is going to do the trick, here?” said Hermione, openly scornful.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“I’m stupid,” agreed Harry, and started for the door.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Is this cowardice?</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Just…” he started, but he couldn’t think of anything good to say. He couldn’t think of anything that had enough weight -- that sounded right.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Harry, go. Be good,” Hermione said. She was pulling on her golden gauntlet, and the Cloak of Invisibility was draped over her arm.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Harry set up a bubbler before he went, setting it on a conjured stool in a corner with a clear view. Then he left the room, walking with hurried steps out through the rear door, heading to the Extension Establishment.</span><br />
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: 400;">≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡</span></div>
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Out of the way, little men,” snapped Bellatrix Black, as she approached the corridor. But she saw that very many of them were unable to obey, thrashing and choking. “</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Bullesco</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">,” she cast, and a bubble swelled from one nostril until it encompassed her head. She felt light-headed, and there was a mad dash to her pulse.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Here here here here my Lord, I’m here. I’m here for you for you for you for you for you for you for you</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">And she stopped her thoughts before they went too far, before she started laughing again. Time to fight time to kill time to murder. Despite herself, she giggled at that, a bit. A bit. Bits and bits. Bits and bobs and blobs. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">For you for you for you for you</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, she chanted in her head, more calmly.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Her skin was burning. Transfiguration attack, airborne acid.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">“You are too slow, Bella, and now you are dead. Do you feel that? </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Listen to me</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">, do you feel that? That’s your brain dying because you can’t breathe, Bella. I will save you, because I love you, but it is important that you remember this. Remember how it feels. Remember what to do. Listen to me, and do as I say. </span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Look at me, Bella</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">. Listen to me and do as I say. You will learn how to fight. You will learn how to live.”</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">She sent a wave of fire down the corridor, roiling and white-hot, feeding and growing on the air itself. Two dozen men burned and died. Her men, her little men. Little wolves. Pups. Puppies. She couldn’t smell the air, but she knew what it must smell like. Fire in the air smelled rich and nutty and scorched.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Aurors at the end of the corridor. More aurors. More dollies.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Curses. Moving slowly, in slow motion. Fighting fighting fighting. Obvious attack and supporting attack -- direct and tricky, jam and butter. Twirl to the side and bring up a shield, use Bartolomeo’s Reckoning, easy to cast while moving, redirect the tricky attack and avoid the direct. Move with grace and speed and death. Silly dollies.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">“Do you see this? You had two of these, and now you only have one. You’re slow, Bella. My dear, dear Bella. Dry your tears. Do you wish to be slow? You will be in pain, or perhaps even dead. I would be so sad if you were dead. The world would be less beautiful. Less perfect. For you are a thing of perfection, Bella. But what are we to do? We can put this eye back, but will you still be slow? No, you won’t. You’re a good girl. You will have something to show Dumbledore.”</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Other attacks moving in, but they’re slow, and easy to break out of their rhythm. That was the key to good music -- playing with life, rather than plodding along to ¾ time like a fool. She danced to the side and whipped her wand down, sending the Bloodfoot Curse at one of the aurors. Not to hit her, although that would suit Bellatrix fine, but because it was a big red curse that left her wand in the Ochs. She flicked off two quick Bertram Bolts in the Bloodfoot’s wake, but knew a counter-attack must already be on the way, and brought her wand down for another Bartolomeo. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Ha! B b b b b b b b b be be be be be here be here be here I’m here I’m here</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">Unsuccessful, both aurors alive, but that was all right. Bellatrix curved her mind in the right shape and clutched with her will at the space before her, wrapping specific thoughts like gloved fingers into the world and dragged them downward. A burden of hard air curved over her, slowing an incoming red curse -- a stunner a stunner dollies using stunners! -- and then laughed another spell of fire downrange at the aurors. The flames licked and slid down the corridor. Someone underfoot was screaming and screaming. There were things hanging in the air, little black bits, what was that? Traps! Muggle traps! Stupid rat Muggles with little rat brains. Won’t stop Bella. Not from getting to Him.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">“If you don’t want it, then why do you even try? I can’t even look at you. You are some… creature. A pathetic, nasty little creature. You’re disgusting. It’s your soul, that’s what’s so vile. Thick and clogged… like a stopped-up drain. But you don’t even know what that is, do you, nastiness? Why do you do this to me? Why won’t you be pure for me?”</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">“Avada Kedavra</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">,” she sang, and sent a green bolt down the corridor. Her target -- the female one -- was off-balance and had her wand down from deflecting the fire. Elemental defense required broad gestures. She couldn’t hope to react in time. Bella shrieked out laughter as the dolly died.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The other one said nothing, but took the opportunity afforded by her companion’s death to whip curse after curse at Bellatrix, casting so quickly that he would have nothing left when it was over. Burning himself out, in the hopes that he might get lucky. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Sacrifice. Silly sacrifice. Stupid silly sacrifice no b is better. B for better.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">She threw herself to the side and then again and then again, ducked and twirled and shielded, and never stopped laughing.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“</span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Incarcerous. Silencio. Aggragify</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">,” she cast, a solid string of spells delivered with such fluid beauty and precision that she </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">knew just knew</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;"> He would be proud of her. The auror smashed into the wall behind: wrapped with cords, silenced, and bewitched.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Silly,” Bellatrix said, slightly out of breath. “Not even dying with dignity like your friend. Just dead and failed, little dolly.” She giggled, and raised her wand. Muggle traps. Muggle traps. Little rat Muggle traps.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">The Sigil of Cold Earth, traced in red fire. The ancient name of a bitter creature, spoken six times. Was she calling some part of that creature, or was there only one in the world? One beautiful bitter beast, feeding on her sacrifice -- she willed the sacrifice, felt the bite of burning in her breast -- one bitter burning beast. </span><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">B b b b b b b b b b</span></em><span style="font-weight: 400;">.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">“Az-reth. Az-reth. Az-reth. Az-reth. Az-reth. Az-reth,” Bellatrix crooned. And scarlet flames reached out from the rune, stretching indolently, almost casually, as they smoothed into the shape of limbs. It was red all shot through with black, as though the flames had some terrible leprosy.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">A chimera of hellish flame padded gently out of the rune and came to stand on the smoking stone before Bellatrix. A leonine head, flame-flickering mane with black-edged teeth. A broken-necked goat’s head sprouting from the body, lolling back and forth and smiling a terrible smile. A snake of scarlet, whipping around and snapping at the air with small puffs of heat.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">“Sweet Bella. Come here. You love me, don’t you, Bella? You must do something for me. It needs to be done. It may be unpleasant. But you will do it. So go. Go and be good.”</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span></em>
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span></em>
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;"><br /></span></em>
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<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Ergo aegre rastris terram rimantur et ipsis</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">unguibus infodiunt fruges montisque per altos</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">contenta cervice trahunt stridentia plaustra.</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Non lupus insidias explorat ovilia circum</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">nec gregibus nocturnus obambulat; acrior illum</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">cura domat; timidi dammae cervique fugaces</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">nunc interque canes et circum tecta vagantur.</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Iam maris immensi prolem et genus omne natantum</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">litore in extremo, ceu naufraga corpora, fluctus</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">proluit; insolitae fugiunt in flumina phocae.</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Interit et curvis frustra defensa latebris</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">vipera et attoniti squamis adstantibus hydri.</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Ipsis est aër avibus non aequus et illae</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">praecipites alta vitam sub nube relinquunt.</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Praeterea iam nec mutari pabula refert</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">artes nocent quaesitaeque; cessere magistri</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Phillyrides Chiron Amythaoniusque Melampus.</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Saevit et in lucem Stygiis emissa tenebris</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">pallida Tisiphone Morbos agit ante Metumque,</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">inque dies avidum surgens caput altius effert:</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Balatu pecorum et crebris mugitibus amnes</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">arentesque sonant ripae collesque supini:</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Iamque catervatim dat stragem atque aggerat ipsis</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">in stabulis turpi dilapsa cadavera tabo</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">donec humo tegere ac foveis abscondere discunt.</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Nam neque erat coriis usus nec viscera quisquam</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">aut undis abolere potest aut vincere flamma;</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">ne tondere quidem morbo inluvieque peresa</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">vellera nec telas possunt attingere putris;</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">verum etiam invisos si quis temptarat amictus,</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">ardentes papulae atque immundus olentia sudor</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">membra sequebatur nec longo deinde moranti</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">tempore contactos artus sacer ignis edebat.</span></em><br />
<strong><strong><br /></strong></strong>
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Then, they say, for the sole time in these parts,</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">White cows could not be found for Juno’s rites,</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">And buffaloes, instead, in ill-matched pairs,</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Drew chariots to the lofty treasure-house.</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Men hacked the ground with rakes, and dug in the seed</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">With blistered fingers, hitched themselves to carts</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">And, straining forward, dragged the creaking loads.</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Wolves ceased to prowl at night around the fold,</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">For sharper worries preyed upon their minds;</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">The timid roe and flying stag made friends</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">With hounds and wandered all around the farms.</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">The brood of the mighty sea was washed ashore</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Like flotsam from a shipwreck, and the seals</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Escaped to unfamiliar inland streams.</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">The viper died defenseless in her lair</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">And water snakes, their scales erect in fear.</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Birds found the air too heavy for their wings</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">And, plunging earthward, left their lives aloft.</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Change of pasture made no difference</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">And remedies effected only harm;</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">The masters of the healing arts gave up.</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Pale Fury, flown from Hell’s dark depths to the light,</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Tisiphone, drove on Disease and Fear,</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Her greedy head rose higher every day.</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">The bleating of the herds, their steady moans,</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Filled all the river beds and thirsty banks,</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Reverberating through the supine hills.</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">The Fury dealt out multitudinous deaths,</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Heaving up cadavers in the stalls,</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Rotting corpses stank and putrefied,</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Until at last men buried them in pits.</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">The hides were useless, and the flesh so foul</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">That fire and water could not salvage it;</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">None could shear the fleece, nor touch the web.</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">If someone tried to wear the loathsome cloth,</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">He burned and blistered, rank repulsive sweat</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Poured off his fetid limbs; and, soon enough,</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-weight: 400;">His stricken body felt the sacred fire.</span></em><br />
<span style="font-weight: 400;">-</span><span style="font-weight: 400;">Virgil</span></div>
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</div>ADhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10211720060888169877noreply@blogger.com2