Fic: “The Battle of the Forbidden Forest,” BtVS/Hary Potter, Xander Harris/Charlie Weasley, Xander H
Again, thank you for reading, and I hope you not only keep enjoying this ‘verse, but trust me to take your hand and lead you through-through thick and thin. I promise, you won’t be sorry if you do.
Previous parts are in memories. The parts immediately prior to this one (the last several entries in this journal) are kinda necessary if any of what goes on in the next few installments is to make any kind of sense. Also, I think they’re pretty worth a read.
The Battle of the Forbidden Forest
Author:
_beetle_
Fandom: BtVS/Harry Potter
Pairing: Xander Harris/Charlie Weasley, Xander Harris/Harry Potter
Rating: R
Word Count: Approx. 5300
Notes/Warnings: Canon compliant for both ‘verses. M-Preg. Major character death. Set post-Chosen by about eleven years, and post DH/e by ten years (I fiddled with timelines a bit). Spoilers for BtVS “Chosen” and DH/e. Previous stories in the Impressions-verse can be found here.
Disclaimer: They made me do it!
Summary: At last, Xander is in labor . . . in the Forbidden Forest. Whether he survives long enough to give birth-whether he, Charlie, Harry, and Firenze, lost in the heart of the Forest as they are, make it out alive-is very much up in the air.
Before the pain of the contraction passes-and it’s really the worst thing he’s ever felt, bringing with it the urge to push even though that urge would likely kill Xander, who has nowhere to push the baby too-Xander’s attention is snared by motion from the corner of his eye, over Charlie’s shoulder.
“Whatthefuck’rethose?!” he gasps out around the agony, which makes speaking quite difficult, especially when all Xander wants to do is scream. Mostly because of the pain, but in large part because of the horde of giant-ass fucking spiders racing toward them from under the trees.
Charlie glances over his shoulder then does a double-take.
“Motherfucker,” he breathes, and Xander barks a brief, startled laugh. Oh, yeah, I’m rubbing off on him.
Then they’re both reaching for their wands-only Charlie actually finds his, and starts firing spells-mostly Stupefys-at the spiders approaching them tentatively, but with increasing fearlessness. About half the time, Charlie misses due to the spiders’ dodging and ducking. They seem to be damnably fast.
We’re going to die here, wherever here is, if we don’t get some kinda help, Xander thinks desperately. The contraction, meanwhile, has thankfully begun to pass, and he struggles to his wobbly legs, and-
Wait a minute . . . wobbly legs? he thinks, as he watches Charlie fell a spider with a complicated swish-and-flick, and a shouted spell that’s literally: Ad Nauseam, Ad Infinitum!
And the spider stops dead in its tracks and begins vomiting. A lot. And it doesn’t stop.
The bulk of the spiders pause to watch their comrade and gauge their own chances of getting hit with such a jinx.
“C’mon, lads! I brought enough for everyone!” Charlie calls, waving his wand like a man with a rapier. The spiders actually take several steps back.
Stepping around Charlie so that they’re side by side-as always-Xander holds up his hand and says: “Accio Xander’s wand!”
There’s an immediate rustling in the cloak Xander’s wearing, and a second later, his wand flies out of its folds and into Xander’s hands.
Okay, then, he thinks, grinning and blessing Charlie’s-he assumes-foresight. Let’s do some damage!
The spiders are approaching again, slowly, but with determination, leaving their still-puking brother behind.
Xander aims at the closest one and swishes and flicks just like George had taught him on Christmas Eve (“Consider it an early Christmas present, Xand,” he’d said, wearing his mischievious grin. “Something to keep Charlie from getting too frisky when you’re not in the mood.” And here, Charlie, from across the room, had called: “Oi!”) and yells: Locomotor Wobbly!
And by luck or by good aim, that first spider’s legs weeble and wobble, and the fucker goes down.
“Damned fine shot, love! Stupefy!” Charlie hurls his curse at the next spider.
“I please to aim,” Xander retorts. “Locomotor Wobbly!”
That one, unfortunately, misses the spider that’s breaking off from the horde in an attempt to circle around them, and Xander swears, getting ready to fire another jinx. But that awful cramping sensation starts around his midsection again, discomfort turning swiftly into agony, and he groans, going to his knees, wand falling to the ground.
“Xand!” Charlie stops firing curses to go to one knee and take Xander in his arms. “Oh, love-”
“I’m fine, I’m fine, just-don’t stop cursing those spiders!” Xander grits out as pain washes over him in increasingly large waves. The urge to push is so seductive and strong, he actually starts to before remembering he has no way to expel the impatient child. That just as magic put Jake in him, magic is the only thing to get him out.
Oh, boy, Jake, I love you, but your sense of timing is for the birds. He shrugs a still frantic Charlie off him. “I’ll be fine, babe. Unless we get eaten by giant fucking spiders! Keep fighting!”
And then Xander’s gone with the pain for moments that feel like eternities, crumpling him to the ground-ironically in fetal position-and stretching out till they threaten to erase him.
When agony finally lets him out of its grip and the urge to push has lessened again, Xander opens his eyes and sees eight red ones looking back down at him.
*
Charlie had forgotten that Acromantulas, among many other talents, have a talent for leaping.
They’re getting closer, en masse, but from the back of their ranks, one large Acromantula launches itself over its comrades to land directly in front of Charlie, startling him into stumbling backwards and falling. His wrist hits the ground hard enough that his wand goes flying, and then the Acromantula’s looming over him, and Charlie feels a sharp pain in his shoulder that makes him cry out before a sensation of numbness begins to spread rapidly from his shoulder, to the rest of him.
“Accio-” he starts to say . . . and then his tongue stops working.
The Acromantula above him chitters-almost smugly-then looks to Charlie’s left.
Toward Xander, who’s still moaning . . . still, temporarily, helpless.
No! Charlie tries to scream, but is unable to-unable to do more than twitch and cudgel his nonresponsive body into shivering. You bastard-leave him alone!
Charlie manages a grunt that even he can barely hear, despair swallowing him in waves even as he continues to fight his own paralyzed body. Then, from the direction of the pool, he hears a familiar voice yelling:
“Stupefy!”
*
The Acromantulas are coming, and fast.
I turn to Firenze, thinking quickly. “Can you run?” I ask the sickly-looking centaur, who smiles limply.
“I fear not.”
“But can you still fire? Accurately?”
Firenze, shaking, reaches back into his quiver and unshoulders his bow, slowly, slowly, slowly. He notches an arrow with hands that tremor. But his smile is game and brave.
“I shall try, Harry Potter.”
He’s not doing good at all and I feel more than a little guilty. It’s . . . worrying, to say the least, that the damn venom’s been in him so long without him being treated. But with my damn instinct shrilling at me that Xander and Charlie are about to be overwhelmed, it’s . . . enough that I’ve got him at my back and willing to fight.
“Then start picking off the bastards that get close to them. I’ll handle the rest,” I say, and dash out of the trees, wand waving and Separo on my lips.
Ahead of me, the suddenly disturbed waters of the pool begin to part, and by the time I reach the sandy, stony bank, I’ve already hurled Stupefy at the Acromantula rearing up over Xander. Around me, on the newly-revealed ground, dying fish flip and flop, and I try to dodge them, not wanting to slip and fall.
Another Acromantula leaps toward Xander and Charlie, but falls, mid-leap, on one of its friends, an arrow in one of its eyes.
Bless you, Firenze!
“Repello Acromantulum!”
*
“Accio Xander’s wand,” Xander pants then crawls toward Charlie, who’s not moving.
“Baby?” Xander shakes Charlie’s shoulder, and upon getting no response, waves a hand over Charlie’s open, but blank eyes. “Charlie!”
He places two fingers against Charlie’s throat for a pulse-another lesson learned in Sunnydale and put to frequent use-and gets a thready, slow pulse that he doesn’t like one bit. But at least Charlie’s alive . . . at least-
“Repello Acromantulum! Are you alright?”
Startled, Xander finds himself goggling up at a panting, disheveled Harry Potter.
“I-I-the baby’s coming. Fast,” Xander says numbly, looking back down at Charlie and cupping Charlie’s cool, clammy cheek in his hand. “And I think one of those things bit Charlie, or something, because he’s not moving but he’s still breathing-and-and-” he doesn’t know what else to say, and looks up at Harry again through sudden tears. The grim, but almost anticipatory look on Harry’s face-he’s enjoying this . . . the spell-casting, the fighting, the derring-do . . . this is fun for him. He’s alive right now, more than I’ve ever seen him-softens, grows concerned as he looks Xander over.
“Don’t worry. He’ll be alright. We’ll get through this-Stupefy!! Stupefy!” Harry yells, swishing and flicking faster than Xander’s eye can follow. “Stupefy! Can you walk?”
“Not far . . . the contractions are pretty close together.”
“Fuck-in that case, can you run?”
Xander almost laughs in Harry’s face. “I’m not going anywhere without Charlie.”
Harry rolls his eyes. “I’m not asking you to-Relashio!”
Sparks fly out of Harry’s wand, so bright and hot, Xander covers his eyes, and tries to shield Charlie’s body with his own. The chittering of the spiders grows loud and wary and when Xander risks a peek at them, they’re backing up as Harry moves toward them, wand still throwing off those big, bright sparks.
“I need you to run, now, Xander-cross the pool where I’ve parted it, and go toward the opposite treeline. Firenze-a centaur and a friend-will be there.”
Xander shakes his head. “No. I’m not leaving Char-”
“RELASHIO! “ Harry yells again and an even larger, brighter, hotter shower of sparks shoots from his wand. The spiders fairly scream, scrambling back toward the trees from which they’d come-except for the ones that’d been cursed into immobility, puking, and wobbly legs, and a few that’d been . . . felled by arrows.
Harry’s centaur friend?
Then Harry’s backing toward Xander and Charlie again. When he draws even with them, he turns to Charlie quickly, swishes and flicks. “Mobilicorpus!”
And Charlie’s body begins to rise from under Xander’s own shielding one. Gaping, Xander merely watches in shock for a moment.
“Run!” Harry exclaims, turning himself and Charlie to face the pool, but waving Xander ahead of them frantically.
Scrambling quickly to his feet, Xander does just that-though it’s really more of a fast waddle.
And, as they run between two walls of water, at least eight feet high-Xander doesn’t even take the time to be surprised, just takes it for granted that Harry Potter just pulled a Moses-Xander can only hope that the waddle is fast enough, because the spiders, when he glances behind them, past Charlie’s large, floating body and Harry’s smaller one, are coming once more.
*
“Shit! Shit! Shit!” We’re not moving fast enough. Not nearly.
My plan had been to end the spell on the pool as we ran, closing the way behind us . . . but at the rate we were going, we’d wind up caught in the crash of water and likely drown trying to survive that crash.
“Xander, can you run faster?” I pant, and ahead of me, Xander laughs briefly, panting too.
“You’re lucky I’m running at-oh, fuck!” he breathes, stopping and crumpling to his knees on the fishy ground, hands on his stomach.
“Shit!” I glance behind us. The Acromantulas have paused at the pool, at the path between them created by Separo. They’re chittering fearfully, but hurriedly between one another. Finally, one of them tests the way with a bristly, long foreleg.
When it’s not immediately drowned or the leg even wetted, it quickly makes its way forward.
It’s time for us-for all of us-to get out of here. I’d been hoping to avoid this until we were all somewhere safe, where I could concentrate better, so as not to splinch the bloody hell out of us, but the Acromantulas are getting closer and Xander’s clearly in a bad way, so . . . there’s nothing for it but to remember the three D’s of Apparition, and hope for the best.
“Destination, determination, deliberation,” I mutter as I draw even with Xander, and kneel at his side, placing one hand on his shoulder and reaching up to grasp Charlie’s hand. I picture the infirmary at Hogwarts as clearly as I can-and I’m quite familiar with it, from a goodly portion of my childhood spent recovering there or visiting recovering friends-and bend all my mind and heart on wanting to be there. Right in the middle of the infirmary, in the most open area, between all the beds.
Merlin protect us from being splinched-
“Apparate!”
*
When agony finishes flattening Xander, he opens tear-blurred eyes to find himself . . . not in the middle of a parted pool.
In fact, as he wipes his eyes and sits up, the place he’s in looks more like a hospital ward . . . but different from St. Mungo’s. Smaller and somehow friendlier. And vaguely familiar, too. . . .
Next to him, kneels Harry Potter, looking much worse for wear, both drained and unsteady, but his fierce green eyes are brilliant as they meet Xander’s.
“Alright there, Xander?”
Xander glances around the hospital ward, and up-Charlie floats serenely above them-then back at Harry. Smiling through a faceful of tears, he reaches out and pulls Harry to him by the lapels of his robe, kissing him on the mouth with a loud smack!
“Better than alright, Harry Potter! I’m alive-we’realive!” he says, laughing as he gazes into a gobstruck Harry’s eyes. Harry blinks several times and takes a deep breath before reaching out to brush his fingers across Xander’s cheek, through tear-tracks. Then he cups Xander’s face in his hands and is leaning in to kiss Xander . . . hard for the first few seconds, then softening into something sweeter and desperate . . . yearning.
Startled, Xander doesn’t even know how to respond at first-it’s nothing like being kissed by Charlie, but not bad by any lights . . . just . . . different-and by the time he realizes he should be pulling away, not responding, Harry’s already done so, and removed his hands, his eyes darting everywhere but at Xander.
Meanwhile Xander’s hand has flown to his mouth, and his eyes are saucers as he stares at Harry.
“Harry,” he begins lowly, brow furrowing in confusion and question. “What-?”
“I, er . . . I have to get back to the pool for Firenze before I can’t,” Harry interrupts Xander to say, getting shakily to his feet with a grunt. “Apparate!”
And with that, he’s gone, leaving Xander to puzzle over what just happened . . . then to get to his own feet and call for help just as another contraction starts.
*
By the time I get Firenze, deal with the last of the Acromantulas, and put the pool back to rights-wouldn’t do to piss off a bunch of unicorns by leaving drowned Acromantulas in their drinking pool. And it’s just bad manners, too-back to the Hogwarts infirmary, I can barely stand, as spent as I am, physically and magically. But between the two of us, leaning on each other, we stagger toward the sounds of pained groans, and unhappy little screams.
“The Bright Child comes,” Firenze murmurs in low, awed tones as we get to the end of the otherwise empty ward.
In the penultimate bed, closer to the door, lays Charlie Weasley, already in a hospital gown, looking pale, but not so unnaturally still. His eyes are closed and his breathing has returned to something approaching normal.
In the last bed lays Xander Weasley, and he’s attended by no less than three people: Poppy Pomfrey, another nurse who has the evening rotation in the Hogwarts infirmary, and a tall, portly wizard in green robes, with a formidable mustache, who can only be Xander’s Medi-wizard, Romare Braden.
His hands are on Xander’s stomach, which is visibly contracting and . . . moving as the child within tries to find its way out.
Medi-wizard Braden doesn’t look happy.
“ . . . the stress of being awake and using magic has left him, unfortunately, too weak for us to safely Apparate him to somewhere as far as St. Mungo’s. Merlin, it’s left him too weak to safely deliver no matter where we are, damnit!” Braden’s pale brown eyes swing to me and Firenze. “Was it your idea to take a man at the end of a high-risk pregnancy into the Forbidden Forest and awaken him from the coma that was the only thing keeping him and his unborn child healthy?”
I serve Braden’s glare right back at him-it might be more effective if I weren’t swaying, and the room wasn’t spinning, but c’est la vie. “Not my idea. But I went along with it, yes. He and the child were capital-C Cursed. We needed the benediction of a unicorn and, by Merlin, we got it.”
Braden frowns. “In all our examinations of Xander and Jakob we didn’t pick up on any Curses of any kind-”
“And you wouldn’t have.” I say firmly, forbiddingly. “This is nothing you were trained to deal with. Nothing even most aurors are trained to deal with.”
“But-”
“Listen, Medi-wizard Braden, we’re treading quite close to Ministry classified territory, right now, and when we have more important matters to deal with. Just believe me when I say that what was done was necessary for their survival.” I let go of Firenze, and stagger toward Xander, shouldering my way past the late-shift nurse, to take his hand. As the contraction passes, Xander looks up at me with bright, weary eyes, and tries to smile.
“Don’t tell anyone, but . . . I’m scared,” he says quietly. I reach out and brush my fingers along his cheek, forcing away the memory of what it’d felt like to kiss him. Now is most definitely not the time, even if Xander’s leaning into my touch as if. . . .
“It’ll be alright. We’ve got the benediction of a unicorn on our side,” I say softly, leaning down to kiss his damp forehead. “Plus, you’ve survived the Forbidden Forest. You can do anything.”
Xander chuckles weakly. “I wasn’t even awake for any of it, except for the spidery parts. Which was fun, by the way. We should do that more often.”
“Well, if you and Charlie are free next Satruday, I’m certain Firenze and I can clear our schedules. . . .”
Another weak chuckle that I join him in, and he licks his bitten, cracked lips-but how soft and gentle they’d felt against my own, how warm and supple . . . how bittersweet and tear-salty . . . perfect-his eyes going to the cubicle where Charlie lays.
“They said Charlie’ll be okay. That they gave him a potion for Acker-Ackra-giant spider venom.” Xander sighs and closes his eyes for a few moments. When he opens them, they’re somber and very, very intent. “Promise me that you’ll look after them. You know . . . if something goes wrong.”
“Nothing will go wrong,” I say firmly, squeezing his hand. He squeezes back and smiles.
“Of course, it won’t,” he agrees mildly. “But if it does, look after Charlie. Make sure he . . . doesn’t grieve for too long. And make sure Jake knows that I love him, and will always love him, and that I regret nothing.”
“Xander-”
But his face is scrunching, eyes screwed shut as another contraction takes him. The late-shift nurse shoves me out of the way, and I nearly fall, but for Firenze catching me.
Then Poppy’s shooing us out of the cubicle and closing the curtains around it.
*
Charlie struggles mightily against the tides of unconsciousness, knowing that there’s somewhere important he has to be . . . that something important is happening, that he needs to be there for. . . .
One herculean shove, like pushing his body up from under the deepest of pressures-fathoms and fathoms of it-and he’s surfacing with a name on his lips: Xander.
And with that, he’s sitting up even before his eyes are fully open. Around him, a familiar room spins and lurches, and he braces himself upright with arms that feel rubbery and weak.
“Xander-” and before he can say anything else, he remembers . . . the Forest, the unicorns, the Acromantulas . . . and Xander, in labor. . . .
“Oh, Merlin,” he breathes. Then there are hands on his shoulders, attempting-and partially succeeding-in pushing him back to the what turns out to be a bed.
He blinks away his dizziness, to limited success, to find himself staring up into Harry Potter’s grim, green eyes.
“You’re in the Hogwarts infirmary,” he says, almost smiling. “We made it out. All of us.”
Charlie’s heart, which had been racing, slows not a jot, because he has to be certain. Has to see for himself. “Xander? Where is he?”
Harry opens his mouth to answer, but before he can, a long, agonized cry goes up from beyond a curtain to Charlie’s left, holding for an eternal moment . . . before cutting off suddenly.
Charlie and Harry freeze.
Silent seconds pass, and Harry opens his mouth again to speak, and another cry goes up from behind the curtain, this one thin and high and querulous-irritated, even: a child’s helpless cry.
And once more, Charlie’s pushing himself up and out of bed, ignoring Harry’s half-hearted attempts to push him back down.
Though alarmingly weak, his legs keep him upright, and he makes his careful way toward the curtain. He whips it aside just enough to admit himself and closes it behind him, on Harry’s stammered implorations to wait.
Two pairs of eyes land on Charlie as he stands there, trying to take in everything at once:
Poppy Pomfrey is in the midst of wrapping something up in a small blue blanket. She’s cooing softly to the wriggling, lustily crying bundle.
Another nurse, by her outfit, is casting a spell of some sort, frantic and stammering, wand-hand shaking as she waves it about.
Medi-wizard Braden, his eyes on Charlie, pitying and apologetic, even as he calmly spell-casts, his wand swishing and flicking in confusing flurries, looks away after a few seconds, his eyes going back to the figure in the bed.
To Xander, whose eyes rest on Charlie, a small half-smile on his pale lips.
“Xand-oh, Xand!” Charlie is instantly at Xander’s side, the unfamiliar nurse moving quickly out of the way. He kneels, taking Xander’s limp hand and kissing those pale, cool lips. “You did it, love! You did it!”
He murmurs and laughs between kisses which, most of a minute later that, he realizes aren’t being returned. “Xand, are you-” he starts to ask, leaning back, frowning, only to see that the expression on Xander’s face hasn’t changed one iota. He’s still almost smiling, his eyes staring at Charlie-through Charlie.
“Xand?!” Charlie pulls Xander’s hand up to his cheek, shaking his head in absolute denial, even as the nurse behind him and Medi-wizard Braden stop their spell-casting. He can feel the weight of their gazes on him, heavy with compassion, and-
No.
Just . . . no.
His entire being is one chorus of negation, even as Xander’s expression doesn’t change. Even as a hard hand descends upon his shoulder, squeezing, squeezing, squeezing. . . .
The nurse who’d been behind Charlie steps forward, reaching out to close Xander’s eyes and Charlie slaps her hand away, glaring up at her, his vision strangely trebled.
“Don’t!” Despite the seeming calm within, Charlie’s voice cracks like delicate china. “Don’t you touch him!”
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Weasley, I-”
“Charles,” Poppy Pomfrey says gently, far too gently, her eyes filled with tears as she rocks the quieting blue bundle in her arms. “Charles . . . there’s nothing more to be done.”
Shaking his head, Charlie gets to his feet without letting go of Xander’s hand and looks around him: at a defeated-looking Braden, whose head is hanging; at Poppy, who’s still rocking the blue bundle; at the other nurse, who’s sniffling and crying, and looks terribly young; at Harry, who’s hand is still squeezing his shoulder, though his gaze, green as demon-fire and shining with unshed tears, is on Xander.
“Is . . . is the child, at least, healthy?” Harry asks, and for a few moments, no one answers. But finally, Poppy comes around the bed, carrying the whimpering blue bundle and trying to smile.
“He’s as healthy as anyone could want. Got a fine set of lungs on him, too,” she says quietly, lowering the bundle so Charlie and Harry can look. And Harry does, his face closing off as he reaches out . . . as if to touch the blanket. But at the last moment he stays his hand and smiles grimly. Then he says, very softly, almost inaudibly, something Charlie will remember till the end of his days, without ever understanding:
“I hope you’re happy . . . I hope your bloody second chance is worth it . . . Bright Child.”
Then he’s turning away, shoulders slumped and dejected for several moments, before firming back up.
“Don’t . . . don’t move the body, and don’t tell anyone what’s happened until I get back. And I mean no one. I will be back shortly,” he says tersely, wand out, and swishing. “Apparate!”
And with that, he’s gone, leaving Charlie to stare at the blue-wrapped bundle in Poppy’s arms.
Round, dark-dark eyes stare back at Charlie, wet and intelligent, out of a face that, except for a bright spray of freckles across the bridge of the nose, is entirely Xander’s, in miniature. . . .
Charlie looks away from the child and back at Xander, who’s still smiling, and at nothing any of them will see this side of the Beyond.
“He looks just like you,” Charlie says softly, squeezing Xander’s hand, hoping for a response even now, and dying inside when he gets none. “He’s beautiful.”
“Take him, please, Charles,” Poppy says kindly, holding the baby out to him, and Charlie reaches out with one arm. But she tsks. “Both arms, please. He’s just got here. I’ll not have you dropping him like a fumbled quaffle.”
“But-” Charlie begins, not wanting to let go of Xander’s hand-of Xander-even to take hold of the child they’d wanted so badly.
“Take him, Charles.”
With one more glance at Xander-I’m so sorry, love, I need both arms for Jake-Charlie lets go. . . .
And a moment later his arms are curving around his first-born son.
A moment after that, he’s leaning down to kiss Jake’s warm forehead. Jake makes a sound that could mean anything then begins to cry in earnest when Charlie’s tears rain on his face.
Holding his inconsolable child, the equally inconsolable father sinks to his knees, shaking, and fallen down a dark well of neverending grief.
*
The knocking at the door is both determined and loud. So loud, that it wakes both witches out of a sound sleep.
“Who’d be knocking at this hour?” the blonde asks, yawning, already falling back asleep. Her partner, whose sleep had been thin at best, smiles and kisses the blonde’s hair.
“I dunno. But it sounds pretty urgent. I’ll get it and you go back to sleep?”
“Alright, baby . . . but you’ll call for me if it’s important?”
“Of course.”
“Good. . . .”
Still smiling a little at the blonde-who cocoons herself in all the sheets and is snoring lightly in seconds-the other witch gets out of bed, summoning her bathrobe with a gesture.
By the time she gets downstairs, the knocking has somehow grown more urgent. Smile forgotten, she walks on cat-feet down the front hall, not turning on any lights-she doesn’t need them, this late in the game.
At the door, she gestures once more and the door achieves one-way transparency. She stares hard at the person on her doorstep, mouth agape, wondering what in the Hell. . . .
Finally, she ends the spell with a sigh and opens the door.
The man on her doorstep in the dark, disheveled robe with the wild hair and even wilder green eyes behind askew glasses, is caught mid-knock. He’s leaning against the porch railing as if it’s the only thing holding him up. One eyebrow quirking up, she tucks a trailer of red hair behind her ear.
“So, what brings an auror to Denmark to knock on my door, at this time of night?” she asks the waiting wizard.
The wizard takes a deep breath and sags, nearly falling into the house. Genuinely worried, now, she almost steps forward to catch him. Almost, but doesn’t. And anyway, he saves himself at the last second, waving away any help. Instead, he peers up at her as if he’s trying to find the words he needs, and can’t.
“You don’t know me,” he says finally, wearily, in a scratchy, croaking tenor. “But my name-“
“Is Harry Potter-yes, I know who you are, Auror Potter. Everyone in the Wizarding world does.” Shrugging, she stands aside and waits for him to enter the house without her invitation-if he can.
He steps forward without hesitation, with a lurch, leaning for a moment on the doorframe, before stepping into the house proper. All without taking his eyes off her.
“I’m not a vampire,” he says firmly, scowling, and she smiles.
“Well, that’s obvious. How may I help the Deparment of Magical Law Enforcement, today?”
Auror Potter shakes his head, smiling bitterly. “I’m not here on behalf of the DMLE, Mrs. Rosenberg-McClay. If they knew what I was here to do, sunrise’d see me sitting in Azkaban awaiting my trial . . . no . . . I’m here on personal business. Very personal. I’m here on behalf of . . . someone whom I love.
“His name is Xander. . . .”
Blinking, Willow Rosenberg-McClay takes a step back, hand coming up to cover her suddenly rabbiting heart. “What-how-how do you even know about Xander? Xander’s been dead for nearly twenty years!”
Auror Potter smiles bitterly. “You’re half-right, Mrs. Rosenberg-McClay. And it’s actually been closer to twenty-minutes. Well . . . more like an hour, probably. Though I’ve quite lost track of time.” He lets slip a laugh that’s seen saner days.
Then faster than she can follow, he’s got his wand out-not pointed at her, but still, not very reassuring. “Have you got a pensieve on the premises?”
Hand coming up to cover her throat, Willow takes another step back, one gesture away from stunning this perhaps deranged hero. . . .
But he said something about being here on Xander’s behalf . . . which is impossible, since Xander’s dead twice over . . . isn’t he?
Looking, however, into Auror Potter’s wild, but fiercely determined eyes, Willow finds herself nodding in answer to his question. “Yes, I have a pensieve.”
He smiles, small and relieved, and it does nothing to cover the suddenly plain look of raw heartbreak on his face. Willow knows that look and the feelings that go with it, very well. Hadn’t she felt them herself, many times over? The first being when she found out Jesse had slayed Xander-vampire-Xander-at the Bronze all those years ago?
“Good. Brilliant, actually. Because I have something rather remarkable to show you. . . .”
Previous parts are in memories. The parts immediately prior to this one (the last several entries in this journal) are kinda necessary if any of what goes on in the next few installments is to make any kind of sense. Also, I think they’re pretty worth a read.
The Battle of the Forbidden Forest
Author:
_beetle_
Fandom: BtVS/Harry Potter
Pairing: Xander Harris/Charlie Weasley, Xander Harris/Harry Potter
Rating: R
Word Count: Approx. 5300
Notes/Warnings: Canon compliant for both ‘verses. M-Preg. Major character death. Set post-Chosen by about eleven years, and post DH/e by ten years (I fiddled with timelines a bit). Spoilers for BtVS “Chosen” and DH/e. Previous stories in the Impressions-verse can be found here.
Disclaimer: They made me do it!
Summary: At last, Xander is in labor . . . in the Forbidden Forest. Whether he survives long enough to give birth-whether he, Charlie, Harry, and Firenze, lost in the heart of the Forest as they are, make it out alive-is very much up in the air.
Before the pain of the contraction passes-and it’s really the worst thing he’s ever felt, bringing with it the urge to push even though that urge would likely kill Xander, who has nowhere to push the baby too-Xander’s attention is snared by motion from the corner of his eye, over Charlie’s shoulder.
“Whatthefuck’rethose?!” he gasps out around the agony, which makes speaking quite difficult, especially when all Xander wants to do is scream. Mostly because of the pain, but in large part because of the horde of giant-ass fucking spiders racing toward them from under the trees.
Charlie glances over his shoulder then does a double-take.
“Motherfucker,” he breathes, and Xander barks a brief, startled laugh. Oh, yeah, I’m rubbing off on him.
Then they’re both reaching for their wands-only Charlie actually finds his, and starts firing spells-mostly Stupefys-at the spiders approaching them tentatively, but with increasing fearlessness. About half the time, Charlie misses due to the spiders’ dodging and ducking. They seem to be damnably fast.
We’re going to die here, wherever here is, if we don’t get some kinda help, Xander thinks desperately. The contraction, meanwhile, has thankfully begun to pass, and he struggles to his wobbly legs, and-
Wait a minute . . . wobbly legs? he thinks, as he watches Charlie fell a spider with a complicated swish-and-flick, and a shouted spell that’s literally: Ad Nauseam, Ad Infinitum!
And the spider stops dead in its tracks and begins vomiting. A lot. And it doesn’t stop.
The bulk of the spiders pause to watch their comrade and gauge their own chances of getting hit with such a jinx.
“C’mon, lads! I brought enough for everyone!” Charlie calls, waving his wand like a man with a rapier. The spiders actually take several steps back.
Stepping around Charlie so that they’re side by side-as always-Xander holds up his hand and says: “Accio Xander’s wand!”
There’s an immediate rustling in the cloak Xander’s wearing, and a second later, his wand flies out of its folds and into Xander’s hands.
Okay, then, he thinks, grinning and blessing Charlie’s-he assumes-foresight. Let’s do some damage!
The spiders are approaching again, slowly, but with determination, leaving their still-puking brother behind.
Xander aims at the closest one and swishes and flicks just like George had taught him on Christmas Eve (“Consider it an early Christmas present, Xand,” he’d said, wearing his mischievious grin. “Something to keep Charlie from getting too frisky when you’re not in the mood.” And here, Charlie, from across the room, had called: “Oi!”) and yells: Locomotor Wobbly!
And by luck or by good aim, that first spider’s legs weeble and wobble, and the fucker goes down.
“Damned fine shot, love! Stupefy!” Charlie hurls his curse at the next spider.
“I please to aim,” Xander retorts. “Locomotor Wobbly!”
That one, unfortunately, misses the spider that’s breaking off from the horde in an attempt to circle around them, and Xander swears, getting ready to fire another jinx. But that awful cramping sensation starts around his midsection again, discomfort turning swiftly into agony, and he groans, going to his knees, wand falling to the ground.
“Xand!” Charlie stops firing curses to go to one knee and take Xander in his arms. “Oh, love-”
“I’m fine, I’m fine, just-don’t stop cursing those spiders!” Xander grits out as pain washes over him in increasingly large waves. The urge to push is so seductive and strong, he actually starts to before remembering he has no way to expel the impatient child. That just as magic put Jake in him, magic is the only thing to get him out.
Oh, boy, Jake, I love you, but your sense of timing is for the birds. He shrugs a still frantic Charlie off him. “I’ll be fine, babe. Unless we get eaten by giant fucking spiders! Keep fighting!”
And then Xander’s gone with the pain for moments that feel like eternities, crumpling him to the ground-ironically in fetal position-and stretching out till they threaten to erase him.
When agony finally lets him out of its grip and the urge to push has lessened again, Xander opens his eyes and sees eight red ones looking back down at him.
*
Charlie had forgotten that Acromantulas, among many other talents, have a talent for leaping.
They’re getting closer, en masse, but from the back of their ranks, one large Acromantula launches itself over its comrades to land directly in front of Charlie, startling him into stumbling backwards and falling. His wrist hits the ground hard enough that his wand goes flying, and then the Acromantula’s looming over him, and Charlie feels a sharp pain in his shoulder that makes him cry out before a sensation of numbness begins to spread rapidly from his shoulder, to the rest of him.
“Accio-” he starts to say . . . and then his tongue stops working.
The Acromantula above him chitters-almost smugly-then looks to Charlie’s left.
Toward Xander, who’s still moaning . . . still, temporarily, helpless.
No! Charlie tries to scream, but is unable to-unable to do more than twitch and cudgel his nonresponsive body into shivering. You bastard-leave him alone!
Charlie manages a grunt that even he can barely hear, despair swallowing him in waves even as he continues to fight his own paralyzed body. Then, from the direction of the pool, he hears a familiar voice yelling:
“Stupefy!”
*
The Acromantulas are coming, and fast.
I turn to Firenze, thinking quickly. “Can you run?” I ask the sickly-looking centaur, who smiles limply.
“I fear not.”
“But can you still fire? Accurately?”
Firenze, shaking, reaches back into his quiver and unshoulders his bow, slowly, slowly, slowly. He notches an arrow with hands that tremor. But his smile is game and brave.
“I shall try, Harry Potter.”
He’s not doing good at all and I feel more than a little guilty. It’s . . . worrying, to say the least, that the damn venom’s been in him so long without him being treated. But with my damn instinct shrilling at me that Xander and Charlie are about to be overwhelmed, it’s . . . enough that I’ve got him at my back and willing to fight.
“Then start picking off the bastards that get close to them. I’ll handle the rest,” I say, and dash out of the trees, wand waving and Separo on my lips.
Ahead of me, the suddenly disturbed waters of the pool begin to part, and by the time I reach the sandy, stony bank, I’ve already hurled Stupefy at the Acromantula rearing up over Xander. Around me, on the newly-revealed ground, dying fish flip and flop, and I try to dodge them, not wanting to slip and fall.
Another Acromantula leaps toward Xander and Charlie, but falls, mid-leap, on one of its friends, an arrow in one of its eyes.
Bless you, Firenze!
“Repello Acromantulum!”
*
“Accio Xander’s wand,” Xander pants then crawls toward Charlie, who’s not moving.
“Baby?” Xander shakes Charlie’s shoulder, and upon getting no response, waves a hand over Charlie’s open, but blank eyes. “Charlie!”
He places two fingers against Charlie’s throat for a pulse-another lesson learned in Sunnydale and put to frequent use-and gets a thready, slow pulse that he doesn’t like one bit. But at least Charlie’s alive . . . at least-
“Repello Acromantulum! Are you alright?”
Startled, Xander finds himself goggling up at a panting, disheveled Harry Potter.
“I-I-the baby’s coming. Fast,” Xander says numbly, looking back down at Charlie and cupping Charlie’s cool, clammy cheek in his hand. “And I think one of those things bit Charlie, or something, because he’s not moving but he’s still breathing-and-and-” he doesn’t know what else to say, and looks up at Harry again through sudden tears. The grim, but almost anticipatory look on Harry’s face-he’s enjoying this . . . the spell-casting, the fighting, the derring-do . . . this is fun for him. He’s alive right now, more than I’ve ever seen him-softens, grows concerned as he looks Xander over.
“Don’t worry. He’ll be alright. We’ll get through this-Stupefy!! Stupefy!” Harry yells, swishing and flicking faster than Xander’s eye can follow. “Stupefy! Can you walk?”
“Not far . . . the contractions are pretty close together.”
“Fuck-in that case, can you run?”
Xander almost laughs in Harry’s face. “I’m not going anywhere without Charlie.”
Harry rolls his eyes. “I’m not asking you to-Relashio!”
Sparks fly out of Harry’s wand, so bright and hot, Xander covers his eyes, and tries to shield Charlie’s body with his own. The chittering of the spiders grows loud and wary and when Xander risks a peek at them, they’re backing up as Harry moves toward them, wand still throwing off those big, bright sparks.
“I need you to run, now, Xander-cross the pool where I’ve parted it, and go toward the opposite treeline. Firenze-a centaur and a friend-will be there.”
Xander shakes his head. “No. I’m not leaving Char-”
“RELASHIO! “ Harry yells again and an even larger, brighter, hotter shower of sparks shoots from his wand. The spiders fairly scream, scrambling back toward the trees from which they’d come-except for the ones that’d been cursed into immobility, puking, and wobbly legs, and a few that’d been . . . felled by arrows.
Harry’s centaur friend?
Then Harry’s backing toward Xander and Charlie again. When he draws even with them, he turns to Charlie quickly, swishes and flicks. “Mobilicorpus!”
And Charlie’s body begins to rise from under Xander’s own shielding one. Gaping, Xander merely watches in shock for a moment.
“Run!” Harry exclaims, turning himself and Charlie to face the pool, but waving Xander ahead of them frantically.
Scrambling quickly to his feet, Xander does just that-though it’s really more of a fast waddle.
And, as they run between two walls of water, at least eight feet high-Xander doesn’t even take the time to be surprised, just takes it for granted that Harry Potter just pulled a Moses-Xander can only hope that the waddle is fast enough, because the spiders, when he glances behind them, past Charlie’s large, floating body and Harry’s smaller one, are coming once more.
*
“Shit! Shit! Shit!” We’re not moving fast enough. Not nearly.
My plan had been to end the spell on the pool as we ran, closing the way behind us . . . but at the rate we were going, we’d wind up caught in the crash of water and likely drown trying to survive that crash.
“Xander, can you run faster?” I pant, and ahead of me, Xander laughs briefly, panting too.
“You’re lucky I’m running at-oh, fuck!” he breathes, stopping and crumpling to his knees on the fishy ground, hands on his stomach.
“Shit!” I glance behind us. The Acromantulas have paused at the pool, at the path between them created by Separo. They’re chittering fearfully, but hurriedly between one another. Finally, one of them tests the way with a bristly, long foreleg.
When it’s not immediately drowned or the leg even wetted, it quickly makes its way forward.
It’s time for us-for all of us-to get out of here. I’d been hoping to avoid this until we were all somewhere safe, where I could concentrate better, so as not to splinch the bloody hell out of us, but the Acromantulas are getting closer and Xander’s clearly in a bad way, so . . . there’s nothing for it but to remember the three D’s of Apparition, and hope for the best.
“Destination, determination, deliberation,” I mutter as I draw even with Xander, and kneel at his side, placing one hand on his shoulder and reaching up to grasp Charlie’s hand. I picture the infirmary at Hogwarts as clearly as I can-and I’m quite familiar with it, from a goodly portion of my childhood spent recovering there or visiting recovering friends-and bend all my mind and heart on wanting to be there. Right in the middle of the infirmary, in the most open area, between all the beds.
Merlin protect us from being splinched-
“Apparate!”
*
When agony finishes flattening Xander, he opens tear-blurred eyes to find himself . . . not in the middle of a parted pool.
In fact, as he wipes his eyes and sits up, the place he’s in looks more like a hospital ward . . . but different from St. Mungo’s. Smaller and somehow friendlier. And vaguely familiar, too. . . .
Next to him, kneels Harry Potter, looking much worse for wear, both drained and unsteady, but his fierce green eyes are brilliant as they meet Xander’s.
“Alright there, Xander?”
Xander glances around the hospital ward, and up-Charlie floats serenely above them-then back at Harry. Smiling through a faceful of tears, he reaches out and pulls Harry to him by the lapels of his robe, kissing him on the mouth with a loud smack!
“Better than alright, Harry Potter! I’m alive-we’realive!” he says, laughing as he gazes into a gobstruck Harry’s eyes. Harry blinks several times and takes a deep breath before reaching out to brush his fingers across Xander’s cheek, through tear-tracks. Then he cups Xander’s face in his hands and is leaning in to kiss Xander . . . hard for the first few seconds, then softening into something sweeter and desperate . . . yearning.
Startled, Xander doesn’t even know how to respond at first-it’s nothing like being kissed by Charlie, but not bad by any lights . . . just . . . different-and by the time he realizes he should be pulling away, not responding, Harry’s already done so, and removed his hands, his eyes darting everywhere but at Xander.
Meanwhile Xander’s hand has flown to his mouth, and his eyes are saucers as he stares at Harry.
“Harry,” he begins lowly, brow furrowing in confusion and question. “What-?”
“I, er . . . I have to get back to the pool for Firenze before I can’t,” Harry interrupts Xander to say, getting shakily to his feet with a grunt. “Apparate!”
And with that, he’s gone, leaving Xander to puzzle over what just happened . . . then to get to his own feet and call for help just as another contraction starts.
*
By the time I get Firenze, deal with the last of the Acromantulas, and put the pool back to rights-wouldn’t do to piss off a bunch of unicorns by leaving drowned Acromantulas in their drinking pool. And it’s just bad manners, too-back to the Hogwarts infirmary, I can barely stand, as spent as I am, physically and magically. But between the two of us, leaning on each other, we stagger toward the sounds of pained groans, and unhappy little screams.
“The Bright Child comes,” Firenze murmurs in low, awed tones as we get to the end of the otherwise empty ward.
In the penultimate bed, closer to the door, lays Charlie Weasley, already in a hospital gown, looking pale, but not so unnaturally still. His eyes are closed and his breathing has returned to something approaching normal.
In the last bed lays Xander Weasley, and he’s attended by no less than three people: Poppy Pomfrey, another nurse who has the evening rotation in the Hogwarts infirmary, and a tall, portly wizard in green robes, with a formidable mustache, who can only be Xander’s Medi-wizard, Romare Braden.
His hands are on Xander’s stomach, which is visibly contracting and . . . moving as the child within tries to find its way out.
Medi-wizard Braden doesn’t look happy.
“ . . . the stress of being awake and using magic has left him, unfortunately, too weak for us to safely Apparate him to somewhere as far as St. Mungo’s. Merlin, it’s left him too weak to safely deliver no matter where we are, damnit!” Braden’s pale brown eyes swing to me and Firenze. “Was it your idea to take a man at the end of a high-risk pregnancy into the Forbidden Forest and awaken him from the coma that was the only thing keeping him and his unborn child healthy?”
I serve Braden’s glare right back at him-it might be more effective if I weren’t swaying, and the room wasn’t spinning, but c’est la vie. “Not my idea. But I went along with it, yes. He and the child were capital-C Cursed. We needed the benediction of a unicorn and, by Merlin, we got it.”
Braden frowns. “In all our examinations of Xander and Jakob we didn’t pick up on any Curses of any kind-”
“And you wouldn’t have.” I say firmly, forbiddingly. “This is nothing you were trained to deal with. Nothing even most aurors are trained to deal with.”
“But-”
“Listen, Medi-wizard Braden, we’re treading quite close to Ministry classified territory, right now, and when we have more important matters to deal with. Just believe me when I say that what was done was necessary for their survival.” I let go of Firenze, and stagger toward Xander, shouldering my way past the late-shift nurse, to take his hand. As the contraction passes, Xander looks up at me with bright, weary eyes, and tries to smile.
“Don’t tell anyone, but . . . I’m scared,” he says quietly. I reach out and brush my fingers along his cheek, forcing away the memory of what it’d felt like to kiss him. Now is most definitely not the time, even if Xander’s leaning into my touch as if. . . .
“It’ll be alright. We’ve got the benediction of a unicorn on our side,” I say softly, leaning down to kiss his damp forehead. “Plus, you’ve survived the Forbidden Forest. You can do anything.”
Xander chuckles weakly. “I wasn’t even awake for any of it, except for the spidery parts. Which was fun, by the way. We should do that more often.”
“Well, if you and Charlie are free next Satruday, I’m certain Firenze and I can clear our schedules. . . .”
Another weak chuckle that I join him in, and he licks his bitten, cracked lips-but how soft and gentle they’d felt against my own, how warm and supple . . . how bittersweet and tear-salty . . . perfect-his eyes going to the cubicle where Charlie lays.
“They said Charlie’ll be okay. That they gave him a potion for Acker-Ackra-giant spider venom.” Xander sighs and closes his eyes for a few moments. When he opens them, they’re somber and very, very intent. “Promise me that you’ll look after them. You know . . . if something goes wrong.”
“Nothing will go wrong,” I say firmly, squeezing his hand. He squeezes back and smiles.
“Of course, it won’t,” he agrees mildly. “But if it does, look after Charlie. Make sure he . . . doesn’t grieve for too long. And make sure Jake knows that I love him, and will always love him, and that I regret nothing.”
“Xander-”
But his face is scrunching, eyes screwed shut as another contraction takes him. The late-shift nurse shoves me out of the way, and I nearly fall, but for Firenze catching me.
Then Poppy’s shooing us out of the cubicle and closing the curtains around it.
*
Charlie struggles mightily against the tides of unconsciousness, knowing that there’s somewhere important he has to be . . . that something important is happening, that he needs to be there for. . . .
One herculean shove, like pushing his body up from under the deepest of pressures-fathoms and fathoms of it-and he’s surfacing with a name on his lips: Xander.
And with that, he’s sitting up even before his eyes are fully open. Around him, a familiar room spins and lurches, and he braces himself upright with arms that feel rubbery and weak.
“Xander-” and before he can say anything else, he remembers . . . the Forest, the unicorns, the Acromantulas . . . and Xander, in labor. . . .
“Oh, Merlin,” he breathes. Then there are hands on his shoulders, attempting-and partially succeeding-in pushing him back to the what turns out to be a bed.
He blinks away his dizziness, to limited success, to find himself staring up into Harry Potter’s grim, green eyes.
“You’re in the Hogwarts infirmary,” he says, almost smiling. “We made it out. All of us.”
Charlie’s heart, which had been racing, slows not a jot, because he has to be certain. Has to see for himself. “Xander? Where is he?”
Harry opens his mouth to answer, but before he can, a long, agonized cry goes up from beyond a curtain to Charlie’s left, holding for an eternal moment . . . before cutting off suddenly.
Charlie and Harry freeze.
Silent seconds pass, and Harry opens his mouth again to speak, and another cry goes up from behind the curtain, this one thin and high and querulous-irritated, even: a child’s helpless cry.
And once more, Charlie’s pushing himself up and out of bed, ignoring Harry’s half-hearted attempts to push him back down.
Though alarmingly weak, his legs keep him upright, and he makes his careful way toward the curtain. He whips it aside just enough to admit himself and closes it behind him, on Harry’s stammered implorations to wait.
Two pairs of eyes land on Charlie as he stands there, trying to take in everything at once:
Poppy Pomfrey is in the midst of wrapping something up in a small blue blanket. She’s cooing softly to the wriggling, lustily crying bundle.
Another nurse, by her outfit, is casting a spell of some sort, frantic and stammering, wand-hand shaking as she waves it about.
Medi-wizard Braden, his eyes on Charlie, pitying and apologetic, even as he calmly spell-casts, his wand swishing and flicking in confusing flurries, looks away after a few seconds, his eyes going back to the figure in the bed.
To Xander, whose eyes rest on Charlie, a small half-smile on his pale lips.
“Xand-oh, Xand!” Charlie is instantly at Xander’s side, the unfamiliar nurse moving quickly out of the way. He kneels, taking Xander’s limp hand and kissing those pale, cool lips. “You did it, love! You did it!”
He murmurs and laughs between kisses which, most of a minute later that, he realizes aren’t being returned. “Xand, are you-” he starts to ask, leaning back, frowning, only to see that the expression on Xander’s face hasn’t changed one iota. He’s still almost smiling, his eyes staring at Charlie-through Charlie.
“Xand?!” Charlie pulls Xander’s hand up to his cheek, shaking his head in absolute denial, even as the nurse behind him and Medi-wizard Braden stop their spell-casting. He can feel the weight of their gazes on him, heavy with compassion, and-
No.
Just . . . no.
His entire being is one chorus of negation, even as Xander’s expression doesn’t change. Even as a hard hand descends upon his shoulder, squeezing, squeezing, squeezing. . . .
The nurse who’d been behind Charlie steps forward, reaching out to close Xander’s eyes and Charlie slaps her hand away, glaring up at her, his vision strangely trebled.
“Don’t!” Despite the seeming calm within, Charlie’s voice cracks like delicate china. “Don’t you touch him!”
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Weasley, I-”
“Charles,” Poppy Pomfrey says gently, far too gently, her eyes filled with tears as she rocks the quieting blue bundle in her arms. “Charles . . . there’s nothing more to be done.”
Shaking his head, Charlie gets to his feet without letting go of Xander’s hand and looks around him: at a defeated-looking Braden, whose head is hanging; at Poppy, who’s still rocking the blue bundle; at the other nurse, who’s sniffling and crying, and looks terribly young; at Harry, who’s hand is still squeezing his shoulder, though his gaze, green as demon-fire and shining with unshed tears, is on Xander.
“Is . . . is the child, at least, healthy?” Harry asks, and for a few moments, no one answers. But finally, Poppy comes around the bed, carrying the whimpering blue bundle and trying to smile.
“He’s as healthy as anyone could want. Got a fine set of lungs on him, too,” she says quietly, lowering the bundle so Charlie and Harry can look. And Harry does, his face closing off as he reaches out . . . as if to touch the blanket. But at the last moment he stays his hand and smiles grimly. Then he says, very softly, almost inaudibly, something Charlie will remember till the end of his days, without ever understanding:
“I hope you’re happy . . . I hope your bloody second chance is worth it . . . Bright Child.”
Then he’s turning away, shoulders slumped and dejected for several moments, before firming back up.
“Don’t . . . don’t move the body, and don’t tell anyone what’s happened until I get back. And I mean no one. I will be back shortly,” he says tersely, wand out, and swishing. “Apparate!”
And with that, he’s gone, leaving Charlie to stare at the blue-wrapped bundle in Poppy’s arms.
Round, dark-dark eyes stare back at Charlie, wet and intelligent, out of a face that, except for a bright spray of freckles across the bridge of the nose, is entirely Xander’s, in miniature. . . .
Charlie looks away from the child and back at Xander, who’s still smiling, and at nothing any of them will see this side of the Beyond.
“He looks just like you,” Charlie says softly, squeezing Xander’s hand, hoping for a response even now, and dying inside when he gets none. “He’s beautiful.”
“Take him, please, Charles,” Poppy says kindly, holding the baby out to him, and Charlie reaches out with one arm. But she tsks. “Both arms, please. He’s just got here. I’ll not have you dropping him like a fumbled quaffle.”
“But-” Charlie begins, not wanting to let go of Xander’s hand-of Xander-even to take hold of the child they’d wanted so badly.
“Take him, Charles.”
With one more glance at Xander-I’m so sorry, love, I need both arms for Jake-Charlie lets go. . . .
And a moment later his arms are curving around his first-born son.
A moment after that, he’s leaning down to kiss Jake’s warm forehead. Jake makes a sound that could mean anything then begins to cry in earnest when Charlie’s tears rain on his face.
Holding his inconsolable child, the equally inconsolable father sinks to his knees, shaking, and fallen down a dark well of neverending grief.
*
The knocking at the door is both determined and loud. So loud, that it wakes both witches out of a sound sleep.
“Who’d be knocking at this hour?” the blonde asks, yawning, already falling back asleep. Her partner, whose sleep had been thin at best, smiles and kisses the blonde’s hair.
“I dunno. But it sounds pretty urgent. I’ll get it and you go back to sleep?”
“Alright, baby . . . but you’ll call for me if it’s important?”
“Of course.”
“Good. . . .”
Still smiling a little at the blonde-who cocoons herself in all the sheets and is snoring lightly in seconds-the other witch gets out of bed, summoning her bathrobe with a gesture.
By the time she gets downstairs, the knocking has somehow grown more urgent. Smile forgotten, she walks on cat-feet down the front hall, not turning on any lights-she doesn’t need them, this late in the game.
At the door, she gestures once more and the door achieves one-way transparency. She stares hard at the person on her doorstep, mouth agape, wondering what in the Hell. . . .
Finally, she ends the spell with a sigh and opens the door.
The man on her doorstep in the dark, disheveled robe with the wild hair and even wilder green eyes behind askew glasses, is caught mid-knock. He’s leaning against the porch railing as if it’s the only thing holding him up. One eyebrow quirking up, she tucks a trailer of red hair behind her ear.
“So, what brings an auror to Denmark to knock on my door, at this time of night?” she asks the waiting wizard.
The wizard takes a deep breath and sags, nearly falling into the house. Genuinely worried, now, she almost steps forward to catch him. Almost, but doesn’t. And anyway, he saves himself at the last second, waving away any help. Instead, he peers up at her as if he’s trying to find the words he needs, and can’t.
“You don’t know me,” he says finally, wearily, in a scratchy, croaking tenor. “But my name-“
“Is Harry Potter-yes, I know who you are, Auror Potter. Everyone in the Wizarding world does.” Shrugging, she stands aside and waits for him to enter the house without her invitation-if he can.
He steps forward without hesitation, with a lurch, leaning for a moment on the doorframe, before stepping into the house proper. All without taking his eyes off her.
“I’m not a vampire,” he says firmly, scowling, and she smiles.
“Well, that’s obvious. How may I help the Deparment of Magical Law Enforcement, today?”
Auror Potter shakes his head, smiling bitterly. “I’m not here on behalf of the DMLE, Mrs. Rosenberg-McClay. If they knew what I was here to do, sunrise’d see me sitting in Azkaban awaiting my trial . . . no . . . I’m here on personal business. Very personal. I’m here on behalf of . . . someone whom I love.
“His name is Xander. . . .”
Blinking, Willow Rosenberg-McClay takes a step back, hand coming up to cover her suddenly rabbiting heart. “What-how-how do you even know about Xander? Xander’s been dead for nearly twenty years!”
Auror Potter smiles bitterly. “You’re half-right, Mrs. Rosenberg-McClay. And it’s actually been closer to twenty-minutes. Well . . . more like an hour, probably. Though I’ve quite lost track of time.” He lets slip a laugh that’s seen saner days.
Then faster than she can follow, he’s got his wand out-not pointed at her, but still, not very reassuring. “Have you got a pensieve on the premises?”
Hand coming up to cover her throat, Willow takes another step back, one gesture away from stunning this perhaps deranged hero. . . .
But he said something about being here on Xander’s behalf . . . which is impossible, since Xander’s dead twice over . . . isn’t he?
Looking, however, into Auror Potter’s wild, but fiercely determined eyes, Willow finds herself nodding in answer to his question. “Yes, I have a pensieve.”
He smiles, small and relieved, and it does nothing to cover the suddenly plain look of raw heartbreak on his face. Willow knows that look and the feelings that go with it, very well. Hadn’t she felt them herself, many times over? The first being when she found out Jesse had slayed Xander-vampire-Xander-at the Bronze all those years ago?
“Good. Brilliant, actually. Because I have something rather remarkable to show you. . . .”