Great gratitude to all you readers and reviewers who have been following along and commenting so enthusiastically! That has certainly made this a fun experience for myself!
I believe somewhere in my earlier comments I had made some promise about Chapter 6 containing discussion of Harry's disciplinary hearing at the Ministry. In truth, I got part way through drafting this chapter and took a bit of time off to re-diagram the plot, and everything pointed to this being a largely 'historical' chapter instead. H&G will make it to the Ministry *next* chapter instead.
Chapter 6. Second Chance (August 11, 1995)
“Harry had a dream!” Ginny and Hermione both exclaimed at the same time.
“Er yes.” Harry blinked; startled by the stereophony. “I sort of had a bad dream.”
Sirius lit a soft glow at the tip of his wand and glanced at their faces with a raised eyebrow. “Okay, at least you all have your story straight. Er well, apart from Ron, that is..." He frowned at the sprawled form on the floor, whose twitches were now giving way to ordinary snores. "So how did everyone end up here then?"
“It's hard to describe.” Ginny edged back from Harry, bobbing her head equivocally. “I somehow sensed Harry's distress. Given what he did for me a few nights ago, I – I just wanted to help.”
Hermione nodded. “I woke up and saw Ginny's bed empty. I knew she'd been worried about Harry earlier in the evening, so I guessed she might head up here.”
“All right.” Sirius smirked wearily. “That checks out with the ruddy traffic patterns going past my door the past half hour.” He raised his wand to levitate Ron back into bed.
“So..." Harry fidgeted, establishing a bit more space between himself and Ginny. "You, uh, believe us?”.
“Hell no – I just wanted to see how sharp you were.” Sirius's deadpan turned to laughter at their scandalised expressions. “Good try mates. When I was your age, I'd never be caught prowling after two in the morning without a well greased alibi. Yours are decent, though personally I never got much traction with anything so sweet and innocent.”
“Sweet and innocent?? I beg your pardon?!” Hermione was practically hopping in place. “I'll have you know...”
“Easy tiger.” Sirius waggled his finger. “Save your protests for morning or you'll wake Molly. And believe me, you do not want to face her manner of inquisition tonight.”
Hermione sputtered into silence, glared at Sirius, then huffed in capitulation.
With another grin, Sirius tossed a blanket over Ron, then yawned. “Ah well. Obviously I'm more interested in getting back to sleep than interrogating you ruffians, so let's just forget any of this happened. On two conditions.”
“Namely?” Ginny raised an eyebrow.
“If this is all fun and games, then fine. But if you three are up to anything that Albus needs to know about then, as the titular master of this shambolic dump, I expect to be informed too. Understood?”
“Er, okay.” Harry nodded, albeit with a slight hesitation. “And the second condition?”
“For Merlin's sake, don't rouse any more redheads – they're a tetchy lot.” Sirius gave a final glance at the snoring Ron. “Now everybody get to their own bloody beds before we all roast in hell.”
Sirius left the bedroom and headed back to his quarters without bothering to confirm that his order had been obeyed. Hermione also stepped out of the chamber, but she lingered by the stairwell nearby, uncertain whether Ginny would willingly part from Harry's side.
Ginny was indeed reluctant to leave. Having released Harry from her embrace, she remained sitting on his bed for several minutes, her hand resting lightly on his, gazing out through the bedroom window at the murky night sky.
Harry shifted onto his side and curled his body comfortably against hers and stared diffusely at dimly lit paint-peel patterns on the far wall.
Neither said a word, even though Ginny had a great deal to ask. Indeed she was in the dark in more ways than one – for the first night in a while, she had very little idea what Harry had experienced.
Tonight's first dream she'd known only from a sharp, undefined terror that had jolted her out of bed, sending her racing up the stairs to his side. For Harry's second dream, Ginny had been fully awake, sitting beside him, desperately clutching his rigid sweaty hand, silently pleading for some sort of response...
Only once before in her life could she ever recall having been so frightened. Even now, the thought of it sent a tiny quiver through her shoulders.
“Are you okay?” Harry whispered.
Taking a deep breath, she nodded and smiled reassuringly. “Get some rest,” she said softly. Squeezing his hand, she rose from the bed and made her silent way out of the room.
In truth, Ginny was not 'okay', but she did not want to burden Harry with it right now. After what he has just been through, she sincerely hoped he'd be able to relax, settle comfortably for the rest of the night, and recuperate.
What Ginny did not want to worry him with was a deep trepidation that it was her turn now. Just like Harry before her, she sensed that the time had come for her to find her own bed, close her eyes, and proceed, with whatever courage she could muster, into a strange dark world of dreams.
On Ginny's way to the stairs, Hermione probably whispered something to her, and Ginny might well even have responded appropriately... but she had no recollection. Ginny didn't even recall settling her head onto the pillow because, by the time she was back in her own bedroom, the strength of the urgent summons had risen to drown out all conscious thought.
For all the urgency of that summons, the vision confronting Ginny was anticlimactic. A dank smoky cave in the northwestern fringe of Norfolk was not really a place she'd imagined herself needing, or wanting, to be.
Under other circumstances, she might have been vaguely curious about the mysterious Druidic rituals unfolding before her but, as it was, she needed every ounce of willpower to keep from bolting into the evening. The brooch was calling her with a clear and urgent message. The Publican was, once again, in dire need of a princess.
However, so was the Queen.
For the sake of Lanossëa's mother, Ginny remained in the cave. She watched and waited. And waited. Through it all, she forced herself to be silent and still, lest she again disturb the eccentric old Druid.
The famous wandmaker, she had discovered, was a rather sensitive crank when it came to his magical medications. Ginny's only offense had been to tremble, barely more than a twitch, when the brooch had first stirred... but even that had been enough to spark the Druid, pinning her with his strange, cloudy blue eyes.
Ginny didn't know whether she'd enraged, frightened, or merely fascinated the old man, but the bizarre experience had spooked her, and she'd done her best to avoid a repeat. Thus, for what felt like hours, she'd made no sound nor motion, avoiding the slightest whimper or fidget. She'd even largely controlled her facial expressions.
Her self-discipline had been successful, so far. But if the effort had to go on much longer she was liable to scream. Or howl. Or kick something, or... worse.
She took a long slow breath. Silently, she found herself making an invocation to one of Lanossëa's favorite deities, and earned a measure of equanimity.
Changing her mindset, she took her eyes off the tedious rituals and instead began to review the princess's memories. She searched for clues as to what importance this odd dream might have to her, to Harry, and to their various struggles but, unfortunately, there was no obvious connection.
The whole excursion into Coritani territory had been contrived to find the Queen a new wand and, ultimately, fate seemed to be sticking to the script. Apart from taking five uneventful minutes to choose one for Heanua, the Druid had consumed the entire late afternoon and evening in seeking a match for the wandless monarch of the Iceni.
After almost deciding on one wand quite some time ago, the ancient sorceror had put it away, lapsed into a long meditative silence, and had then roused himself again into an agitated state of bizarre magical exploration. Oddly, many of the Druid's spells seemed (according to Lanossëa's astute perception) to focus more on raw divination than on Boadicea's magical aura. It was almost as if he was not really seeking what best suited her magic, but rather a wand that might someday serve the Queen in a defining moment of destiny.
Whatever the goal, the Druid had spent much of the evening immersed in strange ceremonies, through which the normally abrasive Queen stood in remarkable forbearance.
Finally now, after a fire dance in which trails of multi-coloured luminescence trailed the hobbling wizard as he thrice circled the Queen carrying different wands, he lurched to a stop. Crouched in front of Boadicea, he extended one wand – a dark, ornate, and unusually long stick – toward her hand.
The Queen eyed the approaching wand. Reaching to accept it, a brilliant flash ripped through the dark cave with a resounding SNAP ... and the smell of ozone filled the air.
Startled, the Queen nearly dropped the wand, but recovered. Holding it aloft, the rod sparked again, then fell silent.
“And so it is.” The old Druid bowed before the Queen. “A wand of untold promise, so late to bloom, has finally chosen its path. I seek no gold, silver, cattle or grain in payment, but offer the wand to you so that it may grow to suit your need, until that need has passed.”
“I do not understand.” The Queen frowned. “You seek no payment for the wand?”
The man shook his head. “I require only that you return it to me once you no longer have need of it.”
The Queen regarded him with raised eyebrow... then nodded. “Once I have regained the staff of my grandfather, I shall indeed return to you this wand. If it has served me well, I shall reward your... kindness.” The Queen spent another searching moment looking at the peculiar wandsmith, then turned away.
“As you will.” The man grinned toothily. “But long before any of that, you must rest, O' Lady of the Iceni. Go forth from this hallowed cave, and please dwell the remainder of this night in the nearby stable. Take comfort in shelter and dry straw before you depart on your perilous ways.”
“Thank you.” The Queen's tone was neutral. She examined the wand one last time and put it safely away. She raised a hand to summon her two daughters, and led the way out toward the night sky.
Ginny held back for a moment, watching as the downcast and barely responsive Heanua made her obedient way from the cavern. Ginny had just turned to follow when a hand – a vice-like grip on her wrist – locked her in place.
"...!!!" Heart nearly leaping from her chest, her voice failed. Unable to protest or resist, she waited, breathless, as the other two women walked heedlessly out of sight without her.
Standing there with the Druid, the cave fell into complete silence. Finally, the quiet darkness gave way to the Druid's voice. It was oddly changed – almost purring, yet also grandfatherly.
“You are the lioness who speaks with two hearts.”
Two hearts?? For a half-instant, Ginny's mind raced, imagining he'd somehow seen through Lanossëa's facade to perceive Ginny's own thoughts hidden within... Then she locked herself down, recalling a gem of insight imparted to her years ago by her brothers Fred and George.
'Most Divination is Muggle magic,' they'd told her. 'Seers are frauds. They'll act queer, say something odd, but all the while they're reading your face to see what sticks.'
Ginny knew full well that the twins got better grades in Trelawney's courses than anyone else in her family, and for years she'd rolled her eyes watching them pry secrets from Ron and Percy. Not wishing to be played for a fool, Ginny sighed wearily and cocked a bland eyebrow as the Druid circled her.
The Druid ignored the dispassion. He hummed to himself for a moment. “You speak with two hearts, and yet you also speak to two hearts... And every voice to every heart bids you depart from here with all haste!” His eyes lit up, sparkling, as if he had just solved an abstract riddle.
“Uh? Yes.” Ginny blinked in surprise and unguarded agreement. Whatever disconcerting game the man might be playing, he was perfectly right about one thing - she truly and desperately did wish to get out of this cave, and longed (in all honesty) to escape the whole region.
The old man cackled in amusement and tugged on her arm. “Come thither with me, my two-hearted lioness. I will speed you on your way, but first I must introduce you to your steed!”
The Druid led her out of the cave but, instead of making for the small stable they had passed on their way to the cave, he found path winding up a thorny hillside.
“You have seen death, have you not?” he inquired as they walked.
“Have I what?” Ginny looked at him in confusion.
“Have you laid your eyes upon the dying? Accompanied them unto their moment of release?”
Ginny did not really know how to answer, but the princess's voice rose in certitude from within her. “Yes, I have tended the dying. I am versed in the lore of herbs, and care for the sick. I gave comfort to my grandmother in her final moments and I... I...”
“Do tell me,” the old man urged. “You require not my judgment, but I am a curious old fellow.”
Lanossëa's quiver settled and she sighed. “My father was stricken by a cursed arrow. I was not able to revive him.”
For the briefest moment, Ginny's mind was briefly filled with the image of once-hale man, looking pale and feverish... then the memory quenched.
The Druid nodded thoughtfully as he led the way past a heavy thicket and into a moonlit copse.
Ginny gasped.
Standing tall before her was a beast of monstrous, nightmarish aspect, yet seemingly also very gentle. Horselike, but with an appallingly skeletal head and body, and huge leathery wings folded to its sides, the creature was drinking peacefully from a hillside spring.
The Druid's grip on her arm loosened, and Ginny found herself stepping freely forward. Without fear, she extended one hand toward the exotic being. A reddish eye swiveled toward her, and the beast stirred and cautiously raised its muzzle to sniff her hand.
“This is a thestral." The Druid spoke from the edge of the copse, watching intently. “There is no animal more hallowed to our people, but few are less understood. A distant kin to the flying horse he is, but this creature has, in all its life, only ever sported two tail hairs. And one of these precious hairs, he donated to the wand that just chose your Queen.”
Ginny gently stroked the thestral's cheek for a moment, feeling its cool breath on her hand. She then stepped back, curiously, to examine its remarkably bare skin. No more than a dozen strands clung to the ridge of the animal's neck where a horse's mane would be. From its bony tail, Ginny saw that indeed, there now hung only one solitary hair – long and dark, faintly glistening.
Observing her, the old man nodded to himself in solemn approval. “If a thestral is to surrender even a single hair, it is an extraordinary generosity. For a thestral may live to ages immemorial, never to be slain by the hands of any man or woman... save by a wand possessing one of its own hairs.”
Ginny took a step back from creature, gazing wide-eyed at it, wondering how ancient it might be; what old deeds and centuries it may have borne witness to.
“But we must never speak it!”
Ginny blinked at the Druid's abrupt change in tone; his ominous, sepulchral edict. She looked back to see his stooped form now straightened; his face raised to distant starlight.
"We must never again speak of slaying a thestral.” The Druid shook his head slowly. “Such act would be an abomination, with consequences too horrible to contemplate.”
“I agree.” Ginny nodded, turning again to appreciate the rare, powerful, yet unassuming beast. “The Iceni have a great love of magical beasts. Neither I, nor the Queen, nor any of her subjects would ever endanger such noble a creature.”
As if weighing her sincerity, the beast turned its large head and met her eyes for a long moment. With a silent exhalation, it lowered its front haunches.
The Druid gazed appraisingly at the animal, and then to Ginny. “The thestral deems you worthy. He shall be your steed, my lioness. He will bear you now upon your exigent quest of heart.”
“Now?” Ginny asked.
“Of course. We are all bound to our destiny, and yours lies thither. Your steed awaits, and your patience for lesser matters is very nearly at end.”
“But the Queen...?”
The Druid shook his head. “The Lady of the Iceni requires you not for what she must now do. She will have need of you again some day, but to rejoin her at the moment that is decreed, you must first leave her side.”
Ginny stared at the strange sorcerer's profile, framed against a background of stars. It unnerved her to hear him speak of the future with such assuredness as others might recount the past, but his accuracy in perceiving the present was equally unsettling. It was as though he knew her thoughts and dreams as well as (or better than) she herself did.
And he was right about her impatience. Unless she soon followed the call of the brooch, it would drive her spare.
Ginny placed a hand on the neck the large gentle animal. “Please convey to the Queen my sincere regrets,” she said, slipping one leg over the thestral's back, and tucking her foot into a fold beneath its wing.
The Druid tittered softly in the background.
Resigned to many things unknown – what perils she must race to find tonight, and what fate might some day reunite her with the Queen and Heanua – Ginny settled into a curved span between spurs of large vertebrae, and the thestral rose smoothly to its feet, spreading monumental wings. In the span of several white-knuckle seconds, she found herself aloft; her long hair freed to the crisp night air.
Harry stirred to the sensation of a fresh breeze lightly ruffling his hair. A faint glow of undefined hope was lodged in his chest, and the sensation did not depart even after he had opened his eyes to the dark stone walls.
Looking up to a glimmer of moonlight peering in through a high narrow window, he guessed himself to be in a Camboricum dungeon.
With some effort, he stirred from the dusty floor and sat up. His back ached from the close-range stunning spell, but he seemed to have not suffered greatly in his abduction. No bones were broken, and the bruising was only minor. A cursory scan of his limbs revealed no major wounds.
Harry knew that a harrowing confrontation was in his near future, but he didn't dwell on it. His mind wandering, he spent a moment wondering why his captors had ventured here to this far corner of the empire to seek him out, then shrugged to himself. He was fairly certain that he would not like the answer but, beyond that, speculation seemed pointless.
He next considered what he might do to prepare for the coming ordeal... but he had no idea what to expect. Finally, he decided simply to embrace the vague comfort that persisted in his mind, and hope that peace would bring clarity.
She will find me. And together we will find a way...
He glanced absently at the fine dry silt blanketing the floor. Spotting a small piece of wood that had chipped from the cell's sole wooden bench, he picked it up and lodged it into the curve of his palm with the comfort of a crafted stylus.
Turning his attention to the silt, Harry reached forward with his empty hand and swept carefully across the dirt several times to create a smooth, blank surface. He lowered his stylus to a corner of his medium and, with the Publican's practiced confidence as a skilled draughtsman, he pulled the point across the silt to etch a fluid curve.
Other marks followed as a face of strength and beauty – bold and resolute, yet gracefully compassionate – took shape from moon-cast shadows across the small silt ridges. Pausing in his meditative labour, he gazed for a long moment at his creation, wistfully recalling the person it depicted. He reached his free hand forward, as if to caress the princess's soft hair... then startled.
“How long has he been awake?” The brisk, unpleasant voice echoed from a corridor somewhere above Harry's cell.
“I know not, your honour.”
Harry leaped to his feet, hastily rubbing out the image. He winced in momentary regret, but pushed the sentiment from his mind and brushed the dust from his hand. He listened as several distinct sets of footsteps descended a stone staircase down toward his subground cell.
For a moment, he thought he heard a third, more soft-spoken man, then the gruff second voice raised again, saying, “Yes, it has been ten minutes since I glanced down the spy hole and noted his motions. I came for you immediately, as you requested.”
The first voice grumbled something indistinct as a torch came into view, illuminating three figures as they turned the corner toward the cell. A stocky man in Legionary armor turned a heavy metal bolt in the door, and stepped aside.
“Aperiam,” spoke a voice that sounded, to Harry, rather like a somewhat more mature version of his own. The cell bars flashed in low incandescence for a moment, then swung open of its own accord. Harry lifted his gaze expectantly. No longer empowered by the element of surprise, the first horseman from the Camboricum platea strode into the cell, followed by a second person – a young man, barely more than a boy, with fine, straight brown hair framing a wide forehead and an intelligent, curious expression.
Harry stood in feigned dispassion but, beneath his polished shroud, the faces stirred bile in his soul. Steeling himself, he fixed his eyes on the Publican's eldest son, and nodded in stiff recognition. “Tio. Twelve years it has been. Twelve years, and yet you seem no more than a manlike form of the boy I left behind.”
The tall, raven-haired man with eyes of deep coal grey glanced at Harry. “Well met, father.” Impatient with pleasantries, it was clear he was far more intent on assessing the Publican's physical and mental state.
Harry shrugged and turned his attention to the second of the horsemen. “And little Mus, you have grown tall. Were that my last memories of you had been happier.” Beneath the show of calm dispassion, Harry felt a distant, quiet ache from the Publican's bereft sense of family. Not wanting the weakness to show, he leveled his voice. “So, pray tell what brings you to far flung Britannia? I had never expected to see either of you set foot beyond the tall shadows and fine marble walls of Palatine Hill.”
The one named Tio sneered. “As always, you misjudge us, father. We have traveled far in our young years – searching for the truths that you have always fled. And finally we searched even for you, since our destinies we cannot quite decouple.”
“Truths that I fled?!” Harry's fists clenched as the Publican's emotions smouldered through his facade. “There is no truth in children pledging to murder innocents. I warned you never to seek me without recanting the wicked ways of your filthy cabal. And so here you are before me. Are you prepared to renounce your society of unconscionable lunatics? Recant Tio! Recant Mus! Or forever leave me in peace!”
“Recant? Father, is it truly possible for you to remain so painfully deluded?” Tio's poor attempt to feign bemusement lurched quickly to disdain and annoyance. “My brother and I were misguided once too. Sadly, we led ourselves to believe that you would come back to us and lend your fatherly strength to a just cause. Yet Mother always warned us that you would never cease your treasonous coddling of crass barbarians. Mus and I have long since accepted the truth of her words, but after all this time you still believe it possible that my brother and I would surrender our vows of truth and justice, and accede to your pathetic confusion?”
Harry felt his jaw stiffen as he struggled to contain the Publican's outrage. “Confused to believe it possible that you would rediscover compassion and reason?? No, I never quite dared to believe. And yet, in each passing year I have meditated on you, seeking in my heart some sign that I might return you from your path of ruination, and save you from your heinous, murderous associates. Many times my heart has quailed as I heard of dark crimes mounting in your footsteps, and yet somehow I never truly abandoned hope. ”
The Publican's eyes bored deeply into his eldest son, daring the icy soul to betray some tiny vestige of humanity.
Tio responded with a loathsome glare morphing slowly to a smirk. Seconds spanned toward a minute as the pair faced each other, motionless until...
With a lightning flick of his wrist, the young man's wand jabbed Harry's throat. “CRUCIO!”
Every nerve rending in violation; Harry felt his flesh tearing. His sight blurred; he shuddered... then steadied.
Defiance flaring in his soul, his eyes cleared, focusing razor-sharp on Tio. Somehow Harry's inner strength, woven together with the Publican's force of will, was resisting the agony. Droplets of perspiration dotted his forehead, but he remained standing, locking stares with his tormentor.
Tio's brutal visage spasmed in alarm. Shaking in agitation, he redoubled the curse, pouring his every effort into the dreadful spell.
“On your knees, father!” Mus approached with a quivering voice. “On the floor. Beg of our mercy so we may grant it!” His breath rattling, the young man's tremulous hand gestured downward.
Agony dancing on the tip of every nerve, the Publican's feverish mind reached deep within and grasped the memory of a soothing touch; the gentle healing fingers of his princess. Taking the cue, Harry found his own recollection of Ginny's embrace; a sensation of her stroking the back of his neck, like cool raindrops on a sun-scorched heath.
Within one man, two hearts bound to two hearts stood tall... rose even taller as Harry and the Publican reinforced each others' pride and determination to prevail. An aura of compassion and forgiveness, the universal defence against savagery, pushed away the fear and hatred.
“To your knees, father!” Mus pleaded one last time. Finally, quaking in agitation, the younger son kicked out frantically, connecting with the back of his father's knee.
Harry felt himself lurch, about to topple hard down toward the cell floor... yet even still he adjusted, staggered, and regained his footing. His eyes returned, resolute, to the Publican's shaken sons.
Tio lowered his wand. After chewing his lip apprehensively, his face hardened into a sneer as he closed in on the Publican. “Where is your whore, father?” The young man's voice descended to a snakelike hiss. “Take us to your bloody bitch's whelp!”
“My what?!” Harry blinked. Baffled and still recovering from the Cruciatus, he reeled sideways an inch, then hastily caught himself and pulled fully upright again, shaking his head. “What in Jupiter's name are you talking about?”
Mus looked at him, puzzled. “Where is your lover? Mother always said that you left us to be with another woman, so where is the mistress?”
Harry stared. He could feel the Publican practically choking in disgust. “That is a filthy lie! I left your mother because she took from me my two sons, and enslaved them to the path of darkness. Finally I left even my sons for, after all my entreaties, they lost all common decency, and pledged their lives to the vile Order of Letum! ”
Tio's eyes flared; he trembled and began to raise his wand again, but Mus grabbed his brother's wrist and the rage subsided into smouldering hatred.
“Tell us where to find the woman and your other son,” Tio repeated dangerously. “Tell us, and we will permit you, our foolish and unrepenting flesh and blood, to live out the last of your pointless days in solitude, far from here.”
“This is madness.” Harry shook his head, letting the Publican's flummoxed indignation surge. “I cannot tell you what cannot be told. There is no other son. There was no other woman. I left your mother not in lust but in sorrow. I sought this distant province to escape the pain of your heinous crimes. I came to grieve and atone for my inability to save you from your wilfull insanity. I never once sought the pain of bringing into the world yet another perfidious son. I answer not because the answer is none!”
Tio glared at him. “You may dare lie to me, father...” He paused; a glint lit in his eyes. “But no man may contradict the Oracle of Delphi!”
“Oracle of Delphi?” Harry frowned.
“Yes father, the Oracle of Delphi.” Tio nodded with an air of superior conviction. “There is no higher source of truth available to any man, and while many years now come between oracular pronouncements, the great honour of such truth was bestowed upon me. For in my long pilgrimage, I was summoned to the slopes of Mount Parnassus, whereupon, after fasting for four days and nights a wondrous voice arose and spoke to me of the greatness rendered upon our family and its line. The Oracle instructed me as follows.”
Two chains of power
Faithless, true;
A clash predestined
Must ensue.
The union of the
Brothers two,
Shall fall unto the
Brother new.
Deadening silence fell as Tio's ominous words faded.
Mus coughed, breaking the stunned contemplation. “The warning of the Oracle is never untrue, father. We have come here only to learn from you exactly where we may find this 'brother new'. Tell us this, and this alone, and you shall live. We shall escort you from this province and release you far away into safe exile.”
Harry stared at the Publican's younger son. “Had I another son to betray I would not. But I answer you both truthfully. I, Paternas Peuerellius, have no sons. None!”
Now fully recovered from the effects of the Cruciatus curse, the Publican stood unwavering, fixing each of his sons with eyes of firm resolution. “These two damaged souls standing before me have, through sordid conduct, bequeathed any right to bear our distinguished family name, and never have I sought another woman to bear me an heir. If the Peuerellius line dies with me, then so be it.”
A difficult silence followed, with Tio seething quietly, and Mus staring at the earthen floor.
Harry shook his head. “I cannot imagine what you believed you could accomplish here. Surely you realise that, I ever even had a son, I would gladly lie, or die, to protect him. In this case, I need not waste your time or mine with misdirection; the truth will suffice perfectly.”
“You worthless old scrap!” Tio took a menacing step toward his father. “I'll tear...”.
“No.” Mus's restraining hand clasped his brother's shoulder. He squinted distractedly, thinking. “Letum, placere adiuva nos...”
“What is the matter, Mus?” Tio gave his brother a flickering glance, thought still glaring at his father.
“Tio...” Mus chewed worriedly on his finger. “The Oracle may have spoken the truth, as...”
“Of course the Oracle spoke the truth!” Tio rounded on his brother, seething. “I heard it with my own ears!”
“No, please let me finish.” Mus stiffened, holding his ground. “The Oracle spoke true, certainly, but the prophesy said nothing of what year or season this would come about. So perhaps this 'brother new'... has not been born yet? "
Another long silence ensued.
Tio's face twisted. “You believe both the Oracle and our wretched old father?” He ran an anxious hand through his hair.
Mus nodded thoughtfully.
“Then there is one simple way to forever put an end our worries.” Tio's eyes blazed anew.
“Do you mean...?” Mus stared, his mouth remained open, unable to complete the question. Biting his lip, the younger son turned slowly away.
With an expression of chilling hatred that neither Harry Potter nor the Publican could ever have summoned for even the bitterest of enemies, the elder son raised his wand...
Ginny soared through the inky skies of ancient Cambridgeshire, marking passage of the various landmarks by moonlight. Her progress had been swift, but it took time for even the fleet wings of the thestral to cover the many leagues south to Camboricum, and the increasing urgency of the brooch song made each fleeting instant feel painfully slow.
Finally, she spied flickering torches that marked her destination – the Roman town with a neighbouring military fort perched on an adjacent hill in Duroliponte. The thestral raced knowingly for the latter.
Although it was now the deepest, darkest hour before the first glimmers of northeastern twilight would appear, Ginny took no chances and disillusioned herself. Knowing full well that many soldiers would have seen death and might be able to spot a large thestral, she also cast a notice-me-not charm on her steed.
The brooch was pulling them toward the northwest corner of the fortress. As they approached, Ginny squinted, appraising the structure in the dim light. The princess had never laid eyes upon a building so large, with its thick stone walls and two high watch towers, but to Ginny the magnificence paled relative to Hogwarts and didn't faze her. What troubled her, however, was that the brooch and the thestral were both steering them down to ground level toward a span that had no gates, no doors, and only a few small ventilation slots for windows. If the walls in that corner of the fortress were magically reinforced, she doubted that she would be able to penetrate the barriers to find the Publican.
Convinced that the straightest path was futile, Ginny tugged on the thestral's vertebra. The animal seemed to hesitate for a moment, then acceded to her judgment, allowing her to guide their flight upwards to the high ramparts about forty feet above the corner dungeon.
The thestral lifted its wings high in a delicate braking maneuver. With graceful but dizzying aerobatics, the animal landed its hooves smoothly and quietly on the wooden platform, and lowered its front haunches for Ginny to dismount.
Feeling a sudden urgency, Ginny leaped from the thestral. She was about to dash for the corner tower, but she hesitated, feeling the beast's wise eye questioning her.
She turned and met its gaze. “Thank you, my friend. You have done me a great service; I release you now.”
The thestral continued to stare at her for a long moment, its large sentient eyes conveying a sense of deep misgivings. Finally, it nodded its head, extended its wings and, with a sudden burst of wind, regained the night skies.
Ginny turned to race for the tower, seeking some way of descent, when...
“Invenias qui honorem!”
Knowing the voice instantly, Ginny spun around, casting her shield just as the revealing spell stripped away her disillusionment charm. Her heart racing, she found herself glarinf at a man she loathed with deep passion. Although neither Ginny nor the princess had never before set eyes upon the Legate, there was no disguising to Ginny an unmistakably detestable Malfoy-esque grin, while the princess recognized, in outrage, what the man held in his hands...
... The mighty horse-head staff of the Iceni!
This was not a moment for calculation. Normally, Ginny would likely have thought twice before attacking such a formidable weapon in the hands of a powerful wizard, but not now. She lunged, a flaming torrent of stunners erupting from her wand. It was a feat that her fifteen-year-old self couldn't have dreamed of... but the Legate's shield surged effortlessly; his oily smile barely flickering.
Enraged, Ginny unleashed offensive hexes she had barely even heard of – incendio, reductor, and a choice array of penetrating and concussive spells intended to batter her opponent's infuriating shield... but the staff held firm through the onslaught, and the Legate began to sneer.
“Fight, you sniveling coward!” Ginny shook her fist, seething over the wasted effort and lost time. “Fight me or step aside!”
The Legate grinned lasciviously. “Your head is far too pretty to bother itself over the pathetic, dying prisoner below. Come away with me, my sweet thing. I can take care of you in a fashion no Publican could ever dream of! Lay down your wand and accompany me to my villa, where you may feed my many appetites.”
“Bastard!” Her visceral shriek tearing through the night, she launched an astonishing barrage of explosive spells that drove the no-longer-smiling Legate to his knees...
Then everything failed.
Ginny's heart quenched. Her final spell wilted into a spreading darkness.
Harry stared at the wand. He then lifted his gaze to address the barren eyes of his doppelganger – two glittering beads of shattered obsidian embedded in ice.
Harry opened his mouth. He was going to ask his captor what abominable frailty could impel a powerful young wizard, without provocation, to kill an unarmed man?
Neither Harry nor the Publican felt anger or hatred. Their thoughts were of sorrow for a misguided youth, and regret for not having tried one last time to coax him from seductive darkness.
However, there was no time for words; no final chance for reconciliation... because Tio would not entertain second thoughts.
The young man's words emerged with preternatural, mesmerising coldness. “Avada...”
Ginny was floating. She was somewhere nondescript... meaningless. Somewhere dim and impenetrably cold.
Where was she? Was she dead?
Perhaps...
But what had she died from?
From a broken heart?
From failure?
Failure. The overwhelming burden of it deflated Ginny's spirit and zeal like the weary compunction of a leaking balloon. In her life, she had experienced many normal human disappointments, but none had even remotely prepared her for this sense of flat desolation. Nothing felt so hopeless. Never before had she made such a fundamental and crucial promise, and...
Had she had truly now broken it?
Had she truly let him fall?
Perhaps on some level Harry would know that she had tried… He would surely empathise with her plight. All of those evitable delays, however inane and endless, were hardly her fault. He would understand that, wouldn't he? And there was nothing anyone could have done about the Legate's artful obstruction, was there?
Yet just as Ginny realised that Harry would, indeed, forgive and understand, she also knew that she, herself, abhorred the failure. A momentary blaze of caustic fire cut through the numbing cold.
Why had she left the Publican's side in the first place? Why go off with a Queen who barely acknowledged her? Or maybe that choice didn't matter. Maybe her defeat was brutally, excruciatingly simple.
Shouldn't she have listened to the brooch and thestral, and steered down away from the treacherous ramparts??
But what other option had there been? What had she overlooked?
Now she would never know. For this failure was absolute and forever, wasn't it?
There could be no second chance, because in the instant that the first syllable of the killing curse had welled in some evil wizard's throat; at the very moment that the first pulses of green glowing hatred had coalesced in the inhuman monster's wand, Ginny knew that the Publican's life was about to end.
Ginny lacked any detailed logic to explain why the Publican's death should have been so wholly devastating to her, but she somehow grasped that an irrevocable die had been cast in the struggle of light and dark. One death of a single imperial statesment many many centuries ago would seemingly compound its way through history so that, long after all Romans and Iceni had gone to their graves, Ginny's best friend ever – the one she had vowed to never let fall – would be no more.
Harry Potter would never survive Voldemort's killing curse. He would never befriend Ron Weasley, nor visit the burrow, nor ever save Ginny from the Chamber of Secrets.
He would no longer even be born.
There comes a point when realisation becomes desolation. Where there are no tears to shed, nor eyes to shed them. At that point, all that seems to remain is a weariness.
There is nothing left now.
Please take me away.
Yet, although Ginny recalled those hollow words from a past dream, this time was different. She did not fade into black nothingness. Instead she felt a stirring.
She found herself reflecting upon an extraordinary young man who had brought meaning to her life; who had shared with her that quiet humour, modesty and compassion; who was the wizarding world's only remaining hope.
He had come to her in his hour of need, seeking her helping hand so that he could bring hope to a nation teetering on the brink. Harry had asked from her a favour, and she had made a promise.
Had she truly broken her promise? Was the favour forever voided? Would Harry never ask for anything more? Was he, himself, no more? Had he vanished from history?
Yet… if Harry Potter never existed, how could she now be regretting her failure to him? How could she think of him at all? How could he possibly still find a way to fill her heart with some very distant (but real!) memories of joy?
Ginny focused her thoughts on simple remembrance – his perennially mussed hair, his slender hands wielding a wand, his piercing eyes...
In her reverie, she found she could thrust back the pernicious thoughts of a world that had never contained her best friend ever. She could dispel the ghastly dystopic images of skulls, and the horrible marching, chanting children… because those were all lies!
In recognizing the lies, Ginny finally reaffirmed the truth.
“Harry...” As Ginny spoke, her voice became substance, regaining strength and clarity. “I will never let you fall.”
Ginny was convinced of this inalienable fact. She was so utterly convinced that she was barely startled to feel the rough but reassuring hide of a thestral braced between her legs, and the cold moonlit breeze whipping through her hair.
Bracing herself with all her strength, she crushed herself low against her loyal steed and willed it onward, onward, and downward!
Because Ginny had a promise to keep!
When fate hangs razor-sharp in the balance, approach it with open eyes. Let all distractions fall away, and look plainly on the face of truth.
Truth, to the Publican, was that his princess would not fail him.
Truth, to Harry, was that Ginny would not let him fall.
Truth to us all, however, is that only a fool does naught to help himself.
Neither the Publican nor Harry were fools.
The ancient utterance, 'Kedavra ', had just shaped itself from breath and hatred when Harry's muscles jolted. Eyes ablaze, he lunged forward and to the side. As one wrist and knee hit the ground rolling, he lashed out with his other hand, seizing Tio's wand arm. Hauling the startled captor off balance, they barreled together into the cowering Mus, and the three men careened headlong into the far wall.
As they staggered, the wayward killing curse shot belatedly from Tio's wand, blasting high up on the exterior wall at the very juncture where a thunderous crash was, just then, striking from above.
Tons of hard, heavy stone thundered down onto the very spot where the three men had stood an instant before.
In the chaos, Harry pried himself loose from the dazed figures of the Publican's two sons. Squinting through the swirling dust, he turned toward the center of the cell block. Presiding over a great pile of rubble; bathed in the silvery moonlight shining down from the open sky above, was a sight that nearly made him cry out for joy.
“You've a flair for grand entrances!” Harry grinned as he accepted Ginny's hand and leaped onto the thestral's back.
“I always liked your style too,” Ginny replied with a laugh. “And this time I didn't even have to steal you a wand.”
Harry gave her a puzzled look... then saw what he held in his hand. Somehow amid the struggle and mayhem, he had walked away with the wand that had nearly murdered him.
Hermione rolled over, stretched, and opened her eyes to a rosy predawn glow peaking in around the curtain. She gazed across the room...
... and gasped.
“Bloody...!” Hermione coughed away the raw expletive. “Blazing heck, Harry! What are you doing here?? After the close shave last night, I wake up and find...?!” A vein pulsed unattractively on her forehead. “Urrrghh!! You two are impossible!”
Perched on the side of the chamber's other bed, Harry barely stirred. His attention was far too taken with his best friend, with whom he was sharing a radiant unbreakable smile.
After a while, a quizzical look flickered across Harry's forehead as he realized that someone had spoken. “Huh?” He cocked his head. “Are we impossible, Ginny? Is that what all this is?”
“Impossible? Hmmm...” Ginny pursed her lips. “No Harry. Quite inexplicable, to be sure, but there's no such thing as complete impossibility.”
“Right.” Harry nodded thoughtfully to Ginny. “No Hermione, we're not impossible – just inexplicable.”
Hermione gawked at them for a long moment.
Finally, she closed her mouth and huffed loudly. “I bloody well hope not,” she declared, with no further attempt to suppress the epithet, “because I know two people who are going to have a bit of explaining to do today!”
Arretez! Stoppez vous! That's the end of the chapter!
What follows below is an old unimproved version that I simply can't get rid of. I've tried! Please skip along to chapter 7.