Chapter Seventy-Four of IAATB: The First Day of Spring
Thanks for the reviews on the last chapter!
Warning: This begins a series of very tense and dark chapters that don’t end until Chapter 80 and the story’s climax. No specific warnings for this one, except a cliffhanger, but if you don’t like suspense, be warned it doesn’t let up much for the next few days.
Chapter Seventy-Four: The First Day of Spring
Harry rubbed the sweat off his hands onto his robes. He had just reached the calm, balanced state of mind necessary to cast the summoning spell that he’d found in the old book in the library, when-
“Are you sure this is going to work?” Draco muttered.
His concentration thrown yet again, Harry turned around and hissed, “Of course I’m sure! Will you shut up for a while?”
Draco folded his arms across his chest and looked sulky. Harry took a deep breath and turned back to the rune circle in front of him. He’d created it with Henrietta’s help-she knew something about rune circles-and Draco’s-he knew something about them, too, when he wasn’t getting stuck in them-and Argutus’s-he could reflect the runes in his scales and tell Harry if they were right or wrong. Argutus currently clung around his neck, watching the circle, and Draco sat at his right shoulder. Henrietta had said she had other things to work on, but had promised to come at once to Harry’s call if the summoning spell actually worked.
Harry saw no reason why it wouldn’t. He’d worked Evan Rosier’s name into the runes in every imaginable permutation. He could visualize the man far more clearly than he liked, with his heavy stare and mad, laughing dark eyes. He had even put blueberry pies around the outer rim of the circle, following the advice of the book that said he should try to make it worth the summoned person’s while to show up.
But this was still powerful magic, Dark-because it trod the line between free will and compulsion-and dangerous. Harry would have to be extremely careful not to tip over that line and actually command Rosier to appear, or he could lose his position as vates. It would be more like a combination of manipulation and persuasion, at least once he made contact with Rosier’s mind. Thus the blueberry pies; those in themselves might be enough to tempt the madman.
And then you must hope that he has the Hufflepuff Cup with him, and you must find someone who will agree to be the sacrifice.
That last was the part Harry resolutely avoided thinking about. He locked his gaze on the rune circle again and summoned walls of calm to rise in his head, cutting him off from those sights and sounds he didn’t need to absorb. That included Draco’s breathing and the rustling of his robes. He didn’t like the summoning spell, didn’t think that Harry should be even partially alone while calling Rosier, and didn’t like the fact that Snape and others were poised behind doors to break into the room if he should succeed. Harry had explained that he couldn’t concentrate if they actually were present in the room, but Draco had not wanted to listen. That had been the cause of another yelling session last night, and was probably part of the reason that Harry had so much trouble settling his mind now.
Of course you will, if you think of everything but the summoning itself, Harry’s thoughts said sharply, and slapped him back into position over the incantation he’d memorized.
“Cito Evan Rosier!” he said, the words welling up from inside him at nearly a shout. There were other summoning spells he could have used, including ones that were variants on the Accio, but this spell left more free will for its victim. The Latin phrasing implied that Harry was calling on Rosier as an expert in his chosen field.
Yes, in a way, it was deception. But so long as Rosier still had the option to refuse the call, Harry was leaving open a loophole. It was not something he would have risked three years ago.
You would not have risked many things three years ago. Now, for Merlin’s sake, shut up and repeat the incantation. It’s been three heartbeats.
“Cito Evan Rosier!” The words tore themselves from Harry this time, the spell doing what it needed to exist. A thin tracing of green light glowed above the runes of the circle, and Harry tried not to think about how much it reminded him of the light of the Killing Curse. Then it dived into the runes, and Harry could feel it running over the reconfigured letters of Rosier’s name like fingers running down his own spine. He shivered convulsively, but kept kneeling there, counting his heartbeats until the moment came to repeat the chant. The spell took the time to learn that name beyond the point of turning back or mistaking it.
“Cito Evan Rosier!”
The green light spun up above the rune circle, twisted and twirled there like a noose, and then shot out, fading as it hit the wall. Harry could see rushed, blurred buildings and forests and pools and gardens passing by. He guessed those were the representations of other minds, what a Legilimens would see looking through someone’s eyes. But the spell was not interested in them; it reached, always and only, for the one that would say Evan Rosier.
“Cito Evan Rosier!”
Harry wasn’t sure that fourth cry was him; the instructions for the spell had only said it would happen, not who would say it. The spell could have been speaking for itself. They were very close now, he knew. The summons cut through the air between them, and firmed. It would not drag Rosier in, like the more powerful summoning spells would have, but it would let him know his presence was desired, and present him with the choice to answer the call or not.
Harry braced himself. He was almost sure that Rosier would choose to answer the call, if only because he’d like the chance to hurt Harry. That was the reason for the rest of the rune circle, and Argutus’s and Draco’s presence there as well as Harry’s own. Rosier’s sanity and magic could do unpredictable things. Yes, it was unlikely he would manage to break the ring, but Harry no longer took risks with his own life when he didn’t have to.
The summons snapped taut. Harry clenched his fists. The book had described that happening when the spell had hold of the prey it wanted to find. It still would not compel him to come, but it would stay there, unable to be ignored, until Rosier chose one way or the other.
And then the spell collapsed. Harry yelped in pain as an invisible fire scorched his hands, and had to grab hold of his knees, hard, to keep from tipping forward into the rune circle. Draco was at his side in a moment, snatching his shoulder. Harry looked back to meet a pair of eyes that was similarly wide.
“What happened?” Draco demanded.
The answer sounded in Harry’s head before he could respond, an ageless, sexless voice that simply said, Evan Rosier as you understand him no longer exists.
Harry hissed as the release of magical energy backlashed into him. The runes of the circle went flying away from each other, bouncing like disturbed scree from the walls and the floors. Argutus whinged about pieces hitting his scales, but Harry’s mind was on the spell’s message.
“The spell failed because we tried to target the wrong mind, apparently,” he said. “Evan Rosier as you understand him no longer exists.”
“What does that mean?”
Harry shook his head, but his mind was on the small smile Henrietta had given him when Harry came to her and asked her to help him with the rune circle, since she understood both rune magic and Evan Rosier the best of them all. “I don’t know, but I’m going to ask Henrietta.”
“We failed to snare him,” Draco pointed out unnecessarily.
“We couldn’t have sped up either finding the spell or constructing it.” Harry whirled the runes into the air with his magic, wary of touching them by hand. They could still shimmer with sparks of power he wasn’t ready to absorb yet. Though he wouldn’t show it to Draco, because he did not want Draco to be smug at him over not being ready, that backlash of magic had hurt.
“Tomorrow is the first day of spring.”
“I know.”
“Voldemort will be moving-“
“I know, Draco, I know!” Harry spun around, and the magic around him billowed and rippled like disturbed curtains. “I know that, all right? I understand that. That doesn’t mean there’s anything I can do about it. We did the best we could to retrieve the final Horcrux before he attacked again, using a plan that took a long time because it was a good one. We failed. Now we’ll just need to hold off his attacks as long as we can tomorrow, and then track Rosier down and destroy that Horcrux. And then we can kill him.” He clapped his hands together, sending out a blast of blue wind, because that would be better than the things he wanted to do to Draco just then. “You act as though I don’t know the requirements of defeating Voldemort. I do. All of them.”
Draco’s face was tight in a way that said they would be sleeping in separate beds that night. Harry didn’t care. He stomped away up the stairs with Argutus, and tried to convince himself that his network of defenses in place, behind powerful protectors who would contact him the moment they sensed Voldemort moving to the attack, was a good one. He had done everything he could to shelter those who didn’t want to flee Britain. The rebuilt Ministry and the rebuilt Hogwarts were under close guard, along with all the safehouses.
He had done what he could. He could not anticipate every move that Voldemort or, as it turned out, Evan Rosier would make. He would do everything he could think of, and if Draco had any better suggestions, maybe he should offer them instead of keeping them behind a smug smirk.
*
The call came at noon.
Harry looked up from lunch-he’d finally decided to eat something after a frustrating conversation with Henrietta, in which he talked and she smiled at him and stroked the sides of her teacup and said nothing-to see a flare of golden-green light above him. He rose, his heart beating hard. That was Miranda’s signal.
When he raised a hand and invoked the connection to Silver-Mirror that he had as Black heir, everyone in the house heard him. The doorknobs and the walls, the floors and the chairs, spoke with his voice.
“Voldemort is attacking Grimmauld Place,” he said. “Miranda is there, and house elf magic will hold him off for a short time, but we must go. Everyone who wishes to join me, meet me in the kitchen in no less than three minutes.” He dropped his hand, and the walls and furniture went back to being no more than silent mirrors.
He felt little to no fear as he waited. He knew that he would see Voldemort again, and not kill him today, because they did not have the last Horcrux in their possession. But, at the same time, he thought he was prepared to do battle. He’d drain Voldemort for all he was worth the moment he saw him. No talking him out of anything, no letting him capture Draco, no slowing down to listen to his taunts. Harry just wanted his magic, which Voldemort would fight to protect, and he would grab that and drag on it until nothing was left.
Footsteps pounded down the stairs, and Draco ran in, his hair looking windblown. Snape followed him, and Henrietta, and Ginny, Thomas, and nearly everyone else in the house, it looked like, though Harry didn’t see his brother, nor his sister-in-law. He wasn’t surprised. From the sounds, Connor and Parvati had been up rather late the night before, for purposes that had nothing to do with fighting Voldemort.
“Did you think you could leave me behind?” Draco muttered, shouldering his way to Harry’s side.
Harry stared coldly at him. “I said nothing about leaving you behind,” he pointed out. “As long as you could make it into the kitchen in three minutes, then you were welcome.”
“But you would have left me behind if I didn’t.”
“Just like everyone else.”
“I’m not everyone else.”
Harry opened his mouth to shout, and became aware that the people around them were watching them with varying degrees of disgust and amusement. He shut his mouth, instead, and cleared his throat. “We’re going to Grimmauld Place,” he said. “Everyone who hasn’t seen the house often enough to visualize it, grab onto someone else’s arm.” He watched approvingly as Ginny latched on to Thomas, and Henrietta to Snape, who looked repulsed. “Come.”
And they Apparated.
*
The burrow was filled with laughter, echoing and diving and darting across the walls.
Harry had fallen for his trap. There was no need for blood and battle, not when the Lord Voldemort carried the advantages he did, the advantages that had lain slumbering in the darkness for more than a decade, the advantage that began here, where it all began, and would end here, where Harry would end.
His magic joined the laughter, whirling blade-like around the walls, humping and traveling in waves like an obsidian serpent. Strong he was, and mighty, mighty, mighty. Power enough to shake the oceans respired in one breath. His magic roared and rose and clawed at the air like a dragon.
And this was the power that Harry thought to stand as heir of? This was what he imagined he could both take from the Lord Voldemort and control? It was not enough. Not even the inheritance process, which favored the boy because magic flowed naturally from magical ancestor to magical heir, would be enough to give him strength here. The power was too great, a wave of darkness, blowing away from him and then slamming back into his body when he willed.
There would be no final battle, because the Lord Voldemort would use Harry against himself, would use the traits he would never betray against the ones he would. There were things that mattered to Harry more than the war.
What would Harry never do?
The walls of earth that Falco had carved for him shook like dolphins leaping at sea. And the Lord Voldemort calmed his magic, because he did not mean to collapse his home yet. It had to endure, because he had carved torture chambers he meant to use.
He sent out the call, tugged on the tangled fabric of hatred and need and power embedded in his serpent’s mind. The serpent stirred, sluggishly, and then began to do what he was told.
The third, the third, the third!
*
Harry arrived at Grimmauld Place, and tasted the familiar violent, acrid tang of Voldemort’s magic in the air. He charged forward at once, hearing Draco yell for him to stop, and not caring. If they got there in time, then they could back him up. But what he needed right now was to drain Voldemort’s magic; he was the only one who could do that, and there it was right in front of him, thick as dark treacle.
His blood was up, his anger free from its long prison around his deadliest enemy for the first time. There was no way that he could have refused the call.
Miranda was dancing in front of the door to Grimmauld Place, still denying the bastard entrance. The wards parted for Harry, of course, and Voldemort, a blurred figure in the midst of magic like heaving smoke, as if he hadn’t wanted the Muggles who lived on either side of the house to stare at him, turned away from the house elf magic to face Harry. Red eyes shone from the smoke like fires of lava burning far down in a volcano’s throat.
Harry smiled, and opened his absorbere gift.
Voldemort was doing the same, but he was just a bit slow. Harry’s gift was open first, and he didn’t bother drawing on the smoke and the magic that Voldemort had draped around himself for show, tempting though it was. He pulled at the red eyes instead, and they went out. His enemy shrieked-in confusion and pain and anger, Harry knew, not fear.
That will be remedied.
He drank and ate, crushing up the magic as it passed down his throat, the sides of the gullet bracing and flexing as he swallowed. This was easier than it had once been. Distantly, Harry wondered if that came from his growing familiarity with Voldemort’s magic, or from the fact that this time, he was actually determined to take the power away, having no lingering distaste or distrust about his ability to swallow magic.
Not everything set free from the prison within him when he drained his Occlumency pools was positive, a stray thought informed him.
Harry ignored it, and concentrated on draining the magic. It was almost sweet, now, in the way that even the foulest-tasting potion could become sweet when one knew it would soothe the pain from a broken limb. He could feel Draco at his back, a steady presence, and just knowing he was there sent Harry to new heights of determination. He couldn’t back down, because Draco was there and he had to protect him, and because he would show Draco that he’d been ready for this battle. No, they hadn’t destroyed the last Horcrux yet, but if Harry could weaken Voldemort sufficiently, as he had managed to do in the Chamber of Secrets after he tormented Snape, then he could leave him lying helpless for enough time to secure and destroy the Cup. And this time, there was no Indigena Yaxley to spare her Lord.
He heard Draco yell a curse, and a line of red light glowed and flew over Harry’s shoulder to strike at Voldemort.
And went straight through him.
Harry didn’t stop swallowing the magic, because by this point he couldn’t, but he was startled, and he increased his efforts to mash the food. What happened? Did he actually manage to step aside from the spell, even though he’s blind?
Another spark of unease struck him just then. For that matter, why isn’t he trying to drain me back? Why isn’t he taunting me? Is he just in too much pain? But I’ve never known him to be in that much pain-
Harry hit the limit of the magic he could swallow just then, and had to close his gift and concentrate on incorporating the power into himself. He could feel it squirming within him, evil and determined to twist him for its own ends, but Harry had had experience taming Parseltongue magic and Voldemort’s power and Dumbledore’s by now. He bore down, and the darkness went away, flowing smoothly into him. It still resented him, but as time passed, it would become indistinguishable from the other magic that Harry used.
And the smoke dissipated.
Harry roared with rage as he realized what the smoke and the red eyes and the magic he had drained had been. A glamour. A sending. He made a construct of himself, powerful enough to fool me and Miranda into thinking this was the real thing, and sent it here to attack.
Then where is the real attack? And why would he give up part of his magic like that? He doesn’t do sacrifices. What in the world could he gain, what attack on what other safehouse, could he make that would cause him to give up enough of his magic to make this deception convincing?
And then Harry knew, as if someone had slung the answer like a stone into his skull, or Thomas had written a book proclaiming the knowledge.
To get me away from Silver-Mirror.
Harry swung around and Apparated.
*
Connor yawned and pushed his hair out of his eyes. He felt extraordinarily sleep-mused and even now, knowing that he’d missed his brother’s summons to battle because he’d been slumbering too deeply, more than satisfied. He chewed a piece of toast, thought about what he and Parvati had done last night, and grinned. He wondered if Harry had thought of intruding to pay him back for all those times Connor had broken in on him and Draco.
I’m lucky that I have a brother more understanding than I am. He licked crumbs from his fingers.
A footstep echoed behind him, and Connor turned, surprised that Parvati was already done with her shower. But then he realized it was only Michael edging into the kitchen, and he grinned and waved him over. Michael refused to take a seat, though, fidgeting nervously, eyes downcast.
“Do you think I’m a coward because I didn’t go to battle with them this morning?” he whispered, so softly that Connor could hardly make it out.
Connor frowned, surprised by the illogic. He’d thought they’d got beyond this. “Why would I, Michael? After all, I’m here myself. It was a matter of how fast we could get to the kitchen when Harry called us, not cowardice or bravery.” He considered. Should I have marmalade or butter on my final piece of toast? It’s so hard to decide. Or I could go up and surprise Parvati in the shower.
“I’m glad,” Michael said, his voice barely above a breath. “I’m glad that you think that of me. You’ve been a friend to me, Connor, even when I haven’t deserved one.” His head drooped, and he stared at the kitchen table as if it were the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen.
Concerned, Connor stood and went over to him. “Come, now,” he said, putting a hand on Michael’s shoulder. “If you don’t have confidence in yourself, how can you expect your brother or Harry or Draco to do so? No one likes talking to someone who mopes around feeling sorry for himself no matter the cause.”
Michael took a deep breath and looked up at Connor, with a slight nod. “I suppose you’re right,” he said. “At any rate, you’ve had more confidence in me than I merited. Thank you.” His face widened into a gentle, melancholy smile. “Portus.”
The whirl of a Portkey grabbed Connor, long before he had time to stagger back from Michael. The only slight comfort he had was that Michael came along with him. The much bigger discomfort was that they were going somewhere unknown, and Connor had left his wand on the table beside his bed.
His mind worked frantically, dragging up a memory he couldn’t have recalled at any ordinary time. He said that he got a Portkey from Owen. Maybe he wanted to take me to visit his brother this morning, or negotiate between them, and he just didn’t know how to ask. He’s not very good at asking for anything.
And then they landed in darkness, and Connor knew it wasn’t the Ministry.
He tried to lunge upwards, soft earth stirring beneath his feet, but magic grabbed him and slammed him to the ground. Connor barely got a breath before he was frozen, his head held back at an awkward angle, so that he could see both Michael, staring at the Portkey in his hand, and the white shape, far too familiar from nightmares and battles, stalking towards him.
Connor drew in his breath to scream at Michael to run, and then Michael turned his head, and Connor saw his triumphant eyes, and the hand-shaped burn on his face he’d received in the fall of Hogwarts, and felt the scream die in his throat.
He was marked by Voldemort. He hates Harry. That kind of hatred and a mark that Voldemort inflicted himself can be used to control someone, the way that he controlled Snape, the way he tried to control Harry.
Shit. Oh, shit.
The words seemed to fall into a deep well inside Connor, pebbles that set up no echo. He gave a shiver, and for a moment the red eyes swung to him. Connor winced. There was a distant pain behind his scar, not nearly like the roaring agony that Harry got, but like something stirring, burrowing through his skull. Luckily, it went away after a moment, and then he only had Voldemort’s smile and magic to face.
Only.
“You have done well, little serpent,” Voldemort hissed, and then put his long fingers beneath Michael’s chin and tilted up his face. “And now, go back to your den. You want to see Harry’s face when you tell him what you did to his brother, don’t you?”
Connor’s muscles seized up, as much as they could under the bonds. He’s going to let Michael say where we are? Then-
That was the problem, though. Connor had no idea where they were, other than underground. And if Michael had been brought by a Portkey-a Portkey that Voldemort destroyed now, with a casual flick of his fingers-and Apparated back, he wouldn’t know, either, and anyone else would be mad to follow his directions and simply Apparate in with Voldemort waiting.
Assuming Harry stops to listen to those directions, before he kills him, Connor thought, and felt a brief, hot flare of satisfaction.
Then Michael was gone, and Voldemort turned to him, and Connor felt his head easing back to bare his throat.
“I will cut through Harry’s Occlumency,” Voldemort said softly. “We want your brother to see what’s happening to you, don’t we?”
The only rule, Connor thought, as he returned glare for glare, is to put off screaming as long as you can.
*
Harry landed back in the kitchen of Silver-Mirror, and yelled, without pausing to search, “Connor!”
There was no answer, though that shout surely should have brought one. Harry tried to calm his frantic breathing, tried to tell himself that Connor might still be sleeping in after his night with Parvati-
And then Parvati came running through the doorway, a towel wrapped around her dripping wet hair, and demanded, “What about Connor? Where is he? Has something happened to him?”
A whip of darkness struck Harry’s heart, starring it into ice. He heard more pops behind him as other people passed through the wards, but he couldn’t turn to look at them. He lunged up the stairs, calling for his brother with all his might, while at the same time he woke every single ward and set it looking for Connor.
The wards were more efficient than even his wandless magic. They came back to him before he reached Connor’s bedroom. There was no sign of Connor anywhere in the house. But there had been, a few minutes before Harry Apparated back in, signs of Portkey use.
Harry felt his throat burn. His mind was cracking like his heart had at the implications. He whirled away into a tunnel with a maelstrom awaiting him at the bottom, and his breath sped until he was hyperventilating, and he had to lean against the banister because he was going to fall.
Then Draco was there, holding Harry firmly around the waist, and murmuring over and over to him, “Harry, it’s all right, we’ll get him back, it can’t be as bad as it looks-“
“Yes, it can.”
Harry looked up. Michael stood at the head of the stairs, and gazed down at him with an expression of vicious glee that Harry had last seen matched by Bellatrix Lestrange, his fingers tracing the burn on his face, over and over.
“You took so many precious things from me,” he hissed at Harry. “My brother, my mother, my sister, my self-respect-“ His eyes flicked over Harry’s head, and focused on Draco. “The one boyfriend I wanted to have.” His gaze fastened on Harry again. “And you never, you never, paid attention to me the way you did to other people, or tried to extend your sympathy to my losses. Never. You didn’t even care that I was making friends with your brother, you thought I was so harmless.” He drew himself up. “Well, now I’ve proved you wrong.”
“Where is he, Michael?” Harry thought Snape had asked that. Then he realized it was his own voice.
“With the Dark Lord.” Michael held out his hands and laughed a little. “I’m afraid that I can’t give you a more specific location.”
A moment later, his face went white, and he sagged against the banister, though he didn’t scream. Harry’s magic had broken his arm. Harry only felt the impulse of the rage a moment later, as the magic twisted and flowed past him and lazily circled Michael, humming and purring. He could have lied to himself, told himself that that was the taint of Voldemort’s magic and not his, but he couldn’t. He would rip Michael apart if it would get him the answers he wanted.
“Where is the Portkey you used?” he demanded.
“The D-Dark Lord destroyed it,” Michael said, and then coughed as the magic tightened around his throat. “Sent me back here to tell you,” he added, with a spark of defiance.
Snap, and snap, and snap. Harry stove in three of Michael’s ribs. He was three parts of his mind: magic, and clear thoughts, and the roaring pain beneath that, so that he did not have to feel everything from the loss of his twin yet.
“Was it worth it?” he asked, in his father’s voice.
Michael tossed his head up, panting. “Yes,” he whispered in a strained voice. “Oh, yes. You have no idea. The look on your face-“
Harry drew back one hand. He knew what would happen when that hand traveled forward. Michael would die.
Draco snatched his wrist, and then interposed himself between Harry and Michael, leaning hard against his arm. Harry stared at him. He could see Draco, but only in between darting, twirling particles of white and red. “Get out of my way, Draco.”
“No,” Draco said, as calmly as if he were speaking to Lucius about tea.
“He has to die.”
“Oh, yes, he does,” Draco said. “But there’s someone with a greater claim than you have to destroying him, someone with a greater duty. Remember the Dark pureblood dances you learned as a child, Harry.”
And then he did, and Draco was right, and murder drew back and circled away and left him alone. Harry dropped his hand. Draco didn’t let it go, but pulled Harry close to him, one arm circling his shoulders.
And then Harry drew a breath, and began to weep like a thundercloud breaking. Distantly, he was aware of Draco binding Michael, and speaking slicing words about how nothing he could have done would be enough to earn Draco’s respect, but that was distantly.
His mind was full of pain and grief and guilt and screaming panic. Every time he tried to make a plan, he crashed full-on into the fact that he didn’t know what Voldemort would do with Connor.
The first of the Occlumency pools around his scar boiled into mist and vanished.