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Significant Digits, Epilogue

Significant Digits, Epilogue


ἔσχατος ἐχθρὸς καταργεῖται ὁ θάνατος·


≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

The Tower
June 1st, 1999
Three weeks later

Hermione gave herself a moment to look around the room, moving from face to face.  So few familiar faces: Percy Weasley, Amelia Bones, and Dolores Umbridge.  Percy was smiling confidently on her left, while Amelia and Dolores were engaged in whispered conversations with their neighbors.

Many more of those present were relatively new, either to her or to the Tower.  He Jin of the Court of Rubies.  Per Aavik-Söderlundh-Ellingsen, on mission for the nobility of Europe.  And others: a Westphalian appointed by Hig, who was now unchallenged in his dominance over the surviving rump of the Council; several wizards and witches from various strata of the Confederation, chosen as representatives-at-large; a goblin who was present in the same capacity, nominally representing Beings; a domovoi of Russia sent by the Thunderer on behalf of the Slavic tradition; and wizards from Nigeria, Dunedin, and Chile.

It was almost a parody of oligarchy, with stronger states and Things trying to cement their local power.  The small nods towards democracy would have been pathetic if they hadn’t actually represented progress.

Every little step is important, but there’s still so much work to do, thought Hermione.  Proportional regional representation for wizards; similar representation for Beings and some sort of system for Muggles; a federal system to incorporate adversarial interests; strong backing for select NGOs for science and healing... and so much more.  She could almost see the future stretching out ahead of her, in all of its strangeness and complexity.

It might have been disheartening if Hermione hadn’t been so eager to get started.  There were so many lives to save, and she was in a position to help without a minute of delay.  She smiled.  Not one more minute.

All right, then.  Time to do a little dance.

“Thank you, everyone, for coming,” said Percy.  “You should all have an itinerary, but I have extras if you need them.  If you don’t mind, we’ll begin with introductions, and then we’ll lay out our current status and our future plans.”

“There is much we need to do,” broke in Per, ignoring the orderly start of the meeting and the offered itinerary, his face haggard and serious with urgency.  Percy looked mildly annoyed.  “We must begin immediately to work on our defenses.  The Muggles and the monsters and the other things… we must plan for their control.”

He Jin cut in after the Norden diplomat, leaning forward and pointing out in calm and clipped words that the strange blurry monsters with fishlike eyes had been spotted in Ulan Bator a day ago, and there was no telling where they might go next.

The Westphalian agreed, nodding along with the mandarin and adding, “Our resources are a fraction of what they were, and it’s taking everything we have simply to maintain the Statute of Secrecy.  And that’s not even mentioning the villains behind it all -- the ones Reg called the ‘Three.’ ”

“Yes,” said Hermione, rising up from her seat slightly.  The others quieted, and attention focused on her.  “You are all absolutely right,” she said, and she put force behind her words: cold steel.  She pressed her lips tightly together, then gave a small nod, as though in confirmation of some inner resolution.

“Our current situation has become untenable,” she continued.  “If another attack arrived, we’d be wiped out.  There is one member of the Three at large, assuming we have not fallen prey to misinformation in that regard -- I can imagine a clever group adopting a misleading name -- as well as a small army of Unseelie and many other threats.  Even with the help of new allies,” and she nodded to the Curdite who was there on behalf of the goblins and other Beings, “we have barely been able to hold things together.  Thousands and thousands of people and goblins lost their lives on Götterdämmerung, and we are vulnerable as never before.”

“Then now is the time to take hold of the Muggles, as our enemy did, and as we once did in old times,” said the Russian domovoi.  “We must command their numbers for our own.”  The New Zealand representative nodded her head, vigorously.

“Yes,” agreed Hermione once more.  Amelia and Dolores ended their hushed conversation, turning to look at her with shock and disbelief, and even Percy turned to stare at her.  “I know that for many of you, this will be unimaginable, but I agree: it’s the only way.  The world has changed, and all of us have seen things happen that we never could have believed.”


≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

Elsewhere.
At the same time.

Limpel Tineagar’s face had been frozen into an unpleasant expression of dismay and pain.  Reg Hig was reminded of the stories of how the Eleusinian Mysteries had punished its enemies, petrifying them into living statues and then enchanting their limbs so that they could be adjusted into humiliating positions.  It seemed petty to today’s scholars of history, but its effectiveness couldn’t be discounted -- the Mysteries had maintained their hegemony over all of the Mediterranean for generations.

Not that they could do much, here, he thought, looking at Tineagar’s maimed body, floating in the air in front of him, stunned stiff.  One arm cut away at the shoulder, the other at the elbow.  He’d heard that Amelia Bones had done this, in the last moments of a fight on Hogwarts’ roof.  He wondered if it had been punitive, necessary, or simply an accident of victory.  Bones is not a cruel witch, but a new Eleusinian Mysteries has arisen.  I can’t ignore the implications of that, even if I am a part of it.

That last thought was some comfort, at least, he thought as he looked at the broken body of the betrayer, floating along at his wand’s command.  The great merchants and old families of Tidewater had been murdered, wiped out of life as thoroughly as if they’d never existed, but those Americans that were left would be an equal part of the new world.  When the Council of Westphalia rose again -- and that Thing would rise again, even if Hig had to spend the rest of his life rebuilding its ranks and its strength -- the Americas would no longer be in the shadows, jockeying for leverage within the Confederation.

“Councilor Hig, sir,” called a voice, and Hig looked up, returning from his reverie.  It was the head of the DMLE, young Diggory, and four others.  One was an auror that Hig recognized, but not the rest… they looked nervous and unsettled.  Ranks were thin all over, and Hig supposed these must be new recruits or patrol-wizards pressed into more heady service than that to which they were used.

“Director Diggory, hello,” said Hig.

“Hullo,” said Diggory.  The young man looked haggard, but somehow that made him look even taller and more handsome.  His expression was solemn, perhaps due to their surroundings.  The atrium of the British Ministry of Magic still bore scars and ragged wounds on every wall and surface.  The basics had been put back in order, but it would be a long time before the cosmetic damage could be repaired -- and even longer before the memories would fade.  Hig thought of Tidewater again, and shuddered.

“Here is my delivery,” said Hig, gesturing with his wand.  Tineagar’s body floated between them gently, as though wafted by the wind.  “Good riddance.  Have your people strip her mind, and if there’s anything left when you’re done, tell her that her home is gone.”

Diggory didn’t reply, watching Hig with a sad expression.  He gestured to one of the witches with him, and she cast her own levitation spell on Tineagar, taking over from Hig.

“I’ll be headed back later tonight,” Hig said, “after taking some time to try to get together some people.”

“Checking up on friends?”  Diggory asked, as he stared down at the frozen face of Tineagar.

“No,” Hig said, shaking his head.  “There are some expats of the Americas here in Britain.  From all over… Chile, Brazil, the States, Canada, et cetera.  I’m going to touch base with a few of them and see if they’d be amenable to coming home.”

“Make sense.  I’m sorry about what happened.”

“It could have been worse,” Hig said.  “Salem escaped without a scratch on a single student, thanks to the goblins and centaurs, and Houston and Buenos Aires only lost a handful.  And we’ll rebuild.  Everyone, everywhere, needs to rebuild.”  He gestured broadly around the atrium, as though to illustrate his point.

“We’ll be here to help.”

“Thank you,” Hig said, and sighed.  He shook his head.  “Sorry, it’s too easy to be gloomy, these days.  All is well with you?”

“As well as can be expected,” Diggory said, nodding.  “I lost some friends and a cousin, but everyone lost someone.  It’s been too busy to really think about it.”

“Make sure you make time for yourself -- to keep a clear head,” Hig offered.  “In fact, maybe you want to have dinner tonight?  Take your mind off things?”

“Actually,” said Diggory, a bit sheepishly.  “I have an engagement tonight.”

“I heard rumors about a long-sought romance.  I suppose sometimes persistence pays off, eh?” said Hig, smiling gently.  A signal to the young man: levity is okay, even now with what happened in Tidewater, I won’t be offended.

Diggory shrugged.  “What can I say?” he asked.  “We’ve all been through so much, and sometimes a person comes out the other side a bit… well, bolder, I guess.  It’ll be new and probably fun, and worth giving it a chance, and anyway…”

And Diggory glanced with a smile over at the group that had accompanied him, where Pip was standing guard.  “…he did save my life.”

Pip noticed their attention.  He smiled hugely and gave them a little wave.  Then he returned to his work, straightening himself up and returning his attention to Tineagar… though she was hardly in a position to escape, even if she were somehow to wake, and though it didn’t seem as though any amount of dutifulness could erase the smile that was plastered on his face.

“Well then,” said Hig, and now his smile was rather more genuine.  “I hope you have a good evening.  I’m sure I’ll see you soon, Master Diggory.  Let’s hope for the best of luck -- in all our new beginnings.”

When Reg Hig left the Ministry of Magic, he found himself oddly optimistic.  Despite all of his common sense and despite everything he knew of history… he let himself believe that things might get brighter.  Things might get better.

Isn’t it pretty to think so.


≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

”Muggles are an existential threat,” Hermione said, firmly, looking around at everyone at the meeting table.  It was a new piece of furniture, without the scuffs and broken edge from Hermione’s demonstrations of anger three months ago.  New like everything else in this new Tower.  “Götterdämmerung showed that to everyone, even skeptics.  Harry had some strong beliefs on this, as you know, but I think we need a new plan.  The Statute of Secrecy made us vulnerable, since it encouraged us to separate ourselves and gather together into little enclaves.  There was a time when wizards and witches lived among Muggles, usually ruling them, and it would have been impossible to try any sort of magical genocide.  We need that protection again -- the protection of Muggles.”

“Madame Granger,” said Amelia, and her voice was harsh.  “I am surprised to hear this from you.  You used to moderate Mr. Potter’s approach, but now you sound more extreme than he ever did.  What is your idea -- that we attempt to seize control?  It’s not even practical, even if it weren’t a gross departure from our ideals.  We are so few… do you imagine we could dominate the Muggles when they have as many cities as we have people?”

“We have been intervening strategically for years,” said Hermione, coolly, standing up.  “On a small scale, even a handful of wizards can effect incredibly quick change at a minimum of risk.”

“I hardly think a few Hit Wizard squads are good evidence,” objected Dolores.  “And you know what they’re like.”


≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

Elsewhere.
At the same time.

“This seems like the perfect moment for sniping,” said Neville, in a hopeful whisper.  He scrunched himself forward enough to see over the rim of a huge spool of copper wire that was currently hiding him from sight, then ducked back down.  “Yes, sniping it is.  For sure.”

“If we did that, then --” said Fred, cocking his head to the side.

“-- wouldn’t he be dead?” said George, cocking his head to the other side.

“No, I just need to snipe the gun out of his hand,” said Neville.  “That can be healed.”

“Then there would be the blastbomb only to explode, I think,” said Bogdanova, peering around the corner for a moment.  She pulled her head back and turned to Neville with a mocking smile.  “Which means all of our problems here would be gone very shortly... yes, you have convinced me.”

“I can snipe his other hand, too,” offered Neville.  “Then he can’t blow up the bomb.”

“This might be one of those situations that can’t be solved with sniper rifles,” mused George, contemplatively.

“Although now that we say that out loud, it just sounds silly,” contemplated Fred, musingly.

“We can use the Extinguishing Charm on the bomb.  That will stop any detonation,” said Neville.  “Then the sniping.”

“Snipe the hostages, as a distraction?” suggested Bogdanova.  Her appearance may have changed with rejuvenation, but her attitude certainly hadn’t been affected.

“Enchanted bullets, that’s the ticket,” said Fred.

“Zip around to both hands, whammo, knock him back and to the left,” agreed George.

Neville turned to squint at George suspiciously, but the Weasley twin only smiled serenely.  Neville sighed, and crossed his arms with a scowl.  “Fine, fine… the same as always, then.”

“Don’t worry, Nev,” said George, consolingly.  “You’ll get your chance, someday.”

“There will be another time the world is about to end, and then you’ll just nip in and snipe the arch-villain just in time to save everyone,” said Fred, nodding.

“Happens all the time,” said George.

“Definitely not a unique opportunity for awesomeness,” said Fred.

The twins were grinning, now.  They reached across to each other, and each tapped the other on the head.  With the sound of a cracking egg, they vanished into Disillusionment.

Bogdanova waited a second, then leaned around and tugged on Neville’s earlobe, affectionately.  “They’re not wrong, you know,” she said, her tone softening.  “Who knows what may happen?  Think about other things of that day.”

“I know,” Neville said, sighing again as Bogdanova lifted her wand and tapped herself on the head, vanishing from sight with a wet crackling noise.  “And I’m grateful, of course.  But still… the sniping…” he said plaintively.

“Oh, come on,” the invisible Russian witch said, and her voice was fond.  “Let us go.  There’s a girl in the pond that needs rescuing.”

Neville grinned, and Disillusioned himself.


≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

“This is good,” said the domovoi, who obviously approved of the plan.  Several others joined him in that attitude.  Per, Percy, and Dolores looked doubtful.  Amelia looked hostile.  The others seemed to have reserved judgment.

He Jin cleared his throat, delicately, and asked Hermione what she was proposing.

The fast reverse.

“We have already seen the success of making our rivals into our allies,” said Hermione, gesturing at the Curdish envoy.  “So we need to do the same with the Muggles.  We need to turn a threat into an asset… potentially the biggest asset we could ever have.  We need to eliminate the Statute of Secrecy and present ourselves to the world as a magical people.  It’s a risk, and we’ll need to be careful, but remaining isolated has proven even riskier.”

Nearly everyone seemed confused by what she was proposing, except for Amelia.  Her expression softened, and displeasure was supplanted by surprise.  “You’re not proposing mastery at all.  You’re proposing the modus meli.”

“Open and free, and as equal as we can manage,” confirmed Hermione.  “Not hiding from them, not ruling them, but living with them.”

Per spoke up, cautiously.  “If you will excuse me, that seems to be an idea with a very interesting goal, but one with too many problems.  It is impossible.”

“There are so many problems that it’s staggering,” Hermione allowed.  “Every Muggle government will see magic as a weapon, so there will be a risk of global warfare -- in addition to the constant threat of kidnapping or blackmail.  There are also different aspects of magic that are incredibly dangerous to the untrained, but any Obliviator can tell you how hard it is to completely eliminate information from a Muggle population… which is why nearly every aspect of our magical world can be found approximated in folklore and legends, even today.  And of course, there’s every possibility we’d face a return to the days of witch-hunts and inquisitions… especially after recent events.”

“But you believe you have a solution,” Amelia said, quietly, speaking over the murmurs of the others.

“It is possible that the Mirror of Noitilov can be used to alter the terms under which our world operates,” said Hermione.  “It is also possible that the Goblet of Fire can be used to bind people without their conscious knowledge, if it will recognize a proxy in terms of political representatives.  It is also possible that some of the new spells we will acquire from our two captive members of the Three -- or even one of the ones we already possess -- could be used once we have mastered them to manipulate even a global population.  But we may not need to resort to any of these, if we devote ourselves as one to this goal and find different solutions.  There are many others, including mundane strategies like wand control.  There were only one hundred and twelve wandmakers worldwide a month ago, and there must be many fewer now.  We kept the entire world in an imperfect ignorance for centuries -- surely if we really try, we can manage a transition without too much damage.”

Percy was staring at her, eyes wide.  He’d realized what she was saying -- her true message -- before anyone else.  But he didn’t seem angry.  He seemed awed.

“It might be hard,” Hermione added.  “But sometimes the hardest things -- the things that seem the most impossible -- are the things that most need to be done.  The first step to finding a solution is rejecting the idea of impossibility.  Then you just take the first, hard, scary step.”


≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

Elsewhere.
At the same time.

Nikitas Seyhan knocked gingerly on the door to the cottage at Külek Boğazı.  There was no answer.  Nikitas frowned and turned around, glancing behind himself to where Tonks, Jessie, and Urg were watching.  Tonks smiled and nodded, miming a knock.  Nikitas turned back around and knocked a second time, more loudly.  He knew he should be nervous, but really only felt a distant discomfort.  

“Hello?” said a voice in the local Greek.  The door cracked open, slowly.

“Is this the Seyhan house?” said Nikitas, in the same tongue.  He felt like he was in a dream.

The door swung open, and a big bluff man stood there.  He was bearded and florid, and his eyes were wide.

“Nikitas?  You’ve come back to us?”


≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

Dolores said something first, in a syrupy voice that was unusually quiet.  “Ms. Granger… the Mirror, and the Goblet, and the new spell… aren’t these all things you could have already done?  Couldn’t you have… Did you?”

He Jin was out of his seat, glaring at Hermione as though his eyes were capable of murder under their own power.  The Westphalian had gone pale.  Per was looking rapidly around him, not having yet understood but too afraid to ask.

Hermione stood and stepped away from the table, and walked to the room’s window.  Dramatic pose at the window, put my silhouette against the sky.  Like so.  She looked out and down, at the clouds rolling beneath the Tower as the building lightly floated along, borne up by the salvaged Aa-Khem of the Shafiq.  The scarab statues had been recovered from the wreckage of The Declaration of Intent.  The new Tower, still only a fragment of its future self, was buoyed up in the sky: unassailable, invisible, and puissant.

The people in this room represented enough power and influence to sway the Confederation.  They’d fought a global war together, and now faced new challenges and a new world.  They’d been forged out of a disparate and violent assemblage of fractious Things, and could now be united.

Fear could do it.  She could threaten most of them.  They might seek her death and plot against her, but they’d obey.  She knew that Draco would do it that way, if he were in her position.  A cold and intimidating speech, leveraging all his power and influence, and enlisting the weak as his enforcers.

Persuasion could do it.  She could convince most of them.  They wouldn’t be wholly won over, and might later change their minds, but they’d agree.  She knew that Harry would do it that way, if he were in her position.  A bold and inspirational speech, changing as many minds as possible, and backed up with redundant plans to handle anyone who was recalcitrant.


But she wasn’t Draco and she wasn’t Harry.  They’d each stepped away from these things, perhaps permanently.  She was Hermione Granger, daughter of dentists, goddess.  She was standing at the crux of things, and she knew the right thing to do.

Fear was limited.  Draco had been afraid all of his life, in one sense, but he’d still found the courage to face the worst and overcome it.  A single lever was all it took to overturn fear.

Persuasion was limited.  Harry had spent years railing against insanity and irrationality, hurling evidence and reason against dull walls and burning with frustrating when they failed.  He sometimes couldn’t see the way the world was, out of eagerness to see it the way it should be.

Hermione knew that wasn’t how you led people.  It wasn’t how you changed minds.  She had led the Returned, and she knew why.  She had led soldiers, and she knew why they’d followed her on the battlefield.  She had led the people, and she knew why they wanted to touch her hand and worshipped her.

Hermione had died twice, and she knew what she’d followed back to this world.  She knew what people would follow.

They followed the light.

Far below, all around the Tower, she could see bright spots of crimson glory.  She heard a phoenix call, as though it saw her, and heard another answer.

Hermione turned around, and smiled, and began to speak.

She brought her own special gift.  She brought hope.


≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
Yesterday.

“It just seems unlike you, is all,” Hermione said to Harry, watching him curiously.  She opened a satchel and looked inside, but the extended space within was still empty.

“I think my part in this is over,” Harry said, shrugging.  He was silent for a moment as he finishing bolting down the Vanishing Cabinet inside of the spherical silver ship, then he stood back and surveyed his work.  He nodded approvingly, and turned back to Hermione.  “And I’ll be within reach, from time to time.  I might need help.”

Hermione frowned.  “You’ll need a lot of books, and you might get lonely, but as far as we can tell, there’s no limit to that Cabinet.  You don’t even really need to ‘go’ at all, since you could just as easily live here and check in on your ship once a month.  So this is really you taking a sabbatical from everything.  And that’s fine, but I think I’m the one who’s going to be asking you for help.  Be ready to pop on through, the first time I encounter an insuperable problem.”

“Well, see, here’s the thing,” Harry said, leaning down with a silver wire rack so that he could affix it to the interior of the ship.  “You remember all of my work with Luna, looking into the nature of magic?  Magical theory has come quite a ways since we started to systematically eliminate possibilities.  And we found some pretty amazing things when we looked at the brains of people casting spells.  We never did have enough of a chance to discuss it, I think,” he mused.  “Anyway, I pretty much have just one strong hypothesis now.  And it fits with what we know about Merlin, and explains a lot.

“Spoken magic and wandless magic look almost the same when you see how they’re expressed.  BETs and POSTs and all the rest in specific patterns, even though the interference each spell generates might be completely different.  The same effect, the same patterns.  It’s not a far inferential leap to conclude that the pattern is a command, like you might give to a computer.  If you’re magical in nature, then something in the universe knows to pay attention to that command.

“Now, it’s possible that it’s just the nature of the universe that specific electrochemical patterns in our neurology trigger complicated phenomena.  I’ve read weirder theories.  But that opens up a big question: why are we the only ones?

“It’s the Fermi Paradox on an even bigger scale.  There are so many planets where life could evolve, out there in the universe.  And the existence of magic means that a lot of the normal answers probably don’t work.  Distance and difficulty don’t seem like they could possibly matter once any magical civilization is advanced enough, and some of those lifeforms that probability suggests must exist would end up being magical, just like humans.

“Now, there’s a lot of possible explanations.  Maybe magic makes it even more difficult for life to evolve than we thought, somehow.  Or maybe there are magical barriers we don’t know about, blocking us off.

“But then I think about Merlin, and what he was afraid of, and how he… well, he backed down, when it came down to it.”

Hermione’s jaw had dropped open and she’d forgotten to breathe since Harry had said the words “Fermi Paradox.”  He continued on.

“I didn’t present him with very much new information, when it came right down to it.  He must have already known Meldh had been defeated, and they’d been watching me so they already knew the other things I said.  And I told him that prophecies always come true, but I learned that from a book that quoted Merlin.  So why did he go?

“Maybe he’s just biding his time.  Maybe he’s seeking a way to neutralize our advantages.  Maybe he was just suddenly persuaded.

“But someone that powerful with that much lore and prophecy…”  Harry shook his head.  “I’m not sure about that.  Because I’m thinking of what Merlin’s goal might really have been, and about a thing called the Great Filter, and…” He paused, then continued.  “No, I think that --”

“Wait,” interrupted Hermione.  “Just wait.  Because I think you’re about to tell me that you think the British wizard Merlin is an alien from another planet, sent here to watch us or guard us or something.  And that maybe aliens invented magic?  And that is…”  She frowned.  “Just… no.  Put a pin in that.  I can’t handle that right now.”

Harry grinned.  “I imagine a computer somewhere, advanced beyond our furthest dreams, that fulfills commands to users it recognizes.  And we just happen to have matched that pattern in the wierdest way.   But all right.  Another time, then.  Or until it becomes more urgent.”

Hermione was silent for a long period, while Harry continued packing away supplies.  Lots of redundancies and failsafes, since this was a journey into the unknown.  He’d be pushing against new limits and uncertainties about all sorts of materials and spells.

After a while, the witch spoke again.  “How do you know that this will work?  And where to go?”

“Prophecy,” Harry said, shrugging.  “Which is the only way I can even do this, since I know I will succeed someday.  Eventually.  I just need to head to the Scorpion and the Archer… Scorpius and Sagittarius.  Something is locked beyond return along that path.  Just by coincidence, that’s also where astronomers think a black hole is situated, at the center of our galaxy.  So that’s where I’ll go, and we’ll see if that’s where Dumbledore is now.  If it’s where Atlantis is now.  If it’s where all the things locked beyond return are trapped outside of time.  It’s inconvenient and crazy, but sometimes so is the world.”

“How far is it?” asked Hermione.

“26,000 light years or so,” answered Harry, grinning.  “Although I expect to find faster ways to travel than the speed of light.”

“I feel as though we’re saying goodbye,” Hermione said, and her voice trembled a little.  “Which is stupid, because you’ll probably be back for lunch next week, once you start to need someone to talk to.  But you really are leaving.”

“I’m leaving,” Harry said.

“And you’re leaving me in charge.”

“You’re in charge,” Harry agreed.  “Oh, I have three things to give you!  Might as well give them over now.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a milky-white stone.  “The Spirit Stone.  The last of the Deathly Hallows.  Yours now in truth, along with the others.”  She accepted it, wordlessly.  It was also reportedly a Horcrux of Voldemort.  A research project: how to break those ties.

He tugged on the fingerless glove on his right hand, pulling it free.  A pained expression passed over his face, but he didn’t hesitate.  He offered it to her, and again Hermione took it.

She glanced at his other hand, at the decoy glove he always wore, but he smiled a wry smile.  “No, I’m going to hang on to this one.  I discovered something useful about it, recently.  No, the third thing is a ritual.  It’s a sacrificial ritual… a dangerous one, but an important one.  The most important one, really.”

“You… wait, what?”

“It was one of the only things I could think to do, at the end.  I couldn’t fight, not really.  And I only knew one thing that had impressed anyone in the Three.  A ritual that he saw in my mind, one I’d never actually done.  I had it in my mind, all the principles -- I’m really not sure how to explain it, it just works out somehow, when you’re inventing a spell -- and Meldh had told me I was being stupid not to use it.”  Harry pulled a folded parchment from his pocket, carefully, and handed it over to her.  “I still think he’s wrong, and I’m still not sure if it’s the right thing.  But I did use it once.  To fulfill a promise.  I picked a star that seemed least likely to have any negative consequences… a Bok globule that would only have existed as a star for a few thousand years, as best I could figure.”

Hermione took the parchment. She didn’t know what to say… didn’t know how to react to a succession of surprises that seemed too great to be borne.  All she could think was a single sentence, a miraculous sentence that embraced the multitude of stars scattered throughout her mind’s eye, each one now with a name: We can save everyone.

She smiled gently.  Her eyes were wet.


≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

Malfoy Manor

The small family accepted no visitors, and seldom left the house.

It was a strange, new way to live: as though ambition were sated, as though ambition had reached its natural end.  Surely, it was temporary -- for the gnawing of desire never rests for long -- but for a time, the family wanted for nothing.  They were together, and they were content.

Sometimes they played music, or had long conversations, or spent entire afternoons in cooking elaborate meals.  But often, they simply sat with each other in silence.  It was a happy and full silence where nothing needed to be said, because everything important was known.

From time to time, Draco would close his eyes and hold them that way for a long time, before opening them again.  As though testing what he was seeing.

But nothing changed, and every time he would open them again, Draco would see his father anew, holding his mother’s hand.

He smiled gently.  His eyes were wet.


≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

Somewhere beyond Earth and everything else we know.  Somewhere in the darkness of space.
Soon.

Harry took a deep breath, and then let it out, slowly.  It sounded very loud inside of his ship.

He held the glove from his left hand, and examined it with a smile.  He touched the curved fragment of the Cup of Midnight that was bound there.  A decoy he’d worn for years, to balance the Stone of Permanence.  Impervious to harm and enchantment and damage, and always close to him.

He pushed hard on the underside of the smooth piece of pottery, twisted it to the side, and then pushed down on it.  There was a small click, and the piece of broken earthenware slid upwards, revealing the round aperture to an extended space sheltered beneath.

Harry set the glove on the floor of the ship.  He reached over to pick up a book from a small shelf where he’d placed it earlier, and then stepped into the glove.  It drew him in, delicately.

Finding his way past all of the traps and security precautions had taken him weeks.  Removing a substantial part of a mass of tungsten had taken almost as long, since he’d needed to be extremely careful.  In this, after all, he was entirely alone.

But he’d done it.

He sat on a small stool, and smiled.  “Hello, Professor.  I brought a book, and I thought I’d read to you today.”

“That would be acceptable, Mr. Potter,” said Voldemort.

“It’s called The Feynman Lectures on Physics, and it’s one of my favorites.”

“Is it long?”

“Yes.”

“Then begin at your leisure, Mr. Potter.”

Harry didn’t begin right away.  He just looked at the box for a moment.

He smiled gently.  His eyes were wet.

Significant Digits, Chapter Fifty: Ultimate

Significant Digits, Chapter Fifty: Ultimate



Out of the night that covers me,
     Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
     For my unconquerable soul.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡
The oldest stories of magical war are full of glory and drama, wrought on stage in bright colors, and entirely unlike the reality of war.

As the vile goblins or villainous Muggles or vicious warlords swarm the field, awash in blood and villainy, the valorous Lord of Emerald calls upon an ancient ritual and the eldritch might of his Staff of the Seven Words, and sweeps aside the enemy with a single, cathartic gesture.  Or if it’s a different sort of tale, the good-hearted baron finds himself at a loss at the climactic moment, and only the wits of his clever majordomo suffice to trick the gloating foe into a magical vow -- allowing a quibble in that vow, in the end, to bring that same foe to his ruin.  Or the entire action between heroes and villains takes place in the uncertain shadow of some ancient power in the distance, and in the extremity of danger, it is only the intervention of thunder from on high that resolves the dispute in favor of Goodness.

It is not that the authors of these stories were naive or ignorant of war.  In a world where scholarship and warcraft were so closely linked, it was often the winner of a battle who wrote the story of the fight.  Instead, a sort of wishful thinking prevailed in these narratives.

Real war is a horror.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡
All of the defenders had fallen back within Hogwarts where possible, barricading the doors on the three sides of the castle not protected by the lake.  They found battlements and windows and balconies, and rained down destruction on their enemies.  Outside, a smaller few engaged in different sorts of combat, fighting with growing desperation.

Oddly enough, Hogwarts was not ideally suited for battle.  The school was an ancient sanctuary of arcane lore, raised up when the world was wilder and magic was mightier, but it had seldom ever been directly challenged.  Despite all probability and the disruptive nature of magic, there had not been a violent change of regimes in Britain since the time of Merlin, when the Wizard’s Council was established -- the riotous Thing that preceded Merlin’s Wizengamot and the world’s Confederation.  Only two villains had ever dared to attack the walls of the castle-school, and they had met swift and sure ends.
An outside observer might even say, on balance, that magical history was suspiciously tidy.

Despite these limitations, however, the castle was a formidable fortification.  And once the defenders were forced to fall back within its walls, they devoted everything they could spare to preserving their strength.  It was all too apparent that, should the walls of the castle fail, it would be impossible to coordinate any sort of defense.  There was no motte to which they could retreat, or even any internal system of defense beyond the unreliable will of the building itself.  It was a single keep, and they could not allow it to fall.

They used every force and trick and power at their command, and the powers that be had called in every ounce of strength that could be spared from other fights.

In different corners and in secret places, there were portkeys held in reserve.  Portkeys to Hogsmeade, portkeys to the Receiving Room or other places in Hogwarts, and portkeys to the Forbidden Forest.  Most were illegal.  All that could be found, were used.  Too few came, for there were other wars and other battles.  At the Ministry of Magic, a heroic handful had held their ground.  At Godric’s Hollow, a force of goblins had met a troop of monsters in a clash that could only be called audacious.  Sadder still were the calls that simply went unanswered.

It was hard to say if there was victory to be had on any front.  Across the globe, much of the enemy had withdrawn or had spent itself, but even successful defenses had been ruinous.  And not every defense was successful.  Tidewater was cold and lifeless.  The Court of Rubies was bloody and dead.

But where there were warriors to answer and means to travel, they came to Scotland.  They came to the defense of Hogwarts and the Tower, the center of a global war and the thoughts of all.  From America and Russia and Korea and China they came.  From the Free States and the Sawad and Cyprus and Cappadocia and Norden they came.  From France and Germany and Hungary and Chile and New Zealand they came.  From everywhere they could, they came.

And those in a position to know gradually came to understand that there could be only two outcomes here, as day reddened into dusk and nightmare hordes met castle wall:

Either Hogwarts and wizards would survive this night.

Or they would not.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡
Hermione could hear Edgar Erasmus screaming.  At some point, the pompous wizard, engaged in aerial battle high above, had been toppled from his broom by a gust of wind.  When he fell, a goblin took the opportunity to dart forward and bury a spear into the man’s belly.  The spear had already claimed the life of a basilisk, and now an acid venom was wracking Erasmus’ wound.  He howled with agony, eyes fixed wide and face red, clutching at his stomach and writhing, legs slopping and flopping in a puddle of liquified stone.  Most of the hill on the east side of the castle had been made into a ruin of shattered rock and enchanted soil.  There were precious few Muggles left here, but the ones that were present could barely make their way forward through the devastated terrain… and most of the ones that managed were cut down by the careless and indiscriminate attacks of giant serpents and unliving creatures of rock, who did not differentiate between friend and foe.

Edgar Erasmus was in very much the wrong place, and his screams of agony spoke of that mistake.  This was no place for humans.  This was a primeval battle against horrors.

And as she heard him scream, Hermione Granger found herself thinking, No time for mercy, and -- to her shame -- not even knowing what she meant by the thought.

Shuddering, she brought the axe in her hand down a third time, and the head of the terrasque parted from its body, falling free.  Its mouth fell open to let a cloud of stinking vapor escape, and the heavy carcass dropped to the ground with a crash that knocked nearby Muggles off their feet.  It landed on Hermione’s right foot.  She barked a short cry of pain and instinctively yanked herself free, leaving behind at least one toe but keeping her footing.  She turned to look for a new target, keeping her gaze low as she scanned around herself.

Off to her left, she saw another terrasque as it savaged someone -- Muggle or wizard or goblin, Hermione didn’t know.  The creature was almost impersonal as it rent the body in its jaws into gorey pieces, holding most of it down with one of its six legs and methodically tearing away with its sightless lion’s head of black stone.

She felt rather than saw the basilisk as it struck at her, and she lunged to the side, chopping down awkwardly with the axe.  The goblin silver sank into the enormous serpent -- a glancing blow.  The blade sliced its way free and off to the side.  Before she could move, one of the basilisk’s coils or possibly just another basilisk collided with her back, swatting her with the strength of a freight train.

For a moment, Hermione lost track of things.

When she found herself again, she was on her rear, sitting with her back to something hard.  She jerked her gaze back down to the ground.  As if fighting giant monsters wasn’t hard enough you can’t even look at their eyes or else you die, she thought, dazedly.  Erasmus was still screaming.

She heard the clank of metal boots -- it was that trio of goblins who’d just joined the fight, Hermione realized.  The ones who gave her the axe.  She glanced at the sound, cautiously.

One of them was in full plate armor in a medieval sort of style, while the other two only wore breastplates and helmet.  The armor was silver and gold and brass; some pieces were bevelled and decorated with engravings, while others had simple and clean lines.  All three carried shields.  For reasons that Hermione didn’t fully grasp, all the goblins now had shields, even when it made it difficult to wield their chosen weapons.

She felt stupid, as if she should understand why, but that didn’t help.

A green bolt came from a defender on the battlement above her and streaked out of view down below.  Hermione was glad someone on their side could still cast the spell; she hoped they had hit a basilisk.  Her own wand was in its holster.  The axe had proven more effective.

She reached behind herself to feel the stone of the castle.  Hermione had damaged it, cracking it with the impact of her body.  If it had been mundane stone, she’d have gone straight through it, she thought; the stuff of Hogwarts was barely chipped.  She found the edge of a stone and pulled herself up.

As the goblins charged past her, she looked at where they were going, scanning the torn and smoking ground carefully until she could see the giant curving form of the basilisk in her near-peripheral vision.  Then she launched herself forward, following the three goblins as they charged.  Two of them raised their swords, and one of them set a spear-butt in the crook of his elbow.  All three of them raised their voices in guttural cries she couldn’t understand.

A gleam of silver -- her axe.  Hermione snatched it up in her golden gauntlet as she ran.  She heard the basilisk hiss, and saw a flash of movement as it struck.  One of the goblins hurtled past her, broken.

The other two kept charging, roaring like heroes.  She joined her voice to theirs, and followed them.


≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡
Draco couldn’t move his right arm.  Much of it had been torn away, removed with great gouges by one of the dog-like things that were racing around, tearing apart victims.  He couldn’t quite get a grasp on them -- they weren’t properly visible, but just seemed like smears of insane nonsense.  Rough impressions: Wide mouth.  Sucking discs of teeth.  Pale eyes of blue cataracts.  Knotty muscle.

What was left of his arm hung limply from his shoulder, as though it weren’t even a part of him.    At least the potion had stopped the bleeding.  Kept him alive.  That ugly little American had given it to him.  Hig.  The fellow was down the hall, with Gregory Goyle.  At a different window.  A different defense.

They’d managed to kill three or four of the things.  The Killing Curse worked, and maybe other curses as well, Draco wasn’t sure.  They moved so quickly, leaping around faster than anything could move, faster than anything should be able to move, and their every touch brought bloody blight to their victims.  Wards and shields could stop them, but when they struck even something as doughty as a Prismatic Sphere, it was as though they hit with the force of a dragon.  Draco had thrown up a ward to deflect one of the human-shaped monsters from entering through the window he was defending, and the blow it had dealt his spell had brought him to his knees.  He hadn’t fallen, but only just.  He could feel the magic positively drain out of him.

Draco lifted his wand, held it in Ochs.  There were some Muggles below, but they were thin on the ground.  And in light of the other creatures, they seemed quaint with their cricket bats and knives.  None of them had guns or explosives, and so they weren’t worth his attention.

The sun was setting, and all the light was red.  It would be night, soon.

A flash of motion leapt past the window, and Draco heard a scream from somewhere.

He leaned against the curved side of the window.  He wanted to fall to the ground.  He wanted to weep.  He wanted to sleep.

But he would not.  Some things were stronger than sleep or weakness or death.  He would fight.

Then he heard a hooting sound, and this time he was too slow with his shield.  Before he knew what exactly had happened, he was on the floor before the window, and something was on him.  He’d lost his wand, it was gone, he couldn’t do anything.

It was one of the flying ones, and it was on his shoulder and one side of his chest

and

he felt

pain ripping

and

he heard

a wet sound

of flesh tearing

and the crackle

of bone

splintering

and the pain

was killing him

he screamed

he screamed

he screamed

he screamed

he went away for a moment

and remembered

“Draco,” Harry said.  “Thank you for coming.  I… well, thank you.”

“What do you want, Potter?” Draco said, staring at the other boy.  Potter had his face all screwed up, brows furrowed, as he always looked when he was about to be unbearably earnest.  Looking at him made Draco feel sick -- a deep and bitter disgust that tasted of acid.

Potter closed his eyes.  “I want to make you a promise.  A promise about your father.  I want to --”

“Harry Potter,” said Draco, his voice a dangerous hiss.  “Be very careful what you say next.”  He could feel the acid on his tongue, but even more, it was burning in his veins.  The rage and hatred.  The things that made him weep at night, as he forced his face into his pillow and sobbed with great wracking cries.  The things that made the presence of his mother a cruel thing, because they were very nearly strangers and his father was freshly buried.  The things that made him so eager to hurt someone, these days.  “Be very careful,” he repeated.

Potter hesitated, opening his eyes to look back at Draco.  Green eyes, filled with compassion.  Draco wanted to spit in them.

“Listen,” said Potter.  “I’ve been thinking about what I owe… about the shape of things, and the degree to which my own arrogance and blindness have hurt others.  And you’ll understand more about that, soon, I think, but…”  He paused, looking at the ground.  “Draco, I want to make you a promise.  A promise to try my hardest to do something.  And I don’t want anything from you in exchange, not even your friendship.  I want nothing from you.  This isn’t about you.  It’s about… terminal values.”  The other boy stopped again, seeming to think about how what he was saying might sound.  “About the things that are the most important in the world to me.”

Draco could kill him.  They were alone, and no one knew Draco was here.  He had a knife, and Potter wouldn’t expect that.

“Draco,” said Potter, “I am sorry your father is dead.  Truly and absolutely.  With all my heart.”  A flash of something came across the boy’s face -- regret, somehow.  “But I have seen impossible things.  Magic is an impossible thing -- or rather, it is all possible things, which is pretty much the same thing.  It’s brought… Hermione is back, and magic has made the space between death and life, which was already not very wide, into something that seems so small.  Magic is…” Potter closed his mouth, shaking his head.  “Sorry, I’m not saying what I mean.  I’m not saying this very well.”

Potter folded his arms, and hugged himself.  Draco stared at him.

“I… Draco, I don’t know how to say this.  If it will seem insulting or crazy or what.  So I’m just going to say it and hope you know that I mean it,” the other boy began again.  He raised his eyes, and met Draco’s gaze.

“I intend,” said Harry Potter, “to spend the rest of my life working to stop anyone from dying again -- everyone’s father and mother and son and daughter.  And I intend to bring back those that have died, through whatever ritual or spell that needs to be invented to cross that last remaining gap of time.”

“Draco,” Harry said, “I promise to try my hardest for the rest of my life to try to bring back your father.”

And there was an instant, right then, when the Lord Malfoy very nearly murdered the Lord Potter for toying with his heart.  But Draco stopped himself, and stared into Harry’s eyes which did not leave his own.

And he saw something there.  He saw steel, and something harder than steel.  He saw a will that would brook no obstacle and tolerate no barrier.  He saw the diamond-hard will that had brought back Hermione Granger and Draco didn’t know how but he knew that had been Potter and he saw an honour that bound this boy to a path.  He saw a promise that was stronger than sleep or weakness or death.

“Will you help?”

Draco’s wand was in his hand.  It was still in his hand.

He was there and he was alive.  Something was attacking him.  One of those things was attacking him.  It was killing him.  He didn’t want to die.  He wouldn’t die.  He couldn’t die.  Because...

Because he wanted to see his father again someday.

And some things were stronger than sleep or weakness.  Or death.

“Avada Kedavra!” he cast.  The thing on his shoulder vanished, dissolving in a blaze of green light that burned away the inchoate blur of murderous sensations.

He slumped back to the stone, gasping.

The world was hazy and dark.  Draco blinked, rapidly.

“Sir!”  A voice.  “Sir, hold on, I’m here!”

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡
Pip jumped as the Bloodfoot Curse rippled across the rough slates of the roof towards him.  He lost his balance as he landed, one foot sliding on a tile, but caught himself with one hand.  Bellatrix Black laughed at him.

This was bloody deja vu, really.

The fight had been going on for what seemed like hours.  They had been moving to the roof, to try to use massed volleys of the Killing Curse against some of the more insane-seeming monsters that had come calling at Hogwarts tonight, but what had begun as three tight, tactical formations had dissolved into chaos as some of the enemy took the fight to them.  A flaming chariot had burst from somewhere sideways of reality, drawn by a horse of fire, and it had left madness in its wake:

Ten witches and wizards with bloody sigils of hands and swords on their robes.

That skinny American witch from the Council of Westphalia, looking spidery and sour.

And that bleeding bitchy bint Bellatrix bloody Black.

Pip felt how a Gryffindor in the library must feel: lost and upset.  Bellatrix was missing an arm and an eye, and she was still a better duelist than he was.

To his left, Madame Bones was fighting the American.  That should have been a brief contest, but somehow the Westphalian was managing to hold off the Chief Mugwump, fighting with unimaginably queer new spells and with a sad grimness.  Mr. Diggory was already unconscious, having coughed himself into unconsciousness after receiving a blast of Rotlung in his face.

To his right, Mad-Eye Moody and three other aurors were fighting the Grindelwaldians.  Wait, didn’t they have a proper name?  Something Hungarian and unpronounceable?  No matter.  Despite being outnumbered two-to-one, the good guys were winning.  Pip couldn’t even follow some of the things Moody was doing.  At one point, Pip could have sworn he’d actually seen one of Moody’s stunners turn in mid-air before hitting its target.

That had left Pip and Kwannon to fight Bellatrix Black, which seemed insane since didn’t they already know how that would end after last time?  But there was nothing for it, and so they fought, and Bellatrix was laughing again.

Maybe one of the defenders in the air would be able to help.  Pip knew that one of the American auror squads, as well as the Shichinin.  They had their own enemies to face, but this was Bellatrix Black.

Kwannon raised a shield to buy them some time, but Pip remembered the last fight -- he raised his own, too.  When a Breaking Drill eradicated Kwannon’s barrier, the curse -- following the first one almost immediately, impossibly fast -- burst against Pip’s redundant shield.  And both of them were quick enough on the dodge to avoid the Killing Curse that blazed at them within an instant.

“Better!” shrieked Bellatrix with a laugh.  “Dancing dollies!”

“Lagann!  Stupefy!” cast Pip, at almost the same time that Kwannon shouted, “Stupefy!  Lagann!”

Bellatrix twirled in place, cackling, and let her shield dissolve as she dodged.  She had another raised almost as quickly as Pip could have blinked, and then she flicked her wand in a way that Pip didn’t recognize.  A stream of yellow liquid burst out at the gesture, spraying from nowhere.

Caught without any idea of what the curse would do, or what shield would be appropriate, Pip did as he had been trained: he dodged again.  Kwannon, trained by the same person (the curse-casting blur just behind them, in fact) did the same.

And Bellatrix anticipated it.  When Kwannon threw herself to the side, a Slow Blade of Unusually Specific Destruction was waiting for her.  It exploded violently.

Kwannon was thrown bodily away, and off the roof, and she was gone.

And it was at this moment that Pip wished he were a different sort of person.  Someone important.  A noble, or a brilliant researcher, or a seer.  Or even just someone truly special.  Because he knew that truly special people wouldn’t die.  Not this way, not after so much.  Not at the moment when it mattered the most, when failure would mean the death of Alastor Moody and Amelia Bones and so many others.

He’d seen the plays.  Bloody hell, working in the Tower had been like living in a play.  Utterly impossible things happened all the time when necessary.  When the really special people were in danger, even if it was from things like the Killing Curse… well, somehow, it worked out.

Philip Pirrip was just his mother’s son.  He was a decent auror, and a hard worker.  He could say that about himself.  But in that moment, as he leapt to his feet and tried to think of what to do next, knowing that he’d already fought this battle and had lost as though he were a Hufflepuff toddler… well, he just wished he were someone else.  Someone special.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡
In the fell clutch of circumstance
     I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
     My head is bloody, but unbowed.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡
Hermione saw her again.  The witch in green.  The one who’d been with the monsters, walking with them, controlling them.

Hermione dragged her axe free of the basilisk’s head.  It smoked with venom.  So too did the golden gauntlet on Hermione’s right hand.  There was a greenish tinge to both metals, now.  Hermione shook the axe, and gore splattered to the ground.  Where the ichor fell, the ground began to bubble and steam.

The witch was standing in front of one of the walls of the castle, and she’d sunk her hand into the stone.  A terrasque stood motionless beside her, obedient as a great stone dog, as the witch in the green dress dragged her hand downward.  Like a knife sliding through butter, she cut a long rent through the stone of Hogwarts, kneeling as she brought her hand all the way to the ground.  Then she pulled her hand free and straightened.

This must be one of them.  One of the Three.  One of the leaders.  The enemy.

Hermione pulled her bubbler from her robes.  The back of it had been crushed in, and the decorative clamshell case was falling apart, but it still worked.  “Boys?” she said.

“We’re here,” came the voice of one of the Weasley twins.

“ ‘Boys,’ ” scoffed the Russian witch with them.

“Be ready and watch for the high sign,” Hermione said.

“You got it,” replied another twin, cheerily.

Hermione put away her bubbler, and steadied herself.  Then she attacked.

She shouted no challenge and no warning.  She simply threw her axe at the witch, as hard as she could.  It flashed through the air, whistling as it flew.

The terrasque intervened, lurching into motion, and the axe bounced off of its side, the handle hitting the creature’s rough red shell.

The witch turned to face Hermione.  Her face was serious, but her eyes were bright.  The terrasque shifted out of the way, lumbering aside.

“Hello,” the witch said.  There was a husky accent in her voice.  “You are Hermione Granger.  You are quite magical, and quite powerful.”  She raised her hand.  “And I think your time is done.”

Hermione already had the Elder Wand in hand, and she charged.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡
A figure in plain grey robes walked the halls of Hogwarts, unseen.  It moved with some uncertainty -- as though it knew its destination, but not the exact path.  But it found its way to the library before too long.

Harry Potter didn’t see.  He had a bubbler in hand, and was giving urgent instructions.

“-- no, it’s not enough to say the word.  You have to… you have to find something within yourself.  You have to produce a deliberate will within yourself, like you were casting wandless magic.”

Harry Potter was standing at one of the library windows.  A strange sort of Muggle device was set up there -- a tube mounted on a tripod, pointing up at the stars.  Two aurors stood on either side of it, maintaining shields across the window against any intrusion.  The floor was covered in chalk markings, repeatedly rubbed away and redrawn.

This was not the Archon Heraclius Hero, perfectly reshaped into a facsimile.  That was obvious.  How strange.  Harry Potter had won, somehow.  It was beyond belief, but it had happened.

The threat personified stood there, unaware and vulnerable, and the figure studied him.  Just a boy, really.  The crux was still just a boy.  So dangerous to everything and everyone, the age-old threat to life resolved by time’s lens into this single person, and it was just a boy.

The figure permitted himself a smile.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
     Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
     Finds and shall find me unafraid.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡
The Unseelie had gathered in a tight knot outside the western walls.  They were pulling someone apart, and that person was screaming.  Impressions of black eyes and wide, wet mouths moved delicately and deliberately, causing pain as if it were an art.

It was horrible, but it was a respite for the defenders.

No, not a respite, Draco thought.  An opportunity.

Where was Moody?  We need to take advantage of this, right now.

He shoved himself away from the wall that been supporting him, and brandished his wand.  “Expecto Patronum.”

A silver krait undulated on the stone before him, moving gently.

“Go to every wizard and witch on this side of the castle and on the battlements,” Draco commanded it, and he bent his will to making that a thought of peace and happiness.  “Tell them to find me near the entrance to Gryffindor Tower.  We are going to strike.”

Before the snake was gone, Draco had fumbled his bubbler out of his robes, and was contacting everyone he’d seen who was still answering.

Outside, someone was screaming.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡
When Gregor Nimue and Harry Madagascar both slumped to the floor, as suddenly unconscious as though they’d been bludgeoned, Harry knew that the moment had come.

He turned around, and saw a middle-aged man in plain grey robes.  A little out of shape, with a small paunch.  Taller than average, but somewhat stooped.  A face heavily seamed with care, and green eyes.  Ancient, ancient green eyes.

“Are you him?” Harry asked.

The man smiled, softly.  He had a kind face.

“Yes, Harry Potter,” he said, in a voice that was mellow, and deeper than Harry expected.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡
Pip had lasted only a few minutes more, and he suspected that was only by Bellatrix Black’s cruelty.

“Silly billy boy,” sang the insane witch, “and now such fun!”

She had captured him casually, whipping the Incarcerating Curse at him amid a torrent of attacks.

He lay there, helpless.

He had to watch as she turned on Moody, who was backpedaling away, trying to find a way to create some space.  Only one auror still stood by his side against five of the Hungarians, and curses and shields were appearing and disappearing and flowing and sparking out with such rapidity that it looked more like a magical dance than intelligible combat.  But there was nowhere to retreat to, and no way to create room or escape.  Now he would have to have to watch.  Again.

Bellatrix Black shrieked her mad laughter and struck away Moody’s shield.  Then again as he produced another one, but despite the desperation of his motions he still had to fight Grindelwald’s soldiers.  They redoubled their attacks, and Moody reached the edge of the roof, and had no more room to retreat.  

Bellatrix paused, sighing a deep and happy sigh, and giggled once more.  She raised her wand.

“Bellatrix!”

The cry came from above.

“Bellatrix Black!”

It was otherworldly.

“Bellatrix Black!”

It was enraged.

“Bellatrix Black!”

It was magnificent.

“BELLATRIX BLACK!”

It was Neville Longbottom.

He came from the sky.  He didn’t land, exactly -- rather, he plummeted to the roof in a swooping dive, so steep that it seemed as though he would simply crash straight through the slates, but Longbottom pulled up at the last minute dead even with the slates, alighting and walking without even an instant of transition.  He stepped forward and the broom clattered to the roof and Longbottom was already attacking, once twice thrice, as though gravity and timing and all the laws of possibility were mere formalities that he’d chosen to discard.  Tall and terrible, the Lord Longbottom moved like the wind.

He attacked Bellatrix, and it was a thing of beauty and glory -- choreographed, as if it had been practiced every day for years.  High feint drawing a shield, which put him into position for obfuscation, and which in turn flowed seamlessly into three glowing offensive bolts.  It was a series like any auror would learn... but rather than two or three spells in sequence, Longbottom attacked without ceasing, a rhythmic and timed flow of variety and passion.  He switched from low attacks to broad ones, raised wards and then shattered them with surprising new offensives, and stripped away Bellatrix’s defenses with a hurricane of attacks.

In an existence that threatened to become overcrowded with the unbelievable, Pip still found room for astonishment.

Bellatrix laughed; high-pitched, insane.  “Silly little do--” she began, but a flurry of attacks cut her off, and she was forced to defend herself.  “Silly bi--” she began again, only to again be forced to bark out a shield of crystal and dodge away from danger.

“You --”

“Silly bi--”

No one could be standing after attacking endlessly, relentlessly, unstoppably, but Neville Longbottom never broke his stride and never broke his sequence.  One spell followed another, one attack followed another, one shield followed another.  No openings, no weaknesses, no opportunities, no respite.

Bellatrix Black’s laugh broke.  She lashed away attacks and raised wards and cast curses, but she was not fighting a wizard.  She was fighting an elemental force.

And every taunt and every joke and every insanity was cut off by some new attack.  Every word broken by offense.  Every moment under siege.

“That’s --”

Longbottom advanced without pausing, never breaking stride.  He was discarding his humanity, and doing it despite eyes streaming with tears.

“No --”

“You --”

And finally, Bellatrix’s mad smile cracked as she desperately ducked the hundredth attack, and she shrieked with a voice full of fear, “Stop!”

And like a wrathful god, Neville Longbottom, a thousand feet tall and burning with brimstone, roared in return, “That’s what they said to you !   Avada Kedavra! ”

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡
Hermione’s duel with the witch in the green dress was a strange thing.

The Goddess charged, wand raised, already casting.  The enemy sneered, raising her own hands, and lightning surged between them.

The Elder Wand took it from the air.

Hermione’s attacks fell uselessly against the witch’s shields, which barely glowed a gentle silver as they absorbed one curse after another.  The witch’s attacks found no purchase, for the Elder Wand moved of its own accord, assisting its true owner, obliterating magics as though they were a child’s whisper.

Hermione closed the distance, and they fought.  Spells fell on shields.  Spells fell on wand-wards.  The duel was a storm without wind.

Almost as an afterthought, the Goddess crushed the head of a terrasque with her golden gauntlet, which carved through the creature with the burning fury of basilisk venom.  But she could gain no traction against the witch in the green dress, who evinced neither strain nor dismay.

“Foolish monkey,” said the witch, her voice punctuated by the wordless thrusts of her hand which sent green light and burning flame and sharp crystal cascading into Hermione’s wand-borne defenses.  “Didn’t you know there was only ever one outcome, here?”

“I did,” said Hermione, panting.  “And so now would be good, gentlemen.”

She lashed out at the witch with every ounce of belief and faith and grief, and the enemy’s wards glowed bright under duress.  Hermione’s other hand landed like a titan’s hammer immediately afterwards, a crushing blow dealt with a troll’s strength.

At the same instant, there were two sharp cracks, almost simultaneous.  Twin gunshots, fired from above.

The first rifle shot shattered the witch’s shield.  The second passed through her stomach.

Perenelle du Marais screamed, and it was loud, and it was long.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡
Draco looked over his troops.  Perhaps a hundred wizards and witches.  Weary, ragged, wounded, crammed into the small room where the Gryffindor stairs met the main hallway.  Three watching at the windows, where the horror-things were pulling apart their victims.  He clutched his ruined arm with the other to stop it from swaying -- he was swaying, bloody hell.  No, this would not do.

Unbreakable honour.

The Lord Malfoy forced himself to straighten up.  Black shapes danced in front of his eyes, and for a moment everything went dull and far away, but he held himself upright.  He held himself like a Malfoy.

His face was out of control.  Draco mastered it, arranging it how he pleased: a cold look of confidence.  His body was a tool, his to wield.

His voice.  Before he spoke, he felt the blood in his mouth and throat.  No.  He swallowed it back, swallowed the bile and blood.  Cleared his instrument.

“We’re attacking.  A massed attack.  The enemy is gathered together.  They’re not afraid.  They should be.”

“We’ll die,” offered Reg Hig.  Not opposition, but resignation.

“We might.  But we are already dead.  This way, we have a chance..”

No, this is… no, it’s weak.  The stuff of desperation and stupidity… last resorts persuaded no one.  Damn you, Draco, focus on their weakness, not ours.  Where are you?  You are the knife: Cut.

“Listen to me, all of you,” Draco said, and he put steel in his voice.  “I won’t pretend to believe in everything that the Tower believes.  I won’t tell you any pretty stories about the way the world could be.  Listen to me when I tell you that we need to act now to protect the way the world is, and everything that’s in it.  Listen to me when I say that magic exists and it is precious, and we need to protect it.

“I am not the sort of person they call ‘good,’ ” he said, and now the steel came of itself, and he stood even taller, and he heard his father’s voice in his own.  “I am the sort of person who gets results.  Against all odds.  Against a united country and a united world, I have gotten results.  Because there are things that are more important than you or me or even this bloody school.  There are things more important than our blood or our very age.  There is magic in this world, in every wand here and every soul, and they will crush it if we let them.”

He raised his wand into the air, and it glowed with a fire he knew glowed in his own eyes.

“So when I say to you that now is the time and when I ask if you will follow me, know that this is our best hope, and that we will win.  For there is something greater than goodness and greater than even these odds, and that is us!”

What arrant nonsense, thought the Lord Malfoy, as he spoke honeyed lies.

A hundred wands rose in response.

And from high above, there was a new sound.  Many voices, raised in a single call.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡
“Who are you?” asked Harry, lowering the bubbler.  He left it open, Luna listening on the other end.

“Merlin,” answered the man, simply.  He watched Harry, arms casually at his side.

Despite everything, Harry felt himself shiver at the name.  He knew that it might well be a lie -- certainly it was the lie he’d have chosen, in this man’s place -- but it could also be true.  It was more plausible than any of the other possibilities, if the law of parsimony was any guide: Merlin applying a secret, guiding hand, working to prevent the doom that he’d foreseen… well, it broke no rules of time travel and required no additional elements.

Harry had anticipated other possibilities, of course.  Albus Dumbledore, trapped beyond time -- that could well have put him in some ancient era before the Mirror was made.  Or Garrick Ollivander, whose familial presence in Britain had been suspiciously unchanging for most of wizarding history.  Or Harry himself, returning from a future where they’d mastered all knowledge, acting to ensure the realization of that future.  Or some random, unnamed individual, hidden perfectly from sight throughout all time and legend.

But ultimately, what plausible candidate made sense, other than the one who had famously acted from the start to try to limit magic and preserve the world?

“You’re here to destroy me and save the future of the world,” Harry said.  He kept his voice rigidly formal.  “And for that, sir, I respect you.  It is even possible that --” his voice faltered as he remembered J.C. Kraeme’s  bloodied body, the death of Hermione and Granville, and the hundreds of thousands who had already died today, but he pressed on.  “It is even possible that you have done the right thing.”

Merlin nodded solemnly, his smile fading from his face.  “Then you understand.”

“I do,” said Harry.  For a moment, he felt the absurdity of the moment.  This was a moment that might spell the difference between a world of magic and advancement, a world where death could be defeated and Dumbledore could be retrieved, and… and a different world.  A darker timeline. And all of that was riding on this simple, clumsy conversation.

“But,” Harry went on, as Merlin raised his hand, “your map is wrong.”

Merlin didn’t lower his hand, but only tilted his head.  Just slightly.  An invitation.

“You must have known of Albus Dumbledore -- perhaps you even knew him, somehow,” said Harry.  “I sometimes wonder if he was the wisest man I’ve ever known, or merely the bravest.  He ransacked the Hall of Prophecy and used his knowledge of the future to guide its shape.  He didn’t believe prophecies could be truly averted, I think, and he might have been right.  In retrospect this seems obvious, but people like Tom Riddle spent years trying to avoid one prophecy or another, and they always failed.”  Harry shrugged.  “I’ve never heard of a prophecy that was simply wrong.  And if my readings are correct, you agree with him.”

“So you know this, then: I, Harry Potter-Evans-Verres, will tear apart the stars.”

Merlin nodded his head, slowly.  His eyes were amused and curious, but they held a fundamental flatness.  Harry couldn’t imagine what that might be -- some jadedness from such a long life, a precommitment to ignore all persuasion, or something beyond his ken -- but he had no time to worry about it.  He pushed forward, and felt his thoughts begin to catch fire.

Once upon a time, a lonely little boy had gone to a strange school.  He was a prophet of new ideas, and saw things in a new way -- he was the needle’s point of a black slash that cut from one entire civilization into another, bringing the force of thousands of years of accumulated knowledge to bear on a point forged by trauma into diamond strength.  And yet not a single jot or tittle of that had mattered, in the end.  So little of the boy’s cleverness had actually been brought to bear.  His beliefs were the hard uphill way, and even a prophet was not immune to easy answers.

It was not until the end that the boy had grasped the real meaning of his own beliefs, and had ascended.  Rationality was winning.

Harry’s mind blazed like an inferno.  He raised his hand.

“First.”  He held up a finger.  “Only two people are known to have ever mastered all the wizards and witches of the world.  Both, I think, did it for a good cause.  But consider that for all your power and your age, I have done what you did… and I have done it without force, and by granting life and power, and I have done it in only seven years.  I am your equal in this respect, and if you underestimate me now, then think about the fate of everyone else who has done so.  Think of your ally, Heraclius Hero.

“Second.”  He held up another finger.  “Events are already in motion to ensure that magic and humanity survive.  The Tower is gone, and the Mirror which was the door.  It has found a new place.”  High above us, Harry thought.  Six hundred kilometers high, so that its field of view encompasses the whole planet.  “Some friends of mine wait there -- waiting to find out whether I live or die.  I will not tell you their instructions.  But know that we all lie within the mirror now.

“Third.”  He held up a third finger.  “You have several times attempted to disrupt my designs.  You arranged for the destruction of my first facility, killing my friend in the process.  And this very day your ally tried to enslave me.  And yet I am here, and he is gone.”

Harry’s mouth grew firm. He met Merlin’s eyes for a long moment, and then moved those three fingers: thumb poised against forefinger and middle finger. Ready to snap.

"So think. Stop and think. You have a map in your head -- a mental map of reality. As you move through the world, you can trace your path on it. You can tick off events as you come to them; that's how you know your map matches reality. When you're surprised, it's not because reality is wrong... it's because your map is wrong. When you realize that, you have two choices: you change your map, or you get lost."

Merlin stared at him, and all vagueness and flatness was gone.  In its place was the raptor gaze of someone who was beyond death and weakness, who had weighed human life and discarded it when it interfered with his will.

"Consider whether you have been surprised by events. Consider whether this is unfamiliar ground. Consider your fallen allies. Consider your derailed plans," Harry said, and his voice was soft. "Stop and think, and consider: do you want to keep moving in this direction? Or might there be other surprises waiting for you?"

“I will give you the same chance that Lord Voldemort -- that Tom Riddle -- was given, before I took his life.  I will give you the same chance that Meldh had, before I took his life.  Stop now, and go in peace.

“Or I will end you.”

Harry didn't waver, and he was not afraid.

And it wasn't because he knew of some ultimate sanction or greater plan.

And it wasn't because he knew that Hermione would save the day with some impossible feat.

And it wasn't because he had faith in something greater than himself.

Harry did not waver because this moment laid bare his heart, the white-hot line of humanity at his center, slashing through the black arc of Tom Riddle and cutting through every obstacle in his way. Harry did not waver because he had tested all things and held fast to that which was true, and he had set that truth in service of the good with every last ounce of strength and will and might.

And for Harry James Potter-Evans-Verres, that was the purpose of life.

“Well?” said Harry.

From outside, a woman screamed, long and loud.  The scream of a dying woman.

Within a moment, another cry joined with the first: the sound of a hundred phoenixes, their call like the birth of a new world.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡
It matters not how strait the gate,
     How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate,
     I am the captain of my soul.

 -“Invictus,” by W. E. Henley


≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡
Merlin studied Harry closely.

And turned.

And left.

Significant Digits, Chapter Forty-Nine: Penultimate

Significant Digits, Chapter Forty-Nine: Penultimate



Hermione had a moment to think as she and the Returned climbed through the air away from Hogwarts, zipping over the school grounds towards Hogsmeade.  It was a short distance -- a few minutes’ flight -- but she took the opportunity afforded her to think beyond the immediate tactical situation.  Strategy, not only the demands of the moment, needed to dictate her movements.  And right now, she didn’t have any sort of larger strategy.

How could I?  How do you fight an enemy that breaks all the rules of the game?  Hermione thought to herself.  The Three were attacking -- Well, now it must be the Two, really, she thought, thinking about the unremarkable white stone that was sitting inside of a small, mundane iron box in the Headmistress’ coat pocket.  But Meldh had wrought havoc and almost brought the entire world under his control with one spell… It had taken an ancient artifact and years of planning to create a safeguard against that kind of attack, and even then it might have failed if things had gone a little differently.  At that last moment, if Meldh had the wits or resources to draw up another spell from his ages of lore, there was literally no predicting what he might have been able to do to her or Harry -- even with his throat missing.

The old books were full of fantastical feats and mighty deeds, and attempting to sort out the historical from the apocryphal was more a work of literary criticism than historical research.  “Lord Foul” was said to have commanded dementors and basilisks and terresque, but was that a real spell of command that the Three might deploy, or simply a legend that the writer thought was appropriate for an infamous dark wizard?

Normally Hermione would be able to rule some things out -- a secret spell from the past that allowed its caster to stop someone’s heart without the possibility of dodging or warding, for example.  If such a spell had existed, it would have made the one who invented it into an unstoppable force.  History would look different.

But according to Harry, Meldh had implied that the Three had been in hidden control of events for generations, which meant that they might actually be an unstoppable force.

“They’re using all the powers of the old world,” Harry had said, “everything that’s always worked for villains like them in the days gone by.  But we’re going to use all the powers of our new world to match them, and we’re going to beat them.”

But unless they had some brilliant ideas very soon, she couldn’t see how.

Hermione heard a dull popping sound from far below among the trudging mass of mind-controlled Muggles -- no, people -- and pulled up on her broom.  The Returned matched her, and they rose higher yet.  They were already too high to be under real threat from rifle fire, even if they hadn’t been warded, but there was no point in risking it.  She glanced around her, making sure everyone was with her and uninjured.  Hyori and Esther rode on either side of her.  Charlevoix and Urg followed them, staggered at different altitudes, while Susie, Tonks, Nikitas, and Jessie were spread out in a third, staggered row.  Simon’s absence was conspicuous.

Simon.  My solid rock.  Sweet, solid Simon.  Gone now.  Hermione wished she could have been there -- to save him, to help him, even just to hold his hand.

He’d been the first one she’d saved.

It was still raining when Hermione began pulling open the cell doors.  The walls of Azkaban had been battered, and a great jagged fissure had split one of the three sides to the prison; Granville had carried her through and they had landed within, and for the first time in centuries, the broken halls of Azkaban felt the cleansing cool of the rain.

Most of the cells were empty.  Most of the prisoners were gone, transferred to the new Howard Prison or simply released.  But there were still people here.

One door was stuck.  Hermione forced her fingers around its edge, the stone cracking loudly through the patter of rain, and wrenched the door open.  Another empty cell -- no, there was someone here.

She stepped into the cell, and let gentle orange flame illuminate it.  Granville made a small sound, shifting in position on her shoulder.  It was a sound of remorse or admonition.

The person was lying on their side, staring up at the ceiling.  Rotting alive, with black leprous streaks of infection spreading from great mottled sores, entwined maladies spread across a withered chest.  As warm light touched the person’s face, they slowly closed their eyes and turned towards her.  What did they see when they looked at her -- just a soaked teenager with a phoenix and a scared look on her face?  Who did they think she was?

She reached out a reassuring hand to the person as she approached.

“My name is Hermione Granger.  I’m here to help you.”

And now he was gone.  Brave Simon.

Her attention snapped back to the present as they passed the gates to Hogsmeade, and she saw new enemies.  Not just the endless flood of weapon-wielding Muggles, but two other groups.

A large wedge of witches and wizards in robes was slowly, almost casually, making their way through the mass.  They walked in good order right along the stone-paved path from Hogsmeade, as though they were merely a group of forty students returning from a trip to Honeydukes.  The Muggles parted before them as though directed by an invisible force.  Something to do with the spell controlling the Muggles, or something about the orders they’d been given, or… maybe these are involved in the control or can give directions?

Hermione felt cold run up her back as she recognized -- even from this height -- some of the enemy.  Councilor Limpel Tineagar.  Bellatrix Black, with one eye and one arm (her artificial arm, the Gripmain, presumably still lay in the vaults of the Department of Mysteries).  Some of the strangers wore markings on their robes that Hermione recognized as the sigils of Grindelwald’s death squads, the Hírnökei; she could see the red sword of the Záh Kardja and the red hand of the Veres Kezek.  No Grindelwald in his own person -- a small mercy in this tide of nightmares.

And yet even this was not the end, for behind this infantry of dark wizards was a cavalry of monsters.  

She recognized the basilisks.  The enormous serpents were following a lone witch in a green dress, seeming to mimic her movements.  As she walked, they swayed to match the swing of her hips, and their gaze was clearly fixed on her back to the exclusion of all else.  The basilisks were at least fifty feet long, perhaps more; the portion of their serpentine bodies that they held upright was as tall as a two-storey Muggle home.

Behind the basilisks was another mass of creatures -- terrifying things that could only be terresque.  They had broad shells on their backs, rough as chipped stone, and moved on six stubby legs with shiny red scales.  They were huge -- ten feet high, with round black heads as large as a lion’s, and great mouths that smoked with some sort of vapour.  As they lumbered along, they resembled nothing so much as a mad cross between a tank and a turtle and a parade float.

As both groups came into view and as soon as she grasped what she was seeing, Hermione immediately reacted.  They couldn’t handle this -- not with so few people.  She yanked her broom to one side as sharply as she dared, almost colliding with Hyori before the Returned could match her change of heading.  Should they be trying to transfigure protective goggles or something, in case the basilisks’ stare reached them at this distance?  No, no time, and they needed free wands.  The important thing was to get back out of sight and warn everyone else.  Luna already had one task, but now Hermione had something else for her, too.

The witches and wizards weren’t mounted -- strange, but in keeping with their lack of hurry in a time of war -- and so there was a chance that Hermione and her people might get away before any conflict could begin.  She heard a distant shout from below as they wheeled about, but the enemy wouldn’t manage more than one or two attacks before the Returned were clear.  My God… in addition to a seemingly endless horde of Muggles, we’ll also be fighting the denizens of Howard and Nurmengard?

A bolt of green light streaked past, veering wide.  It was joined by another, placed more accurately and blistering through the air between Esther and Charlevoix.  A thick gust of steam blew into the group almost at the same time, but it was without force at this distance, and the Returned were putting distance between them and the enemy with every moment.

There was no point in engaging, but a thought did occur to Hermione -- obvious, in retrospect.  She slackened her pace just slightly, and brought her wand to her throat.  “Sonorus,” she cast, and then bellowed at the top of her lungs, “Egeustimentis Ba!”

There was an immediate response below, as four or five of the witches and wizards began firing on each other.  A fireball erupted among the group, cast by one of its number.  Hermione grinned, and leaned further into her broom, urging more speed.  They still needed to prepare for the monsters.

An odd hooting sound startled her.  It sounded like a giant owl -- and it seemed far too close, as though it somehow cut through the rushing wind.  Hermione jerked her head to the side and looked for the source, but saw nothing.  She could see Urg looking puzzled, and knew she hadn’t been the only one who heard it.

Then Susie fell out of the sky, tumbling off her broom, slapping at something that was wrapped around her head.  Hermione only caught a glimpse of it as Susie tumbled away -- a naked thing of skin and teeth, vibrating violently.

And then Hermione was diving after her, her broom vertical, arm stretched out and golden gauntlet reaching.  She could hear Susie screaming -- shrieking at the top of her voice, louder than a person should be able to scream, agony tearing out of her.

Shouldn’t do this no time stupid stupid, she thought, in a confused jumble that didn’t shake her from her course in the slightest.

Hermione strained forward, trying to force herself to go faster, to dive more quickly, to reach farther.  Susie tumbled away in a tangle of robes and blood, beating at the thing on her face and chest until it fell away, tossed in the wind.  The ground rose towards Hermione and Susie, surging up to meet them as they fell.

She reached and reached and

Got her.

As her hand clamped down on Susie’s ankle, Hermione kicked herself savagely back, hauling on the front of her broom so fiercely that she felt the wood strain and crack dangerously in her grip.  She pulled up into a swoop, the bottom of the arc dipping within arm’s reach of a crowd of threatening Muggles, dragging them both back up into the sky without letting go of a drop of speed.  The violent motion wrenched Susie badly, and Hermione felt something in the witch’s leg give -- the hip or knee -- but Hermione had her, thank God thank God, she had her.

They rocketed forward, Hermione leaning forward and holding the broom steady with her left hand.  With the other, she pulled Susie up, lifting the witch’s lower body over the front of the broom.

But Susie was dead.

Her face and chest were a mess of bloody meat, ground and torn as though by some monstrous industrial machine.  Her mouth was agape -- a lifeless black wound in the shredded flesh.

Hermione’s eyes burned with the wind and her rage, and she clenched her jaw.  She leaned forward, though, gripping Susie in place.  Stay focused.  Susie could still be saved.

The rest of the Returned joined her moments later, swooping down to fall in line with her.

Hermione heard more hooting.

No no no what is that?!

Esther pulled even with Hermione, and leaned over.  She grabbed one of Susie’s arms, pulling on the witch.  Hermione understood what she wanted, and helped, seizing the back of Susie’s robes and lifting the witch from one broom onto the other, fighting with the other hand to keep their flight steady.

There was another hooting sound, and something collided with Esther, her broom, and Susie.  The two witches were gone, as immediately as if they’d been struck from the sky by lightning.

Hermione wheeled in her seat, and saw… something.  Not a physical thing so much as a flow of sensations.  It was something like the use of wandless magic: the purposeful movement of particular ideas.  But this was somehow visible, and moving, and malevolent.  A collection of sensations, divorced from sanity and sense.

Large eyes.  Black and oily.  Wet.
White skin.  Flaky, run through with spidering cracks.  Ragged in places, as gnawed.
Long, thin limbs.  Sparse flesh.  Lumpy joint.
Mouth.  Smile.
Smile.

And there were more, leaping up around them.  Hooting with mirth.  They were so fast; Hermione was on a broom at top speed and they were leaping at her.

Without word or order or request, Hyori and Charlevoix broke away from Hermione and the rest of the Returned.  Hermione twisted to see once more, and they flew around and back, in a circle back to where Esther and Susie had fallen.  Their curses flew as quickly as they could cast them, but the creatures were too quick and too inchoate.  Even the spells that seemed to hit had no effect.  They leapt at Hyori and Charlevoix, hooting, and the pair vanished, plucked out of the air.

Hermione turned back around, gritting her teeth again, and her hands tightened on her broom.  She fought to stay calm -- fought to stay under control.

Esther and Charlevoix.  The French witch had once been nearly catatonic, breaking into screams every time she was separated from Hermione.  Esther had been very quiet, too, for a time; injured deep within herself by betrayal and her own anger.  But the two had found each other during this past year in some new way -- Hermione hadn’t pried.  They were even leaving Powis -- they’d just recently gotten a cottage in Godric’s Hollow.

Hyori.  An enigma, even to Hermione.  Laconic and deadly serious, imprisoned for murder, but with some hidden depth that Hermione had never understood.  She’d made a game of things in subtle ways, and her sharp eyes had always hinted at thoughts the witch had never revealed.

Susie.  Lascivious and sarcastic, delighting in affecting cockney, alluding to a sexuality she used like armor.  Like all of the Returned, she’d left some piece of herself with the dementors, but she was bravest of them all in trying to reclaim it.

Hermione, Tonks, Urg, Nikitas, and Jessie flew on, back to Hogwarts and back to help.

Not that Hermione could imagine what help would suffice.  What could anyone do in this situation?  What weapons did they have that would work?

And again: what did these damned monsters even want?

This didn’t make any sense!  Why was the enemy entering through Hogsmeade, and not right outside the castle -- or for that matter, why not right inside the castle?  They didn’t know the limits of the spell, but Bellatrix had used it to simply appear within Hogwarts, so why not do that again?

For that matter, why go to war like this at all?  Harry had said that Meldh had only said that “a great and fearsome god” was calling for “blood”... part of some larger plan to eliminate magic from the world.  That last bit accorded with what Tineagar had said back in Tidewater.  That seemed like years ago, now… Tineagar had claimed she was fighting to stop the world from breaking.

They were wasting resources, unless they had some hidden aim.  Their plan had been for Meldh to take Harry’s place, with Harry in some “new shape” as an enslaved advisor.  But preparations for this attack must have started, at the latest, well before Hermione went to the Tower.  The Muggle news, she’d learned, had begun reporting disappearances in the morning.  So why were the Three essentially attacking each other?  It couldn’t be infighting or rivalry, since Meldh had known about it to mention to Harry.  It was part of a plan.  But she couldn’t see what that plan’s goal might be, in light of the Three’s goal of ending all magic.  Were they trying to start a war between Muggles and wizards?  Or just trying to kill off as many wizards as possible?  Or was it just a distraction from a trio of monsters who had no particular regard for the lives of others?  And how would they react to the loss of Meldh?

Oh.

Hermione’s broom wobbled as she suddenly realized something, letting go with one hand to snatch her bubbler out of her robes.  She lay her will upon it, picturing Harry; he answered almost immediately.

“Harry!” she shouted, calling at the top of her voice to be heard over the wind, unwilling to slacken the pace of her speeding broom even a fraction, “Meldh was going to take your place!”

His eyes lit up, and she knew he understood: to the other two members of the Three, the world might not look any different from one in which Meldh had succeeded and was in control of the Tower.  They might not have heard her use the counterspell, if they weren’t near that group of wizards.  They might still think everything was going according to plan.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡
It was an uncomfortable moment when Draco realized he wasn’t in charge.  He arrived in the Great Hall with Mad-Eye and Diggory at his side and twenty aurors in tow (and one Gregory Goyle).  Longbottom and Bogdanova were there, and told him that Granger had left operating orders and then had gone flying off to do her usual routine (jumping from really high, getting in over her head, discovering she was actually a bit rubbish at magic, and resorting to punching things like a Muggle).  Her plans were good ones, but they still needed someone in command.  The Lord Malfoy (now the greatest of that name, one of the handful of people in command of the entire world) drew himself up to his full height and readied himself for the burden.

But before he could begin, Mad-Eye had already taken control from a perch on the rooftop over the great doors.

“You there, get back here -- get on that roof, no need to be flying around!” he roared, pointing at one of the groups in the air.  “Use the castle and hold this ground!  Keep them back, but Hogwarts is stone from the ancients -- use it!  And for Merlin’s sake, everyone put up a bloody bubble!”

Chastened, Draco tapped his wand to his head, casting, “Bullesco.”  He felt the uncomfortable feeling as a bubble swelled from one nostril, inflating until it encompassed his head.

They went to work.

It soon became clear that standard dueling tactics were useless.  There were simply too many of the enemy, and those methods had already failed one group of defenders.  It was simple math: even if every auror was able to kill a hundred Muggles, there would still be more.

Instead, they focused on attacks that affected a wide area -- not those rare spells that could do damage on a large scale, for those were deeply draining.  Instead, they used attacks on the terrain, and innovative Transfigurations.

The fliers dispersed from a height something called “sarin” out among the Muggles, far away from the castle.  Within minutes, it began crippling and killing huge swaths of the enemy.  At the same time, other fliers dropped large metal canisters that Mad-Eye transfigured; the blastbombs detonated into fiery explosions as they landed among the Muggle horde.

Closer by, defenders picked off those Muggles who managed to reach the top of the hill and the castle walls, and used the Butterball Charm to make it almost impossible to make the approach.  Some still got close enough to attack with their weapons: they became targets, too.  One fired a ranged blastbomb which leapt from its tubelike gun and blew up against the castle wall, as though it were conjured fire.  It did but minor damage to the school, but it was dangerous nonetheless.  A massed horde of Muggles, despite their limitations, were a fearsome threat.

It’s like the ancient wars, the stories from old, Draco thought, with a tingle of excitement and unease.  Muggles died in droves, and from a perch on a balcony above the great doors, Draco lashed out to protect everything he valued, fighting a war he had never really believed would come.

In only a few minutes, he was starting to feel sick.  But there was nothing for it.  He swallowed hard and leaned over the railing, twirling his wand, “Stupefy!  Stupefy!”  Two more Muggles fell back, stunned, dropping into a frictionless slurry of liquified stone and vanishing from sight.

A movement from above caught his eye, and he glanced up to see Granger coming back, streaking through the air at top speed.  Half of her band of fanatics were gone.  But it looked like she was unhurt, he saw with relief.

She dropped down from the sky and swooped to a stop near Mad-Eye on the roof, out of sight from Draco (on the balcony below) but within earshot.  “Alastor, there’s a force of witches and wizards on the way here.  Bellatrix and that American witch, Tineagar, and at least thirty others, including some of Grindelwald’s old bunch.”

“But not Grindel himself,” gruffed Mad-Eye.  “Makes sense, since they tortured him into insanity twenty years ago.”

Draco didn’t even have time to be shocked by the news, as Granger went on.  “There’s worse… ten basilisks and almost as many rock-monster things -- from the old legends, the terresque.  And… and --”

Her voice ended in a strangled cry before she found her words again.  “And something else.  I don’t know what, some sort of creatures.  They’re so fast and spells didn’t work.”

“Harry’s in the library,” replied Mad-Eye.  Then he shouted at someone Draco couldn’t see, calling roughly, “You lot, get down here!”

The Shichinin flew in from Draco’s left, joining the pair on the roof.  Draco turned his attention back to the battle as an explosion concussed the air, claiming another dozen lives, and picked off two more Muggles who’d separated from the pack and nearly reached the castle.

A few minutes later, the monsters arrived.  Draco had never seen anything like them.  Giant serpents -- basilisks, he knew.  Creatures the size of buildings, with six legs.  They tore through Muggles like the people weren’t even there, crushing them underfoot as they stormed at Hogwarts across the castle grounds.

Monsters… what did you even do in a situation like this?

There was nothing to do except handle one situation at a time, and wait for instructions.  Three more Muggles reached the top of the slope, clambering on the partially-submerged bodies of their compatriots, and Draco took them down.  One of them had raised a tube-weapon, but Draco thought he took him down in time.

The next instant, everything went black and pain, jumbled up in a riot of impact.  Draco found himself staring at the side of the castle, lying on the stones in front of the great doors.  

He lay there, ears filled with white noise, and tried to understand what had happened.

Draco rolled over onto his back, and coughed.  It hurt abominably, as though something inside him was torn.  But he couldn’t stop himself, and coughed again, spasmodically.

He stared up at the roof of the castle.  Granger and the Shichinin were in flight again, a tight bunch.  They flew down to him, pausing in the air a dozen yards away.

No time for this, do your asinine plan, whatever it is, Draco thought, scornfully.  Weakly, he lifted a hand, and flapped it in a dismissive gesture.

Granger nodded at him, something unrecognizable on her face.  She turned and waved at one of the Weasley twins, Merlin knew which one, and pointed down at something on the ground, out of Draco’s view.  “Fred!” she shouted, barely audible through Draco’s ringing ears, “You guys take those and get high!  Wait for my signal!”

Draco put a hand to his forehead, and it came back red and wet.  He felt dizzy and nauseous.  Bile rose in his throat, and he leaned over to vomit.  When he was finished, he’d barely straightened before he needed to throw up again.  His legs felt weak, and he swayed in place, staggering to the side as he tried to stay upright.

A strong grip seized his forearm, held it tight, held him in place.  Dazed, he looked to find an armored child holding his arm.  No, not a child.  A goblin, clad all over in shining silver.

“Rest easy, wizard,” said the goblin, its consonants guttural.  “We’ll need you yet.”

Draco couldn’t quite understand what he was seeing.  Something was in his eyes; he swiped at his face with the sleeve of his robe, blinking rapidly as something stung his eyes.  His Bubblehead Charm was broken, he realized.  He needed to get it back.

But for the moment, all he could do was fight to stand as the goblin let him go.  It hefted a spear in its hand, and pointed it down the slope, to where the monsters were raging.

Draco held himself upright, and felt a moment’s hope.

Then he heard the strangest hooting noise.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡
A solitary figure in plain grey robes, unseen and unnoticed, watched the fighting.

It paused to flick its fingers through the air, whereupon a tracery of crimson light formed a sharp arrow, directing the figure’s gaze to the castle itself and an unseen target within.

The figure picked its way carefully up the steep slope towards the Hufflepuff greenhouse, which was damaged and open.  Where the way was inconvenient, the ground gently shifted itself, as though the earth itself was trying to be accommodating.  The lone individual stepped delicately over broken panes of glass, and slipped inside the school.  

It made its way to the library.

Significant Digits, Chapter Forty-Eight: Antepenultimate

Significant Digits, Chapter Forty-Eight: Antepenultimate



Receiving Room, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Now

This was a defining moment.  Gregor Nimue knew that.  Everyone was leaning on him to break protocol, and he was standing fast.

It was a shining moment, and it was a long time coming.

Considering his experience and skill, he should have been Terminus of the Receiving Room a long time ago.  He had twice the lore and three times the brains of any other Tower Auror, and it was practically a crime that he’d been sidelined for so long.  He’d spent years chafing under the command of inferiors, stuck on chizpurfle duty or some other nonsense -- all because he’d had the bad luck to be on the Azkaban rotation on the night that veela-giant crossbreed dropped out of the sky on a phoenix and knocked the place flat.  An entire detail of good and experienced aurors were dropped down to sentinel duty the very next week, and Gregor had been taking orders from idiots ever since.

And what was even better, the very week he was finally back in a decent posting -- Terminus, a job with some real heft -- was one more in a series of crazy weeks.  The blastbombings in Diagon and Tidewater, the start of the Treaty of Independence, an attack by some worthless students with a hundred doxies, the One-Day War, the attack by Bellatrix Black, and now some sort of takeover attempt at the same time that everywhere else in the world was going to pot.  Too many people had been burnt out or hurt or both, and so good old Gregor’s career was finally finally heading back to the top.

There were protocols for things like this, for powerful wizards who might manage to evade security and put people under their control, and Gregor followed them to the letter.  As soon as McGonagall sent word about a message she’d received, he’d given the signal.  They’d rolled the shield and locked down the Tower, and no power on the planet could make him open it until he was satisfied that the Tower hadn’t been compromised.  That was the rule.  That was his role.  The Terminus was the first and last guard against attack -- from either side of the Tower’s golden doorway.

Injured wizards, witches, and Squibs arrived and were sent to nearby chambers in Hogwarts, stabilized as well as could be done by a skeleton crew of the less-skilled aurors.  Gregor kept his best stationed near him -- and that necessity became even more apparent when entire squads of foreign Hit Wizards and auror teams arrived.  Some of the most famous battle wizards and duelists in the world appeared on the summons of the Headmistress of Hogwarts and the Tower and some American muckitymuck.  The Boston Brahmins didn’t even arrive stunned; they spun into existence fully awake and aware, which meant that they’d used an illegal Tower portkey that didn’t have the security enchantments.  Gregor’d need to report that -- earn another point in his favor.

As the story became clear, he’d let out messages and he’d let in a handful of runners and representatives, but still: no one left.  A strange and powerful wizard had tried to take over and failed… fine, a good story, but would it be any different if a strange and powerful wizard had tried to take over and succeeded?  Lockdown remained in place.

Even when he heard that the Ministry itself was under attack, and that the dregs of the aurors who’d been sitting idle in Hogsmeade or some other Knut-ante place had spotted a crowd of Muggles, Gregor knew better.  He did his job.  Americans, Russians, Koreans, and seemingly a thousand angry British including all the most powerful people he knew were all putting pressure on him, and he did his job.

It was a shining moment, and it was a long time coming.

“Lift the lockdown, Nimue!” shouted Auror Hedley Kwannon, “It’s been nearly thirty minutes!  Don’t you know what’s happening out there?”

“Don’t you know what protocol is, Kwannon?” snapped back Gregor.  He was off to the side of the door, out of its line of sight, but he knew she must be fuming.  One more bit of consolation: knowing one of the Tower’s pets was being treated like everyone else for a change.  He’d already heard that another one of them, that flinty Kraeme woman, had been badly injured.

If he found out that Pirrip had fallen off his broom and broken his neck while mooning after the Diggory brat-in-charge, then Gregor’s day would be complete.

“You don’t have to let them out, but you’re going to let us in,” rumbled the biggest of the three Chinese wizards who’d been pestering Gregor for the last twenty minutes.  He didn’t approach too closely -- not with fifty Tower Aurors on alert, wands ready for conflict (from either direction).

And if this whole thing were a ploy and it was you lot behind it, wouldn’t that just what you’d bloody want? Gregor thought.  Although all things considered, it’s still most likely that Mad-Eye is the one behind the whole thing, somehow.  He smiled a mocking smile right at the Chinese Hit Wizard, although all he said was a courteous, “No, sir.  Sorry.”

Two of the Tower Aurors exchanged an uneasy glance, but didn’t lower their wands.  Gregor noticed, and noted who it was.  Unreliable.

“You have every confirmation code and you have Patronus verification from five of us,” shouted Kwannon.  “That is the protocol!”

“I still have discretion,” called back Gregor, “and I haven’t seen anything th--”

“No.  That’s enough now, Nimue,” said a new voice, with a tone of command that was leather-tough.  Madame Bones.  His former leader in the DMLE, before she leapt up four or five rungs to Supreme Mugwump and Chief Warlock.  “If the Tower has been compromised somehow, then it’s past proof and past solution.  You’ll end the lockdown right now.  Innocent people are dying.”

Gregor considered.  She’s right.  And I’ve made my name.  If this was a Mad-Eye test, then I’ve made my reputation.  And if not… well, this will probably still be good for me.

“Fine,” he said.  And before he’d even said a word more, tense aurors were lowering their wands with a sigh.  The sharper ones were in immediate, rapid motion: heading to the bunched-up crowd sorting itself into a queue to get through the narrow Tower entrance, or going the opposite way to the rest of Hogwarts.

Gregor turned to one of the aurors in charge of scanning.  “We’ll need to sort out who is available for assistance outside…”

But his voice trailed off as he watched a ripple shift through the witches and wizards around the Tower entrance.  They cleared a path.

Hermione Granger strode through the path, out of the Tower.  Her step was brisk and her face was tight.  She had her wand out -- and her other hand looked oddly pinkish, as though it had been sunburnt.

This was a shining moment, Gregor knew.  The same person who’d broken his career would now reward him for keeping to the rules at the moment when it had been the most difficult, and when there’d been every reason to give in.

He stepped forward to meet her.  “Madame Granger, I hope you --”

The Goddess didn’t even slow down.  She walked forward like he wasn’t there, and her shoulder swept Gregor aside like a curtain of iron as he tried to hastily get out of her way.  He staggered backwards, met an obstacle behind one heel, and lost his balance.  He landed on his rear, awkwardly.

No one took much notice -- too many things going on -- except for the few people near him (including the bass-voiced Chinese auror, who had stuck a foot out behind Gregor).

He watched the Goddess sweep through the room and out, and then she was gone, two witches right on her heels and dozens of aurors and others rushing in their wake, following her with grim faces.  Almost before she’d vanished from the room, though, there came someone else -- the only person, perhaps, who could draw even more attention than Hermione Granger.

“Cedric, take anyone not vital who can cast a Patronus,” said Harry Potter, walking briskly up to the Tower entrance.  He was wearing simple garments -- trousers and a vest beneath plain robes. “Communications are now the most important thing you can do.  We can bring reinforcements here quickly with Safety Sticks, but moving them after that is harder, so --”

“So we need to know exactly what threats are where, and now,” finished the Chief Auror and Head of the DMLE, walking alongside and just behind the Tower.

Potter nodded, sharply, and then a look of uncertainty flashed over his face.  His stride broke, and he halted.  He was standing inside the golden oval of the Tower, looking out at the Receiving Room.

Gregor stood up and turned to the side, trying to follow the Tower’s gaze.  He glanced around the room.  Nothing unusual now but a relatively plain stone room with the usual decorations -- the tables of Dark Detectors, the shelves of chizpurfles, the few pieces of other furniture.  It was crowded with combat-ready wizards, and injured people were arriving at a steady rate, but there were no apparent threats.  There didn’t seem to be any reason for the Tower to hesitate… was he nervous about any remaining danger?  That didn’t seem possible, considering how often Potter had been in serious peril.  Just a couple of months ago, he’d nearly been blown up in Diagon, and just today there’d been an attempt to cast some sort of Imperius Curse on him.  He is just a child, after all.  A child who’s taken charge of the world, but a child.  With a stupid haircut, too.

Madame Bones stepped up from somewhere behind Potter.  She said something too soft to hear, and then put a hand on his back and gave him a gentle but firm push forward.  The Tower stepped forward and out of his eponymous facility, and took a deep breath.  He closed his eyes.  He looked pale.

Then the moment passed, and Potter was turning to yet another person walking with him -- a blonde-haired witch -- and telling her to get everything ready, and to remember everything he’d said.

Nimue found himself pushed to the side by several aurors, and then again by a scornful blonde wizard -- was that Draco Malfoy?

“You’re the one who was Terminus and kept us here?  Well done, you fool,” sneered Malfoy.  He didn’t stop, but walked on.

Things weren’t supposed to go this way.  This wasn’t fair.

“Good going --”  “-- you complete bollocks,” said a pair of red-haired Hit Wizards with bizarre cheer as they walked by.

“I followed protocol!” Gregor protested.  “I just did what I was supposed to do!”

“You did the right thing, Nimue,” Bones said, staring at him.  Her voice was cool.  “What an odd time to begin such behavior, just when it most hurt us.”  Then she turned away from him, too, looking at another auror who’d emerged from the Tower behind her.  “Madagascar, you’re in charge here.  Get everyone moving.  Get everyone you can outside, to help Granger.”


≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

Harry stepped to one side of the Mirror, which sat as impossibly solid as ever, embedded in the masonry of Hogwarts as though it were a piece of interior decoration: a fancy accessory to the castle, rather than the most potent magical device known to still exist.

The Cup of Midnight might have been stronger, once.  They hadn’t been able to find much information about that ancient device, which came to them now only in scant shards, but Hopkirk’s best guess was that the Cup had been the method by which the Interdict was enacted.  Around the same time, the Cup was broken and Merlin lost his life and his time.  Occam’s Razor suggested that all three events were perhaps related, although contradictory legends told many different stories.

There was a time when Harry couldn’t have imagined making a decision like that… a decision on behalf of humanity.  On some level, of course, every little decision tasted of eternity.  But to consciously choose a path for the future of mankind, to make a gamble in the name of human intelligence… well, that had been the fate of a precious few.

And now Harry was going to join them.

The scramble he’d inspired with his order to evacuate the Tower had caused something like a panic, especially when added to the chaos of the attacks and the tension of the lockdown.  Healers and officials and researchers and diplomats and friends first tried to enter the Tower, only to find themselves turned back: Moody stood just inside, where the two main corridors split off, and roared orders.  There were suddenly too few aurors, where only minutes ago there had been far too many, but those remaining worked to clear out the entire facility.  The Records Room was emptied, desperate researchers were permitted a single trip to retrieve anything they needed from the departments, and every last straggler was forced out.

At least one researcher fought back, recklessly, after his request to return and retrieve his personal Pensieve was denied.  He was stunned and removed.  But while there was a great deal of complaining and even some tears, most accepted the warnings without such a drastic reaction.

Probably a lot of them don’t really believe that anything is going to happen to the Tower -- they expect to be able to come back after the alarm dies down.  They don’t know that it’s going to… well, I don’t even know what will happen to it.  Harry stared at the Mirror.  It stood immobile: a fixed point of supernal obdurance.  If it were possible to truly conceptualize the supermassive black hole at the center of the galaxy, this is what he imagined it would be like: potent beyond reckoning and more solid than existence.  Not that he’d ever had occasion to see a black hole.  His mouth twisted in a wry smile.

Harry looked at the golden circle of the Mirror.

He had to do this.

He had to make himself do this.

Kwannon kept most people from bothering him with their urgent pleas for assistance or exceptions.  She blocked their path physically -- or with wards when necessary -- to keep his corner of the Receiving Room empty, off to the side of the Tower entrance.  He was startled, then, when he felt a hand tug on his sleeve.  He turned to find Auror Pirrip, looking sweaty but grinning broadly.  He glanced over Pip’s shoulder at Kwannon, but she was smiling, too.

“Yes?” Harry asked.

“Mr. Potter!  You’re never going to believe… the goblins, sir!”

Harry felt a sick feeling in his gut.  He knew what this was about, and celebrations were not in order.

Every round for countless rounds, wizards defected instead of cooperating.  What did we expect would happen?

“Let me guess: they attacked, but we won.”  He sighed, and turned away, to stare at the Mirror again.  “It’s been building for weeks, now.  Well, no, it’s been building for years.  And the frustrating thing is that it’s impossible to even blame them, or feel happy about winning.  It doesn’t change anything, and it actually makes things worse in a lot of ways.  I don’t think moral culpability is heritable, but centuries of structural inequality and outright oppression can’t be ignored for --”

“Sir!” interrupted Pip, putting a hand on Harry’s arm again, his urgency overriding his patience and respect.  “They’re fighting with us -- fighting for us!  Everywhere!  They’ve saved the Cypriot Hold and Beauxbatons.  They’ve saved Godric’s Hollow!”

That’s… my god, that’s better than we deserve.  That’s better than any of us deserve.

It was amazing.  It was a touch of grace.  It was a shining moment.

Harry felt his eyes fill with tears, and a smile spread helplessly across his face.

“Everything is going to hell, Mr. Potter,” said Pip, smiling back, “but we’re not alone.”

“Sir!” said Kwannon, behind Pip, one arm raised to stop a panic-faced auror.  “They need you!  The Goddess is out there, but…”

Things must be bad and getting worse.  And it was time.  The Receiving Room was almost empty, except for healers.  Almost everyone who could fight was gone, and everyone else was trying to secure themselves away with the students -- down in the dungeons, he supposed.

Moody and a last team of aurors emerged, floating two stunned stragglers along in their wake.  Moody gave Harry a heavy nod, his face sadder than Harry had seen it since Albus Dumbledore had been lost beyond time.

“Yes,” said Harry to Kwannon.  He turned back to the Mirror.  And now he felt ready.  “I can do this.  But then we’re going to the library, not outside.  Let Hermione do her thing -- I’ll do mine.”

He stepped in front of the entrance to the Tower -- the pocket world of his creation.  The world of his volition.  He felt for his wand.

“Muffliato,” he cast.

“Noitilov,” he said.  And the surface of the Mirror changed, and just like that, the John Snow Center for Medicine and the Tower School of Doubt was gone.


≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

What a waste, Hermione thought, grimly.  She pulled her broom up and away from the entrance to the castle.  What a heroic waste.

The defenders could have done any number of things differently, if they’d been willing to rethink their situation or defy convention.  They’d fought like they’d always fought: with incredible bravery but limited creativity.

The castle fell away behind her as she flew upwards, set on the steep hill that edged upon the waters of the Black Lake.  The staircase down the hill was gone, bitten away halfway down by the teeth of rubble that were strewn at the bottom.  The Hogwarts grounds, normally a gentle rise of grass from the main gates from Hogsmeade all the way to the castle, were a torn mass of detritus and the dead, still intermingled with the scrambling mass of people who were pouring in from Hogsmeade in an endless stream.  There were thousands, perhaps tens of thousands.  Perhaps more.  She’d heard that a million people could fit within Tiananmen Square in Beijing, and tried to estimate based on that.  Considering all the chaos and the impassable areas… how many people was she looking at?

She picked a portion of ground and did a quick Fermi estimate, counting the living and dead on that portion and extrapolating to the whole field.

Ninety thousand.

There was a dull thump from far below, and a line of silver smoke arrowed through the air.  Hermione watched as it arced gently downward, and hit the wrought-iron apex atop the Hufflepuff greenhouse.  The missile exploded.  It actually did little damage, except for a multitude of broken glass.  But she could see rifles and numerous simpler weapons among the crowd, too.

Well, and she couldn’t believe she was thinking this and very carefully reminded herself of the moral equivalencies and the slippery slope of the thought but even so she still couldn’t help but think, they are just Muggles, after all.

Hermione dipped her broom sharply, dropping dangerously quickly to the ground.  She pulled up just short of the gathering aurors.  Every moment, more were arriving from outside.  She took a moment to assess who was there and what their known capabilities were.  A formidable force, even against an army like this.  And if they fought smartly, they could win this.

The Returned were there.  Simon was missing.  In turn, Hermione met the eyes of Urg, Charlevoix, Esther, Nikitas, Tonks, Susie, and Hyori.  She didn’t say anything, and neither did they.  There was nothing that needed to be said.

“Brahmins and Rakshasa,” she said, firmly, jabbing her finger at the elite American and Russian auror squads.  “You’re in the air.  I want to know about everything that happens.  Stay high.  You’re not fighting, you’re keeping yourself protected.  If you seen an opportunity, you tell the Jīngluò or the Three Treasures.”  She indicated the Chinese and Korean squads.  “They’re going to be working in teams, protecting each other and attacking.  You’ll be transfiguring things I’ll tell you -- dangerous things.  Things you’re never supposed to transfigure.  But you’re going to do it, because it’s the only way to stay alive… and the only way to save countless other lives.”

Hermione waited a moment, anticipating arguments or demands about her authority.  But there were none -- just confident nods and cool determination.  They knew of the Goddess.  They knew the reputation of the Tower.

She turned to the British forces.  “Shichinin and Omega, you’ve the most experience fighting Muggles.  Defend this ground.  Half of you will be on the battlements… this is a castle, use the cover.  I have more ideas -- things we can do to stop this. Draco Malfoy and  Alastor Moody will join you when they arrive.”

Hermione wheeled her broom around and pointed at the horde below.  “Thousands of people have already died, including dozens of our own.  But what finally worked was a physical barrier.  Use that.  Hold them off, stay on the defensive.  The Muggle news is full of these disappearances -- we don’t know how many we’re facing.  So your job is just to hold back the tide and keep the school safe.  If you have to, retreat inside.  Stay alive.”

She gestured at the Returned, and they began mounting brooms.

Neville Longbottom called out to her as they rose.  “And you… you’re going after the source?”

“Yes,” she said.  “Stay alive.”

And then she was flying, the Returned by her side.

Significant Digits, Chapter Forty-Six: Levee

Significant Digits, Chapter Forty-Six: Levee



Eventually, of course, help arrived.  A gathered force of Russian, Chinese, American, and Korean witches and wizards had answered the urgent plea of Headmistress McGonagall, who had acted swiftly and with her usual competence to demand assistance.  Indeed, they had sent their most elite response teams: the Boston Brahmins, the Siberian Rakshasa, the Jīngluò, and the Three Treasures.  After an initial accident in the Receiving Room, it took half an hour to negotiate a peaceful end to rising hostility and suspicion.  Harry’s message had stated that everyone in the Tower had been suborned by an intruder, and it was -- unsurprisingly -- difficult to prove that this was no longer true… especially since the visitors from around the world brought grim news of their own.

The Muggle news services had broken into panic -- in some cases, outright hysteria -- over mass disappearances that had occurred in major cities around the globe.  Thousands of people, maybe tens of thousands, had gone missing.  Entire neighborhoods had been emptied of their populations in less than a day.  The Witch-Watchers and their counterparts in other countries had passed on the news, of course, but few in the magical world had been able to say what it might mean.  Such feats of malice were beyond the abilities of any person or persons yet known.  Nothing on the scale had been done in many generations, since the era when magical combat between powerful wizards depended heavily on controlling crowds of armed Muggles with charms and threats.

Also troubling was the restive behavior of the goblins.  It had already been apparent that all seven goblin cities had been in communication with each other, and most particularly with Ackle.  Spies and spells revealed that these Beings had gone further, and that a fearsome gathering of goblins had massed on the plains near Ackle, heedless of Muggle eyes.  The goblin nation, encamped in their thousands, rejected all emissaries and inquiries and threats with cold words and armed guards.  Magical observers could only watch them huddle amid brightly-colored canvas and clockwork beasts of silver, and wonder.

There were rumors and suspicions, especially after two exhausting hours had been spent communicating the events of the past two days and all the concerns that faced them.  Communications were sent back to different Things, and responses multiplied by the minute. Grindelwald’s cell had been examined, and the shackles of the Abiku were checked, and the dark pit of Sarai’s oubliette was secured.  But the monsters were all snug in their captivity, and worried minds turned to other possibilities.  The name of Merlin was mentioned.  Atlantis was mentioned.  Only a few knew enough to speak of the Three, and tremble.

Some did not react well.  A seer in Istanbul had gone mad, screaming about the return of the Dökkálfr -- sheer madness, for that grim faerie people had been gone from the earth for a hundred generations.  And a Slytherin boy named Lawrence felt a cold shiver run up his spine as he read the late edition of The Daily Prophet and recognized that, once more, deathly dangerous events were building on the near horizon.

And yet for all this, as Harry Potter-Evans-Verres sat in a crowded meeting room, surrounded by some of the most important and powerful individuals on the planet, drafting orders to be delivered to the Muggle Prime Minister and Minister of Magic Carmel N’Goma, and struggling to understand the sheer scale of the threat that loomed… for all this, Harry yet found himself wondering about Voldemort.

Where are you, Professor?  They could probably find him with the thaumometers, the same way they’d located Horcruxes.  But Harry had lost not only the memories of where he’d hidden away Voldemort’s cell, he’d even lost how he’d hidden it away.  Just thinking about it, he knew he’d be unable to look for the secret prison within the Tower… it was too dangerous for him.  What sorts of traps or obfuscation did I put in place?  Hermione will have to look for it, but will she even agree?  Yes, she will, once I put her to imagining an endless hell of solitary confinement and sensory deprivation.  We will have to --

“Harry!” said Mafalda Hopkirk, irritably, snapping her fingers.  The buxom head of the Unspeakables had clearly been trying to get his attention for some time.  Amelia Bones and Reg Hig, standing next to her, looked almost as upset.

“Sorry,” Harry said, feeling his face redden.  He stood up from his seat at the conference table, glancing around the meeting room.  No one else seemed to have noticed his distraction.  Moody was conferring with his aides, several of the Americans and Chinese, and three representatives from the Muggle government; Cedric was speaking urgently with Hermione, the Shichinin -- why did Neville have a black eye? -- and the Koreans; a pale Umbridge was sitting silently in the corner while the two sfaironauts (Percy’s brother, Ron, and Basil Horton) spoke with Draco; and two of the Returned, Hyori and Esther, were standing watchfully with several aurors.

Harry turned to Hopkirk, taking a deep breath and trying to settle himself.  “Sorry, Mafalda,” he said again.  “It’s been a difficult couple of days.  Where are we?”

“We’re in crisis,” Hopkirk replied, succinctly.  Her smooth, commanding voice was clipped.

“While we were trapped and enslaved, the world went mad,” said Hig.  He rubbed the end of his plum nose, sighing.  “I have to leave almost immediately to start dealing with just the problems springing up in the Americas.  Thousands of people are missing from New York, Rio de Janeiro, and Mexico City.  And Van Rensselaer, Randolphs, and Hardicanute,” and Hig indicated three of the Boston Brahmins, “all have reports of other disturbances.  Infierno has been breached, and twenty dark wizards and witches have escaped custody.”

“La Boca del Infierno has been broken into?” broke in Bones, sharply.  Without waiting for a reply, she stabbed a finger at one of Moody’s aides, who compliantly approached.  “Send a team of Hit Wizards to check on Howard.  Gecko protocol.”  The aide’s face paled, and he raced away.

“Our prophecy-analysts agree with the verdict of the Pool of Demand… something is happening, bigger than… well, bigger than anything they’ve ever seen or heard of,” said Hopkirk.  She sounded calm, but her shoulders were rigid with tension.

“Time is frozen,” said Moody, who approached.  There was a grim set to his jaw.  “Time everywhere is frozen.  We tried to set some surveillance in place and begin preparations, and we lost two aurors.  Bad deaths.  Shouldn’t be possible to do that, but the second attempt was made in Japan, and it failed too.”

“I checked back in with Powis,” said Hermione, who joined the conclave, Cedric and Draco following.  “Urg says he’s gotten messages from Curd, and it confirms what Cedric just told me.  Thousands of goblins from all over the world have gathered in Ackle.”

“Apparating, though most of them only recently got wands?” said Bones, in surprise.  She checked herself in a moment.  “No, of course not… stockpiled portkeys.”  She frowned, grimly.  “And that hints at long preparation.”

“We knew they’d been gathering weapons,” said Harry, wearily.  “We were going to… I don’t even know what we were going to do.  Speak to them, I suppose.  This isn’t a surprise, though.”  He felt sick to his stomach.  He knew that it wasn’t the right way to think about it -- to think that they owed him anything, just because he’d finally begun to put an end to years of oppression.  A good person stopped doing evil because it was evil, not because they wanted something from the victim.  But it was still a bitter pill to swallow.

“After all we’ve done for those vile little creatures,” said Hopkirk.  Moody and Bones nodded, their faces sour.  Draco looked torn between smugness and horror.

Hermione frowned and glanced at Harry, but said nothing.

Harry imagined all the deadly things that could be done with goblincraft and a little ingenuity.  He imagined all the damage a mass mob of people could do when enchanted, even without magic.  He imagined the power of ancient magic from ages past, wielded today.  He imagined all the unknowns that might yet present themselves.

“Assets,” he said, abruptly, swallowing the bile rising in his throat.  “What are our assets?”

They collaborated to tick them off, estimating the number of witches and wizards they could bring to bear in battle in different scenarios, and their effectiveness.  The leaders of the Jīngluò and Rakshasa joined the group, working with Hig to fill in the gaps.  Everyone lied to everyone else, omitting available artifacts and warriors from their accounting, but it wasn’t too long before the small group had an estimate of the total armed force they might be able to summon, if every member of the Confederation could be brought to bear.

There were perhaps a million wizards and witches in the world, with higher concentrations in a few places like Britain (for reasons that might best be described as “imperial”).  Perhaps half of that number had more than rudimentary magical schooling, and an even smaller proportion could be said to be ready to fight.  All told, an optimistic estimate of the wizards available to fight in a world-threatening emergency -- like massed armies of Muggles or goblins -- would be something like fifty thousand.  The actual forces they’d probably have on hand on short notice would be something like a tenth of that total.

“Are we moving too fast?” Cedric asked, as they reached their grim conclusions.  “We don’t even know if the disappearances or the goblins are related to each other, or to Meldh’s attack here, or even if there’s going to be conflict.”

“I think,” said Hermione, carefully, “that we should probably work on the assumption that all of the events are related in some way, even if it’s not the way we might think.  We certainly shouldn’t start any accidental wars, but it’s the Three, after all, not the One.  There are two more Meldhs out there, and he told Harry that there was going to be violence.”

“We should assume the worst,” said Draco with a look of gentle scorn for Cedric.  “But even if wizards are outnumbered by goblins or Muggles, even if it’s three to one, we can win.  As long as we know where they will strike and prepare for rapid movement, we’ll wipe out any attack.”

Harry held up his hand and waited for the bustle to quiet down.  He looked to Madame Bones.

“Supreme Mugwhump, if I might?”  She nodded assent, impatiently, and Harry raised his voice.  “We need to prioritize and organize.  We need communication between decision-makers.  We need to determine likely targets, and likely forces at our command.  We need to try to figure out who is behind this -- if it is the Three -- and what they want.”

He pointed at Moody and Hig, in turn.  “Reg, I know you want to go home, but you need to have home brought to you.  You will work with Moody and sort out our vulnerabilities… no, the world’s vulnerabilities.  If possible, get in touch with He Jin of the Court of Rubies, and let him take the lead.”

Harry next turned to Draco and Bones.  “Draco, you and Madame Bones might best work on a command structure and mobilizing our forces.  Everyone you can think of, and assume some groups will betray us -- either out of short-sighted ignorance or deliberate treachery.  Find the Minister and Percy and ask them to help.”

He turned to the remaining individuals.  “Our friends from other countries need to assign emergency plenipotentiary representatives.  Everyone else, we’ll have specific things for you to do, shortly.”  He drew a deep breath, reaching back to pull his ponytail snug.  “Listen, Draco is right.  Some of you know me, but I think I can say without ego that everyone here knows of me.  And trust me when I say that we can do this.  Even if we’re surprised by an attack, and an enemy has local superiority, wizards have superior mobility and firepower in almost every direct conflict.  Even if this is the worst-case scenario -- a return to the old days we’ve read about in books, with armies of thousands and goblin armies wielding their weapons -- we’ll be evenly matched with them.  If we keep our heads about us, we can do this.”

Many people nodded firmly, cheering at the little speech.  Placing their faith in him.  Some scowled or rolled their eyes.  They needed no encouragement, or didn’t buy it.  A few only looked angry.  He didn’t know why.

“Meldh put those of us in the Tower through hell, but we beat him.  We beat him with our wits and our preparation.  We can do that now, if the Three are really attacking on this scale -- really stepping out of the shadows.  They’re using all the powers of the old world, everything that’s always worked for villains like them in the days gone by.  But we’re going to use all the powers of our new world to match them, and we’re going to beat them.”

Before Harry had finished speaking, an auror had appeared at the front entrance to the meeting room, his face shiny with sweat and filled with horror.  Another messenger was on his heels, and she rushed to Mafalda Hopkirk.

Oh no.

“Madame Bones,” he said, his voice strained.  “An army of Muggles has attacked the Ministry.  It’s been evacuated and they’re holding off the enemy, but there are thousands of them.  And Howard Prison has been breached.  And there’s --”

He was interrupted by a short shriek from Hopkirk, who was swaying where she stood, drunkenly, her face stricken.

All eyes turned to her.

“The Unseelie have risen.  The flesh-harrowers.  The ravers.  The sailors of the sea of teeth.  Oh Merlin, no, no, no… to hell with Muggles and goblins, the Unseelie have returned to the world.”  Her voice was strangled, and it was hard to say if it was the shock of her words or the dissolution of her normal composure that was the more disturbing.  “It’s not… we can’t... oh, Merlin, why?  You do not call up that which you cannot put down.  We’re… we’re...”  She swayed again, putting a hand on the shoulder of an adjunct, overcome with horror.

“We’re all going to die,” Hopkirk whispered.  “This whole world is going to die.”

Significant Digits, Chapter Forty-Five: Homophone

Significant Digits, Chapter Forty-Five: Homophone


Hermione hefted the Elder Wand.  It was long for a wand, and oddly-shaped -- it even looked like there were carvings on the surface, faint knobbly engravings.  She’d only seen it a few times before, for Dumbledore had seldom used it in the presence of students, but its distinctive appearance made it easy to recognize.

As she held it between her fingers, she slowly became aware that a new voice had joined a hymn within her -- a hymn that had been there for a long time, but which she’d never noticed.  It was a hymn to glory and war, and it sang within her as deeply and innately as her own heartbeat.

What do you do?  What are capable of?  How can you help me?  she asked it, speaking to that bone-deep hymn.  There was no response, and no indication of the wand’s power or nature.  She knew that Harry had stopped using it long ago, when he’d begun sacrificing parts of his magic -- over and over, year after year -- to revive some of the dead.  Once he’d committed to that, focusing all of his efforts on organizing, planning, leading… well, he was never going to be a wizard of immense arcane power, and that made carrying the Elder Wand around with him a liability, rather than an advantage.

“It’s too dangerous for me to carry around, putting it at risk, when we barely understand it,” he’d said.  “We don’t even know what it would mean to be ‘defeated’ and lose the Wand to a new master.  If I lose a game to someone, or get charmed by someone, or even just get killed by an attacker, I don’t want them able to just reach down and pick up an ancient device of this sort of power.  It makes all of your spells more powerful, but who knows what else it could do in the hands of the wrong person?  None of our research could find out its hidden properties, but if it’s anything like the True Cloak of Invisibility, there’s another hidden level.”

Well, it didn’t matter right now, anyway.  Whatever the hidden power that might exist here, at the moment Hermione just appreciated the boost to her magical power.  The entire Tower was set against them, magically compelled to do their best to rescue Meldh.  There were no more contingencies, no more plans.  It was possible there was yet another plan, another level, hidden from her own memories the same way the Goblet had been… but she doubted it.  No, it was just her and Harry against the world, it seemed.

She flicked the wand between her fingers, and it trailed silver sparks.  The work of the legendary Peverells, another of the Hallows.  The thought put her back in mind of their situation.  We need to get to the meeting room, to get my things.  The Cloak will get us out of here -- and help us rescue Esther and Hyori, if they haven’t already been dominated.  Then we can work on a plan to free everyone else.

Hermione lowered the wand, and took a look at her injured arm.  It was healing, pink flesh pushing new, raw skin out from the swirl-seamed stump.  She’d be able to use it in a few more minutes.

Firming her resolve, she stepped out of the cubicle, to head back to Harry near the other end of the clinic’s general ward.  She saw that he’d rolled the goblin-silver shield in place to block off the other entry, and was heading towards her with quick steps.  Harry looked disheveled -- a skinny young man in simple robes, soiled with streaks of blood, his hair coming loose from its ponytail.  These days, the scar on his forehead was usually faded, but he was flushed and a pale lightning bolt was visible on his brow.  He had dark circles under his eyes.

They met halfway down the hall.  She turned, and they walked together, moving briskly.

“Meeting room,” she said.  “Not too far.  Just through the discharge ward, around the corner, and down the hall.  We can do it.”

“When they come, just try to get through.  You stand a better chance of making it, and then you can rescue everyone,” Harry replied, holding his wand in tense fingers.  He offered her the white rock that had been Meldh, and she tapped her wand to it and spent a half-second of her will Transfiguring it into its present shape, taking control of the spell with her own magic.

She didn’t bother to respond to his words, and he didn’t push it.  They’d long-since dropped pretenses between them, and didn’t play to roles.  She didn’t tell him that she wasn’t about to leave him, and that he stood the best chance of figuring out a plan to reverse all this -- to free the Tower.  He didn’t reply that it was more important that someone got out, and that too much depended on someone staying free.  No roles.  No wasted words.  Just Harry and Hermione.

A stranger appeared at the end of the ward, racing through at a sprint.  On seeing them, he skidded to a halt.  Almost certainly an auror, Hermione thought.  Average height, average weight, but no one she’d ever seen before.  Wand in hand.

Then the auror grinned wolfishly, and she knew.  

Alastor.

He wasn’t even trying to disguise his body language, with his shoulders rounded and his feet already in correct position for Mezzo Passo.  He was using his primary wand.  He looked as he’d looked in a dozen bodies on hundreds of different mornings, putting her through her paces along with four other students.  He looked prepared.

“Hermione.  Harry.  You’re free,” he said.  An unknown voice, but familiar cadence and gruffness.  “Well done.”

“Alastor,” she said, calmly.  “Meldh is dead.”

“We must serve his interests, and find a way to bring him back,” Harry said, standing at her side.

Alastor shook his head, still grinning, and tapped one side of his head with his free hand, chidingly.  The Eye of Vance, embedded in his head like a real eye.  He could see that there was no Meldh in the room, and see the white stone she’d dropped into the pocket of her robes.  He knew.

Which means, Hermione realized in a flash so quick that it could barely be called a thought, that we’ll be swamped with aurors in a moment, and he’s delaying me and hoping for some banter, and he can see through all the cubicles and barriers so he has a tactical advantage, and he knows I know this but also knows my options are limited, but he also knows I have the Elder Wand now and will have incentive to fight him individually, so he won’t go for the quick stun, no stupid stupid of course he will but he’ll also try to slow me down some other way, Harry is a weak point so he’ll hit him too and make me sacrifice to protect him, watch for it watch for it.

They acted at the same instant.  Alastor whipped his wand in front of himself, turning to the side, and cast two curses as quickly as most people could breathe -- muttered spells that she didn’t recognize from a distance, and without visible effect.  Simultaneously, Harry raised his wand, starting the movement for the Lesser Action of Shahryar’s Delay.  He didn’t get past the first twirl of his wandtip, however, before Hermione violently shoved him aside.  He was lifted bodily off the ground, through one of the thin cubicle partitions.

Before Harry had even landed in a tangle of white sheet and metal frame, Alastor had launched his next attack, and Hermione had raised a ward.  Not her customary Roger’s Shield, but Azarian Fire.  The aqua flames were something he’d taught her, which was both a risk and an investment -- he was intimately familiar with the spell, but it would remind him of how close he’d been to her.  Hermione didn’t think anyone could throw off the Lethe Touch; during the few moments it had bound her, it hadn’t even felt like a separate constraint that could be fought.  But that was still Alastor, and some part of him must still be vulnerable to emotional attack.

The Tower’s chief of security didn’t appear to even slow down, however, and he didn’t try to break her ward, either.  That was wise: when it crackled into life in front of her, Hermione had seen the blue flames surge unusually bright, hotter than she’d ever seen with the spell.  The Wand.

He struck overhead, instead, snapping off a curse at the stone above her.  “Reducto,” he cast, and some of the fitted stones of the clinic roof, five feet above, exploded.  Hermione had seen it coming, however, and brought a Roger’s Shield over herself with time to spare.  It left her wand in Ochs, so she capitalized, slashing down with a rightward flick of her wrist as loose stone and dust cascaded down around her.  “Hominem Revelio,” she said.

She felt a cool wind blow against her from four directions -- from Harry, who was climbing to his feet to her left, from Alastor straight ahead (who was casting yet another spell without any visible effect), and from the two aurors who were Disillusioned or wearing Invisibility Cloaks (or more likely, both) as they crept up on her.  The hidden aurors were nearly halfway to her.

Hermione took one with a stunner, using the back-draw from the gesture to bring up a wall of prisms behind her Azarian Fire.  The other auror sprang to the attack, joining Alastor, who had taken the moment to raise new wards.  She watched through blue flame, firing pass-through curses as quickly as she could.  The Elder Wand gave each attack greater strength: her Bertram Bolts flew with the speed of thought and her stunners were broad and bright, almost hungry for impact, despite the added effort of casting through her own shields.  She dodged return attacks and dispersed an anaesthetic gas produced by the Disillusioned auror, whose presence she could still feel, roughly.  She had no need of the exact counter-spell: brute disenchantment served just as well.

To her left, Harry had stayed crouched down in the cubicle into which she’d thrown him, keeping a low profile on one knee, wand in hand, just touching the floor, ready to be swept up in defense.  He’d used a minor charm to clear a line of the sight through the cubicles to Moody, but was keeping out of the way.

As Hermione dodged yet another stunner, she saw the double flash as two Slow Blades of Unusually Specific Destruction popped against her Azarian Fire.  Realization flooded her thoughts as she remembered the spells Alastor had cast without effect, twice before and once more recently.  Lashing away a stunner with a dashed-off Rune of Abatement, Hermione reached out with her wand hand in the same gesture to raise Bartolomeo’s Reckoning between Harry and Alastor, desperately hoping to block the third Slow Blade that must be headed towards Harry.

Too late, she recognized how Alastor’s gambit had been telegraphed, and realized she’d been forced into turning almost the full of her back on her attackers in order to shield Harry.  “Lagann!” she heard from both her attackers, and her Azarian Fire died.

Hermione didn’t try to turn back, but kept moving, lifting herself onto her toes and spinning into chaînés turns away from where she’d been standing, close to the white wall of the cubicles.  A Bloodfoot Curse ripped along through the ground where she’d just been standing.

As the sickening purplish glow swept by, Hermione brought up her wand, recovering back into Pfugh and Mezzo Passo.  The Disillusioned auror was fading from her awareness, but she could feel through the Revelation Charm that he was running towards her.  She felt the churn of panic in the back of her mind -- even with the Elder Wand, fighting Alastor would have been hard enough.  She couldn’t afford to deal with this other threat.

No sooner had she thought that, however, when she saw the stone floor five feet ahead of her split open, a hole of darker grey yawning and a wide area rippling with gray-limned spiderweb cracks.  It was as though ten square feet of the clinic floor had melted and retained only a thin covering of its native stone.  The auror that had been attacking became visible as he sank into the bubbling grey substance beneath the stone, sprawling forward in surprise, struggling as a sticky substance coated him with thick goo, pulling him down.

To her left, she could see Harry rise to his feet, grinning.  The invisible auror strained against the expanding pool of sticky foam that had been partially transfigured under a thin shell of stone, but he only continued to sink: out of the fight.

Alastor’s wolfish grin vanished.  He went back on the attack, and curses flew between him, Harry, and Hermione like a hailstorm.


≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

Harry was awed and confused watching Hermione and Moody duel, as though he were watching experts play cricket (or Quidditch, for that matter, which had always seemed a mix of rugby and test cricket played a hundred yards off the ground).  He understood the rules and the basic tactics, but he couldn’t help but be aware that there were tactics and patterns that were moving beneath the surface that he could barely even notice, much less appreciate.

They both seemed indomitable.  He’d had occasion to see fighting on the highest level from time to time, but the level of play here… he hadn’t seen it since a bitter black night in Azkaban, many years ago.  He could understand why, on a certain level: Moody and Hermione were both skilled combatants, intelligent and creative, with Moody’s breadth of experience and inordinate canniness (and his use of both arms) matched against Hermione’s inhuman reflexes and the Elder Wand.  But more than that, the duels both then and now had been non-lethal.  Neither Moody nor Hermione wanted to kill each other -- in Moody’s case probably because he wanted to preserve a key asset for Meldh -- while in Azkaban the auror had been following protocol (and Voldemort had been toying with his prey).  Duels to the death, Harry thought, usually ended much more quickly.

He kept his wand to the ground, and worked to help.  He made sure to transfigure an air passage for the trapped auror, turning a tube of the foam into feathers.  Then he tried to undermine Moody’s footing in the same way he’d gotten the auror, but the Eye of Vance kept Moody apprised of a repeat of the same trick.  Now that he was looking for it, Moody kept an eye for any shift in the stone around him.  At least it cost him a moment to dispel the creeping transfiguration, giving Hermione opportunity to tear away one of his shields with a coruscating blue curse.  Harry had continued the strategy, using partial transfiguration again and again in order to carve out falling rocks from the ceiling, turn parts of the walls behind Moody into ether or nitrous oxide, or simply destabilize the security chief’s footing.  He did anything he could do quickly and nonlethally, before Moody could spot the change in the stone.

Hermione caught three hexes on three consecutively appearing shields, lunging to one side as she counter-attacked with brilliant yellow bolts of light.  Moody pivoted so that they missed, raising a new ward to protect himself, and Harry saw the pupil of the Eye of Vance vanish as it swiveled around inside of Moody’s head.  It didn’t swivel back immediately.

His reinforcements are almost here -- we’ve been fighting for too long.  They must have gone to prepare something on Moody’s orders, in case he was defeated.  Need to end this.

They simply got lucky, as so often happened in combat.  Harry turned part of the ceiling into benzocaine, and a gobbet of the topical anaesthetic the size of a Bludger fell onto Moody, just as Hermione ripped away his last tactile ward. It splattered onto his arm and along his chest.

The auror slapped the chemical away, spattering the floor, but the damage was immediate.  Within seconds, Moody’s wand slipped from his numb grip.  The determined security chief used the hand that hadn’t been deadened to try to raise barriers in front of himself, but Hermione simply broke through them by main force, using the Elder Wand to dispel them with powerful charms.

It wasn’t pretty or dramatic or clever… just a misstep by their opponent.  Life wasn’t a play, and sometimes that was how things went.

Harry thought of Voldemort’s wasted last word, a moment of meaningless spite.  Sometimes that was how things went.

Just before the end, Moody opened his mouth to say something, but Hermione stunned him without stopping to chat.  He toppled over, an awkward-looking statue.  She went to check on him, calling over her shoulder at him, “Call for help, while I make sure he’ll be okay!”

Harry took a moment to summon up the thought of mankind unbridled, transcendent over death and time and pain.  It was as easy as smiling.   “Expecto Patronum.”

The glowing silver humanoid stood before him, brilliant argent.  Its light was a reminder of gentle things.

“Go and tell Headmistress McGonagall that everyone in the Tower but Harry and Hermione has been taken over by a villain named Meldh.  Moody, Bones, Hig, Malfoy, and all Tower aurors have been controlled.  Alert the Ministry and the Council of Westphalia,”  Harry said.  Then he repeated it all again, just in case she was too startled to take it in, the first time.  He hadn’t seen much of her since she’d declined his offer to help him manage Britain; now they met only a few times a year.  She was a full-time teacher and administrator, and he thought she liked it that way.  She might not be ready to be dragged into this sort of madness again on a moment’s notice.  But she’d step up.  She always did.

The humanoid was gone in moments, vanishing from sight with long silver strides that carried it longer than they should, right through the wall and towards the Tower exit.

Hermione stood up from where she’d been kneeling beside Moody.  “He’s fine.”

Without another word, they sprinted on down the corridor, heading for the unsealed exit.

No time to lose.  Have to get to the meeting room.  We need to escape.  We can’t possibly win against the entire Tower, Elder Wand or no.  Once again, Harry cursed his past self for his unfortunate foresight.  Meldh had said the Lethe Touch had the “capacity for release,” by recasting it and adding another word, or words.  Harry had stopped Meldh from telling him the release command, anticipating just this scenario.

I should really be glad, he thought, wryly, as they raced down the corridor, that a release command even exists.  That always seems to be the case… a strange kind of “conservation of magic.”  No continuous effect is permanent unless there is a permanent loss, like with a sacrifice, or a permanent source of “power,” like with the creation of Hogwarts on a ley line.  It’s a strange sort of moral balance, one of those odd things that hints that maybe it’s a designed system.

One day, he’d track down the designer -- the people of Atlantis, an unknown civilization before them, or whoever else -- and get some answers.  And maybe help them fix some exploits, like the existence of the Killing Curse.

In a few seconds, they’d reached the exit of the clinic.  The Tower was shaped like an enormous isosceles triangle, with the Mirror at the vertex angle.  The clinic ran along one side of the complex, while research departments ran along the other.  Larger departments, like Material Methods and the Extension Establishment, were located at the base of the triangle, where there was the most space.  In the center was the meeting room.  Not very far.

Hermione held up a hand to stop him as they reached the exit.  The hand was pink and raw-looking; only slowly returning to its normal tones, but at least she had both limbs again.  She peeked her head around.

Almost instantly, she jerked back, narrowly avoiding the red bolts of several stunners and the wash of flame from a prepared flame trap.  A lock of her chestnut hair was scorched away, but she was otherwise unharmed.

“They’re set and waiting,” she said, scowling.  “Neville, the twins, and that Russian witch, plus at least ten other aurors.  And there will be more at successive defense points.”

“Once their defenses are set up, they’ll storm the clinic,” Harry said, frowning.  He gripped his wand more tightly at the thought.  “There are weapons in Material Methods... things in development.”

Please, pretty please, I hope I anticipated this and set up yet another contingency.  He searched his brain for likely activation words in times of desperation.  When he was seven, he’d come up with a set of signals, in case he was kidnapped, being held hostage, unjustly imprisoned, or a number of other scenarios.  He’d given it to his parents and insisted they memorize it.  Then he’d quizzed them about it for a month.  Maybe one of those would work?  It was a nostalgic call-back to a personal moment, and it was occurring to him in this moment of stress… maybe he’d set up the secret Spoon of Solving My Immediate Problems to respond to one of them?

“Chumble spuzz,” he said, loudly and hopefully to the air.  Nothing happened, except Hermione turned to stare at him. “Chumble spuzz chumble spuzz,” he repeated.  Still nothing.  “Anatidaephobia!  Anatidaephobia anatidaephobia!  Plippy ploppy cheese nose!”  No… no sudden crash of thunder or magical rescue centaurs.

Hermione was still staring at him, her brown eyes concerned.  “Just trying some possible secret command words I might have made myself forget,” he explained.

“Ah,” she said.  “I thought you might have had a stroke.”  She turned back to the door, and grabbed the goblin-silver barricade.

“What are you doing?  We can’t lock down the clinic and hope for rescue.  We’d never hold out in the time it took an outside force to breach into the Tower,” Harry objected, raising a hand to stop her.

“You’re right,” she said,  rolling the seal over the door.  It clicked into place in its silver brackets.  “Which is why we can’t try to fight through prepared defenses.  We’ll sacrifice our fall-back position, instead.”  She pointed at the wall.  “Carve a big rectangle.  I’ll push through, and take them out from behind.  We won’t be able to retreat without the wall intact, but there are enough people out there to just carve through in fifteen minutes with the Reductor curse, anyway.”

“There’s no going back from that,” Harry said.  But he was already running over to the wall that she’d indicated, laying his wandtip on it.

“There was never been any going back… not since an afternoon on a train with a very annoying boy,” Hermione said.  He glanced back at her to see a tight smile on her face.

It took only a moment to transfigure four thin slices of stone in the shape of a doorway, turning the substance into grease.  A rectangular block of stone was now separate from the wall, ready to be moved.  An old trick -- one of his first partial transfiguration tricks, in fact.  He stepped back.

Harry felt his stomach tighten with tension as Hermione stepped up to the stone and flexed her hands open and closed.  She put her palms on the block, and grinned.  “It’s my own fault, really, for knowing the six quarks.”

She shook her head, as though rueful, and then pushed.

The huge block of stone slid slowly for a moment, as though stuck, but then Hermione lurched forward and slammed her shoulder against it.  With the strength of a goddess, she shoved the stone through and out.  It tipped forward as it reached the end, chipping the upper part of the hole, and then it fell forward with a colossal crash, smashing against the floor hard enough to make Harry’s teeth feel like they were rattling in his head.

Then Hermione was through, wand whipping into several spells before she was even out in the hall, and Harry could hear the sound of battle.  “Left floor,” she called back to him, urgently, and he hurriedly leapt forward, to touch his wand back to the stone.  He began to transfigure, pushing out into the stone.  Harry moved the point of change down away from him and below.  He couldn’t see, so he was forced to guess at how far away from him he needed the effect; he knew the layout of the Tower intimately, of course, but not where the enemy was in the corridor to Hermione’s left.  The larger the area he affected, the more time it would take; he settled on transfiguring the same size of trap as before, transforming another block of stone into sticky foam beneath a thin stone shell.

All the while, he could hear curses and hexes and charms, barked orders.  He heard the crackle of flame and the sizzle of spells.  And all the while, he heard Hermione continue to cast, almost as quickly as she could speak.  She didn’t tire and didn’t pause.  Was this the Elder Wand?  Was it just her?

There was a crash in the corridor and a hiss of foam before his transfiguration was over.  Harry ended the effect.

“Right fl--” Hermione called out.  But before she finished her thought, there was an explosion, and she was thrown back through the hole in the wall, limp, along with thick black smoke.  She crashed through two of the cubicle partitions, landing bonelessly.  Her robes were smouldering.

“Got her!” Harry heard Neville Longbottom call from the hall, cheerfully.  “She’ll be okay, don’t worry!  Load it again!”

What did Neville have?  Did Neville have a rocket launcher?

Harry leapt in front of the hole and raised his wand.  Need to buy time.  “Prismatis!” he cast.  A sparkling multicoloured wall burst forth from his wand to cover the aperture -- not an instant too soon, either, as George Weasley appeared from the hall, dashing forward.  The Weasley twin checked his charge as he saw the Prismatic Wall.  George smirked.

“Hello --” he said.

“-- Harry,” finished Fred, stepping in next to his brother.

Together, they raised their wands.  He spared a glance back at Hermione.  She still wasn’t moving.  She looked badly injured, crumpled and broken-limbed.  Her eyes were open.  Sightless.

Harry felt a moment of despair.

This is all so stupid and so pointless.  We could have set up the Goblet different ways.  We could have tried binding everyone with it -- redundant contracts, nested together.  To have come so far, and to be so close to success… we were really doing it, after all.  We could have saved everyone.

It would have been perfect.  Now this sad and stupid ending.  Just like Voldemort, who wasted every chance he ever had, even his last chance at dignity, and now he’s lost in a prison of metal and magic, hidden somewhere in the Tower beyond Harry’s reach.

“Lagann!” cast the twins, together, and the Breaking Drill shattered Harry’s shield.  It vanished, and Harry staggered back.

And even at this moment, when all was lost, his thoughts didn’t stop.  Instead, they came faster -- faster and faster, still thinking of the last moment he’d ever spend with Professor Quirrell -- Lord Voldemort.  Wasting his own last moment.

That scornful last word.  That wasted last word.  And he could almost hear it again, now, as the twins leveled their wands at him.  He could hear that cold laugh, and the roaring mocking hateful last word: “Bah!”

Bah.

The instant of understanding was like a breath of sweet air to a drowning man’s lungs.

“Bah.  Egeustimentis Ba,” Harry said, loudly.

The twins swayed in place slightly, blinking.  They lowered their wands, and looked at each other, raising their eyebrows.

It was suddenly very quiet.  It was suddenly very still.

And for once in their life, the Weasley twins found they didn’t have a single clever thing to say.

Significant Digits, Chapter Forty-Four: Batter My Heart

Significant Digits, Chapter Forty-Four: Batter My Heart


O royal Hera, of majestic mien, aerial-formed, divine, Zeus' blessed queen, throned in the bosom of cerulean air, the race of mortals is thy constant care. The cooling gales they power alone inspires, which nourish life, which every life desires. Mother of showers and winds, from thee alone, producing all things, mortal life is known: all natures share thy temperament divine, and universal sway alone is thine, with sounding blasts of wind, the swelling sea and rolling rivers roar when shook by thee. Come, blessed Goddess, famed almighty queen, with aspect kind, rejoicing and serene.

    -  Orphic Hymn to Hera (trans. Thomas Taylor)


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John Snow Center for Medicine and Tower School of Doubt (The Tower)
May 19th, 1999
The same day

Hermione had only a few seconds to think before someone stepped into the cubicle, past Harry.

It was an older man with a pleasant smile.  He glanced at Harry, but said nothing.  He reached out to put his hand on Hermione’s ankle.

“Egeustimentis.”


≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

Hermione existed as a fragment of consciousness, while a strange man walked through her mind.

“And you are Miss Granger,” mused the man.  He stroked the broad fur of one thought, as it wriggled down among its fellows.  “Or shall I call you Hermione?  Maybe when I know you better.”  The thought squirmed away from the man’s touch.

“I am Meldh,” said the man.  “It has become necessary for you to be altered to a certain degree.  All of your friends have been changed thus, including Harry Potter.”  He waded through the thoughts that seethed around him in their furry multitudes, plucking at them here and there.  “Another Muggleborn… and so much like Mr. Potter, himself.  He would be pleased to hear that, I think.  There is no romance, there… more worship than anything else, as though you were a statue on a pedestal.  But it would please him to hear it.”

The mote that was Hermione observed this, distantly.

Meldh touched a tightly-spun wire of dense yellow fog, and it undulated at the contact.  “So much that is interesting, here.”  He flickering his fingers over a series of fog wires, and seized one between two fingers to examine it.  “You think a great deal of your ‘Returned,’ hmm?  We will take them into our organization as well, then.  Great events are in motion, Miss Granger.  Entire armies are moving and preparing, getting ready to crash against each other like great waves.  Nations will fall.  Worlds will end.  We will add your Returned to the ranks of the belligerents… take them off of the map, too.”

The wizard smiled, amiably.  “But first we must make some changes.  One rather important change, laid down upon your brain.”  He picked at a wire, pulled it free, and moved it.  “We begin, Hermione.”


≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

Meldh released Hermione, and smiled amiably.  “There.  All better.”

She looked back at her master.

The world shuddered, as though in pain.

A ripple passed through the small white cubicle in the Tower clinic, through Hermione where she lay, bound, on the bed, and through Harry and Meldh.  It was as though someone had taken hold of reality by the corners, like a bedsheet, and given it a firm snapping shake.

Meldh said nothing, but shot Harry a questioning look, his lips firm.  He stripped back the sleeves of his robes with two rapid movements.  His skin had begun emitting golden light, pleasant in color, but pricklish on the skin, and some manner of green-skinned creature, translucent and smelling of sulfur, had slithered out from beneath Meldh’s clothing to wrap around his waist.  The beast had innumerable jointless legs, like clawed tentacles, and the wide-nosed snout and beady eyes of a great lizard.

Harry looked around, bewildered, sweat on his brow.  His hands were trembling.

“What --” began Hermione, her voice a croak.

“My God,” interrupted Harry, whipping his head around at her.  “You used it, didn’t you, Hermione?”  His voice was rising into an accusing, outraged shout.  “I can’t believe you would be so reckless!  Don’t you realize you’ve put us all in danger?!  You’ve put the whole Tower -- all of England in danger!  Are you insane?!”

“What is it, boy?” cut in Meldh, his voice an uncharacteristic snarl.  His eyes were narrow and dark.

Harry stabbed an accusing finger at Hermione.  “It’s the ultimate power in the universe.  And you have used it.”

Meldh whirled to stare at Hermione, raising his hands in front of him.  His palms seethed with black ichor, boiling forth as he glared threateningly.  The wizard was all alive with anger, bright-edged and sharp, and it was as though he were a different person.  “What have you done?!”


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John Snow Center for Medicine and Tower School of Doubt (The Tower)
January 17th, 1996
Three years ago

Harry set the leather satchel carefully on the table.  “Here it is,” he said.  “Fred says that it was just where the centaurs said it would be.”

“And we’re sure,” Hermione said, staring at the bag, “that it’s not a fake, made into a trap that will turn us into frogs or something?”

“The Headmistress, Moody, Mafalda Hopkirk, and Edgar Erasmus have all independently verified it,” said Harry.  In answer to Hermione’s raised eyebrow, he added, “...shortly before their memories were voluntarily wiped.”

She pursed her lips, and leaned forward across the table, opening the satchel.  She reached inside, and pulled out the Goblet of Fire, also known as the Cup of Dawn.  It was a crude-looking thing with a thick rim and rough base.  There was no fire or glow about it, and to all appearances was nothing more than a poorly-made wooden goblet.

“This is… underwhelming,” Hermione said, frowning.

“That’s the cup of a carpenter,” Harry said, smiling.

“Is it really --” Hermione began, then frowned again.  “Oh, shut up.”

“I worked out the language for the contract,” Harry said, pulling folded parchment out of his pocket.  “They used to use this cup for sporting events and major contracts between magical races, so it’s pretty well-understood.  Hopkirk explained it to me.  It can bind anyone to a contract if their names are placed in it.  Only valid contracts -- binding two or more people, clearly stated terms, only negative consequences, and so on.  But it’s famously impossible to evade the penalty clauses.”

“It doesn’t seem that useful to us, then,” said Hermione, disappointed.  “We don’t need a contract to trust each other.”

“The idea of ‘negative consequences’ is relative,” Harry said.  He shoved the parchment over to her.  “We swear this, and then seal the memories of all of this away.”

The proposed contract was lengthy.

We, the oathbound, hereby make contract that at no point shall we be controlled, possessed, or otherwise ensorceled by the same individual, group of individuals, club, coterie, organization ...  Should we fail to abide by this bargain, whether it be by fault of our own or the deeds of others … shall suffer the immediate and complete dismissal of all enchantments or alterations of mind present on our persons at that time, including but not limited to… as further specified in Appendix XIV …  required loss of memory of all terms and conditions for the contract, as well as loss of memory of the contract itself, as well as the location and status of all agents or objects involved in maintenance of the contract, for the duration of the contract…

It went on.

“You don’t think this is paranoid?” she asked, studying the oath, looking for flaws or loopholes. “I mean, even beyond Alastor levels of paranoia.  There are other ways to use this… there’s an opportunity cost for setting this contingency up.  If we hide this thing and erase it from our memories, then we can’t use it for anything else.  Why not use it to lock in support from signatories to the Treaty?  Or even just use it to keep all our aurors loyal?”

Harry picked up the Goblet of Fire, and studied it.  “Magic is too big.  It’s too unpredictable.  That’s a good thing in a lot of ways, since it means we can’t even begin to guess at the possible limits for humanity in a universe full of magic.  Exploring and colonizing outside of our light cone, reversing entropy…  we can’t rule anything out.  There are thousands of spells, and tens of thousands more that have been forgotten or mostly forgotten.  There are too many possible unknowns.  This might actually not even be paranoid enough… I tried to figure a way for this to work for us individually, but you can’t contract with yourself.”  He put the Goblet back down.  “Yes, we’d pay a price for doing this.  But we have to defend against everything, even the impossible things we don’t know about yet.  Levels and levels.”

Hermione regarded the Goblet of Fire, and nodded, slowly.  “All right.  Although honestly, I’m not sure why all of these sorts of things have such silly names.”


≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

John Snow Center for Medicine and Tower School of Doubt (The Tower)
May 19th, 1999
Now

“She has used the Star of Death,” said Harry to Meldh, his voice upset and his face sweaty.  “And now we’re all at risk.  Our very existence in Time is at risk.  Sir, we have to get you someplace safe!”

The Goblet of Fire… our contract, Hermione thought, blinking rapidly.  The memory was there -- the knowledge of the contract was present, as though it had always been lurking just out of her mind’s eye.  We broke the contract, and it has imposed its penalty.  The failsafe worked.  We’re free.  She glanced down at the bands of goblin silver across her legs, her waist, her chest, and each forearm, fixing her in place to a strip of silver on the underside of the cot.  Well, free in a manner of speaking.  Are these restraints for unruly werewolves, or something created just for me?

Meldh pivoted in place, holding one palm towards Hermione and swinging the other towards Harry.  Ichor bubbled from between his fingers.  Where it dripped on the floor, the surface vanished, leaving a series of divots and pocks in the stone.  “The ‘Star of Death?’  There was no hint of such in either of your minds,” declared Meldh, his voice taut with tension and anger.  

Smart man.  When your captured enemy is making implausible claims about secret weapons, he’s almost always lying.  And even when he isn’t, your enemy’s demise will often be the best solution.  Better for your health and your reputation to wipe them out immediately.

He needs fear.  She glanced at the marks left by the black ichor.  Fear of obliteration.  Fear of the unknown.

“It’s coming,” said Hermione.  “And it’s already altered our past -- eating it up from the source.  I think… I think it begins from the first moment of its own existence.  Even our memories of it.  Maybe it… I’m not sure.  I only know that it won’t stop until it has devoured our time.  Yours, mine, and Harry’s.  We’ll be gone.”  She breathed out, heavily, and closed her eyes.  “I’m willing to pay that price.”

“You defy the Lethe Touch,” Meldh observed, coldly.  “I mastered you and I changed you, yet now you are glad of my death.”  He paused.  “There is something at work here that I do not understand.”

Hermione opened her eyes again, and saw the Asiatic wizard staring at her with narrowed eyes.  She remembered lunch with Reg Hig and Per Aavik-Söderlundh-Ellingsen, and the value of a strategic but subtle slip.

“It doesn’t matter what you do,” she replied, her own voice as firm as bedrock.  “I will not stop the Star of Death.”  She raised her voice, pronouncing as clearly and coldly as a mountain stream, “Die.  And be damned.”

He turned to face her, fully.  Just behind him, she saw Harry watching, carefully but silently.  Good.  Don’t oversell it.  The translucent green creature that clung to Meldh’s waist hissed, quietly, and kept its attention on Harry.

Meldh said nothing, either.  He only met her gaze with dark eyes.  She felt a touch on her mind -- the gentlest of probing contact with another’s thoughts.  Barely a whisper of Legilimency: a thin needle of attack so perfectly honed in its intrusive power that it seemed to have physical form.

Hermione didn’t react.  Her training had not overlooked the obvious.  Her mind was a stone her mind was steel her mind was wax her mind was an ox her mind was a child her mind was herself.  

And there was nothing for Meldh to find there but contempt.  Die, and be damned.

Meldh said nothing, but she felt the touch on her mind change.  The whisper-sharp needle of Legilimency vanished and was replaced by something unfamiliar… a draining emptiness that settled down around her thoughts.  It plucked at her from many directions at once, presenting a blankness into which her mind could pour.  It was like the last moments of consciousness before sleep, where a thought could occur, linger on the edges of awareness, and then gently tumble away into the darkness.

But Hermione had an answer for that, too.  She cast thoughts into that darkness, one after the other, flinging them out into the sucking unconsciousness that lay on her thoughts like a blanket.  She hurled memories like weapons, a bulwark of recall that could be offered without loss: the feeling of sunshine on her shoulders as she sat in a field at Powis; the rich ribbons of smell that filled the house when Gran made venison pies; the joyful screams of Granville that shattered the grimness of Azkaban; the click of one chess-piece against another as her father taught her how to castle.

The draining emptiness vanished with that last thought, and she saw a flicker of reaction on Meldh’s face.  Surprise and suspicion.

Hermione never moved her eyes from his.

“Kурва,” Meldh spat at her, his face reddening.  “Very well.  Another Touch.  And I will tear your mind to shreds this time.”

You have to get near me to do that, little man, thought Hermione.

He took a step towards her, reaching out for Hermione’s restrained arm.  The golden light that had been gently emanating from him faded, and the ichor vanished from his palms.

Behind Meldh, Harry drew his wand.

She bucked in place, kicking both legs as hard as she can, straining her stomach, wrenching her arms in place.  The goblin silver didn’t yield even a little.  But she remembered fighting Tineagar in a Tidewater basement -- remembered the value of sacrifice.  Pain is nothing.  Save one life.

Her right arm braced against the restraint, and she twisted it to the side.  It broke with the sharp sound of fracturing bone.  Pain roared like a lion, savaging her.

Meldh, reaching out for her, lurched backwards in surprise.

Harry raised his wand to point at Meldh.  Almost immediately, the green creature wrapped around Meldh’s waist hissed loudly, and lunged at Harry.  He backpedaled, swatting at the creature as it landed on his chest, shrilly hissing and baring its smoking fangs.  Meldh jerked around in shock.

Hermione jerked her arm free, torn hand and forearm still locked in place on the bed, blood pouring out of her like a bolt of crimson fabric.  A scream burst from her.

But the end of her backup wand, the Ultimate Ulna, was exposed amid the splintered ends of her bones.

“Lagann.  Stuporfy.”

The Breaking Drill Hex cleared the way, and the Swerving Stunner didn’t even need to swerve: it hit Meldh full in the chest.

The member of the Three didn’t fall.  He staggered, red flickering energy jolting through him.  The green creature on Harry’s chest -- connected somehow?  a sort of magical circuit-breaker? -- whipped its head back and exploded in a shower of phosphorescent green sparks torn through with flickering red.  In the same moment, the Ultimate Ulna also flared green and red, and burnt itself into ashes.  She could smell her own flesh as it burnt.

I’m unarmed, she thought crazily.

Meldh lurched forward towards Hermione, grunting something unintelligible, his face a grimace of rage.  He reached for her.

Desperate, she lashed out with her broken arm.  The splintered bones lashed Meldh across the face, leaving deep scratches along his cheek.  The pain was Fiendfyre on her nerves.

“Hermione!” called Harry, reaching for his dropped wand, eyes wide.

“Hermione,” snarled Meldh, arm outstretched, swaying in place.

“Hermione,” agreed Hermione, and struck once more with her broken arm, and her splintered bones tore like talons through Meldh’s throat.  Blood geysered across her chest and face.

The dying man’s hand came down on her shoulder, his dark eyes bright with anger.  Blood poured onto her from the lacerated meat of Meldh’s throat.  He tried to speak, to cast a spell, but could produce nothing more than a bubbling gurgle and a mouthful of blood.  Meldh grimaced, and his teeth were red.

“Stupefy.  Stupefy.  Stupefy!” cast Harry from behind him.  And this time, mortally injured and bereft of his defences, the spells took Meldh.  The member of the Three shivered through with red energy, his muscles locking, and toppled to the ground like a fallen tree.


≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

Oh, All-Nature, Queen, Mother of all things, untiring Mother, exalted, creating, She who tames all, Unmentionable, shining, the Firstborn who quenches everything, who brings the Light! Born of yourself, present everywhere and all-knowing You Blessed One, who makes things grow and rot, Father and Mother of all things, Universal Worker, you who walk forth in an endless maelstrom, conserving, you who uphold yourself through repeated metamorphosis: I pray to you, give me peace!

    -  Orphic Hymn to Demeter (trans. Thomas Taylor)


≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

Hermione, shaking, clutched at her injured arm with the other.  It had stopped bleeding already, which was a relief.  She’d been worried that her innate healing ability had been “dismissed” by the Goblet of Fire.

Across the cubicle, Harry was leaning on a chair, wand in hand.  He was shaking, and there was a scorch mark on his cheek.  Hermione supposed that had happened when that green creature had exploded -- taking her wand with it.

She found her voice, finally, glancing from Harry to the frozen Meldh, and then back again.  “The Death Star?”

Harry shrugged, but couldn’t stop a smile from spreading on his face.  It was an odd contrast with his trembling hands and the sweat plastering his hair to his forehead.  “I couldn’t… I couldn’t think of anything else that sounded plausible and scary enough.”  He shook his head.  “I don’t know how we…”

His voice trailed off, and he paled.  “Oh, God… everyone else.  The Tower, the entire Tower, is magically bound to serve Meldh.  He got almost everyone, Hermione.  Draco, Moody, Cedric, the aurors, the healers… dozens and dozens of people are still under the effects of that... that… that spell.”

“Get me out of this, first,” Hermione said, slumping back against the bed.  The pain in her arm was fading, finally.

“Buttons thirteen Sangomas,” Harry said, and the restraints opened with a gentle click.  “I’m so sorry about that, I didn’t --”

“No time,” interrupted Hermione, “and anyway, don’t be stupid.  How do we free everyone?”

Harry rubbed his temples, gritting his teeth.  “I don’t know.  There’s a counter-spell, but I stopped him from telling me about it.  For exactly this reason, as a matter of fact.  You cast the spell -- which is Egeustimentis -- and then you say something else.  But I don’t know what.”

Hermione knelt down next to Meldh, and clamped a hand over his neck.  “Get out your medical kit.  Maybe we can wake him up and get the spell out of him, somehow.”

Harry knelt beside her, opening his mokeskin pouch.  “Medical kit,” he told it.  He opened the small white case as soon as it leapt to hand, taking out Haverford’s Marvelous Coagulant and some bandages.  “It’s been weeks, and I only just found out yesterday that we had finally managed to safely get some things out of Bellatrix Black.  You think we can crack this guy in the next few minutes, before someone checks on us?  Without him playing puppeteer again?”

“Point taken,” Hermione allowed.  “But I don’t even have a wand, much less my other stuff, so I don’t know what we’re going to do, otherwise.  Can you manage to stun everyone here by yourself?  Have you been secretly practicing duelling with Cedric or something?” she asked.  She lifted her hand from the injured wizard’s throat.

Harry didn’t answer, just rolled his eyes as he squeezed orange gel onto Meldh’s neck.  The blood pouring out of the wizard’s ragged throat began to slow, and soon stopped.  “Your usual wand is in the meeting room, with the rest of your things.  But I have a back-up wand for you.  It’s actually here in the clinic.  I wanted to keep it especially safe, sealed off even from the rest of the Tower in case of trouble.”  He held out his wand to her.  “Take mine for the moment.”

Hermione took it from him with her uninjured arm.  The wound on the other had closed, but she thought it would be ten or twenty minutes before the arm was usable again.  She examined the raw-looking pink skin of the stump, which throbbed with pain in time to her heartbeat.  She made a face.

“For now, I’ll transfigure Meldh,” Harry said.  “We can’t kill him, since we really might need him to release everyone.  Let me have that back for a moment.”  She handed him back the wand, reluctant despite the obvious necessity.  Harry was not a duelist.

He took the wand and held the tip against the chest of the villain’s stiff body.  Meldh began to shrink and warp in color and shape.  Harry glanced over at her.  “He was really Herpo the Foul, you know.  Inventor of the Horcrux spell.”

Hermione nodded, thoughtfully.  “That makes sense.”  She stood up and went to the curtained entrance to their little white cubicle.  “That spell… it was enslavement.  How long were you like that?  How long has he been here?”

“A couple of days,” Harry said, quietly.  His voice was very small.  “It hurt.  It was like being at war with myself.  Everything in me pushed as hard as it could, but it was like part of my mind had forgotten itself.  Couldn’t help itself.  And it was the most powerful part.”  He stopped speaking for a moment, staring down at the diminishing Meldh with distant, unseeing eyes.  “I worry a lot about addiction.  I think that this was what addiction would feel like.”  Meldh was gone.  In his place was a small white rock.

“Then you’ll have put at least some plans in place in case something like this happened,” said Hermione, firmly.  Stay with me, Harry.  “How long do we have before someone comes to ch--”

Cedric Diggory pulled back the curtain to the cubicle, flanked by a pair of aurors.  He looked startled, opening his mouth to say something.  The aurors behind him were quicker on the uptake, and their wands were already drawn.  They raised them.

Harry still has his wand.  I’ve got nothing -- less than nothing, only one arm.  Need to close the distance.

“Είναι ο ίδιος!” called out Hermione, firmly, walking towards them with a bold and unafraid step.  Her Greek was abysmal, a basic vocabulary put together in haste before the raid on the Cappadocian fortress of Göreme, but that wasn’t important.  They have one overriding priority, the same one that was given me: protect and obey Meldh.  That’s an advantage for me.  And they might be the slower for their internal conflict.

They were too well-trained and experienced, however, for any of that to slow them more than a moment.  She was still out of reach when they recovered from their surprise, deciding that the better part of service was to incapacitate first and ask questions later.  Good for them, that was the right decision.  Even if it’s massively inconvenient at the moment.  The faces of the aurors hardened, and she saw their arms tense again.  Cedric’s eyes widened in alarm, and he snatched for his own wand.

Hermione thrust out her mind with the thought of blue November and the smell of burning leaves, and threw herself forward in an inhumanly powerful tumble.  Her ward of prisms burst into existence, unfolding themselves with a crackle of crystal into a solid wall across the front of the cubicle.

They didn’t fall for the gambit.  The auror to Cedric’s left fired Bertram’s Bolts high and low, while the other tracked her with his wand, casting the Stunning Hex at her moving form.  As Hermione tumbled forward, she heard the prism-barrier shatter and evaporate, and felt the numbing sting of a near miss.

“Stupefy!  Stupefy!  Expelliarmus!”  she heard Harry cast, just before her tumble rolled her into the trio of aurors.  She smashed into and through Cedric’s legs with her back, carrying them out from under him.  He fell on top of her, thrashing at her as he struggled to bring his wand to bear on her.

One of the aurors gestured a Roger’s Shield into being in front of himself, almost effortlessly catching Harry’s attacks with the multicolored circle.  The other had his wand pointed at her, his mouth open to curse her.  Cedric was in the way, but that didn’t matter if he was just going to stun her, anyway.  The auror was just too far to reach, and she didn’t have any weapons.  Could she grapple with Cedric and get his wand?

Oh.  Cedric.

She seized one of Cedric’s legs with her good arm.  She had a moment to see him staring at her, horror on his face.  Then she heaved on the leg, hauling it as hard as she could upwards and away from her.  She couldn’t actually lift him off the ground that way -- his leg would have come off if she tried, she thought -- but he swung along the floor like an enormous club, smashing into the threatening auror’s legs.  The two wizards fell into a tangle of injured limbs.

The other auror turned his attentions to her, but it was too late.  She was on her feet like lightning, and dropped him with a light backhand across the side of his skull.  He collapsed, unconscious.

Harry darted forward and stunned the other two.  They froze into immobility, still folded around each other and struggling.  He threw her the wand, and she snatched it out of the air with her good hand.

“Last cubicle on the end,” he said.  “Password is ‘splendour fifty Buick.’ ”

Hermione nodded.  “Make sure none of these three are too badly hurt.”

“Go,” Harry said, already reaching for the medical kit.

She leapt over the auror she’d knocked out, into the main corridor of the clinic.  The long row of white cubicles confronted her, screened off with sheets.  She sprinted the length of the corridor in the blink of an eye, arriving at the other end of the general ward at the same moment as a running auror appeared at the door -- Hedley Kwannon.  Kwannon’s wand was already drawn, Hermione saw.

“Stupefy!” cast Kwannon and Hermione at the same time.  As she cast, Hermione lunged to the side into one of the cubicles, clawing out with her mind to raise another wall of prismatic crystal.  For her part, Kwannon was unbelievably fast, raising a wall of Azarian Fire and the red mist of Bartolomeo’s Reckoning almost at the same time, and still able to bring her wand back to Pflug position.  The auror’s wards absorbed Hermione’s curse, and Kwannon was ready to cast three Bertram’s Bolts, each a foot apart from the next -- avoiding the lure of the prism ward, and aiming for where her target was actually going.  Hermione felt them sizzle past her, the dull yellow hexes missing her only by the grace of her speed and luck.

Hermione sprang to her feet as Kwannon charged through the door.  Immediately, Kwannon raised more Azarian Fire, and it was again a cover for an attack.  But this time she attacked Hermione’s footing.  “Orbis.”  Hermione felt the stone underfoot soften, sloughing away from under her shoes.  She’s better at chaining and a better shot than me; if I lose my mobility, I’m done, Hermione thought.

Hermione responded the way Alastor had always taught her: once you know your advantages, press them relentlessly.  She sacrificed position and used the stone for her own purposes, charming it into a swirling wall of rock between the two of them.  Then she sprang forward, driving her toes hard into the softening floor.

From the other side of the wall, Hermione heard Kwannon chant the first few syllables of the runes of balance: a delaying action.  Unfortunately for Kwannon, Hermione simply had no time for more of this.

She threw herself shoulder-first into the stone at full speed, and it yielded before her.  She burst through, into a startled Kwannon -- still tracing orange symbols in the air -- and stunned the auror with a crackling red curse.

Panting, Hermione turned to the cubicle on the end.  “Splendour fifty Buick,” she said, holding her shoulder.  

The plain stone of the wall shifted in one spot, slightly and silently.

Hermione stepped over to the stone that moved, and gently pushed it to one side.  It swiveled open on an invisible hinge, exposing a small ledge within the wall.

Resting on the ledge was a wand of elder wood.  She recognized it.  It had once belonged to Albus Dumbledore, before it passed to Lord Voldemort.  He in turn passed it to Harry Potter, who became -- as she understood it -- the rightful owner, by dint of conquest.

Until he was defeated by Bellatrix Black, she realized.  Right before I put my fist through her.

Hermione Granger picked up her wand.


≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

O Powerful Nike, by men desir'd, with adverse breasts to dreadful fury fir'd,
Thee I invoke, whose might alone can quell contending rage, and molestation fell:
'Tis thine in battle to confer the crown, the victor's prize, the mark of sweet renown;
For thou rul'st all things, Nike divine! And glorious strife, and joyful shouts are thine.
Come, mighty Goddess, and thy suppliant bless, with sparkling eye, elated with success;
May deeds illustrious thy protection claim, and find, led on by thee immortal Fame.

    -  Orphic Hymn to Nike  (trans. Thomas Taylor)

Significant Digits, Chapter Forty-Three: Melpomene

Significant Digits, Chapter Forty-Three: Melpomene


The Urgod Ur, Ackle
May 19th, 1999
The same day

“I have no powers plenipotentiary,” said Nagrod, nodding gravely at the assembled Urgod Ur.  “I’m a messenger, and cannot come to any accord.”

“But you bring word from Curd,” said Sub Gol, folding his arms over his stomach, squinting down from his high seat.

“Excellent,” said the Jurg, nearby, smiling eagerly down at Nagrod.  “We’d be glad of our cousins’ counsel.”

Nagrod glanced around the Urgod Ur.  It was a small room, and it smelled of sweat and unwashed flesh.  All of the goblins within were respected and clever -- the pillars of Acklish society, guiding their people for generations -- but they had been cloistered in rooms like these for more than three weeks.  No one was permitted to enter or leave, except by under the strictest security (a collar of consumption was locked around Nagrod’s neck even now, despite his own high status).  These were the inevitable requirements for independence in a hostile world run by vicious and subtle wizards.

“What word, then?” asked Bilgurd the Marrowed, his lips tight and his face skeptical.  “What is Curd’s decision?”

Weak-kneed and short-eared, this lot, thought Nagrod, studying Bilgurd for a moment.  But we’d best be united.

“Curd will accept the Archon’s offer,” said Nagrod, flatly.  “Our heritage is worth any war.  We hope that Ackle will join us in this.”

“Curd is bold,” said Bilgurd, as his compatriots murmured to each other and exchanged significant glances.

Several goblins looked particularly at the Jurg, who had fixed an expression of solemn approval on his face.  He must have hoped to take the lead, thought Nagrod.  His forge has hummed this past month, if the news is correct.  Yet if that Hod is in favor of the deal, then where can opposition lie?  Someone must have stood in the way of consensus.

“I believe this speaks with leather lungs,” said Sub Gol, nodding.  “We have gone back and forth a hundred times and more.  ‘They have given us wands,’ ‘they have given us power,’ ‘they will give us youth’... But Curd has it right!  Our cousins have seen through to the truth of it: that this is a chance we may never get again -- a chance to take back our birthright of true will-work.  Ackle can soar again in gold and diamond, as it was before the Edict of Hortensius.”

“It would be a mistake,” said Bilgurd.  He was looking at Nagrod when he said it, and Nagrod met Bilgurd’s eyes with firmness.  Ah, here we are.  You’re the one.

“In only a few years, that same Edict has been repealed,” said Bilgurd, “or its modern equivalent, anyway.  And wands are nothing to mock.”  He reached into a shiny leather dueling holster at his waist and withdrew one, holding it up.  Like most goblin wands -- with a few notable exceptions -- it had seen little use.  They all had them, anyway.  “Generations of goblins fought and died to regain these sticks.  Caislean-i-Cahaenn rose under Crad the Callow for them.  And now you and others would agree to attack the very Tower that gave them to us?”

“Are we Beasts, then, truly?” asked Sub Gol, his voice ridged with scorn.  “Like a whipped dog, returning to the hand that held the lash because it has thrown us an old crust?  There is no doubt about this ‘Archon’ and his power, or the power of his allies.  That was shown us in spectacular fashion.  And he offers us something we might never regain, otherwise -- things not in the gift of the Tower.  We cannot know in what shape the Archon will take control of things, but surely it will be in the same subtle fashion as the Tower… and thus we will have all the Tower gave us, plus all the Archon promises, and a powerful new friend-- who owes us greatly, to boot!  If we are to be the catspaw of a Dark Lord, let it be the one with the greater pay.  Should we make a terrible new enemy rather than a terrible new ally?”

“Why do we quarrel so?  The debate was split and sundered, but now Curd has come down with us,” pointed out the Jurg.

Nagrod nodded, putting an expression of gratitude on his face.  And yet this still might turn either way.  And should they decide wrongly, what will stop Curd from reconsidering?  The Archon’s messages echoed strangely in Nagrod’s mind, and it was intolerable that this discussion might turn out poorly.

“Ackle must make up its own mind,” he said, “and not let our decision overly influence your own.  But I should say that we heard much the same arguments along much the same lines… as though we should be grateful to the Tower, as though we owe it -- him -- anything.  And for myself, I do not count it a favor when my neighbor ceases to beat me, and I do not reckon any debt might spring from the mere cessation of injustice.”

“The Tower is a wizard,” retorted Bilgurd, “not every wizard.  You propose to betray him and those who have worked to right the wrongs of the past.  We would show no honour, and no gratitude, and no fealty to contract.”  His voice was heated.  “We must not be cowards and hide our specific treachery under a general cloak.  Let us at least admit what we do, if we do it… we would abandon our honour, as we knife the wizard who has helped us more than any other in generations.”

There was a moment of quiet at this comment, as all took a moment to reflect.  Then Sub Gol shrugged, leaning forward in his stone seat.  “Very well, so be it.  Our children will thank us, and our children’s children, and ask only why we endured servitude for so long before taking action once more, as our forebears once did.  I do not think we should pass up the opportunity to ally ourselves with this Archon -- this new Dark Lord.  He is mighty.  Nor can we in good conscience turn away from our ancient birthright… the techniques of will-work that we thought long lost.”

“And while it is true the Tower does not represent all wizardkind, that is rather the point,” agreed Nagrod, eyeing Bilgurd closely.  “Would you wager everything on honour?”

Bilgurd replied with hot words, and now the Jurg and others joined him, worried about flimsy ideas and trivialities.  Nagrod responded with persuasion and pressure, and many others echoed him.

But truly, everything had been said at that moment, and it was on these arguments that the decision of Ackle would be made.  As so often, the further hours of argument would come to nothing -- there was no real exchange of ideas or harrowing of their merits, but only a war of mental attrition and emotional manipulation.  Within one day more, the Acklish had made their choice.

Who would ever wager everything on honour, after all?


≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

John Snow Center for Medicine and Tower School of Doubt (The Tower)
May 19th, 1999
The same day

Like almost everyone, the simplest way for Hermione, Esther, and Hyori to travel to the Tower was with a Safety Stick.  They used one: Esther and Hyori held on to one end, and Hermione took the other.  She bent it sharply, and it broke.  The three of them whirled away with a wrench, sideways to reality and away.


≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

The Matchless Vault of the Unsleeping, Seogwipo, Jeju, South Korea
May 19th, 1999
The same day

In 1976, a team of treasure-hunters from Hangzhou discovered the entrance to the Matchless Vault of the Unsleeping, seeking it out from scraps of rumor and cryptic maps.  Their search had taken long years, but the rewards would be worth it.  The Matchless Vault of the Unsleeping was said to hold an ancient hoard of enchanted silver -- a vast wealth from the time of the Tamna.

There were layers of traps and seals.  A front gate, guarded by faceless inferi.  A twisting passage, deadly at every step.  A sealed inner gate, locked behind a puzzle-door of bismuth bronze.  An antechamber thick with poisonous fumes.

“When we discovered the true location of this deathtrap, buried at the base of Mount Halla, we were a party of twelve,” wrote Guang Mu in An Exploration Ten Fathoms Deep.  “By the time we had pierced through to the inner chambers, we’d lost half our number.”

Once inside, though, the six remaining treasure-hunters were gratified to see gleaming silver, piled in heaps of coins and stacked in ingots as large as a wizard’s head.  But in their haste to take hold of their prize, they forget their caution.

“Chi Guo rushed forward and plunged his arms up to the elbows into a pile of coins that filled an iron coffer, scooping them out in great handfuls,” wrote Guang Mu.  “He had poured them from his palms back into the chest, causing a deal of noise.  When he turned to me with an expression of great delight, though, we became aware of another sound.  It was a quiet rasping from many sources: scale on stone and horn on metal.  We had awoken the final guardians.

“The basilisk struck from another chamber like an arrow, flying through the air the length of its body.  We retreated, covering our eyes lest the beast turn its gaze on us, but it was preoccupied with poor Chi Guo.  I had only an instant’s impression of his body, stiffening and turning grey even as the great serpent entwined itself about him and began to pull him apart and reduce him to dust.

“We fled, but in our terror we neglected the door.  This proved to be a fatal mistake for some, for it gave opening to a second monster: the deadly terrasque.  It burst forth from a pile of silver, screeching with fearsome noise, and gave chase.

“Should you ever be so unfortunate as to encounter one of these fell beasts, you may know it by these signs: it stands twice the height of a wizard, and its body is composed of shiny red rock.  It has six legs of crystal, a broad shell of rough stone, and a lion’s head of obsidian and stinking saltpetre.

“Horrified, we attempted to block its path with web and ward, but it brushed aside our spells.  In a trice, the terrasque had seized Zeng Zhang in its mouth.  He fought bravely to the last, but perished.  He was soon followed by Duo We.

“I was forced to draw upon the Killing Curse, only to find to my dismay that it had no effect on the creature of rock.  It was only by the quick reactions and clever thinking of my remaining allies that we rallied, depriving the terraque of its footing with the Butterball Charm, and then sealing it away within the rock, fortifying this makeshift tomb with the stoutest barriers.

“Nothing further could be done about the basilisk or the Vault.  We sealed the latter away and posted a guard, then went to seek aid.  A plan was necessary for our return.  And this time, we would be triumphant.”

As told by Guang Mu, his group gathered reinforcements, including a noted hunter of dark wizards, and returned to work their vengeance.  They were able to draw out and defeat the basilisk, defeating it with little loss of life.  Its prized flesh and fangs were parceled out and added to the great wealth that the group took from the Matchless Vault of the Unsleeping.

The Vault has since become a place for historians and archaeologists to examine, searching for traces of the unknown witch or wizard who deposited their treasure in its coffers and tamed two of the most fearsome of known beasts to their service.  There was little evidence to be found: a handful of unknown runes and a few tool marks on some of the ingots.

On this particular day, however, no one was present at the Vault when a cloaked figure arrived, borne on a chariot of fire.  The visitor did not pause at the entrance, which was covered by a modern barrier of stone and steel; they said a soft word.  Then they walked forward and the barrier swung open without complaint, despite its locks and seals.

The front gate was denuded of its undead guardians.  The twisting passage was cleared of its clever traps.  The puzzle-door on the inner gate stood open.  The antechamber was fresh and pure.  And the inner chambers were empty, ransacked of their silver and decorated only with a giant, yellow snake skull, locked within a display case.

But the visitor had no interest in any of these, walking with a brisk step through the gate, down the twisting passages, within the puzzle-door, and past the antechamber.  They walked to one of the inner chambers, to the point where one wall met another.  Their pace never slowed as they stepped sideways into an invisible seam, turning sharply to the side and up and beyond in some impossible fashion, entering a hidden passage that had been cleverly and maddeningly concealed in two dimensions.

The visitor met no apparent consequences for the loss of a dimension, though certainly common sense (and geometry) must imply that such a transition would be the immediate death of anyone foolish enough to attempt it.  But in defiance of reason and Euclid and Edwin A. Abbott, the visitor simply moved down the corridor.

Shortly, the visitor reached the apparent end of the corridor, where ceiling and floor met a wall.  But the visitor pushed forward through the wall, emerging with unhurried step in another place, far deeper within Mount Halla.

The air within this new chamber was stale and close, thick with the powdery dust of long ages and filled with the steady whisper of scale on stone and horn on metal.  It was black night in the room, and the visitor summoned a light to hand with a thought.

The light illuminated a great and crowded room.

Basilisks hissed in their dozens, sleepily and irritably raising their heads as they awoke from long hibernation, and terresque shifted lethargically where they lay in their rocky sleepless mounds.

The visitor raised a hand in command, and began.


≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

John Snow Center for Medicine and Tower School of Doubt (The Tower)
May 19th, 1999
The same day

“Wake up, Hermione,” said Harry.  She opened her eyes, smiling… although it was a bit odd that Harry was there.  Usually they just unstunned her and the Returned in the Receiving Room, and she walked into the Tower under her own power.  It was better for her image.  Had Harry finally left the Tower, for the first time in years?

No, she was in the clinic.  In one of the cubicles.  Esther and Hyori weren’t there.

She couldn’t move.  When she tried, she could feel cold metal on her arms and legs, with more restraints over her waist and chest.

Oh God.

She heaved, but the metal didn’t yield even slightly.  Goblin silver?

Was this really the Tower?  Was that really Harry?

How could she get free without killing him?  She searched her mind, considering the spells she could cast without wand or significant gestures.

“It’s all right,” Harry said, reassuringly.

She was not reassured.

“Harry, what are you doing?” she asked.  She kept her voice calm.


≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

Žižkovské divadlo Járy Cimrmana, Prague, Czech Republic
May 19th, 1999
The same day

“Dobrý den!” called out a cheerful female voice.  Jakub glanced to his left, across the street, where an attractive young woman was waving at him from a doorway -- the entrance to a theatre.  She was on the short side, with a generous chest and wide hips.  She was wearing a strange sort of green dress, which was so long it touched the pavement underfoot and which came so high on the neck that it even included a little collar.  It looked more like a costume than clothing, and Jakub wondered if she was promoting a play.  He glanced at his wristwatch… he had a little time before he needed to get home.  Curious, he paused and glanced both ways along the street, then crossed.

“Co pro vás mohu udělat, slečno?” he asked, smiling, as he walked up to the actress.  She smiled back at him.  She had a very wide mouth and a little button nose, making her appear almost like a doll.

“Ahoj!” she replied, cheerfully.  “Máš něco v plánu na dnešní večer?”

He was, in fact, busy that evening: Hana was expecting him.  They were going to go dancing.  But Jakub could still find out what was going on, here -- what the promotion might be.  Maybe Hana might like to skip the clubs tonight, and come see a play, instead.  “Ještě nevím,” he said, smiling and shrugging (maybe even flirting a little, but he wasn’t a monk, for God’s sake).  “Proč se ptáte? Napadá vás nějaké místo kam bychom mohli zajít?”

The woman shrugged back at him, turning her head slightly and smiling coyly.  She reached into a long pocket of her dress, making a show of it, and pulled out a stick.  “Ano, napadá mě jedno specifické místo. Potřebujeme vaši pomoc.  Confundo.”

Jakub felt a tingle run through him, as though he’d been plunged into warm water.  It was odd, but somehow reassuring at the same time.

“Jdi dovnitř a čekej na další pokyny. Jdeme do války,” the woman said, and Jakub found himself nodding and agreeing, since of course he had already intended to go inside and wait quietly for further instruction.

He pushed open the door to the theatre.  The lobby was empty, but of course he was supposed to just walk right on past the ticket counter and on inside.  That was just obvious to him.

Every seat was occupied already, he saw with some disappointment.  Even most of the space in the aisles was already packed full of other people -- random men and women of every shape and size and age.  Jakub frowned, and pushed along the outer edge of the theatre, finding a corner that wasn’t quite crammed full of some of these other patiently waiting people.

Once he’d found a space, he leaned against the wall and relaxed.  He glanced at his wristwatch.  Nothing to do tonight or ever, so he had plenty of time to wait until he was needed.  It was clearly what he should be doing… just standing here and waiting until it was time to go and collect the weapons.  Then they’d go off to war, of course.  It was obvious enough.

Jakub closed his eyes and rested.  Best to save his strength.


≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

John Snow Center for Medicine and Tower School of Doubt (The Tower)
May 19th, 1999
The same day

She’d had only a few seconds to think before someone stepped into the cubicle, past Harry.

It was an older man with a pleasant smile.  He glanced at Harry, but said nothing.  He reached out to put his hand on Hermione’s ankle.


≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

The murderfields, Tír inna n-Óc
May 19th, 1999
The same day

The murderfields were still and icy, as they had been for years without end.  None of the cold chopped flesh moved, and sweet chunks of pain lay scattered as the lord of the lunar caustic had left them.

The milk rains had left a white frost on everything.

“Kruwos,” whispered a voice on the wind, reaching from a cautious distance, out beyond the fields’ end.  “Spondejo kruwos.  Kruwos.  Kruwos.  Spondejo kruwos.”

Kruwos, replied cold lips.  Kruwos.

A ragged hand slid gently from beneath a ragged thigh, slipping out of the ground and up into the air.  Milkrime crackled as the hand moved and thrust its fingers into a crevice.  It pulled with nightmare strength, joints popping all around like sloppy mouths, until an entire arm was revealed.  Then it released its grip and delicately reached back to pluck away a pale, loose band of flesh, setting it aside with care upon a withered labia near at hand.

The gaunt’s eyes were wide and staring, wet pools of black ichor in a taut white face.  It smiled, and its teeth were madness.

The murderfields rustled and cracked.  A leji-claw appeared, and then the long fingers of another gaunt.

The Unseelie rose again.


≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

Meldh released Hermione, and smiled amiably.  “There.  All better.”

She looked back at him.

The world shuddered, as though in pain.

Significant Digits, Chapter Forty-Two: Commentarii de Bello

Significant Digits, Chapter Forty-Two: Commentarii de Bello


CRAD:  Now you understand that these are the deadly years for wizards.  [Throws KARL’s bloodstained necklace onto the ground in front of ERIN.]  The metamorphosis of the world has begun… no more the plaything of the tall and beautiful!

[The remaining ATTENDANT takes notice, abandoning the corpse of his friend.  He jumps up and down with joy, yelling and grimacing with savagery and waving his torch.]

ERIN:  The Lady O’Bruinan will save me.

CRAD:  [Strikes her across the face with a bloody hand.  It leaves a mark of blood across her face.  The blood is a symbol of violence.]  Fool!  I have destroyed Sontag, and should the aged Lady appear in my arena, here, I shall show her a taste of armageddon… as I did your mad lover!

[EXSES enters from stage right with a clamour of thunder, clad all in gold.  In her left hand is a wand, and in her right is a spear.]

EXSES:  I am come!  I have seen the terrors you have wrought upon my people of Sontag, and I have brought my vengeance!

[CRAD and ATTENDANT cower back from EXSES.  CRAD seizes ATTENDANT and pushes him at EXSES.  She strikes him down with her spear, and there is another clamour of thunder.]

ERIN:  My Lady!  I never lost hope!

CRAD:  No, no, no!

[CRAD wails and strips off his necklace of wizard teeth, flinging it to the ground.  It lands next to KARL’s necklace.]

EXSES:  Yes!  I will bring the goblins low for their crimes, a deserved punishment for their deeds!  [She raises her spear, holding it high.]  Thus do I condemn them: let them scrape in metal and toil in tin!  Let them fear to raise their heads, lest those heads be struck from their shoulders!  The blood of Sontag demands it -- and let all know their just reward for such bloody deeds as have been done this day!

[CRAD collapses, wailing.  ERIN inclines her head, and leans down to pick up KARL’s necklace.  She pauses, and then brings her delicate foot down upon CRAD’s necklace, ruining it.  ALL exit.]

[The stage darkens, and a spotlight focuses on CRAD’s necklace.  It is a symbol of hubris.]

- “The Last Days of Exses O’Bruinan,” by S. Leigh, as staged in the 1979 London production.


≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

John Snow Center for Medicine and Tower School of Doubt (The Tower)
May 19th, 1999
The same day

“There,” said Meldh, lifting his hand from Harry’s wrist.  “Think back, and see if you can remember anything.”

Harry shut his eyes, standing silently.  It was very quiet in the blank span of corridor where they stood, near the rear of the Tower -- there were no distractions.

After a while, Harry opened his eyes again.  “No, sir.  I can’t remember anything about where Voldemort might be.  And I seem to remember all about the Tower departments, otherwise.  There’s no obvious gap that might provide a clue.”  He paused.  “Thank you, sir, for leaving me with everything else.”

“It seemed cruel to take all of that away from you,” said Meldh, nodding.

“Thank you, sir,” said Harry, smiling.  His smile faded, though, as he said hesitantly, “Sir, before we go back to the others, I think we should talk about your succession to my place -- at least in the broad strokes, so I can begin thinking about how to help.  I know that you believe the Lethe Touch to be infallible, but there’s no reason to risk it.  It’s basic information hygiene.”

Meldh waved a hand, dismissively.  “There is no concern.  I will take your identity and you will become a new person.  We will alter the trajectory you have chosen for the world, using the tools you have put at my command.”

“No, sir,” Harry said, shaking his head.  “There are serious problems there.  For one, the new terminal values you’ve given us are too…” He fumbled for words.  “There’s too much internal conflict, sir.  It shows on our faces, and it will lead to strange behavior at some point.  It will be like an Asimov story with the Three Laws… outside observers will be able to deduce from aberrant behavior that there are new underlying rules.  Many people are very loyal to me, but no one is absolutely loyal, to the extent where my will and wishes are their most important goals.”

“We have taken dozens of your allies here, but I have set up a pressure within them,” Meldh said.  “They are enchanted in the same fashion as yourself, but there is a capacity for release by recasting the Touch and adding --”

“No!” said Harry, abruptly, holding up his hand.  “I don’t need to know!  Information hygiene.”  Sheepishly, he lowered his hand, smiling a bit.  “Sorry, sir, but there’s no need to tell me the command word… it can’t possibly help.  Yes, you can trust me absolutely, right now, but what if I were to get free somehow?  The best weapon you’d have in that situation would be your control of almost all of my closest friends… I’m going to be substantially weaker if any attack on you risks killing Draco or Moody -- or even if your death would just leave all of my friends as your servants, forever.”

“Do not worry, Mr. Potter,” said Meldh, kindly.  “There is no risk that you will go free.  No one has ever defeated the Lethe Touch by sheer willpower, and there is no spell known to you or any of your allies that could dispel the enchantment.  We now possess the only real trust that can ever exist between two people.”

“What about my Unbreakable Vow, sir?” asked Harry.  “It’s an obvious problem… what if you ask me to do something that might destroy the world?”

Meldh folded his hands in his sleeves.  “You will not be able to comply, of course.  But the results would be the same if I asked you to fetch me a Lethifold’s smile-- you could not do it, but neither would the Touch fail.  I spent some time examining your mind, Mr. Potter, and I assure you that there is no power known to you that poses a threat to me.”

Harry fell silent, and leaned back against the wall of the corridor.  Meldh waited, patiently.  After a time, Harry spoke up again, saying, “When I think about possible contingency plans for something like this, it seems obvious I would have prepared something and stored the memory in a Pensieve, or just erased it with such care as to leave no traces.  Of course, if I thought of a contingency once, I should be able to think of it again, so it would also be necessary to erase the memories that led me to the plan in the first place.”

“Then we’re no better off for the wondering,” said Meldh, chuckling mildly.  “You cannot worry or defend against the unknown, since it can take any shape.  The key to great strength is defending against every known, whether it appears a threat or not, and staying hidden from the unknown.”

“I disagree, sir.  It’s possible to plan for the unknown -- you can make a path for it or put in place some contingency that embraces a host of possibilities.  And I am fairly sure that I must have at least tried to do so.  The way magic works, it was never an outlandish idea that someone old and powerful might show up and take offense.  I knew for certain that people like Nicholas Flamel were out there.  Given the long history of the world and the fact that magic was once much more powerful, it was actually more likely than not that there would be some immortals out there.”  Harry shrugged.  “I should have perhaps even foreseen you yourself, sir.  The inventor of the Horcrux spell?  It seems obvious, in retrospect.  Maybe I did foresee it, actually.”

Meldh looked amused.  “You and Voldemort share the same opinion of your abilities.  You will forgive me for saying that I do not, Mr. Potter.  My victory was not a difficult one, and cost scarcely even a pawn’s worth of trouble.”

Harry shrugged.  “That seems suspicious to me, sir.”  Then he opened his mouth, as though to go on speaking, but made no sound.  He grimaced and shook his head, accidentally rapping it against the wall and wincing.

Meldh watched him, and replied to the unaskable question.  “No, Mr. Potter,” he said gently.  “I do not think it is necessary to kill you now, out of fear of some possible trap you’ve laid.  Rather, I will need your help.

“Once I take my place as the new Mr. Potter, you will be by my side in some altered shape, as an adjunct and adviser,” he said.  “I will release all others -- they will continue to serve ‘you,’ and the Tower will move in a new direction to decisively end magic.  Your Muggle knowledge will be turned to proper ends… without your foolishness.”  He chortled, amiably.  “Some things can even be done immediately, to help stave off the end of the world and its people.  There is at least one new ritual we may enact, based on your knowledge.  To think what you would have let go to waste -- for the sake of some distant bits of fire!”

Harry looked at the ground, his face uncomfortable.  “Sir, I considered it to be immoral, especially when there are alternatives that don’t increase entropy in the universe so much. And…” Harry fumbled over his words clumsily, as though many ideas were fighting for expression at the same time.   “And many stars have the possibility of life, either now or in the future, and that risk is so apocalyptically bad that it overwhelms any benefit to an individual life here, and when we reach the second type on the Kardashev scale we’ll then be confronted with a loss of useful energy on a scale of… of… well, I don’t even know how to make a comparison!  Obviously it would be like sacrificing our own Sun, but… well, it would be like a wiping out every scrap of phoenix flame that ever existed and could ever exist, all to save one person.”

His voice wasn’t rising, but it was filled with strange tension, as though he weren’t arguing with Meldh, but were arguing with himself.  He kept talking, though, fumbling through in a rush.  “And we might not even need to do that!  The Advancement Agency has made amazing strides in only a few years.  With reconfiguring parts alone, they’ll raise life expectancy.  The prostate, the heart, the optic nerve, the retina, the spine, the knees, the teeth… there are all sorts of design fixes that will reduce the chances of morbidity.  Making them a part of the standard rejuvenation and putting in greater security -- even perhaps with the aid of the Touch, sir -- will put us well ahead of the curve on a new Moore’s Law of lifespan.”

“No,” said Meldh, flatly... that short and curt blade of a word.  “We will not wait, not when the new ritual will be so simple to devise -- with some little study of your Muggle knowledge about the stars.  Not one more minute, as the saying goes.”

Harry choked a little in his throat, then hung his head, and made no reply.  He stared at the floor.

“To think I feared to come here, considering it an unwarranted risk,“ marveled Meldh, shaking his head and gesturing down the corridor.  “Come.  We must arrange for the death of the fallen bishop, Bellatrix Black, and take what actions are necessary to suborn the absentee goblins, and set them, too, on the correct path.”  He smiled at the thought.  “Then I have some preparations to make before I step outside of this Tower to consult with my allies.”

Harry began moving obediently, and they began walking back to the meeting room.  Meldh glanced at him, and spoke, his voice kind.  “The new immortals of the world, the ones that we choose to aid us in our cause,  will have cause to praise my risk and your losses, Mr. Potter.  There are endless stars in the sky… more than enough for every witch and wizard we might select.”


≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

On the shores of the lake of teeth, where the black hills end, Tír inna n-Óc
May 19th, 1999
Later that day

Whispering teeth.

Fractal shadows.

Desolation.

“You have succeeded… well done,” said the third figure -- Nell.  Her congratulations were light and pleasant, but none the more convincing for that.

“Thank you,” said the first figure -- Meldh.  “We have swept the board.”

The second figure said nothing, only watching them both.

“You have Touched the boy-king… will you leave him in charge?” asked Nell.

“No,” said Meldh.  “I will take his shape and his identity.  He has built a formidable apparatus, and I think that few threats now exist that could stand against it.”

“You do not think that you might be, perhaps, overconfident?  Is your control already so sure?” asked Nell.

Meldh paused and did not reply for a time.  The second figure, silent still, turned a face of slithering shadow to regard him, watching intently.

“My pride prompts me to deny you, but mirgo que n'a qu'un trpu est bientôt prise… yes, perhaps you are correct,” said Meldh, finally.  “Mr. Potter himself said as much to me, not an hour ago.  I had thought to use the goblins as an excuse to change policy, but even a goblin army may not be sufficient to rouse enough alarm and stem the suspicion of his allies.”

“If you require further assistance, then you shall have it,” said the second figure.

“We are gambling a great deal,” agreed Nell.  “You shall have every support we can offer.”

“Then so be it,” said Meldh.  “I will not turn away one ounce of assistance.  And for my part, I find that I will not have need of the Stone of the Long Song, so long as you would still be willing to lend its power on occasion, Madame.”

“Of course,” said Nell, and the shadows writhed in some distant imitation of a smile.

“No,” said the second figure.  “That shall not be sufficient.  Now is not the time for conservative policies.  We must take this opportunity to act.  Our hand is in play -- we will make it a fist.  Now is the time to act.  We will do as we have not done in many years.  Sontag once thrived and threatened, rich on the concentrated lore of the Peverells, and made a perfect plum to be plucked.  You fear preparations against you?  Let us swamp them in violence.”

“Is that not hasty?” asked Meldh.

Even Nell seemed startled by the proposition.  “I will commit all to the enterprise, if necessary, but I think --”

“We will raise mighty forces.  Armies.  I will act with all puissance at my command,” said the second figure, as though the others had not spoken.  “Not only the goblins, strong with the restored knowledge of their ancient will-work.  Also the visc and lejis of this place will take breath again, driven by the gaunt-horrors.  I will break the cycle of the unsleeping, and bring forth your long-vanished terrasque and basilisks.  Muggles in their hordes will take the eaters on themselves.  They will march, we will sacrifice many… and take the opportunity to wipe away the magics of London, Boston, and Hangzhou.”

“I am not sure that…” said Nell, hesitantly.  “We have not acted on such a scale since…” She shook her head, darkness swirling.  “Never.  This is audacity truly worthy of Merlin.  And unspeakably risky.”

“Thus shall it be, Perenelle du Marais,” said the second figure.  He did not wait for a reply, but turned to Meldh, and stated, “Thus shall it be, Heraclius Hero.  We will sweep the world with discord and blood, crush a thousand artifacts and burn a thousand scrolls, and raise such fear as has never been seen.”

There was a desperately long pause, when none of them moved.  They were not the sort to act in haste, despite the brutal decisiveness they could bring to a conversation.  All Three waited, patiently, for each of the others to think through and come to terms with the new shape of the world to come.

Tentatively, Nell said, “In the face of such a threat, those remaining wizards will unite behind the Tower.  Behind you.”  She looked back at Meldh.

“Behind us,” corrected Meldh, mildly.  “And I think we will have no resistance, then, in a push to redouble the Statute of Secrecy’s strictures and limit the scope and growth of magic.  The plan will need further thought to arrange all of the pieces, but there will be resources to spare, now that I have mastered the Tower.”

“You disposed of Bellatrix Black and Voldemort,” said the second figure -- a question that was not really a question.

“I have made arrangements for the death of the Black woman, but there are... complications with Voldemort.  I actually have much to say to you about Horcruxes at another time.  I have sealed Voldemort away, however, and erased all memory of his hiding place.  It will suffice, I think,” said Meldh.

“Kill Potter, as well,” said the second figure.  “Whatever his lore, the risk is too great.  And we need no more complications.”

“As you wish, although the odd patterns of his brain have been fruitful,” said Meldh, untroubled.  “I will strip his mind of what else might be gleaned, and then end him.”  He inclined his head, gently.  “I will send signal for our next meeting presently, after concluding such matters.  We will plan for our war and arrange our pieces.”

“Yes,” said the second figure.  “Consider, each of you, the utmost of your might.  We will spare no energy or lore in the conflict to come.  Victory must be certain for us to take such a risk.”

All three departed, each their separate ways.

Whispering teeth.

Fractal shadows.

Desolation.

Tír inna n-Óc endured.


≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

John Snow Center for Medicine and Tower School of Doubt (The Tower)
May 19th, 1999
The afternoon of the same day

Upon his return to the Tower, Meldh appeared tired.  He walked with heavy feet out of the annex next to the Receiving Room, where he’d performed the ritual.  His fingers were still bloody, wet with the necessary components of a trip to the land of the Unseelie.

For a moment, the assured and calm wizard was gone.  He looked the same… dusky skin, dark eyes, broad lips.  But he looked weary and battered, and it was enough to bring a worried Moody to his side with gruff but concerned questions.  Meldh waved away the Tower’s spymaster, and stepped through the golden oval of the Tower entrance.  Harry waited just inside, frowning and unhappy, accompanied by Diggory.  Both young men looked immensely relieved to see their master alive, though their worried glances at each other showed their distress at his state.

“Sir, we’re holding some people in Material Methods,” said Diggory, speaking first.  He and Harry walked along with Meldh down the corridor, slowly, towards the clinic.  “Madame Bones, Percy Weasley, Councilor Reg Hig, and seven aurors reporting for their normal shifts.  All stunned and waiting for you.  And there is regular Tower business… people to heal.”

“Good, good,” said Meldh, vaguely.  “Harry shall go and attend to healing.  But I must rest.  Keep the prisoners stunned and secured for now.  All else is well?”

“Ackle and Curd have both sent away emissaries from Minister N’goma,” said Harry, studying Meldh closely.  “And Hermione Granger sent a message to let me know she’d be here this evening.  All is well with your allies?”

“Fine,” said Meldh.  He sighed, heavily.  “Ah, but… forgive my weariness, but there is such violence in the offing, Mr. Potter.  I confess that I did not anticipate it, and the very thought makes me ache for my garden and my home and my temple.  I fear I will not see them for a great while, and that is not a discomfort I have needed to endure for many years.”  He shook his head.  Harry touched him on the arm, reassuringly, and the older wizard glanced down at the hand and smiled a small smile.

“Sir, I’m sorry, but we should prepare for Granger,” said Diggory, breaking in on the moment.  “She is resourceful and her Returned are insane.”

“I am too tired, young man,” said Meldh.  “Mr. Potter, make plans accordingly.”  He sighed again.  “I must rest.  There will be war soon, and the world will shake because of it.  A great and fearsome god calls for blood.  That is not something I have seen for centuries.  I must rest and think.”

Harry took hold of Diggory’s arm, restraining him, and they stopped in their tracks.  Meldh continued on, moving slowly.  He vanished from sight into the clinic.

“This is for the best, Cedric,” said Harry.  “I’m not sure that he would be able to appreciate the threat that Hermione could present, but we do.  Let’s make a plan.”












I think we are in rats’ alley
Where the dead men lost their bones.

“What is that noise?”The wind under the door.“What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?”Nothing again nothing.“DoYou know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember
Nothing?”I rememberThose are pearls that were his eyes.“Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?”

-”The Waste Land,” T.S. Eliot

Significant Digits, Chapter Forty-One: Pithos

Significant Digits, Chapter Forty-One: Pithos


[The goblin warlord CRAD THE CALLOW and two ATTENDANTS enter, stage left.  CRAD, a loathsome beast with a foaming mouth, wears filthy animal skins and a necklace of wizard teeth.  His hands are covered in blood.  His ATTENDANTS are dressed in similarly barbaric regalia, and each carries bright torches.  They stand before ERIN and KARL, triumphant.]

CRAD:  Look at the princess!  Now that I, Crad, the revenging angel of goblinkind, has come to spill wizard blood… now she cowers!  This is the price your people pay for their crimes.  It is natural for vengeance to follow foul deeds, as one season follows another... and this is my harvest season… and your season of death!

ERIN:  I am a noble witch of Britain, sir, and I do not cower.  That is a thing for beasts.

KARL:  [Boldly] And goblins.

CRAD:  [Gnashes his teeth and jumps up and down, waving his arms.]  Still you defy me, though this miserable village lies in ashes?!  Though every beast lies dead, and even the flax smolders in the fields?!

KARL:  We do.

ERIN:  And so shall we ever.  The choice between right and wrong is as clear as the difference between night and day.  And if there were aught others to witness this, perhaps in some later day, then I would declare to them that they need only use their eyes to tell the difference between good and evil!  And what seeing wizard, witnessing the ugliness and needless cruelty of evil, could fail to promise to seek the good of their own kind?

- “The Last Days of Exses O’Bruinan,” by S. Leigh, as staged in the 1979 London production.


≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

John Snow Center for Medicine and Tower School of Doubt (The Tower)
May 18th, 1999
The same day

“Why did you keep this place a secret to so many, Mr. Potter?” asked Meldh, calmly.  He glanced around the small room as they emerged from a nightmarish corridor of traps and wards and locks -- including even a five-minute waiting period that considerably amused Meldh.

The room was still sparsely furnished.  There were stacks of cassette tapes and several auto-players sitting in a thick mass of Lovegood Leaf.  There was a small wooden stool, with a yellow legal pad and mechanical pencil set upon it.

There was a black box.

Harry didn’t answer for a moment, glancing over at the box, which remained silent.  He walked over to the auto-players instead, where a quiet voice was reading a book-on-tape aloud.  Harry bent down and turned it off, and the recorded sentence was strangled mid-word: “His professions might be sincere; but in the situation where fortune had placed him, it was scarcely poss--”

“Mr. Potter?” prompted Meldh.

“This is the second Tower,” Harry said.  “Before this, there was another facility… one that was part of Hogwarts.  There was… an attack.  A powerful wizard who had been driven insane with grief.  He said that he wanted us to bring back his child, but I think it was a form of suicide for him.  He’d planned it -- arranged for a message to be sent from the future to stop us from using Time-Turners to stop him.  He killed Hermione.  Killed her phoenix.”

Harry sighed.  “At that time, I’d transfigured Voldemort into a small stone, so that I didn’t have to kill him.  But during the attack, Hermione threw me to safety, and when I landed, I lost the ring.  And it was then that I realized that if I’d been seriously hurt or killed… well, Voldemort could have awakened or been freed, with the Philosopher’s Stone right at hand.  Moody had warned me of this before, and we’d taken additional measures, but… well, that plan wasn’t going to work.  Of all the possible solutions to keeping hold of him, I’d been taking one of the riskiest possible.  So I set to work finding a solution.  It was easier than I’d thought… many wizards in the past had worked on transferring or creating consciousness in artificial environments, enough to be actually worrying.  This form of mandrake, when properly prepared, holds his consciousness.  But I knew that many people wouldn’t share my ethics about going to such lengths -- that they might prefer more lethal solutions.”

“I see,” mused Meldh.  They both looked at the box for a moment, contemplatively.  Voldemort remained silent.

“You are mistaken, though, Mr. Potter,” Meldh added.  “It was we who sent that message.  We’d known the gentleman for some time, after he intruded on our meeting place.  An early attempt at an intervention in your affairs.  Ineffective, I’m afraid… but perhaps that’s for the best, now that I consider the matter in hindsight.”

Harry’s eyes were closed, and he staggered to the side.  He clutched for the wall but fell short, dropping to one knee.  He gasped, “Killed Granville… so many people… sir, I can’t… I’m sorry…”

Meldh shook his head and smiled kindly.  He walked over to Harry and bent down, putting a comforting hand on the young man’s back.  “It’s all right, just give it a moment.  This is my fault, I’m afraid… I have changed very little in you.  Just your… ah, there is no word.  Just your telos.  The most important things for you.  So there is some conflict.  But my alterations cannot be overcome.  Fear not.”

“Fear,” said Voldemort, suddenly.  Meldh turned his head sharply and stood up straight at the sound, but did not appear alarmed.  As ever, his expression was pleasant.  It suited the older man well.

“I am not aping you,” continued the voice from the box in neutral male tones.  “That is a suggestion.”

Meldh didn’t respond immediately.  Instead, he walked closer, scrutinizing the black box.  After a moment, he said, “I do not accept your suggestion, but thank you for it.  You are Tom Riddle?  Or is it the more recent name -- Professor Quirrell -- that you go by?”

“I have had many names,” said Voldemort.  “Please address me as best suits you.”

“Very well, Lord Voldemort,” said Meldh, smiling.  “I am a visitor to the Tower.  You may call me Meldh -- an old word from my youth.”

There was a pause, then Voldemort said, “Your implication is obvious.  But that is not a credible lie.  I will thank you not to insult my intelligence, Meldh, if we are to speak.”

“Oh?” asked Meldh, raising his voice slightly to be heard over Harry’s gasping sobs, as the young man struggled to control himself.

“While I do not know if my faculties have been affected by this prison, I am not yet a gibbering moron,” said Voldemort.  “Accordingly, I am not credulous enough to accept the existence of such antiquity without rather more proof than that.  It is apparent that you have directly interceded to enforce your will on Mr. Potter in some manner.  Such an intervention would come at some risk, no matter your abilities.  If you took even the most miniscule of risks regularly, even only once in the span of each century, then it is not credible that you would be here, alive.  Fate is fickle.”  The voice from the box formed an artificial chuckle.  “On that, you may take my word.”

“Interesting,” said Meldh, pleasantly.  He did not comment further, but tilted his head to one side.  He lifted one palm and stretched it to the box, and whispered some words with syllables as harsh as knives.

After some time, Meldh lowered his palm and raised his eyebrows.  “Ah.  This box.  There used to be three of these.  I do not know if the others survive.  But this is well.  Destroying this one will ensure that, even if the others exist, they are useless for their other purposes.”  He smiled, gently.  “Kári Orden would be amused to see one of her boxes used as a zoo.”  He leaned forward, reaching out his hand as though to touch the box.  He stopped short, however, his palm held over the fine black surface.  A whisper of red light flickered across the box’s surface.

“You little tyrants have always been useful.  You swirl like a whirlwind, drawing lore and devices into your chaotic storm.  You kill off rivals, steal items of power, and break open hidden hoards.  And eventually, thanks to a hero -- and sometimes with the help of the Lethe Touch or the Ritual of Home or the Dustukhíascue -- you and much of what you’ve gathered are destroyed.” Meldh straightened back up, smiling again.  “You do the world much good with your attempted evil.”

Across the small room, Harry was gathering himself to his feet, finally.  His face was reddened with emotion, and his hair had come loose across his shoulders.  He looked as though he’d been to war.

“You are here to end me,” said Voldemort.

“Oh, yes,” said Meldh.  "Sixty years after my last victory over you, when we played at shatranj.  A poignant moment, perhaps."

“Then I am in the most enjoyable position of advantage.  All roads lead to my will.  That has not been the case for some time,” said Voldemort.  “You will forgive me for taking some pleasure in the situation.”

“Sir, he has cast a unique spell -- a new version of the Horcrux spell,” said Harry.  His voice still sounded strained, but he was upright and trying as hard as possible to help.  “If he is killed, or manages to kill himself, or even if he is simply returned to a human brain that the spell recognizes, then his spirit will be free to resurrect in another place.  We developed a way to detect the Horcrux network and have destroyed many of them, but many others still remain… including at least one that is far beyond our means at the moment.”

“My contingencies are numerous, laid over the course of many years and reinforced during the year of my return,” said Voldemort.  The bland voice conveyed a hint of mockery, somehow.  “With the Goblet of Fire and the Resurrection Stone, two of the most potent artifacts still in existence, I have laid my traps.”

Meldh nodded, smiling pleasantly, and glanced back at Harry.  “Is that so, Mr. Potter?”

“No, sir.  As far as I can tell, Voldemort never had access to the Goblet of Fire, despite what he says,” Harry said, slowly.  Voldemort made no reply or contradiction.  “It is locked away in the Department of Mysteries… they consider it Cadmean Class: too dangerous to use or research.  It was kept in a vault that is inside of some sort of magical lake or pond or something -- some security to put it beyond everyone’s reach without the Line of Merlin -- and it has been there for many years, since they stopped holding the Triwizard Tournament.  Even I’ve never seen it, although I did spend some time looking for its companion device -- or the pieces of it, anyway.”  Harry held up his left hand, clad like the other in a fingerless glove, and tapped the smooth round decoration that was slightly raised from its palm.  “Ancient and powerful enough to be effective decoys for the real Philosopher’s Stone.”  Harry paused, thoughtfully, and a drop of sweat trickled down the side of his face.  He added, “But I suspect that the Professor only said this because he wanted that information, since he anticipates going free once killed.”

“And will he, Mr. Potter?” asked Meldh, gently.

“Some time ago, some researchers with the Tower and the Unspeakables -- Mafalda Hopkirk, Dolores Umbridge, Luna Lovegood, Basil Horton, and Nemeniah Salieri -- adapted a Dark Detector to be extremely sensitive and able to detect even the weakest of magical energies.  It didn’t have much initial use, since in any magical area, the background magical energies would swamp it.  But more recently, we developed that,” Harry answered, pointing at the Lovegood Leaf.  “It consumes ambient magic in the air.  It’s proven to be useful in allowing us to employ Muggle devices alongside magical ones, sir, but when combined with thaumometers, we are able to trace even very faint magical connections such as Floo networks... or a network of Horcruxes.  He has many… but he is now separate from all of them except the Resurrection Stone, since they are all outside of the Tower.  This is a world apart.  But while the Resurrection Stone or any other Horcrux is present in the Tower within the Mirror... yes, he could go free.  It is best not to kill him, sir.”

“These are things I saw in Mr. Potter’s mind, Lord Voldemort, and all quite true,” said Meldh, turning back to the box.  “You might understand why I was interested, since you have correctly divined that I… implied a rather greater age than is strictly accurate.”

There was a long pause.

“Lord Foul,” said Voldemort.

“Archon Heraclius Hero,” corrected Meldh, still smiling.  “But yes, I am known to history as the ‘Slithering One’ or ‘Lord Foul,’ thanks to the very effective tales of four famous witches and wizards.”

Harry was staring openly at Meldh, awe and disgust and pain all in combat on his face.  “You’re Herpo the Foul… who invented the Horcrux spell?  Who fought Rowena Ravenclaw, Godric Gryffindor, Salazar Slytherin, and Helga Hufflepuff?”

“Yes.  Good people, all -- or rather, well-intentioned.  But even then, in my youth, I saw further than such as they.  I knew the dangers of will-work -- broaching other worlds and inviting them into our own.  Even then, I could not understand why so few wizards understood the lessons of Atlantis.”  Meldh shook his head, ruefully.  “The great school of Hogwarts had been prophesied -- indeed, prophecy was perhaps the very thing that led those four to band together, for what else but great glory and great threat could have done so? -- and so I attempted to intervene.  A mighty stronghold of magical education and research was not in the best interests of the world, and I wished to save us all,” said Meldh, agreeably and without a trace of pride.

“You failed and died, if the stories are true,” said Voldemort.

“Yes.  But I was not gone, thanks to some precautions.  And my efforts were noticed by another,” replied Meldh.  “But of that we shall not speak.”

“Very well,” said Voldemort.  “Then your purpose remains the same?  I wonder if Mr. Potter is still able to appreciate the irony?  Are you intact in there, behind this spell of control?”

“The Lethe Touch,” said Meldh, helpfully, smiling again.

“I have read of it,” said Voldemort curtly.  “So, Mr. Potter -- do you see the irony?”

“Yes, Professor,” said Harry, closing his eyes once more and wrapping his arms around his stomach.  “It’s me.  And I can see the irony.”

“What is the irony?” asked Meldh, curious.

“We have the same goals -- maybe even many of the same values, sir,” said Harry.  “Or rather, I have one goal now, to serve you as best I can, but before --”

Meldh shook his head and waved his hand dismissively.  “I understand, it’s all right,” he said.  “You mean that we both wish to save the world.”

“And yet you fundamentally disagree, Mr. Potter.  It is not a question of truth or evidence, is it?” asked Voldemort.  “You have the same purpose in the same world, and yet you disagree.  And how was that disagreement resolved?”

“With force,” said Harry, reluctantly.  “My mind was altered against my will.”

Meldh glanced with interest back and forth between Harry and the box.  “I do not understand the messages hidden beneath the surface, here, but I have observed your minions often enough, Mr. Potter, to know that you have no objection to force.  You have several individuals in your employ whose efforts are directed almost exclusively to force -- stunning Muggles and providing them with new memories as you deem fit.”

“Weaponizing cognitive dissonance,” said Harry, nodding again, even more reluctantly.  “But the Professor is offering me a lesson on dominance, not ethics.”

“I see,” said Meldh.  “Well then, I believe we have spent enough time at this.  Enough time here.”  He adjusted the front of his simple robes, and looked around them.  “This is a threat that you did not have the heart to end -- a threat that you still call ‘Professor.’  A threat that has managed to worm within your heart and mind, despite being imprisoned and powerless.  The world has nothing to gain from this creature’s existence, and much to lose.”  Meldh did not appear saddened by his words, but neither did he seem happy -- or even cold.  Rather, he spoke with a quiet and inoffensive resignation.  “Unless you have something else you wish to say, Lord Voldemort?”

“Will you entertain argument?” asked Voldemort, calm in his own right.

“I will listen to anything you wish to say, but no, I will not change my mind,” said Meldh.  “I am sorry.  You are too dangerous, and your restraints are too uncertain.  My purpose has not changed since the fields of Alto Alentejo, among the broken marble of Estremoz, where I led my tarasque and Dementors in a great battle against four titans from prophecy.  Neither the double death of a Hero and his name, that day, nor the long passage of millennia since have altered my purpose, which I have sought in a thousand different ways on a thousand different days.  I will not give you a cruel and false hope.  Your fate awaits, and will not change.”

“I see,” said Voldemort.

Harry’s hair was wild, half-covering his face.  Some strands stuck to one cheek, wet with tears.

“Then let me say this,” said Voldemort, speaking with leaden seriousness.  “It is not too late.”

Meldh smiled, but didn’t reply.  He listened.

“Truly,” Voldemort went on, “you even now have the chance for an equitable and peaceful solution.  If you undo your control of Mr. Potter and his little friends, he will not seek vengeance for what you have done.  Astoundingly and against all sense, he will be willing to work with you -- to find a path forward.  He believes he is a hero, and he believes heroes must always show mercy and seek the path of nonviolence where possible.  He is not troubled by the conflict between effectiveness and mercy that is obvious to you and me.

“To all appearances, you have found an easy victory here.  That should be the most obvious of warning signs.  Mr. Potter’s footsteps are littered with the corpses of those who once thought him their catspaw.  And I assure you, as a ragged and trapped spirit who once opposed him, that Mr. Potter’s cataclysms are all the more terrible for their lack of malice.  His cruelty is beyond even my own imaginings, for it results from misguided mercy… and should you be so fortunate as to survive, you will not even have the consolation of hate.

“Take my advice, old one.  Relent.  Recant.  Retreat.”

Meldh waited to be sure Voldemort was done, then mildly replied, “I think not.”  He sounded amused at the thought.  “Your kindness is appreciated, however.  Why not simply enjoy the thought that the boy will destroy me in due course?  He himself has no knowledge of any such plans, I assure you, but why do you show such benevolence?”

Voldemort laughed.  It was a cold, mocking laugh, twisting the limits of the generic male voice. For just a moment, it sounded exactly like the Professor Quirrell that once was: cynical and clever, cruel and caustic.  A broken man who was without joy or love, and who found solace only in the cold pleasure of ambition fulfilled and dominance achieved.  Mentor and monster.

“I am offering you fair warning and a peaceful alternative,” Voldemort said, and there was triumph in his words.  “If you truly do not understand that these words are the greatest damage I can do to you, then you will deserve your fate.”

“I hope that you find comfort in such thoughts,” said Meldh, softly.  He turned to Harry.  “Do what we discussed, please, Mr. Potter.  The world is more important than sentiment.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry said.  He pulled his wand out of his sleeve.  He and Meldh both walked over to the entrance to the extended space -- the narrow corridor buzzing with traps and wards.

Harry pulled a lump of tungsten from his pocket.  “Geminio,” he cast on it, twirling his wand over its surface.  One lump became two, and after a moment, that became four, then there were seven, then twelve, then twenty.  Within seconds, metal began to clatter from Harry’s palm.  He tossed what was left in his hand across the room, scattering it, and the tungsten continued replicating itself even as it flew through the air: thirty-three, fifty-four, eighty-eight, lumps of metal raining down, cracking loudly on the stone and a black box that shivered with red light.

Harry and Meldh stepped back into the corridor, and Meldh gestured at the door.  Thin blue crystal grew from the ceiling and floor, covering the entrance.  It was translucent, and through its cerulean screen the two wizards watched as the room rapidly filled with replicating metal.  Normally, it would decay and vanish before too long.  But the Philosopher’s Stone, embedded in Harry’s right glove, could make it permanent.  It was not a trick he’d often used, since it threatened the illusion of “special Transfiguration webs” that they used to explain the feats of the Tower healers.

After a very short time, there was no more room left in the small chamber beyond the blue crystal.  The replicating metal filled all available space.  The two wizards could no longer see anything but a blue-tinted irregular wall of metal.  Harry ended the Gemino Curse with a touch of his will, lowering a trembling wand to his side.  His teeth were gritted, and the back of his robes was dark with sweat.

Meldh folded his arms, and they stood there, quietly.  Gently, the older wizard asked, “Would it help you to take a moment?”

“Yes, sir,” said Harry, laboriously.  “I’m sorry… it’s difficult to manage my feelings.”  He shuddered and wrapped his arms around his stomach, clutching himself and bending over slightly.

“I understand,” Meldh said.  He reached forward and touched the blue crystal screen with one finger, and an opening appeared -- no more than a palm-span wide.  A few chunks of tungsten fell through and free, but the pressure from above kept most of them in place.

Harry tried to stand up straight and raise his wand, but shuddered again, bending back over.  He gasped,  “I just… I’m…”

“Let me help you,” Meldh said.  Gently, he lifted Harry’s arm, raising it until the wand in the young man’s grip was at the level of the hole in the screen.  “You may say goodbye, if you wish.”

“Goodbye, Professor!” Harry screamed.

His face reddened as he screamed it again -- screamed it as loudly as he could.

“Goodbye, Professor!  Goodbye!  I’m sorry!”

Screamed the words... to try to be heard through the mass of metal, to try to be heard through everything.

There was a reply.  It should have been impossible, really.  Harry had cast the Thoughtsay Ritual himself, following the dictates of parchment scrupulously, and it should not have been able to get so loud.  But it happened, nonetheless, by whatever trick or manipulation.  And that reply was not forgiveness or kindness or pleading.

It was scorn.

“Bah!” howled Lord Voldemort with a cold laugh, a last word of  mockery and hatred, and then the voice failed with a warble and squeal of magical sound.

There was silence.

Meldh frowned.  “No grace, even now.  A sad end.  Do it,” he commanded.

Harry closed his eyes and touched his wand to the pieces of tungsten in the room.  After a moment, they gently slipped out of shape, flowing together, forming a solid mass -- an immense plug of metal, filling almost the whole room and burying Voldemort in a metal coffin ten feet thick.

Then Harry lifted his other hand and pressed his gloved palm to the surface of the metal.

And that was the story of Tom Riddle.


≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

Hermione’s Mobile Mary, Powis Castle, Wales
May 19th, 1999
The next morning

Hermione awoke with tears on her face.  She’d been dreaming of Granville.  She could hear the echo of his cry still -- hear the joy of it.

“Hermione?” said Esther, pushing open the door to the Mobile Mary gently, peering inside the darkened space.  Morning sunlight was visible outside, bright on the gardens of Powis.  “Sorry, but there’s a message for you from Harry.  You asked to be woken?  Are you all right?”

Wiping her face on her sleeve, Hermione nodded, sniffling.  She sat up.  “Yes… just a bad dream.  What does Harry want?”

Esther held up a parchment.  “Nothing serious, it seems like… he just wants you to come around.  Says he has someone he wants you to meet.”












Πρὶν μὲν γὰρ ζώεσκον ἐπὶ χθονὶ φῦλ᾽ ἀνθρώπων
νόσφιν ἄτερ τε κακῶν καὶ ἄτερ χαλεποῖο πόνοιο
νούσων τ᾽ ἀργαλέων, αἵ τ᾽ ἀνδράσι Κῆρας ἔδωκαν.
αἶψα γὰρ ἐν κακότητι βροτοὶ καταγηράσκουσιν.
ἀλλὰ γυνὴ χείρεσσι πίθου μέγα πῶμ᾽ ἀφελοῦσα
ἐσκέδασ᾽: ἀνθρώποισι δ᾽ ἐμήσατο κήδεα λυγρά.
μούνη δ᾽ αὐτόθι Ἐλπὶς ἐν ἀρρήκτοισι δόμοισιν
ἔνδον ἔμιμνε πίθου ὑπὸ χείλεσιν, οὐδὲ θύραζε
ἐξέπτη: πρόσθεν γὰρ ἐπέλλαβε πῶμα πίθοιο
αἰγιόχου βουλῇσι Διὸς νεφεληγερέταο.
ἄλλα δὲ μυρία λυγρὰ κατ᾽ ἀνθρώπους ἀλάληται:
πλείη μὲν γὰρ γαῖα κακῶν, πλείη δὲ θάλασσα:
νοῦσοι δ᾽ ἀνθρώποισιν ἐφ᾽ ἡμέρῃ, αἳ δ᾽ ἐπὶ νυκτὶ
αὐτόματοι φοιτῶσι κακὰ θνητοῖσι φέρουσαι
σιγῇ, ἐπεὶ φωνὴν ἐξείλετο μητίετα Ζεύς.
οὕτως οὔτι πη ἔστι Διὸς νόον ἐξαλέασθαι.

At first the tribes of men had lived upon the earth
apart and free of evils and of tiresome toil
and hard diseases, which have brought to men their dooms,
because by hardship mortal men are quickly aged.
But with her hands the woman raised the jar's great lid,
released all these, devising grievous cares for men.
Alone there, Hope, in her indestructible home,
remained within, beneath the lip, nor by the door
escaped, because the vessel's lid had stopped her first,
by will of aegis-bearing, cloud-compelling Zeus.
Among the people wander countless miseries;
the earth is full of evils, and the sea is full;
diseases come by day to people, and by night,
spontaneous, rushing, bringing mortals evil things
in silence, since contriving Zeus removed their voice.
And thus from Zeus's mind there can be no escape.
- Hesiod, “Works and Days” (trans. Hugh G. Evelyn-White)