professor of the year

[oncedriven]

"So it's just your word and no witnesses..."

The court begins to mutter. You say, barely not a shout, "I'm not lying!"

Fudge opens his mouth, but a voice from behind him - as dry as any you've ever heard - says, "Muggle testimony is admitted before this court from Muggles who have an existing dispensation permitting knowledge of the wizarding world, Minister. And while the boy's cousin may not be able to see the creatures, Muggles can feel the effects of their presence as surely as wizards can."

You look up - the speaker is an unfamiliar wizard behind and somewhat to the left of Fudge. It's difficult to tell his age; although his face is relatively young, somewhere in his early middle years, his hair is white enough to make Dumbledore's look dark. It adds a haunting quality to his face, especially when combined with his plain, pure black robes and the color of his eyes, which are far closer to yellow than brown.

Fudge turns on him, saying, "Yes, but it's certainly a very convenient story, isn't it? No doubt the boy has rehearsed it well - "

"You are attempting to deny the defense a key witness," the wizard replies, voice cold. "As though there weren't already enough irregularities in this case. At the very least, this hearing ought to be mistrialed and rescheduled for a time when the witness is available to give testimony..."

Your stomach sinks. There's no way Dudley Dursley would give testimony that would help you, if his parents could even be convinced to allow him to appear. And there's a better chance of them declaring Sirius innocent right now in front of you than there is of that ever happening.

Fudge looks like he's going to argue further, but fortunately, Dumbledore clears his throat and says, "We do, in fact, have a witness..."

----

"...All he and I can do now is to await your verdict."

You look downward, staring at your shoes, as the courtroom falls silent. Into that silence, the voice of the white haired wizard from earlier says, "I feel compelled to remind the court that the Patronus Charm has only one purpose - to repel Dementors. I would also like to remind the Court that young Mr. Potter has a publicly known history of strong negative reactions to the creatures. He is fifteen. Even if his life was not technically endangered by the creatures, it is not beyond belief that he should think it so - a situation which is also covered under clause seven. We are not in the habit of breaking wands over honest mistakes."

There is a slight murmur from the court at that. Fudge turns once again to the wizard and says, "Your point has been noted, Hades. The way you're going on, you may as well descend and take a seat for the defense yourself."

"If it would see you make the slightest effort to regulate the damned creatures, I would do so gladly," Hades (you're not sure if that's his first or last name) replies, far more sharply than any of his previous comments. "Call the vote, if you would, Madam Bones."

"If there are no further comments?" Amelia Bones says. Her voice seems somehow to echo even more than that of the two men. She seems to direct the words to Fudge, who gazes sullenly back at her. "Then, those in favor of clearing the accused of all charges?"

After the vote, just when you are beginning to feel the relief sink into your stomach, Dumbledore sweeps from the room without so much as a glance at you.

Comments

[oncedriven]

One or two of the passing wizards nodded to Harry as they passed, and a few, including Madam Bones, sad, "Good morning, Arthur," to Mr. Weasley, but most averted their eyes. You keep a careful watch until Hades begins to pass you by - you almost miss him, simply because now that you're standing on the same floor as he is, his figure is overwhelmingly tall. The only taller man you've ever met in your life is Hagrid, who would have a hard time fitting into these stooped tunnels; Hades isn't to that scale, but he stands well above the other wizards exiting the courtroom, closer to six and a half feet than six. Up close, he has an angular face, with a substantial nose and a brow with a built-in scowl that reminds you, unpleasantly, of Snape.

You feel very small as you step out in front of him. He comes to a stop, his floor-length robes rustling as they fall around his feet, and before you can say anything, he says, "There's no need to thank me or any such thing, Mister Potter."

"Still, it's polite to thank you anyway, isn't it?" you say. "I don't think Fudge was very happy with what you said."

That earns you a lift in his eyebrows - they're no darker than his hair - in what might be amusement. "The Minister and I have been butting heads over the issue of Dementors for the past several years," Hades says. "If it did not occur to him that calling the full court to hear such a petty matter would have brought the matter to the forefront once more, that is his mistake and not mine."

You nod, somewhat automatically, and he nods at you in turn, giving only the slightest pause to acknowledge Mr. Weasley before he sweeps off on his way. Once he's gone, Mr. Weasley says, in an undertone so that the rest of the passing wizards and witches cannot hear, "Hades Solus spoke up in your defense? I would have had a losing bet on that. He's from as old and uptight a pureblood family as the Malfoys."

You shrug, not having any explanation other than the one the man himself just offered you. "He must really hate Dementors, then," you say.

"He was one of the loudest voices against their assignment to guard Hogwarts two years ago," Mr. Weasley says. "I suppose that's the only way it makes sense." He stops speaking then, to nod and return a greeting from a passing wizard.

Cornelius Fudge and the toadlike witch were almost the last to leave the dungeon...

[oncedriven]

"So what do you think of this?" Ron says to Sirius, once all the hubub of the letters arriving and the reveal of the prefects has died down.

Sirius, still holding one of the copies of the textbook list - when Molly Weasley is in charge of buying everyone's books, you don't need three copies of the fifth year, even if your coursework and Hermione's differ slightly - narrows his eyes at the list.

"Well," he begins, "to my knowledge, Solus was never a Death Eater, so he's at least not openly terrible."

"Glowing seal of approval, there," Ron says.

Sirius shrugs one shoulder. "He's just enough older than me that we never really interacted," he says. "My first year was his sixth or seventh. Ravenclaw, prefect, snotty prick. Like a bleached out Snivellus."

That doesn't fill you with confidence. You say, "He was against the dementors being posted to Hogwarts. It sounded like he's been fighting with Fudge over them for a while."

"Was he, now?" Sirius says. "That's new. Not that I remember him much before Azkaban, mind." He looks over the book list again, frowning. "He's got a reason for refusing to put a textbook on the list, you can bet on that - I've never seen anyone get away with 'texts will be provided' before. It might not be blood supremist rhetoric, but I wouldn't bet on it."

He folds the list in half and hands it back to Ron, who takes it and stuffs it in a pocket. Hermione says, "Even if the source is biased, I'm sure we'll be able to learn something from his class."

"Even if it's just how the other side thinks, you mean?" Sirius says. "Be careful about that. That's one of the ways they get into your head - one minute it all seems reasonable, and before you know it you're off floating Muggles over bonfires with the rest."

You don't wince at the reminder of the Quidditch World Cup, but only because things have gotten worse since then. You just say, "Thanks, Sirius," and the three of you take your leave.

-> be That Guy

[oncedriven]

Well, Most Esteemed Emet-Selch, you do not tell the mirror as you stare into it before turning away in disgust, you've truly gone and lost it now.

The voice doesn't not sound like Hythlodaeus. You can almost hear him, clearer than you have in a lifetime. You sigh as though he were here, give up on your face, and straighten your robes for a final time before stepping onto the platform.

Most teachers proceed directly to Hogwarts for their employment, rather than taking the train alongside the students. It's a tedious journey for an adult wizard who is perfectly capable of snapping their fingers across this small country at any time and arriving outside the gates with plenty of time to settle into their rooms before the feast.

It would also deprive you of the opportunity to see what the students are talking about, what they're thinking, before the arrive at the school. It deprives you of a relatively rare opportunity to observe them when they believe themselves unsupervised.

(Very well. To eavesdrop. You've lost most of your standards in the pursuit of your goals, what's one more?)

You're the first aboard the train, before it even arrives at King's Cross, and settle yourself in the front compartment of the very last car. Far enough to the back that most students won't pass you by; not so far to the back that whatever troublemakers typically occupy the rearmost compartment will interrupt you. A good place to observe.

(You used such a spot aboard trains in Garlemald many a time.)

Soon enough, there's the clatter of luggage, of footsteps, of voices. You count the souls passing by - they're both brightened by their youth and so much dimmer than you're used to. The difference here is that unlike Etheirys, there is no lifestream, no ambient aether for them to fade into. The enchantments on the train are minimal, just enough notice-me-not to keep nonmagical eyes off it as it pulls in and out of its destination. It will be different in the castle itself, which is why it's important to get your bearings now.

A group of three, one of them stained by something foreign. You frown, or more accurately, your frown increases in intensity.

Of course Harry Potter is one of those sorts who takes to the back compartments of the train. Why did you expect anything different? The boy has 'distrust of authority' written all over him.

Not that you can much blame him. Rare is the orphan wanted, so on and so forth. From what you've been able to put together, the only person who might have actually wanted the boy and could legally keep him managed to get himself arrested and thrown in prison not three days after his parents' deaths. Sirius Black may have been an oaf, but considering the drama that rippled through the pureblood community when he abandoned his House for that of the Potters, the love he held for them was undoubtable.

He just, like so very many people (and, you've noticed, wizards especially) didn't possess the ability to think through the long-term consequences of his actions.

The train gets under way shortly enough, as you continue to work your way through the concept of lesson plans, something more than a vague syllabus. You're no Lahabrea, certainly no Venat; education is as beyond your experience as parenting was when you were handed a squirming Garlean babe, a moment that was in many ways the first step on your descent either into or out of hell.

Fourteen years since the day you remembered your death, since that very same night where the worlds of the living and the dead jumped a little closer together on account of a rebounding curse, and you still haven't decided which it was.

[oncedriven]

When the train has been in motion for an hour or so and everyone has settled in to the journey, to whiling away the hours, you take up from your compartment and pass, mostly silently, up to the front of the train, and there begin the task of working your way backwards.

It is an incomprehensibly tedious task. It is also necessary. To each little cluster of students you give an appropriate introduction, a packet of readings per student - sorted by year and stashed in extradimensional pockets of your robes, such that you appear to be little more than an endless fountain of books - and take the time to match names to faces and, more importantly, to souls.

You know well enough that that's how you'll be recognizing most of them, after all. Better to get that part under way while you have less magical interference. Your brief visits to Hogwarts since regaining your Sight have not been your most pleasant, but there should be clarity enough that your natural way of recognizing people won't pose a problem.

The different greetings you get from each of the students is interesting. The pureblood old guard greet you warmly, like an old friend; many of the other students, the older ones, hesitate, unsure of you, unsure what to make of a professor who actively engages with them. The youngest students, the first-years without house colors yet adorning their robes, want nothing so much as to latch onto you and keep you as their personal question-answerer. Several ask about your hair, mostly the non-wizarding children. Three ask about your eyes, and those you make note of as particularly observant.

Eventually, you make your way back to the last carriage, and then the last compartment. There are six students inside. Harry Potter is as obvious to your sight as ever. Aside from him, there's nothing particularly notable about the others - a tad brighter than the average, perhaps, but not furiously noteworthy.

You knock. The door slides open, and one of the girls - red haired, freckled, Weasleys are infamous and you've already met her brothers, they're on the list of those who noticed your eyes - looks startled to see you standing there.

"Er, can we help you?" she says.

You don't bother to put on a smile for them - that's reserved for the first-years, and too much effort for this group in their middle years - but instead say, "And by process of elimination, Miss and Mister-the-younger Weasley, Miss Granger, Mister Potter, Mister Longbottom, and Miss Lovegood," you say, pulling out a parcel of books on each name and handing them to the girl. Each student looks up at their name.

Hermione Granger says, "Oh! Thank you, sir," as she takes hers, immediately pulling apart the brown paper covering the set. She's among the most eager of them, for certain.

"Do accept my apologies for the delay," you say. "Being a new subject, there wasn't an established curriculum to draw from."

"How much do we owe you for the books?" says Ronald Weasley, and his eyes go slightly wide when you reply.

"Nothing," you say. "As your teacher, it is my responsibility to ensure you have access to all of the materials you need for class. How many of you have a subscription to the paper?"

Granger pauses in her perusal of books to raise her hand, as though already attending class. Lovegood follows her example. You nod.

"If you need further copies, please inform me," you say. "We will occasionally be reading from the Prophet in class, as well as other publications as needed."

"You're just buying the paper for anyone who needs it?" Ronald says, looking significantly more surprised this time.

"As I said, I consider myself responsible for procuring the materials you need to learn," you say. "And it would be difficult to teach a class on wizarding society without engaging with its primary source of current events."

Granger has finished looking through her books, and is now giving you a considering look. She lifts one of them and says, "This is a work of fiction, isn't it?"

"Correct," you say, and normally by now you would have started moving on, but this is the last compartment, so you do not have the handy excuse of needing to attend to students further down the train car.

"We've never read fiction in class before," is all she says, looking thoughtful. "I haven't read something like this since coming to Hogwarts."

Lovegood, in her corner, raises her head, and says, "I think it's important to learn from many points of view. If you'd like any copies of the Quibbler for class, I can let my father know and we can print extra."

You can't imagine having use for that magazine except as a critical reading exercise, but you still put on a magnanimous (for you) face and say, "I appreciate the offer, Miss Lovegood." It seems as good a place as any to make your exit. "I will see you all at the feast."

The students nod, with various degrees of stiffness, and Ginevra Weasley slides the door shut again.

[oncedriven]

You see Professor Solus, briefly, as everyone exits the train; he stands tall over the shoulders of the students, with half a dozen first-years clustered around and behind him as he leads them towards the boats. With Hagrid missing, he's the tallest person visible, and may well be the tallest person at Hogwarts.

You lose sight of him after that, in the shuffle, and don't see him again until he's seated at the staff table, making an entertaining contrast next to Professor Flitwick. He looks mostly bored as the students file in, still wearing the incredibly plain black robes he wore on the train. You're more concerned by the sight of the toadlike woman who also makes for a new face at the table; it's difficult to know which of them to watch.

But even as the first-years enter and the Hat sings its song, Hades Solus continues to watch everything with the same expression of disinterest that only barely counts as polite. You focus on the Sorting and the feast that follows.

There's applause as Dumbledore announces the staff changes. At his name, Professor Solus stands, giving the student body a brief, silent bow with a sweep of one arm perfectly over Flitwick's head, before taking his seat again. Then as Dumbledore tries to continue the rest of his announcements, Umbridge interrupts him, and you lose track, quickly, of what she's droning on about.

The teachers listen much more attentively than the students. You pay particular attention to Solus, and he looks increasingly displeased by the whole thing, leaning back and folding his arms over his chest. Eventually, her speech concludes, and Dumbledore is able to continue with his typical announcements.

"It certainly was illuminating," Hermione says, once Dumbledore's in the full swing of his usual speech.

"You got something out of all that?" Ron says.

Hermione's expression turns grim, and she says, "'Progress for progress's sake must be discouraged'? Sirius was right to be worried about the Ministry interfering at Hogwarts." She lifts her gaze away from the table, her face turning conspicuously towards Solus, on the opposite ide of the table from Umbridge. "Just maybe not about who was going to be doing the interfering."

"He doesn't look happy about what she was saying," you agree.

"I hope you paid good attention," Hermione says. "I have the feeling we'll be discussing that speech in our first class with him."

Ron groans. "You think?"

Hermione doesn't get the chance to answer him, as a great clatter comes the from the tables. All around you, students start to stand up. Dumbledore had obviously just dismissed the school...

[oncedriven]

It's with the Slytherins, because of course it is. All the worst classes are. However, it means that you now have Care of Magical Creatures with the Hufflepuffs, so you don't have to listen to Draco Malfoy's loud speculations on Hagrid's whereabouts, so you'll take the trade-off for now.

"I can't believe they added another class in our fifth year," Lavender Brown is saying as you pile into the classroom. It's a large hall with curved tables staggered down stairs facing a desk and chalkboard at the front, in a formerly unoccupied classroom between Ancient Runes and Muggle Studies. "We're already overloaded with OWLS coming up."

"We're just the unlucky ones," Hermione says. "They added the class to every year."

"Even the NEWTS students?" Lavender asks, and Hermione nods.

You take a seat and for the first time start to sort out the packet of books you were handed. Some of them are more like pamphlets than books, only twenty or thirty pages. One is the novel Hermione picked out on the train; one is a hardcover Muggle textbook, The Laws and Government of Britain, and the last is a similarly sized wizarding text, The Magic of Law and Its Applications. Unsure which you are going to need, you stack them all on the table to the side of where you'll need to write. Hermione has done likewise, except her pile also has the rolled-up copy of the Daily Prophet on the top. There are copies of the newspaper dotted around the room.

The Slytherins, as is typical, have taken up their positions on the opposite side of the aisle between the curves of tables. Most of them have similar piles of books in front of or beside them, except that they've omitted the Muggle textbook.

There's silence in the classroom just long enough to build tension before Professor Solus opens the door from his office into the classroom. It's an entrance that would be impressive if you hadn't seen similar from Snape every year to date; the telling difference is that with a wave of his hand, Professor Solus dims most of the candles hanging over the room until the immediate environment of his desk and board is all that is well-lit, with the rest of the room in mild darkness akin to the dungeons.

He doesn't call roll; instead, he sweeps behind the desk - which is tall enough that he doesn't need to bend terribly far to write on it, probably Transmuted to the exact height he needs - and marks something off on a sheet of paper there.

"You can put the books away for now," he says. "We will begin by going over expectations for the class, and any questions you may have, which I expect will take most if not all of the class period. You may take notes as you see fit."

There's a lot of shuffling as students put their books back in their bags. As they do, Professor Solus raises a hand, and with a sharp snap of his fingers - you realize, suddenly, that you haven't once seen him draw his wand - sheets of paper flutter out to each individual student.

It is, in fact, paper, rather than parchment. You have to touch it to confirm, and wind up rubbing your fingers on the familiar texture of Muggle printer paper longer than you expect. It's written in pen, with none of the splatters and irregular places of a quill fading away before being dipped in the ink again. Ron, next to you, is squinting at it suspiciously.

It is at that moment that you realize, casting your gaze over the rest of the class and seeing the reactions everyone else is having, that this is going to be, if nothing else, the most interesting class of the year.

[oncedriven]

You skim over the syllabus. The first thing that catches your attention is the inclusion of OFFICE HOURS: 4-6pm, 7-9pm Mondays and Thursdays; Sundays by appointment; never Friday evening, Saturday. The rest of the breakdown is a schedule of readings more typical to your other classes, the kind of thing Hermione prefers to get a head-start on, but there's a list of assignments included as well. Some of those are labeled simply Current Events.

The Friday class period everyother week is set aside for a class discussion, and that alone sets this schedule wildly apart from any other class you've ever had at Hogwarts. You've never had any more discussion in class than answering a teacher's questions.

There's another sound of snapping fingers. Your attention jumps back up to the wizard at the front, but it seems to have been exactly that, a bid for the attention of the class, all of whom seem to be looking over the syllabus with the same confusion that you're currently feeling.

"As I am sure you are all aware," he begins, "this subject, although unfathomably important to your adult lives, is a new addition to Hogwarts. As such, I've taken the liberty of modelling portions of it off of comparable nonmagical subjects. It is a grand experiment in progress, for which you and your schoolmates are the test subjects. Nonetheless, it is my expectation that you take this class as seriously as you would Defense, Transfiguration, or Potions, because its implications are equally far-reaching."

He pauses, and then adds, "I am also equally aware of the poor state of the history curriculum currently offered by this otherwise prestigious institution. Unfortunately, the hours in my day are limited, and I cannot teach both."

You risk a glance around; many of the students have looks of surprise on their faces, Hermione's mouth open in a little 'oh' and Pansy Parkinson across the room with a scandalized hand over her mouth.

"Therefore, it is my intention to give the tools with which to judge history for yourselves," Professor Solus continues. "This class will focus on Wizarding Society and Government, yes, but it will also focus on why we do the things we do, in the way that we do them. It is my hope that by the conclusion of this year, that you will have learned to sort fact from fiction, bias from authenicity, and your own best interests from those of others."

"In the first term, we will focus on Wizarding society as a whole. In the winter we will shift our focus to the matter of government. As you can see from your syllabus, the curriculum for the spring term will vary based upon the individual class. We will return to that matter no sooner than February, after I have a better sense of your interests, experiences, and capabilities." He walks around to stand in front of the desk, leaning back against it and folding his arms over his chest. "And now, questions. I'm sure between the lot of you, they must be infinite; I will take four."

What seems like half the hands in the room shoot up, including, of course, Hermione's. The part that's strange is that Malfoy's hand shoots up on the other side of the room; you're not sure you've ever seen him actively ask a question of a professor in class.

Professor Solus produces his wand, finally, from his sleeve; it is as long as the rest of him and a dark wood that's only barely visible against the black of his robes as he flicks it with the laziest motion you think you've ever seen a teacher perform. "Nott," he says, and the flick of his wand must be for controlling the beam of light that suddenly falls upon on the Slytherin side of the room.

"Sir," Theodore Nott says. "You included a book about the Muggle government. With all due respect - why?"

It's the obvious question from that side of the room, which you think is probably why Professor Solus started over there; better to get it out of the way early.

"It is impossible to study anything about society and culture, including government, without comparing it to something else," Professor Solus replies, sounding bored. "Non-magical culture in this country is the most readily accessible example, as well as something with which some of your classmates have personal experience, but we will also draw comparisons to the United States, France, and Greece, in both Wizarding and nonmagical societies."

It doesn't seem to quite satisfy the Slytherins as an answer, from the expressions and occasional mutterings from that side of the room, but most of the hands on that side of the room drop away. Only Malfoy's remains in the air.

Solus swings his gaze to the opposite side of the room; the light over Nott goes out, to be replaced by one over Dean when he says, "Thomas."

"Thank you, sir," Dean says. "I just wanted to know - this is written in pen. Will you require assignments to be written with quill and parchment?"

"As long as it is ink on a page rather than pencil, is your original work, and satsifies other requirements of the assignment, I do not care," Solus replies. "Do note that essay lengths are measured in word count, not by physical length. If you are unfamiliar with a charm to check that quality, dragging your wand tip down the left margin of the section to be counted with the incantation Loyariaz should do."

The light over Dean goes out. Lavender Brown also drops her hand.

"Malfoy."

Malfoy doesn't so much as blink as the light shines down on him. If anything, he looks perfectly comfortable in it. "Did the Board of Governors approve of this curiculum, sir?" he asks, all pleasant simper, the kind he uses when he's trying to act innocent.

"They were given a general outline, which appears to have satisfied them," Solus replies. There's something slightly more cutting underneath his bored air. "As I said, this class is experimental. Whether it is retained for future students depends on its success this year. It is my hope that it provides a much-needed new model of education at Hogwarts going forward, but only time and your efforts will tell if it is successful."

The light over Malfoy blinks out with more abruptness than the ones over Nott and Dean. Well, you think, Malfoy's not making any friends with this one.

"Granger."

Just from the way he says her name as the light flicks on over her, you get the idea that Solus was saving Hermione for last.

"Sir," she says. "I was just wondering - on the syllabus, it says that Fridays will be focused on class discussion. Can you clarify what that means?"

"And that is an excellent segue into our next matter," Solus says. "I will lay down the ground rules, and then open the floor for our first class discussion. I hope you'll find it enlightening."

[oncedriven]

You get the letter at the onset of December, with plenty of time to pen a reply. How you're going to reply is another matter entirely.

You sigh at the note one last time and then pass it to Sirius. "What's this?" he asks, taking it from your hand without waiting for your answer.

"A letter from Hogwarts," you say. "Specifically, from Hades Solus."

"Harry wrote and told me some about him," Sirius says. "Either he's a damn good plant - much better than Snape - or we've been misjudging him this whole time. He seems to thrive on countering the Ministry's edicts at every opportunity. Harry reckons he's Hermione's favorite teacher."

"It's the second time he's written me," you confess. "But the first time was just about teaching; he wanted to know if there were any particular concerns I had about any of the students - any that I thought might need special help for his class."

You don't say that it's the most anyone has acknowledged that you ever were a teacher since the summer immediately after you left Hogwarts for presumably the last time. Alastor Moody took you out to lunch to get your notes, but of course, it had wound up being that it wasn't Moody who was teaching, so that was all for naught.

"And this time?" Sirius asks.

"Just read the letter," you reply.

Sirius frowns, but unfolds it and does so. You can follow the journey down the page on his face, the same way yours must have when you read the words. I have concerns that Harry Potter is being abused, and I would like to speak to you personally; are you available the afternoon of the 29th? and - Sirius' expression is most telling when he reaches this part, because his expression shifts from concern to 'are you fucking kidding me' instantly - PS. You can bring that dog of yours if you want.

Sirius stares at the letter for a long time when he's done reading. You can only mostly guess what's going through his head - what must be going through his head, sitting locked in this house of all houses. Your parents loved you and did the best by you that they could; for Sirius, the matter of abuse, even the potential for it, is much closer to home and much more serious.

He says, "It could be a trap," but it's clear his heart isn't in it.

You say, "If he knows about Padfoot - hell, even if it's just that he knows we're in contact, he could have raised hell if he wanted to. He's a solicitor first, though I doubt he's keeping up any kind of caseload with teaching." It took all your energy to keep up with the students and you weren't doing anything else on the side, aside from the furry matter you didn't have a choice in.

"Right," Sirius says. He gives the letter one more look, folds it up, and hands it back to you. "I assume you're going?"

"Of course," you say. Anything for Harry.

"Then I'm sure as hell not letting you go alone," Sirius says, and that's that.

[oncedriven]

On the morning of the 29th, shortly before noon, you Apparate to Number Twelve, go through the business of greeting everyone, and make your excuses to steal Sirius away. As far as anyone else knows, it's confidential Order business. You have Moody playing your back-up if anyone asks, and also in reality, because if you and Sirius can't handle one wizarding solicitor, he can, and if the two of you plus Moody can't handle him, well, there's nothing short of Dumbledore that will be able to.

Shortly after noon, you dig a hand into Padfoot's ruff and Side-along him to a couple blocks away from your intended destination.

The country house is squarely in the middle of a rich portion of Muggle Wales; unlike most wizarding properties, there's nothing much hiding it from prying eyes, just a handful of bare-minimum wards to keep intruders out. That is probably because, unlike most wizarding properties, it hasn't been passed down for enough generations to lose track. Hades Solus purchased it himself on the Muggle market, shortly after the death of his father during the last war, and that's about all you've been able to find out about the place. It's registered on the Floo Network under the address "the Nonsense House."

The entire walk up the drive, your impression of the place matches the official registration. Hades Solus is waiting for you at the gate; he's in the plain black robes he's always seen in in public, though without a cloak against the December chill. You see him glance over you, blink slightly at Padfoot at your side, and then snaps his fingers high above his head. The gate swings open not quite soundlessly, and you glance at the dog at your side, who shrugs in a decidedly humanlike way, before entering.

"I admit I didn't expect my comment on dogs to be quite so literal," Solus says, faintly amused, as the gate swings shut behind you. Almsot as soon as it does, you feel something like a ripple over your skin, as the wards fall back into place. It's not a ward you recognize.

You glance up at the house, and note that it looks different now that you're within the property. The grey stone is somehow bluer, with blue-toned stained glass windows where there were previously only normal ones, and there's a half-dozen twisted trees leaning over the back patio, in full lilac bloom in spite of the season. Minor cosmetics, by the standards of wizarding houses, especially those belonging to old pureblood families.

"We assumed from the comment that you knew," you say, frowning.

Solus rolls his eyes. "No, I was simply making reference to the astronomy that we theoretically all studied in school. Wizarding nominative determinism strikes again, I suppose." With that, he heads off in the direction of the house proper, leaving you and Padfoot to follow after him. You do so after exchanging another set of looks. "Do wipe your paws," he throws over his shoulder at the doorway, before opening it and letting you inside.

You obligingly wipe your shoes on the mat. Padfoot shoots you an incredulous look before doing likewise.

The entry hall, in contrast to the exterior, is clearly magical in an undeniable way. In place of a more typical chandelier, a glowing crystal, pale blue and floating in the air, occupies more than half the space, which is clearly magically enlarged. It rotates slowly where it hangs about five meters above the floor, surrounded by a walkway entending from the third story that wraps around it in a perfect, fenced-in circle. Underneath it, a small fountain shoots water in geometric arcs around what seems to be a model city.

Padfoot shakes his head, and in a blur it's Sirius standing next to you again, looking relatively put-together considering the circumstances. "Nice place," he says mildly.

"Smells like the ocean," you say. "Is it a salt water fountain?"

"Despite my best efforts, yes," Solus grumbles. "I've never been entirely able to get the smell of the ocean out of my memories of the place, and it's impacted the results." He seems to be more speaking to himself than you, because you certainly don't recognize the city when you look at it more closely; it looks more Muggle than magical, with buildings akin to skyscrapers that have windows in a similar style to the ones on the house.

"No point in standing around in the hall," he says after a moment of silence. "This way, I took the liberty of setting up lunch," and he leaves you to follow after him again into one of the side doors.

[oncedriven]

Lunch is... Well. You've gotten used to the tenaciously British cuisine most of wizarding culture favors. The sight of gyro meat wrapped in flatbread, fresh vegetables, and garlic-and-feta laden chips is a surprise. It smells strongly in a way that makes your mouth water.

Sirius says, "And no pomegranates?"

Solus sniffs, as prim as the Malfoys or the Blacks themselves, and says, "Are you implying you'd like to stay here for the next six months, Black?"

"It'd beat the hole I'm in now," Sirius replies. He waves his grandfather's wand over the food, just in case, and you check it yourself, because if you let yourselves get poisoned you'll never hear the end of it from Moody, and then you tuck in. The juxtapositon of wizarding china and street food, you think, covers how off-balance you've been for this entire interaction.

But perhaps you shouldn't have expected any differently from a man whose first homework assignment was checking to see if his students noticed that he didn't use the word 'Muggle' all lesson. You got to that part in Harry's letter and laughed for what felt like twenty minutes. Then with Sirius' permission, you showed it to Moody, and he laughed for half an hour.

Still, it's typical of formal wizarding culture that business is not discussed until after the meal, and Solus seems intent to stick to that much at least. You learned the custom by force, trying to make yourself as presentable as possible growing up; Sirius internalized it on an instinctive level probably before he could speak properly. You compliment the food, and Solus, with something approaching earnestness, admits that it's take-out from a Muggle place about five miles away, kept under warming charm.

"Not that the food at Hogwarts is bad," he says, "but it does leave one with a craving for some... variety after a few months."

You nod and say, "At least Hogsmeade has a burger place now. I used to escape there when I couldn't stand either the Great Hall or the staff room on the weekends."

"The Pot and Kernel?"

"Yes, that's the one."

"No wonder their trash always smelled so good," Sirius muses, which makes Solus frown rather pointedly, as though he's trying to keep an expression of pity off his face the way children try to avoid scrunching up their cheeks around sour candy.

Rather than commenting, he says instead, "Now if only they would make the jump to pizza delivery, then the wizarding world would become truly civilized."

"Ha!" Sirius says. "Can you imagine? Wizards trying to order pizza over the phone?"

"I'd be more worried about students trying to get it delivered to the castle," you say.

"Oh, I can see it now," Sirius says, snorting. "Some poor guy out in robes in front of the Fat Lady like 'order for Gryffindor Tower?'"

"Or worse, owls with pizza," Solus drawls, and that mental image just sets Sirius off again. Against your will, you're starting to like the man.

"You're not what I expected," you say, as you swipe tzaziki up with the last of your pita and make the polite segue towards business.

"I should hope not," Solus replies. He reaches up and snaps his fingers again, and the dishes vanish from the table, leaving behind just your drinks and a variety of elegant little cakes for dessert. "I have made every effort to play to expectations up until recently, and if I play a part it is to perfection. I would not have survived our parents' generation with any less." With that, he inclines his head towards Sirius, who grimaces before nodding.

"To what end, though?" Sirius asks. "I can't imagine it was all for nothing. You wouldn't be tipping your hand unless you thought we could help with your goal - I don't have to be Slytherin to know that, and you're a famous Hatstall. You might've ended up in Ravenclaw, but you can't try to tell me other one wasn't snakes."

"Actually, my stall was between Slytherin and Hufflepuff," Solus says mildly. "Most of my time on the stool was spent arguing that being surrounded by peers who thought in the same way would stifle my development. Hence, Ravenclaw - being of a traditionally Slytherin family, you can understand the reasons, I imagine."

Sirius makes the face again. "To get out from the Slytherin tradition, but in a way that wasn't shameful and didn't make too many waves?" he says. "Yeah, I can see that. Cheers." He lifts his cola in a half-assed toast, and Solus clinks his wine glass against it with a tolerant look.

You, instead, repeat, "Hufflepuff?" incredulously.

"Patience, loyalty, and hard work," Solus replies, lifting his glass. "Though my work ethic is the most lacking of the three."

"You expect me to believe that you've been nursing whatever this plot is since you were eleven?" you ask.

"Oh, no, I had no particular ambitions at that point," Solus replies. "Which is likely why I was able to wiggle out of a Slytherin placement at the time. The amibition I've nursed most of my adult life only crystallized in my late teens, when someone got a Howler at the breakfast table the day after the Sorting."

Sirius huffs. You wince, mostly on his behalf. You remember that morning, probably more clearly than Sirius does. You remember the voice of Sirius' mother, screaming for the whole Great Hall to hear, and you remember Lily's aghast look.

"Then your ambition is...?" you ask, intentionally leaving the blank to be filled.

Solus looks at you, considering; he swirls his wine once, twice, and then tips it back and downs the whole thing like a shot. It's impressive in a way fundamentally against his image, impressive in a low-blooded, anti-aristocratic way. Wine's no hot liquor, but taking that much of any drink without stopping has a certain image.

"To bring an end to the epidemic of child abuse that Albus Dumbledore has allowed to thrive within Hogwarts and without," he says, voice cutting and cold. "And for him to see it happen and know why, to know that it was his own actions that brought him down into the dirt. My ambition is to see justice done, to see it touch the untouchable, and in the places that hurt them most. I want to ruin Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, not in the court of law but in the court of public opinion, the court in which he holds the most power and the only court he understands, and by the time we're done here today, Remus Lupin, you'll want to help me, because you are at the end of the day a decent man, and you won't be able to live with yourself if you don't."

[oncedriven]

You don't know what to say.

Sirius says, "Wait, seriously?"

"Who was it who sent you back to that house?" Solus says to him, voice still that particular, rhetorical kind of cold. "Who sent all of us back to those houses - who still sends children back to those houses?"

Sirius flinches. There's no way that Solus could know how on the mark his words are, no way that he could know that that's the very house that you and Sirius will be returning to after this talk, but there's something unsettlingly knowing in his eyes nonetheless. The color that can usually be dismissed as a particularly golden brown is outright yellow, now, and practically glowing.

You consider in seriousness, for the first time since you were thirteen, the schoolyard rumor that Hades Solus had some kind of the Sight. It was primarily a response to his uncanny ability to locate curfew-breakers as a prefect, which is normal enough (and, alright, may speak to having been a troublemaker himself and just being skilled enough to not get caught, because God knows you busted enough first and second years who thought they were the first to discover your own favorite spots), and notably you don't recall him having taken Divination but instead Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, and Magical Creatures. But the way he looks at you, looks almost through you -

Well, it's not mind-reading, that's for sure. You're not good enough to keep someone out if they really want into your mind, but you're good enough that you can usually tell.

You say, hesitantly, "You wrote about Harry."

"Harry Potter," Hades Solus says, leaning back in his chair through apparent strength of will, "currently is under the guardianship of his mother's sister at Number Four Privet Drive in Surrey, as I am sure you are well aware." Sirius winces again. You bite your lip. "Harry Potter, in spite of what the media would have you think, has clear signs of being the nail that has been hammered down for existing, never mind sticking out. He's smaller at fifteen than either of his parents were at twelve - " This time, you and Sirius both wince. " - and started the year transparently suffering from malnourishment, which has only improved moderately over the last several months, suggesting that it is far from a short-term condition." He looks at Sirius specifically, and says, "He looks about as well-fed as you do now, and I do not mean that as a compliment."

Again, you wince. Sirius mutters, "Shouldn't have admitted to eating out of the trash."

"More to the point," Solus continues, "Harry hides his own injuries to a frankly pathological extent. He is equally pathologically average in class, and does not speak out unless called on except when something has riled his principles. He is incredibly cliqueish with Hermione Granger and the Weasley family, though that has improved some small amount these last few months under some duress."

"Some duress?" Sirius repeats.

Solus rolls his eyes. "Do not make fools of all of us by pretending that you're uninvolved with his illicit dueling club. Frankly, I could cry with relief that he trusts any adult enough to involve them, which is the true crux of the issue." He reaches up into the air to snap his fingers again, and a copy of the Daily Prophet appears on the table. You recognize it; it's one of the ones from last year, about the Triwizard Tournament. One of the less flattering ones about Harry.

"I called him to my office to ask if he would be comfortable if we discussed this article in class, as an example of bias at work in the media," Solus says.

"He told you to sod off," Sirius says, instantly.

Solus shakes his head. "No. He told me that it was fine, since everyone had already discussed it when it was published. All while looking around the room as though looking for an escape. He was terrified of telling an adult no." The man's shoulders sag. "His isn't the only case, but it's one of the more severe ones if you know what to look for. He hasn't confided in me, but I've done enough homework to see the disturbing picture underneath. Has he told either of you the story of how he got his Hogwarts letter?"

You shake your head, seeing Sirius doing likewise out of the corner of your eye.

"He was personally retrieved by Hagrid," Solus says. "From an island cottage in the middle of a storm. His aunt and uncle did everything short of literally fleeing the country to keep him from going to Hogwarts."

Sirius swears, and the newspaper still in front of Solus slides backwards with the force of uncontrolled magic until it hits the man in the chest.

"In his second year, several of the Weasleys broke him out of that house by using a flying car to yank bars out of his window in the middle of the night," Solus says. It's your turn to try to keep a lid on your magic, then. "Fred and George were willing to tell me about it, because they have a normal perception of how much you can trust a teacher, in spite of Albus' best efforts. I'm sure you can ask them yourselves if you want to hear the full account."

Sirius says in a low voice, "Petunia didn't attend the wedding. But still, I never would have thought..." He takes a deep breath. "I fucked up."

"You've fucked the pooch, in the metaphorical sense, rather enthusiastically," Solus agrees. There's no smile on his face, but a touch of wicked humor in his voice. "However, if you hadn't, I'm not sure that Harry would trust any adults at all; prison does provide an excuse for why you hadn't been in his life before then."

Your turn to be cut apart with words alone. You say, "I was always told that it would attract attention if wizards visited Harry, and that the magical protections he was under were enough."

"I don't know what protections Albus Dumbledore has claimed the boy is under," Solus says, "and I frankly do not care." He sits back again - you hadn't even noticed that he'd started to lean forward. "I don't believe it justifies this, and even if it did in this case - there's a third year girl in Ravenclaw whose case is similar. She won't be left alone with any of the female professors. There's a sixth year girl in Hufflepuff who is - do you even know the term 'bulimia'?"

Sirius shakes his head. You say, "She's starving herself?"

"Binging and puking, insofar as I can tell, but close enough for our purposes. She only eats at dinner, and disappears to a particularly notorious girl's bathroom where she's sure to have privacy after. The only reason she hasn't turned into a twig is that the house elves have been spiking her food and drink with quick-acting nutrition potions. Sprout is unable to convince the Headmaster to allow her to take further action; he's convinced it's just a phase, in spite of the evidence that such things are epidemic in the Muggle world at present." Solus has a hand up and is ticking off on his fingers now. "Three Slytherins and a Ravenclaw who flinch if you hold up a wand while speaking loudly. One Gryffindor girl who started hyperventilating the first time I did this - " He snaps his fingers again. " - and those are just the ones that are so obvious I cannot miss them. Were I actually to go digging..."

"You'd find a whole rotten graveyard," Sirius says, flat and emotionless. His eyes are unfocused.

"To say nothing of the way the students treat each other, or how certain members of the staff treat them," Solus says. "All with the headmaster's tacit approval, by virtue of the fact that he says nothing to condemn it."

You look down at the table, and manage to say, "Neville Longbottom's boggart was Severus Snape."

"Lovely," Solus drones, the sarcasm acid. "You see my point, then."

[oncedriven]

You say, "I do, but it's a pretty big leap from there to pinning it all on Dumbledore, isn't it?"

Solus says, "I can name at least four teachers whose efforts at extracting children from bad situations have been rebuffed. He refuses to step in with regard to the severe classroom abuse situation in Potions, which has been ongoing for ten years. There is a line where even negligence becomes an excuse." He pauses. "You followed the basilisk events of three years ago, correct?"

"Of course," you say. Sirius shakes his head, but Solus doesn't seem to expect him to know, because he continues -

"Why did it take nearly fifty years for him to clear Hagrid's name? Why did he allow a thirteen year old to take the fall of a murder conviction in the first place?" He folds his arms. "Meaning no offense to either of you, of course, but Albus Dumbledore is not merely neglectful - he manipulates himself into the position of being the hero."

Something just a little sick churns in your stomach. Heedlessly, casually, Solus continues, "He 'saves' abused children from their families, and it's oh so lamentable that they have to go back year after that. He doles out favors to his favorites - the ones he sees as particularly useful in the future." He looks at you both, sternly, assessingly, and says, "He has a keen eye and buys the loyalty of the very best, except in the House where we're brought up with the favors game and understand that it's meant to be played all cards on the table. Don't look at me so mulishly, Black, you know exactly what I mean."

Sirius sighs and says, "Yeah, I do. The old blood way of doing things. The Dumbledores go back as far as we do."

Solus nods. To you, he says, "What was going to Hogwarts worth to you, as a child?"

"Everything," you say. "It was everything."

Solus nods. And then he says, lancing silver into the wound, "And after the war, how much did he help you?"

You flinch, then. He turns to Sirius and adds, "Never mind your case. Do you remember your trial?"

Sirius slowly shakes his head. "Not really," he says. "Certainly not at this point."

"Trick question, I'm afraid," Solus says. "There wasn't one. Only a sentencing hearing. I took the liberty of researching the matter."

He folds his hands down, over the newspaper. "Politically speaking, it would be inadvisable for the both of us if I were to call attention to it myself. However, it is a wildly different matter for him to do so. After all, he doesn't labor under a dark reputation the way we do by virtue of name alone."

[oncedriven]

It's a litany that rubs up against you uncomfortably. You owe everything to Dumbledore, after all. But the way Solus is talking about it, that's exactly the point, and the way Sirius grimaces tells you that he believes the logic of it even if it's hard to swallow. And in matters of how pureblood society works, he has more knowledge than you, even with the holes Azkaban put in his memories.

(After all, little of his experience of it was good.)

Solus says, "Additionally... There is one other matter regarding Harry that I would bring to your attention, separate from the matter of the abuse. Even more so than that, I ask that it not leave this room. If it becomes public knowledge, I will take appropriate revenge, for my own safety if nothing else."

You and Sirius glance at each other. He raises an eyebrow at you, and you nod. Sirius says, "We understand. D'you want a vow about it?"

"I trust that won't be necessary," Solus says, "and indeed, I would prefer not to. You are to keep this secret only so far as keeping the secret does not endanger an innocent life; if one can be saved by revealing it, I expect you to do so."

Sirius nods. You say, trying to lighten the mood, "Is this the part where you tell us all the scholyard rumors were true, and you actually do have the Sight?"

"In a manner of speaking," Solus says, which catches you off guard. "I have no talent for foresight save that which all men possess by judgement of their experience. My Sight is rather different; I possess the ability to See souls, even at a significant distance."

Sirius says, "Huh. So that's why we couldn't get past you even in the Cloak," and you do not hiss about him casually revealing James' Invisibility Cloak because Solus replies, pretty much immediately, "It gives me some plausible deniability when it comes to Harry's after hours escapades."

You say, cautiously, "Is there something wrong with Harry's soul?"

And Hades Solus replies, "There's a fragment of another soul embedded in his curse scar. Unless I am very much mistaken, it is that of Voldemort himself."

[oncedriven]

For a moment, you're at a loss for what to do. You look at Sirius, who looks even more adrift, and he says quietly, "How likely is it that you're mistaken?" with small hope in his voice.

"That there is a foreign soul is beyond doubt," Solus says. "The only matter in question is identity, and of that I would say that I am ninety to ninety five percent certain. I do not forget a soul that I have seen, but it is but the smallest fragment I have ever encountered, so it is difficult to be sure."

You say, "Harry has been known to have visions of Voldemort in his dreams - he had one just recently, that's how we were able to get to Arthur in time." You don't need to say that a soul bond would explain it; it's obvious to everyone at the table, and it makes you sick to put it into words.

Solus just says, "Confirmation, then."

Sirius says, "Did you actually meet him?"

"Once, at the height of his power," Solus says. "My father was a devoted Death Eater and presented me to him for initiation. I refused, Voldemort attempted to force my compliance, and the official story is that your gang of rebels and Aurors arrived around then and he was forced to flee. My father was tragically killed in the crossfire."

Sirius says, flatly, "How tragic indeed."

You say, "I remember the account of that. Alastor Moody was in charge of that raid. Three wizards and one Muggle dead, two Muggle captives freed. I didn't realize you were there - I take it Moody let you sneak out without so much as being charged?"

Solus says, "And I owe him no small debt for his part in it, because my father was dead and Voldemort fled well before he arrived. I did not need help in that regard."

You and Sirius share another look then, a longer one, the same thought in both your skulls. The only wizard Voldemort flees before is Albus Dumbledore.

You say, "I find that a bit hard to believe."

"Believe it or do not," Solus says. "Voldemort was unsettled by my calling him exactly what he is - a half-being with less than half a soul - before his followers, and unsettled more by my shrugging off his Cruciatus. At first he desired me all the more for it, and then he attempted to kill me for it. When that failed, he fled."

Sirius says, "When he decides to kill someone, he reaches for the Killing Curse first. Everyone knows that."

Solus replies, an almost sweet smile on his face, "The Killing Curse works by cutting the soul free of the body. And the soul is my domain."

It's the same kind of soft, casual feeling of power that radiates from Dumbledore. From what you've heard, all the great wizards, the true titans of whatever age, have it. It prickles along your own magic, a whisper of a warning, a feeling all its own. Do not cross me, for I am death itself.

Nominative determinism, indeed.

Sirius gulps air, and there's silence for a moment before he says, "So, Harry?"

"You're his proper guardians according to the wishes of his parents," Solus - Hades - replies. "Therefore, it is your decision what is to be done."

Sirius says, without hesitation, "Get it out of him," and to that you can certainly agree.

[oncedriven]

You are not sure that Black and Lupin entirely believe you - it is an entirely absurd claim, to them. But they head back down your driveway - one man, one large black dog with a man's soul - having agreed to at least help research what can be done about the matter of the soul fragment.

You will not dignify it by calling it a soul. Whatever method lies behind Voldemort's personal sundering left him with scarcely enough of one to have an identity at all. You've seen sin-eaters with more of their essential being intact.

You don mundane clothes at that point and make your way out to London once they've gone. The location is warded even against your sight - extradimensional or Fidelius, most likely, perhaps both. Black comes out of that hideaway so rarely that even you are disgusted by it, and you are a perfectly content homebody.

A few books to take with you for the term and then home, such was your intent. But upon arriving in London, your steps come to a stop before you quite realize exactly what you're seeing.

The too-white of fresh snow, just a hair to the blue. As much as others decried her decision, you thought the white robes suited her best even then. They simply reflected her interior nature.

There is scarring to that perfect white, now. Thousands of years in her transformation, the second eldest and most powerful of primals, stained her whiter still, beyond repair.

You hate her, for all that she has done. And yet you cannot help the way your feet chase after her, the way you did once so very long ago, barely more than a child, when she was only your best friend's mentor and the idea of Azem was some other long-forgotten soul. You cannot help it, because she was once your friend, and in this world you thought yourself alone.

(could there be a more fitting punishment, than to be alone with her?)

You have your dignity; you do not shout her name over the crowd. You'll catch up to her soon enough, even when her trail leads you into wizarding London, which you would rather have avoided in these clothes.

"Venat."

She is already looking at you when you say her name. She did not have soulsight before, but Hydaelyn's task no doubt required it, and it would seem some limited aspect remains. Against your will you catalogue her; her cloak is more ornate but not an unfamiliar style, with the heavy pulls at the collar. She wears no mask, but a silver one is embroidered at the collar against the heavy white wool.

She looks herself. You feel all the more foolish in a jumper and a windbreaker. She smiles as though glad to see you.

"My old friend," she says, and you aren't certain for a moment what else you would want her to call you, if the desire to be called by your title again would outweigh having it be in her mouth.

But you have a task foremost in your mind, for which she is uniquely suited. The sunderer of the world is the only one whose knowledge of the soul and its breaking might compare to yours, perhaps even exceed it.

So for the sake of a child who deserves more than the chance he was given, you say, "We need to speak somewhere privately. Now," and do your best to sound the part.

She laughs, an old world sound, but you see it in her eyes, the ages past, the lie of it. But you let her smile and take your arm as she says, "Of course. We have so much to catch up on," and leads you away.

[meteorsurvivor]

The two of you get a private booth at one of the wizarding restaurants. You promptly excuse yourself to the bathroom while she orders, and put yourself in overobes with the snap of your fingers. A wizard of this world couldn't do so nearly so readily.

As it is, you're certain some ministry informant will be carrying news of your previous attire to Fudge all too quickly, but you can't bring yourself to care. The gloves are off, as that troublesome miqote woman was so fond of saying.

Venat has ordered by the time you return. It is a strange thing that you can trust her to order for you, even now. You have simply known each other for too long to not know all the dark haunts of each other's souls, and if either of you was the sort for petty revenge, it would be you.

You say, "My apologies for the delay."

She says, "There's no need for that. What is it that brings you to me so urgently? I can't imagine it's for the pleasure of seeing my face."

You throw a privacy ward up, one that would keep even the Echo at bay, and switch to your native tongue. With her, at least, you have no need to keep up appearances.

"Left to my own devices, I would not even gaze upon your robe," you say. "Nothing would give me greater happiness than to never have to speak another word to you. You are not forgiven; even with my memories restored to me, even knowing your reasons and the hopes you placed upon your champion, I am not capable of it."

You are perfectly capable of understanding her decision and hating her for it regardless.

And she does not begrudge you it; you can see it in her eyes. The affable mentor is gone, and the woman who sundered the world remains. When all else is stripped away, the burden of the duty remains.

(You feel a fool for ever believing there was not some greater reason. Mother and son alike, in all regards.)

She does not beg your forgiveness. You are grateful that she spares you both that indignity. She says only, "Then your need must be very great indeed."

"The need is not mine," you say. "If it were, I would simply suffer and die with it. But - there is a boy..."

[meteorsurvivor]

Venat, to her credit, listens with every care to your tale, your speculation, your hypothesis.

At length, once the food has arrived to be pushed around your plates as a distraction from the weight of the conversation, she says, "You are correct. Such a thing is not to be borne. Though I am forced to admit that I am going to be of less help than you may have hoped."

"To be frank, I had little hope an hour ago that there was aught to do but kill the boy and attempt to catch his soul and return it before it fades away," you say. "Not that I told his guardians as much."

She nods, and then says, "This is a task for Hydaelyn, not I."

"I am well aware. Though for me, there is little difference - She was born of your transformation, was She not?"

"Astute as ever, Emet-Selch." She smiles, wistfully, into her dish. "Though I only ever wielded Her might as a sword, and what your task requires is a scalpel. To say nothing of the aether..."

"There is plenty of that about," you say. "These wizards love to invest their power in the ground, and it would not be difficult to find somewhere that can withstand the drain. Hogwarts could sustain Hydaelyn an hour without reaching the end of the slack."

She nods. "Then I suppose I shall have to remain in this country for a time. I will perform what research and... preparation I am able, but consider me at your disposal."

It is small comfort. For the both of you, it is small atonement.

You say, "Look for letters from under the name of Hades Solus. I imagine I do not have to explain."

Venat laughs, then, the barest hint of a chuckle. "You do not."

For a time, the two of you eat in silence. Venat orders a single glass of wine. You abstain.

Before you part, she pauses, and asks, "Did they do it?"

"You would not have sent them onward if you did you have every confidence," you reply.

"Humor me," she says. "I wish to hear it. That is what it was all for, after all."

You could be cruel, and petty, and deny her that closure. She would not ask again.

You say, "My last memory is of watching them step foot into the heart of Meteion's domain. Beyond that dead sun, you know as much as I."

Venat accepts this with a nod, wrapping her cloak around herself. "Thank you," she says, as though you have done her some great service, and steps out into the street.

You wait as long as your reputation can afford before following.

[oncedriven]

You put together the source of all the chaos when you see - or rather, See, for those who want to make the distinction - the children take off from the castle, flying south.

You curse under your breath, enchant a paper plane to Sprout, and tear off down the lawn in your own right. It's impossible to know for sure where they're going from here, but you'd bet London.

Essentially everything that matters happens in London, if it isn't here. If it isn't there, then you'll have to hope it's not some isolated patch of wilderness too far away for you to reach.

As it is, you only bother descending behind Hagrid's empty house before you throw yourself upon the aetherial currents - the anti-Apparition wards have no hold on you, but it wouldn't do to play that card before you have to, after all.

----

"Venat, I believe the children are up to some unfathomably stupid bout of heroism."

She may laugh, but at the very least, she believes you. You don't have to explain or even wait for her to be ready. Any holder of the seat of Azem is ready, a first responder to disaster in a way that most of your people never had a need for.

She takes your arm again. Aether prickles along her touch. It's almost familiar.

With Venat Side-Along, you snap to Remus Lupin.

[oncedriven]

Remus Lupin, clearly, has had better fucking nights. The man is the particular kind of wan that bespeaks of, in a normal person, post-illness. In his case, it's the moon; although the legal full moon was last night, the actual peak of it was somewhere around noon. You wonder if werewolves can get hit by the same moon twice. It's not something you've ever had to deal with.

He's clearly in the particular chaos of trying to ready himself for battle - his jacket is only halfway on when he snaps his wand in the direction of the sound of your Apparition. It remains pointed at you as he says, "What did you serve when you invited me to your home?"

"Greek takeout," you say, deliberately not moving. Venat's raised eyebrows are practically audible. Lupin's shoulders relax just a hair, as you add, "Put the damn wand down."

It dips, finally, and then he shoves it in his pocket. "I assume this isn't a social call."

"Hardly. I came to tell you to have your people prepared for some kind of nonsense from Voldemort's followers, but I see you're already aware."

A brisk nod, a grimace. "Snape actually came through for once; Harry got him a message about Si - " He stops, glances at Venat.

You say, "Anything you say to me can be safely said to my companion. Frankly, she's the better at keeping secrets."

"Flatterer," Venat says, amused, finally letting go of your arm.

You do not tell her where to stuff it, but it is a near thing. "Venat, Remus Lupin. Respectively, the only other person I know with knowledge of soul magicks and one of the functional guardians of Harry Potter. Now, you were saying about Black?"

"Harry believes Voldemort has him and is torturing him," Lupin says. He finally seems to remember the jacket he hadn't finished putting on, and yanks it over his shoulders.

"That would explain why the boy and most of his close friends took off for London as soon as they could escape Dolores Umbridge," you say. "Which is what I came to inform you of."

Lupin exhales hard through his mouth. "Where are they?"

"Right now? Somewhere in the sky over the middle of the country, on thestral-back. I'm guessing their destination is London."

"That would be in line with the message Snape passed on," Lupin says. He goes to pull on his shoes, and there Venat stops him by gently putting herself between him and the door.

"Forgive me," she says, "but you don't seem to be in any condition for battle."

"That doesn't matter," he says. "Harry's - There's been too many times I wasn't there for him."

"And he's forgiven you thus far," you say. "And he's just as aware of your condition as I am, so I'm sure he'll manage to forgive you this time, too."

"that's not what I'm worried about," Lupin says.

"We won't let anything happen to him," Venat asserts, in that particular way she has that makes everything she says sound like the utter truth. "That's why we came, isn't it, old friend?"

She looks to you, and you nod stiffly. "Get word out to your people," you say, "and then you can tell us exactly what we're going to be walking into."

Lupin finally gives up at that, probably because you gave him something to do instead of just standing around. He pulls his wand out of his pocket again, and calls out a spell - "Expecto Patronum."

Predictably, the silver mist takes the form of a wolf, one that's a little too skinny and long-limbed to really be a wolf. You give Venat a shrug as he tells the silver creature, "To Alastor Moody: Hades Solus busted my door down to tell me that Harry and the other missing students are headed south on thestrals. Presumably, they're headed for the Ministry. Solus and his companion, a white-haired woman, came prepared for battle. I know they're not members of the Order, but I'm sending them in my place."

When he's done speaking, the wolf bounds away, and Lupin goes through the motions of pulling off the jacket he just put on.

"The Ministry?" you ask, ready to be gone five minutes ago. "You're sure that's their destination?"

"You remember Arthur getting bitten by the snake at Christmas, right?" Lupin asks, and you nod. "Well, since I have no choice but to read you in..."