Significant Digits, Chapter Thirty-Two: Levels

Significant Digits, Chapter Thirty-Two: Levels

Trigger warning: violence, dismemberment, and death.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

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.

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.

I can directly command the aurors and my Returned, and probably also get the Boston Brahmins and the Siberian Rakshasa, if necessary.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

There, yes, that was it.  No time to second-guess.  She committed.

“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.

Hyori caught the Cloak and sprinted from the room without another word, her lips pursed.

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?”

“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.

“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.”

“A proud legacy,” said Hermione, smiling.  She drew her wand.

“Don’t die, mudblood!” called Tonks, after her.

“You either, blood traitor,” replied Hermione, and then she was through the door and heading to the south corridor, breaking into a run.

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.

A brave man, she thought, and pushed into a flat-out run, arms pumping.  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.

She raised her wand, holding it level as she ran, and then flicked it twice to the left -- “Lagann!” -- and then with a sharp rising jerk towards herself -- “Impedimenta!”  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.

And there was Bellatrix Black.

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.

“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.

“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.

“Ten green bottles, standing on the wall,” repeated the other witch, and bubbled with a moment of insane laughter.

“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.

“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.

“Bellatrix!”

“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.

And she had a moment, then, to remember.

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.

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.

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.

And in the next instant Hermione could feel the smile on her face 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

That hypothesis, however, hadn’t held up under testing.

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.

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.

“Stupefy,” 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.

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.

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.  That fog’s slow and flashy, that’s a trap.  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.

I need to--

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.  So fast, she thought, but there was no time 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.

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 -- the pattern, I see it -- 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.

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!”

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.

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.

“Ventus,” she cast, clearing away the mist.  She took a deep breath, and considered her options.  

I should have kept the Cloak, and had Hyori take Simon and Esther with her, 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.  But I made my decision, and it’s done.  Hindsight bias be damned.

So how do I get in close?  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.

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…

Oh.  Wait, no, that’s crazy.

But she couldn’t think of why 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.

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.

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?

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.

How oddly helpful.

“Bullesco,” cast Hermione, and the Bubblehead Charm swelled up and around her head. Here goes… well, something.  She put her back to the gauntlet, facing the end of the corridor and Bellatrix squarely.  Then she raised her wand.  “Ventus!  Ventus!  Kavo!”

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.

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.

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.  “Avada--”

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.

“Silly stupid scum,” hissed Bellatrix, hopping backwards and out of reach.

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.

You never Returned, even when you left Azkaban.  You carry your Azkaban with you.

It was a moment of recognition.  A moment of hesitation.

Bellatrix’s wand danced in a complicated swivel and bob, and she tapped it on her chest. “Amandher Penkue!”

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.

A sacrifice.  An old spell.

“Here I am,” said Bellatrix Black.

“Here I am here I am,” said a second Bellatrix Black.

“Here I am here I am here I am,” said a third Bellatrix Black.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

Pip could barely stand.  He was very near toverislot, and he could feel his will ache with overexertion.   He would pass out soon -- should have passed out a while ago, actually.

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.

Pip fought until there was no one left to fight.

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.

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.  No, an invisibility cloak.  Bugger, I am tired.  She stared at him for a moment, narrowing her eyes with scrutiny.

“Hullo,” he said.

“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.

I shouldn’t drink this, 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.

I’m too tired… I’ll just sit down here and take a rest.  Forget the lockdown protocol, let the clinic aurors go fight, Pip thought, as he raced down the corridor after the vanishing Returned, slipping on blood.

Mum would want me to let someone else take their turn… bollocks to this, I’m going to go have a nap, 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.

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--

Three of the bloody crazy bints.  All fighting Hermione Granger.

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…

And it was impossible that the Goddess was still alive.

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.

“Lagann!  Stupefy!” 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.

“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.

“Silly dolly,” hissed Bellatrix A.  “It’s time to--”

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.

In unison, the two other Bellatrixes whirled.  They spoke in one voice.

“Avada Kedavra.”

Both curses flashed through the air and vanished into nothingness.  There was the sound of someone collapsing to the ground.

“Stupefy!” 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.

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.

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.

“Lagann!  Lagann!  Lagann!  Reducto!  Reducto!” 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.

“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.”

Pip dodged to the side with a desperate effort, contorting his body to avoid three precise blasts of Hippo’s Fire.  “Lagann!”  he cast.  “Depulso!  Reducto!  Glacius!”  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.

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.”

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.  “Stupefy!  Stupefy!  Expelliarmus!”  Anything to make the Bellatrix react and fight him -- to distract her -- needed to distract her -- needed to save the Goddess…

“I’m so proud of you, Philip.  Your dad would be so proud of you.”

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.

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.

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.

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…

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.

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.

He saw the Goddess die.

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…

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…

“Avada Kedevra.”

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

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.

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.

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.

And he had to watch the bubbler and wait.

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.

He waited.

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.

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.

“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.”

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?

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 anyone could be smart enough or prepared enough or powerful enough -- to fight a war without loss?

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 still he had suffered grievous losses in the wars against Grindelwald and Voldemort.

“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.

“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.”

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.

For the sake of ending bullying, Harry had been willing to conquer the world.

Was that right?

Harry drew his wand.

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.

This was Harry’s wand.  Eleven inches long.  Holly.  Phoenix core.

What would Fawkes say to him now?

Noise from the bubbler.  Harry’s attention snapped over to it.  Charlevoix, standing to his left, stepped closer to watch.

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.

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.

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.”

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 Incarcerous to bind him.  They forced him to open his mouth, poured something in.  A potion.  Veritaserum.  A lot 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.

“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--”

“Avada Kedavra,” said one of the two remaining Bellatrix Blacks.  Harry closed his eyes, and felt bile rise in his throat.

He’d taunted Dumbledore.  Hurt him on purpose.  “And that's why I can destroy Dementors and you can't.  Because I believe that the darkness can be broken."

The two witches laughed -- insane and hideous laughter -- and vanished from his view.

Harry heard laboured breathing, and turned to see Charlevoix’s shoulders heaving.  Her cheeks were wet with tears.

“Fucking bitches,” said Susie.

Buckeye Dave gave orders to the Brahmins.  Марат gave whispered commands to the Rakshasa.  Cedric gave direction to the aurors.

Harry waited.

He remembered what Dumbledore had written to him -- the last word in that conversation, delivered after the good man’s sacrifice.

There can only be one piece whose value is beyond price.

That piece is not the world, it is the world's peoples, wizard and Muggle alike, goblins and house-elves and all.

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.

He broke for the door.

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.

He was out the door and into the hall.

Bellatrix Black was there.  So was a second Bellatrix Black.  They stood side-by-side, ten meters away.  They stank of death and madness.

Harry skidded to a halt, almost falling forward, awkwardly.  He kept his wand at his side, deliberately, but raised his other hand.

He snapped his fingers.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

Note:  I’m sorry.

The next chapter will be posted in two weeks.  It will be titled “Walpurgisnacht.”

Significant Digits, Chapter Thirty-One: Esse Quam Videri

Significant Digits, Chapter Thirty-One: Esse Quam Videri

Trigger warning: violence, dismemberment, and death.

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Dum spiro spero.

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PERILOUS PEACE PROCESS PROCEEDS
by Simone Sprout

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.

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.  

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.

“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 The Prophet.  “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.”

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.”

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Office of Harry Potter-Evans-Verres, Hogwarts, Scotland
November 20th, 1992
8:23 am
Seven years ago

“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?”

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?”

“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--”

“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…”

Draco was smirking.  “So the legend-in-his-own-time Harry Potter 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?”

“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.

“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.

“What about curtains?  Can he order curtains?” asked Draco, and now his voice was saccharine sweet.

“No, my lord,” said Kuttle.

“I just--” said Harry, turning around indignantly.

“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.

“No, my lord,” said Kuttle, vibrating in place with anxiety.

“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.”

“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.

“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--”

“Listen, my melanin-challenged friend,” said Harry, “if you tease them, you’re going to end up with hardtack for your tea.”

“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 child 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.

He pointed at the metal box, which was nearly as tall as Harry.  “What’s that?”

“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.”

“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.”

“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.

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.”

“Moody agreed to this plan?” asked Harry, raising his eyebrows.  “Bringing in the MPLE?”

“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.

“Forty-seven members of the Wizengamot.  Five seats are just out of our reach on any vote -- Lestrange, Crabbe, Nott, Knop, and Carrow.  Their comes ad litem 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 ad litem, 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.”

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.”

“Knop,” 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.”

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.

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.

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?

“Of the remaining thirty-nine seats,” continued the Slytherin, and Harry returned his attention to his friend, “there are eighteen more held suo jure.  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 with her.  That means that we need twelve seats of the remaining twenty-eight members: eight members suo jure and twenty of the Ministry’s members ex officio.  And we only have five of those twelve.”

Harry was already there.  “But two of the ex officio 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.”

“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.”

“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.

“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!”

“You are annoying, and so is our system of government.  We’re basically Muggle Indonesia.”

“ ‘Everyone wants the Feverbreak, no one wants the flobberworm,’ ” said Draco, rolling his eyes.  “It’s just how things are done.”

“Not for long,” said Harry.  “Hermione and I have plans.”

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.”

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 needs 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.”

“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.

“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?”

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.

Draco scowled.  “It’ll be on your head if anything happens to her,” he said, with a note of warning in his voice.

“No, it won’t,” Harry replied, heavily.  “And that’s the point.  Sometimes things get bad for someone.  Sometimes they get really 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.”

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

John Snow Center for Medicine and Tower School of Doubt (The Tower)
April 30th, 1999
5:12 pm
Now

“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!”

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.

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.

Pip didn’t even know how they got into this situation.

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.

The next minute, the response abacus began clacking loudly and the attackers had already streamed out of the Receiving Room, charging down the corridor.

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.

Kulgora followed protocol, and spun her time-turner while Pip began to stun and Incarcerous 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.

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.

It must be Russia, it’s always Russia, he had time to think.  And then there was no more time for thinking at all.

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 Incendio 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.”

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, eight, 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.

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.

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.

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 Depulsos.  Easy to cast, and it gave Kraeme a chance to lace into the packed mob with a Severing Charm, surgically placed.

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.

Someone at the summit had betrayed them all, but they hadn’t reckoned on Tally Pirrip’s son.

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.

It was over in a moment, and Pip didn’t get a chance to say anything.  He only heard the words, clearly this time: “Avada Kedavra!”  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.

Pip was alone.

The madmen howled and attacked.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

It was Moody’s plan, at its heart.

“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.”

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.

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 and out of the assumption that many attacks might originate from within the clinic.

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.

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.

“This is it.  This has to be it,” he said.  “She’s here.  She’s brought it,”

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.

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.

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.

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.

Poor, poor Lesath.  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?

“The Resurrection Stone, which could pierce any world,” he had mentioned at the launch of the Monroe.  A small, careless mistake among other such small, careless mistakes.

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.

Harry turned to Hermione.  “We need the Resurrection Stone.  She will have it with her.  She must have it with her.”

“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.”

Harry shook his head.  “I need to be here.”

“Don’t you have 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.”

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.”

“This is embarrassing and you’re both idiots,” said Hermione, snatching her bubbler out of her robes.

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.”

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…?

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 Deprimo 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.

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.

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 that dangerous.

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.

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 --

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.

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.

“Bellatrix Black and something like two hundred werewolves are attacking,” Harry called over to them.  His voice was calm.  He felt calm, against all reason.

“Hide,” commanded Hyori, scowling at him and pointing a finger at the door.  Harry just shook his head.

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.”

“I need to be able to speak to her,” Harry said.  “It is astoundingly important that I speak to her.”  He deliberately stopped his next words, which were going to be “if she even makes it this far.”  Of course 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?

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.

“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.

“I’m stupid,” agreed Harry, and started for the door.

Is this cowardice?

“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.

“Harry, go.  Be good,” Hermione said.  She was pulling on her golden gauntlet, and the Cloak of Invisibility was draped over her arm.

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.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

“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.  “Bullesco,” 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.

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

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.  For you for you for you for you, she chanted in her head, more calmly.

Her skin was burning.  Transfiguration attack, airborne acid.

“You are too slow, Bella, and now you are dead.  Do you feel that?  Listen to me, 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.  Look at me, Bella.  Listen to me and do as I say.  You will learn how to fight.  You will learn how to live.”

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.

Aurors at the end of the corridor.  More aurors.  More dollies.

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.

“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.”

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.  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

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.

“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?”

“Avada Kedavra,” 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.

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.  Sacrifice.  Silly sacrifice.  Stupid silly sacrifice no b is better.  B for better.

She threw herself to the side and then again and then again, ducked and twirled and shielded, and never stopped laughing.

“Incarcerous.  Silencio.  Aggragify,” she cast, a solid string of spells delivered with such fluid beauty and precision that she knew just knew He would be proud of her.  The auror smashed into the wall behind: wrapped with cords, silenced, and bewitched.

“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.

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.  B b b b b b b b b b.

“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.

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.

“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.”

Ergo aegre rastris terram rimantur et ipsis
unguibus infodiunt fruges montisque per altos
contenta cervice trahunt stridentia plaustra.
Non lupus insidias explorat ovilia circum
nec gregibus nocturnus obambulat; acrior illum
cura domat; timidi dammae cervique fugaces
nunc interque canes et circum tecta vagantur.
Iam maris immensi prolem et genus omne natantum
litore in extremo, ceu naufraga corpora, fluctus
proluit; insolitae fugiunt in flumina phocae.
Interit et curvis frustra defensa latebris
vipera et attoniti squamis adstantibus hydri.
Ipsis est aër avibus non aequus et illae
praecipites alta vitam sub nube relinquunt.
Praeterea iam nec mutari pabula refert
artes nocent quaesitaeque; cessere magistri
Phillyrides Chiron Amythaoniusque Melampus.
Saevit et in lucem Stygiis emissa tenebris
pallida Tisiphone Morbos agit ante Metumque,
inque dies avidum surgens caput altius effert:
Balatu pecorum et crebris mugitibus amnes
arentesque sonant ripae collesque supini:
Iamque catervatim dat stragem atque aggerat ipsis
in stabulis turpi dilapsa cadavera tabo
donec humo tegere ac foveis abscondere discunt.
Nam neque erat coriis usus nec viscera quisquam
aut undis abolere potest aut vincere flamma;
ne tondere quidem morbo inluvieque peresa
vellera nec telas possunt attingere putris;
verum etiam invisos si quis temptarat amictus,
ardentes papulae atque immundus olentia sudor
membra sequebatur nec longo deinde moranti
tempore contactos artus sacer ignis edebat.

Then, they say, for the sole time in these parts,
White cows could not be found for Juno’s rites,
And buffaloes, instead, in ill-matched pairs,
Drew chariots to the lofty treasure-house.
Men hacked the ground with rakes, and dug in the seed
With blistered fingers, hitched themselves to carts
And, straining forward, dragged the creaking loads.
Wolves ceased to prowl at night around the fold,
For sharper worries preyed upon their minds;
The timid roe and flying stag made friends
With hounds and wandered all around the farms.
The brood of the mighty sea was washed ashore
Like flotsam from a shipwreck, and the seals
Escaped to unfamiliar inland streams.
The viper died defenseless in her lair
And water snakes, their scales erect in fear.
Birds found the air too heavy for their wings
And, plunging earthward, left their lives aloft.
Change of pasture made no difference
And remedies effected only harm;
The masters of the healing arts gave up.
Pale Fury, flown from Hell’s dark depths to the light,
Tisiphone, drove on Disease and Fear,
Her greedy head rose higher every day.
The bleating of the herds, their steady moans,
Filled all the river beds and thirsty banks,
Reverberating through the supine hills.
The Fury dealt out multitudinous deaths,
Heaving up cadavers in the stalls,
Rotting corpses stank and putrefied,
Until at last men buried them in pits.
The hides were useless, and the flesh so foul
That fire and water could not salvage it;
None could shear the fleece, nor touch the web.
If someone tried to wear the loathsome cloth,
He burned and blistered, rank repulsive sweat
Poured off his fetid limbs; and, soon enough,
His stricken body felt the sacred fire.
-Virgil