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[FF] Trinity VII: The Twilight (Type-Moon/Harry Potter X-over)
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DISCLAIMER: Lunar Legend Tsukihime, Fate/Stay Night, and all related characters and concepts are the creation and property of Kinoko Nasu and Type-Moon, along with anyone who's happened to license them, like Geneon or Funimation. Harry Potter and all related characters and concepts are the creation and property of J.K. Rowling, along with her publishers and Warner Bros., as regards the movie material.
This is a not-for-profit, just-for-fun project.
Writer's Note: Certain dialogue sequences in this story are lifted from Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, but I trust in the intelligence of my readers (and the availability of the books) to recognise them when they see them.
Chapter 1 - Matters of Time
July 25 - 28, 1997
The Prime Minister of Great Britain was working late. This was not an uncommon occurrence, by any means - running a country, even by delegation, was no small task. There really weren’t enough hours in the day to accomplish everything that ought to be done, and likely wouldn’t be even if and when science developed a way for humankind to go entirely without the need for sleep. In fact, common sense dictated that the workload would actually increase, as there would be no more need to spend a third of so of each day effectively incapable and incommunicado. With that being the case, late hours were only to be expected, and even the presence of a bodyguard was not at all unusual.
Staying late on the advice of a talking portrait which hung in his study, however, was - though sadly, it was an event that had become more and more routine over the last couple of months.
It was very nearly midnight when the expected guest appeared, with a sharp but brief crack of air. She was a woman of mature years, and handsome rather than beautiful, with the no-nonsense set to her face that reminded the Prime Minister of many grade-school teachers he’d known - the ones quick to rap their students’ knuckles with a ruler. Her only affectation was a monocle which hung upon one eye, the rest of her clothing dull and drab - robes, such as a judge might wear.
This, however, was no judge, and the acknowledgement his bodyguard gave her, in his deep, musical voice, revealed as much.
“Minister Bones,” he greeted her.
“Not for much longer, Shacklebolt,” she replied grimly. “Not as of midnight of the thirty-first of July. And it gets worse - the German Ministry’s official recall of the Einzbern family arrived today, as well.”
“It’s finally happened, then,” the Prime Minister said heavily, making it more of a statement than a question.
Bones nodded, a sour expression on her face. “We knew it was coming - but I’d still hoped for a little more time.”
“And instead, we have five days,” the Prime Minister muttered.
Like all Prime Ministers before him, apparently, he’d been informed of the existence of the Ministry of Magic - a Ministry over which he had very little contact, and even less control - upon taking office. From what little he’d been able to ferret out privately, that information was more or less all he was likely to ever get from or about that Ministry, or the world it ran. As such, he’d generally chalked it up to a strange dream brought on by overwork . . . At least, he had until a month ago - when the Ministry had informed him of the current state of affairs in the magical portion of Britain.
As a politician, the Prime Minister was aware of the level of truth in the phrase, “Ignorance is bliss” - and that visit firmly reminded him of it. It was something he’d been unable to forget since.
“How’s our progress on distributing the Portkeys?” Bones asked sharply, bringing him back to the present, and prompting him to answer.
“We’ve acknowledged receipt from over ninety percent of the names on your list - still waiting on the odd one, though.”
It had been a relatively simple thing - and apparently quite safe, as their opposition didn’t consider Royal Mail to be of any concern whatsoever. It was certainly more subtle than their own form of long-distance communication! The Prime Minister didn’t say (and suspected that he didn’t have to say) that she’d taken an awful risk, handing him a list containing the names and addresses of every witch and wizard born to non-magical families currently living in Great Britain. It was information he could undoubtedly use in the future . . .
But that said, if the description she’d painted was even remotely accurate, the potential damage that could be done to Britain in the short term made cooperation at this time an absolute necessity, for both their sakes.
And, it had to be admitted, he’d come to like Bones and Shacklebolt - competent hard-working professionals, the pair of them. Certainly an improvement over that fop he’d met a couple of years ago - what had his name been again? Goldy something . . .?
“Try to get to as many of those left as you can,” Bones said grimly, breaking into his thoughts again. “I don’t think they’ll be safe for much longer.”
Shacklebolt was equally as dour. “With the Einzberns gone, and you out of office, the ICW personnel will finally be clearing out - the Veela, too.”
“That means that those Demented creatures will come surging back, correct?” the Prime Minister asked.
From their expressions, he evidently hadn’t got the name quite right, but neither of them raised it as an issue.
“Correct, Prime Minister,” Bones said. “And as we said, they’re some of the foulest and most dangerous creatures on the planet, and you won’t be able to see them.”
The Prime Minister wasn’t entirely convinced of that. If these things radiated a cold presence such as they’d described, he suspected that thermal imaging might be able to pick them up - and they’d assured him that the beasts were corporeal, as much as they resembled spectres . . . Still, discharging arms fire at nothing, so far as nearly anyone with a camera would be concerned, and possibly in an area crowded with civilians - no, that would make for a public relations disaster.
“Depending on where he’s been keeping them since he’s gone underground, they could have dozens by now,” Bones continued. “Fewer of the werewolves - but enough to keep their numbers up, I imagine.”
“LAPIS isn’t proving to be of any use in recruiting the newly turned out from under Greyback?” Shacklebolt asked.
“With one of its primary backers in public disgrace, it’s all LAPIS can do to hold onto and keep supporting the werewolves that they’ve got,” Bones replied. “Add that to the fact that whoever replaces me is almost certainly going to start ramming through laws that make LAPIS unworkable - or at least cut the Ministry’s support, which might amount to the same thing . . .” Her lips thinned into a white line.
The Prime Minister interjected. “Is there anything we can do?”
“Not much,” she admitted. “The potion they need to keep themselves under control is fairly easy to make, by our standards - but you don’t have the magical capacity to brew it. Arguably, the best you could offer is a secure place for them to change for the full moon. And it would have to be somewhere that they couldn’t tear to shreds.”
“I’ll have a look at closed-down prisons,” he promised. “Maybe we can convert one before the next full moon.”
The Prime Minister certainly hoped so. He’d seen the photographs (both the moving and unmoving photographs) that depicted a werewolf attack and its aftermath. The idea of so many of those creatures, feral-minded and running loose - or worse, under a terrorist’s control - frightened him nearly as badly as the concept of a horde of invisible, soul-sucking demons roaming the streets.
Shacklebolt, meanwhile, was listing things off. “With you gone, the Ministry will potentially under You-Know-Who’s control immediately - or certainly not long after, once he decides to move openly. The ICW are off the table, losing us the Veela and the reinforcements from the Security Division . . .” He grimaced. “They’re a lot of our combat strength right now, Minister.”
“I know,” Bones said grimly. “Damn Dumbledore to hell for his games at Hogwarts - thanks to the damage caused between Severus Snape and nearly thirty years of rotating Defence Professors, we just don’t have enough halfway decent people to press into the service, never mind qualified! The bulk of our most promising Auror candidates are still in school . . .” She sighed.
“And that leaves the Order as the best hope of resistance,” Shacklebolt concluded.
The Prime Minister concentrated on all the briefings he’d been given, trying to pluck the name of out of memory. “. . . That’s the schoolteacher militia?”
“As apt a description as any,” Bones agreed, her voice desert dry. “There are good, competent people there - and the encouraging news is that they’re not as liable to follow Dumbledore’s lead unquestioningly as they once were . . . But the bulk of them are schoolteachers, and they’ll be tied to Hogwarts for most of the year. Still, I’ll direct them to give you what help they can.” She tilted her head, considering. “If nothing else, the Lupins ought to be a great help to you - Tonks can certainly take up Kingsley’s duties easily enough.”
“As me, if she has to,” Shacklebolt agreed with a chuckle.
“But Shacklebolt has overlooked one other potential source of hope,” Minister Bones continued. “Not surprising, as he’s not really cleared for it - but I think you ought to be aware, Prime Minister, if only of the basics.”
He fought not to raise his eyebrows in surprise. “. . . I’m listening.”
“We’ve been grooming them for years,” Bones admitted. “A highly-trained special operations group, with the capacity to operate independently within both the magical and non-magical worlds for extensive periods. They’ve taken on - and taken out - targets that are generally deemed impossible for all but the most powerful of wizards, and they’ve been tasked with eliminating as many Death Eaters as they can, however they can.”
Shacklebolt’s eyes brows would’ve approached his hairline, if he’d had one. “Clearance or otherwise, there’s not even been scuttlebutt about a group like this, Minister - how have you kept it quiet?”
“By classifying the files so thoroughly that they effectively won’t exist to be found until a hundred years after I’m dead,” she replied. “Which might be sooner than I’d planned, it seems - but it’ll still hold for the time we need. Regardless, Prime Minister, you might hear about their work - and if they come into contact with your people, I’ll have given them a code phrase to identify themselves with. Whatever they need, get it - because as much as I hate to use them, their track record leads me to think that they’ll be the best hope we’ve got for ending this quickly, and with the least possible bloodshed.”
The woman’s sincerity was moving. For someone who’d repeatedly growled, in previous meetings, that she was a copper and not a politician, the Prime Minister was impressed.
“All right,” he agreed. “What’s the code phrase?”
“Scarlet Seven,” came the emphatic reply.
Ciel looked around the empty place, taking in the bare floor, the unadorned walls, and couldn’t quite manage to quash a sense of loss. Which, on the face of it, was ridiculous. It wasn’t as though she’d never moved before, after all - in fact, this would mark her fourth move merely in the time she’d been married - but the feeling stubbornly persisted. Her family had lived here for nearly a third of the time that they’d been a family, nearly as long here as they’d lived in Canada. Her son had been born here . . . And so, as much as she hated to admit it, she would miss this place, on some level, for what it represented.
But there was no choice, now. With the Einzberns’ position officially revoked by the German government, Kiritsugu was likewise removed from his position as head of the Security Division task force providing assistance to the British Department of Magical Law Enforcement. And with that removal, it had been decided by the British Ministry not to renew the Security Division’s mandate, given the seeming cessation of internal hostilities. Which, when translated from the flowery bureaucrat-speak, meant that they were all going back.
And taking our accrued vacation time or sick leave as an excuse to stick around is so transparent a ploy, even the dolts who are allowing Amelia to be ousted would probably see through it, Ciel reflected. Then again, they obviously can’t see that Riddle’s withdrawing just long enough for the Ministry to relax its guard again . . .
They’d worked out the Death Eaters’ strategy weeks ago - and Amelia had spent her time trying to fortify the essential positions for resistance, rather than waste time trying to figure out which bolt hole they’d withdrawn to. It was possibly a mistake, but then again, if she’d “wasted” Ministry resources trying to find a threat she couldn’t prove still existed unless she found them, she might’ve been out of office quicker. And then Britain really would have been defenceless.
For Ciel’s part, her time had been spent doing something else entirely. She had irrefutable proof that her husband was still alive, and presumably held in captivity by his one-time family. The Tohno clan was an insular one, and didn’t really have much influence outside of Nihon, nor try to cultivate it - which one of the primary reasons that Ciel and her family had lived abroad for years - so it meant that Shiki was likely being held somewhere there.
The problem, from her perspective, was that while the islands of Japan weren’t as large as somewhere like Canada or Russia, adding magic to the equation made finding someone or something hidden there difficult to nearly impossible. The French Auror instructor had spent the last month trying to narrow down where Shiki was likely to be held, and how much difficulty she’d have in trying to reach him, free him, and escape the country with minimal risk . . . And so far, the answer had been “a lot.”
Ciel sighed. The magical nation of Nihon was effectively the Tohno clan’s playground - only the Aozaki clan held more influence, by virtue of being an older bloodline, but even theirs had waned with the near-extinction of the clan. Aoko and Touko could do a great deal to help, but not enough to just force the Tohnos to hand her husband over, and if Shiki was revealed as the last Nanaya . . .
Blood feuds were sanctioned within the laws of Nihon, though heavily discouraged - and outside interference from non-allied clans was strictly punished. The Aozaki might find themselves dissolved for Aoko’s protection of Shiki all these years, or officially compelled to fight the Tohno directly, as they were added to the blood feud.
And as powerful as Aoko and Touko are - both magically and politically - I don’t think even they can wipe out the entire Tohno clan, Ciel thought worriedly. If they could, they’d have done it years ago, so it couldn’t threaten us any longer.
Still, the French witch admitted to herself, she did have several advantages in this task. The first was that Aoko and Touko would help, and that help was no small thing. The second advantage was that the Emperor was displeased with the Tohno clan’s current actions, and his irritation was nothing to take lightly. That would force the Tohno to tread lightly, lest displeasure become outright enmity. And the third advantage . . .
“Are you ready to go, Ciel?” Touko asked, drawing her out of her thoughts. The named woman turned, and nodded, even as she took in the group - Touko, Aoko, Sirius Black, Irisviel von Einzbern, and Arcueid Brunestud.
“. . . Where’s Kiritsugu?” she asked, noting the wizard’s absence.
“Popping off to give some last-minute advice to Shirou and Ilya, before we pull out for France,” Iris said, a small smirk playing about her lips. “He has this inexplicable impression that they’re going to be coming back.”
Ciel nodded. In various capacities, they’d all been invited as guests to the wedding of William Weasley and Fleur Delacour. And given the present state of affairs among their personal and professional lives, to say nothing of Britain itself, it had been mutually decided by the families to take some of the preceding days, and some following it, as a holiday in France.
If nothing else, I’ll be able to see Takara when we get there, at least - but I’ll still miss her birthday . . . Her seventeenth birthday . . .
The thought saddened Ciel to the point where she feared she might start crying - it was one more loss, on top of so many - she’d never missed one of her daughter’s birthdays, ever! Not even when she started going to Hogwarts! (She conveniently ignored the fact that as Takara’s birthday was in the midst of summer, her schooling schedule made no difference.) But this was Takara’s coming of age, it was special - and Takara wasn’t going to be around to celebrate it with . . .
Once again, she cursed Minister Bones, Algernon Croaker, and their ridiculously elaborate plan - the French witch had nearly had a heart attack when she’d been told what had happened at Galen’s funeral! And then she’d nearly strangled Croaker with his own intestines when they’d told her what was really going on. Yes, it was an effective, and maybe even necessary scheme, but -
But I’m her mother - shouldn’t I have had a say in this?!
To be fair, apparently Takara’s coming along on the trip hadn’t been entirely foreseen - it was prepared for, just in case, but not actually planned for. Officially, she’d been caught in France, and turned back - sent to join her mother, in fact. So Takara had remained hidden and safe, all this time, in case the Tohnos had taken it into their heads to try and get her again. And she’d remain safe, as Takara wouldn’t be joining them on the Japanese expedition, and nor would she be returning to Britain - immediately, at least.
But unlike the others, as they weren’t ICW employees, Shirou and Ilya certainly had the right to do so - especially as their daughter had been born here. Britain’s defences against the Death Eaters might be weakened by the loss of their families, but it wouldn’t be completely undefended.
And that brought her thoughts back to her third, and final advantage: her family and friends, who had always been a power to be reckoned with. With all of them working together, the French witch couldn’t imagine their failing to find Shiki, or failing to rescue him . . .
Or once he was safe, failing to teach the Tohno clan that they’d hidden in fear from all these years why it should have feared them, instead.
Hold on, Shiki, she thought to her husband, in the manner of a prayer. We will come for you - just like I promised I always would.
Shirou adjusted his dress robes again, not remembering them being quite so tight when he’d been married - but then, he’d grown a bit broader, since. He wasn’t quite up to Archer’s standards in terms of size, but it appeared that the late growth spurt was arriving earlier, this time around. Whether it was due to a steadier, healthier diet, or the fact that he’d taken the trouble to condition himself better and earlier on, the red-haired wizard wasn’t sure - but he wasn’t going to complain.
Ilya swept into the room, made a fuss over the noose wrapped around his neck - others called it a tie, but he knew what it really was - and stepped back to look at him in satisfaction.
“You’ll do,” she pronounced.
“Gee, thanks,” he said drily. “At least, unlike you, I don’t need three hours to get ready.” He smiled to take the sting out of it.
“Half of that was Ai-chan,” she retorted. “She didn’t want to stay still long enough for me to put on the sunblock, and I didn’t want to wrap her up in too many layers, considering that we’re headed for a French summer in August.”
He nodded. “Well, we’re all packed, the Aerie’s sealed to anyone who isn’t a relative by blood or marriage, and I’m ready to go if you are.”
“Grab Ai, then, and I’ll get the baby bag,” his wife instructed. She sighed in relief. “Thank heaven for Undetectable Extension Charms - I’d hate to have to lug it all around by hand.”
“Magic does have its uses,” Shirou admitted. “Even a crazy style like they use around here.”
He walked into the nursery, and picked up the infant in the white cotton gown - frilly enough to impress, but gauzy enough to be light and easy to move in, so she wasn’t likely to feel stifled or sweltering. Ai responded by moving to grab his neck in a baby hug, making a pleased noise as she snuggled into his shoulder blade.
“We’re going to see your godparents, sweetie,” he murmured into the top of her head as he kissed it, his lips tickled by the tufts of silky, red-gold hair on her crown. “Won’t that be fun?”
“Gah!” she replied excitedly.
The letter had arrived about two days after Galen’s “funeral,” in which Rin explained that she’d been out of contact with everyone, due to a specialised and intensive instruction program. It had also contained enough clues that Ilya had realised there was a second message within the parchment, concealed like the Marauders’ Map, and upon revealing it, they’d learned how Galen had really “died.” Personally, Shirou would bet that Galen caught hell for it from the girls, whether he actually had anything to do with the plan or not, but it was a relief to hear - more than he would’ve thought, actually. But then again, they had been friends for quite a while. Galen was the closest thing Shirou had to a brother, though whether he was the older or younger brother was up for debate . . .
In turn, they’d been able to communicate to them, through Rin, Ilya’s belief that Nagini had not been a Horcrux, as they’d assumed. And for learning that, Shirou would bet that Galen had thrown quite a fit. It wouldn’t be something they could discuss at the wedding - Galen would be travelling incognito, to keep up the illusion of his death - but hopefully, he’d have figured something out in the last couple of months regarding that last Horcrux.
And if not, we’ll just kill Riddle anyway, and worry about it after he’s dead . . .
The crack of Apparition within the house had Shirou’s wand drawn and pointed, even as he angled Ai to be covered by his own body as much as possible, even as he knew that with the defences up, there were only people that it could possibly be: Kaa-san and -
“Dad,” Shirou sighed. “You nearly gave me a stroke.”
“Sorry, son,” the elder wizard apologised, “but I wanted to show you and Ilya something before we all leave for France. I think you’ll need it in the coming days.”
“What is it, Papa?” Ilya said, coming into the room.
Kiritsugu assumed a lecturing tone. “This house is about as well-defended as any magical dwelling in the country . . . And it’s also very public. Short of adding a Fidelius Charm, there’s nothing we can do about that - and enough people know that the house is somewhere around here, so it’s not completely safe, in any case.”
The young couple exchanged worried glances, and Shirou said carefully, “Go on.”
“Officially, the ICW maintains no presence within its member countries short of its embassies, and the Security Division likewise,” Kiritsugu said, then added, “Unofficially, however, those of us who perform certain tasks for the Security Division find convenient boltholes necessary when the tasks can’t exactly be advertised to the locals. I’m going to give you the location of one of them. It’s set up to house a team of ten comfortably, so the three of you should be well-provisioned - and safe, because this place isn’t on the books. It’s barely a coded designation in the ICW’s files, and very few people even within the Security Division have clearance to access files that are that sensitive.”
“Sounds good, Dad,” Shirou admitted. A hideout like what he was describing would have all sorts of supplies, and potentially intelligence-gathering capabilities - very handy if it came to mounting a resistance.
Kiritsugu held out a penny - one of the “stealth Portkeys” that Amelia Bones had been distributing to mundane-borns and their families. It was notable for being nearly impossible to detect by the Minister’s monitoring apparatuses, and for being a one-use item.
“I’ve reset the destination and time on these,” he said. “Take one, and we’ll go.”
They did, and were quickly whirled away - so quickly that Ai didn’t even have time to cry, though she was obviously startled. Ilya took her immediately, and began singing and rocking the baby in an effort to soothe her. As she swept across the room, Ilya blinked.
“This vantage point - Papa, this is the same view as from where Big Ben is, isn’t it?”
“That’s right, Ilya-chan,” Kiritsugu confirmed, grinning. “Welcome to the Clock Tower.”
Additional Writer's Notes: I think it was Yamihe who asked for the Clock Tower to be mentioned in this series, long, long ago - but whoever it was, there you go. :)
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Wow, The British PM is actually relevant... Taking quite the deviation from the source material here.
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Quote:
Originally Posted by
Mattias
Wow, The British PM is actually relevant... Taking quite the deviation from the source material here.
Heh, I seem to remember someone mentioning using satellites as a workaround to get past a fidelius charm. This and other novel applications of more advanced mundane tech probably requires a powerful backer. So short of using the imperius curse on half the ministry of defense, they need someone to help them out. *shrug* I suppose the PM is a better choice than most.
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Quote:
Originally Posted by
Mattias
Wow, The British PM is actually relevant... Taking quite the deviation from the source material here.
Between Fudge and Lockhart, Amelia inherited a mess. She's never had the numbers for a sustained war, and the last few battles did a lot to eliminate her avallable forces. By contrast, while they might've cut down the numbers available to the Death Eaters in terms of creatures, and a number of his inner circle, all that's really needed is a quick "Imperio!" to gain allies. And now that Riddle's gone international . . .
On an international level, Britain's reputation has suffered major hits in recent years. The Quidditch World Cup was a fiasco, the Triwizard Tournament was a disaster, and their representative to the world stage for decades was Albus Dumbledore, who's also suffered a major fall in the public eye. They just aren't in a state to resist political pressure at the moment - and now that they've satisfied the ICW that they don't need help any longer, getting more without major concessions will be a problem. And the fact that the major pressure points are coming from Japan and Germany (traditional enemies since 1945) means that it's likely no one who would help will realise what's going on until it's too late.
Given those facts, and that Voldemort will almost certainly hit the mundanes once he has control of Britain, she'll bend the Statute of Secrecy as far as she can to give the non-magicals a fighting chance - because they're just as much her responsibility in this.
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I can tell I'm going to like this book already.
Also, got a chuckle out of "The Clock Tower".
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So, should the Clock Tower be the Batcave then?
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Quote:
Originally Posted by
Kieran
Additional Writer's Notes: I think it was Yamihe who asked for the Clock Tower to be mentioned in this series, long, long ago - but whoever it was, there you go. :)
Yeah, it was me. I just got around to reading it and I can say that I certainly am amused.
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Quote:
Originally Posted by
Elf
So, should the Clock Tower be the Batcave then?
Yes, yes it should.
Quote:
Originally Posted by
YamiheKazeto
Yeah, it was me. I just got around to reading it and I can say that I certainly am amused.
Glad I got it right! And I'm pleased that you're amused.
Naturally, the next chapter will be my next project.
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Hopefully, the next bit will arrive tomorrow.
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So are the Seven are actually clandestine now, or are they covert? Or are they a green force, acknowledged separate but allied?
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After the fiasco with the Tohnos, Amelia sat down with the Aozaki, Einzbern, and Salvatore families to ask just what the hell was going on with their kids. Their getting dragged into Dumbledore's machinations she could understand, given how close they were to Longbottom, and the prior year might've been pure luck - but not twice! And as she went back over the reports from years gone by, it was clear that a pattern was there to be seen, if you were looking for it.
She still doesn't know it all, but she's aware that if the Ministry fails, and no official, legal help can be brought, those seven will keep working towards the Death Eaters' defeat - and their record to date is such that they might actually pull it off, even if they end up having to fight the entire wizarding world to do it. So as far as she's concerned, they're allied, but the blackest of black ops teams. Having the world know that the fate of the country depended on kids is bad for morale - and what no one knows to look for, they won't find. The Seven are acting in the interests of her country, and with as much of a blessing as she can give them, but they don't exist.
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Still, with what she gave the Prime Minister, they are just a group, and even if someone ends up having to contact them, he's bound to talk with just one person. Unless they try to drill through the whole thing thoroughly, they'll just know that one or two out of the so-called "Scarlet Seven" are young, and they'll know nothing about the rest. Which is kind of good, as that also means that it the event of Tom taking over the ministry of magic, he won't be able to get information on them that will help him [that much].
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DISCLAIMER: Lunar Legend Tsukihime, Fate/Stay Night, and all related characters and concepts are the creation and property of Kinoko Nasu and Type-Moon, along with anyone who's happened to license them, like Geneon or Funimation. Harry Potter and all related characters and concepts are the creation and property of J.K. Rowling, along with her publishers and Warner Bros., as regards the movie material.
This is a not-for-profit, just-for-fun project.
Writer's Note: Certain dialogue sequences in this story are lifted from Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, but I trust in the intelligence of my readers (and the availability of the books) to recognise them when they see them.
Chapter 2 - Musings on the Future
July 28 - 29, 1997
Hermione awoke in the dark, to the by-now expected sensations of cold, numbness, and thirst. No matter how many times it happened, though, she never became used to it. She supposed that it made sense, since Galen’s oft-repeated statement about lycanthropy applied equally to vampirism, after all - it was called a curse for a reason. Tonight, however, there was a sensation of warmth surrounding her. A tantalising warmth, that brought with it the most delicious smell, which her fuzzy but still brilliant mind took only moments to comprehend the source of: there was a hand on her breast - not to mention a leg over her hip - that didn’t belong to her.
Hermione felt a momentary sympathy for Takara, who had woken in this position more than once over the years, thanks to her, and she’d have likely felt even more sympathy if she wasn’t certain that Takara was the person clinging to her like a favourite pillow - the Japanese witch might’ve been trying to get a little payback, after all. But primarily, Hermione’s focus was on ignoring the whisper in the back of her mind that told her there was food within reach, and warm, yummy food at that.
Hermione fought not to release any noise at her frustration. Her vampiric instincts were usually under control - but upon first waking, she was empty, and she’d long feared that her instincts might override her human nature before she realised what had happened. It was why even now, when she slept on the soil-filled futon instead of in her trunk, the vampire witch had forbidden either Galen or Takara to sleep with her on it. It was more than just wanting them to not have to deal with her dying when she “slept” - Hermione was too afraid that she’d wake wrapped in an intimate embrace with them and just start feeding indiscriminately.
However, it seemed that Takara had taken a novel approach to the problem, by simply moulding herself to Hermione’s back. None of Takara was easily in biting range - at least, not without waking her. Even asleep, the Japanese witch’s grip was too tight, denying the British genius the wiggle room she needed to escape, or change her position much at all. That was a problem in itself, as Hermione needed to feed. Being so close to Takara when she was already thirsty was like sleeping next to an air vent over a bakery - it just made her body ache that much worse with the desire for sustenance. Her fangs were already extended, and weighing heavily in her mouth.
She closed her eyes, and ran through her Occlumency exercises, reminding herself that the thirst was strong - that was undeniable - but it didn’t rule her. She was Hermione Jean Granger, who was a vampire witch, not a vampire who just happened to be named Hermione. And Takara believed that now. Not enough to donate her own blood, but enough to crawl into bed with her because she needed comfort, and company, and feel safe - and Hermione would not ruin that after all it took to get it, she WOULD NOT . . . !
Slowly, the vampire witch twisted enough to run her fingers along the back of Takara’s hand, and that hand reflexively squeezed. Had Hermione had a stronger sense of touch at that moment, she might’ve appreciated it more - as it was, she barely felt it. Her vampire state was effectively bloodless, especially right now, and tactile sensation was minimal. If she’d been truly starving, she’d have felt nothing at all, and could’ve lost extremities without noticing . . . But she was merely thirsty, if badly so, and thus hadn’t lost all semblance of her humanity yet.
“Takara,” Hermione whispered, squeezing the other young woman’s hand as lightly as she dared to - the vampire witch didn’t want to break any of her bedmate’s bones, after all. “Takara, you need to wake up, because I need a drink.”
The Japanese witch wasn’t usually a morning person, but she slept lightly - and even if she wasn’t in a state to comprehend why, the urgency in Hermione’s tone carried through, enough that she relaxed her grip and removed her hands. This allowed the Briton to slip loose and make for her private stash - and if she did so with vampiric speed once she was free, Hermione knew that at least Takara wouldn’t take it as a personal insult about her company.
Hermione downed a flask of blood, instead of her usual phial - partly because of her overstimulated appetite, but partly because having a bigger blood reserve allowed her to better camouflage herself as being mortal, even if she did feel uncomfortably full as a result. This was important - the French Department of Mysteries were their instructors and their nominal allies, but her existence was a state secret in Britain, and they also couldn’t be sure that any of the Frenchmen weren’t clandestine supporters of the Death Eaters - the Malfoy family, for example, did have its roots in this country.
For her part, Hermione found it extremely frustrating. Takara had been able to exsanguinate Galen enough to store blood for her, as Madam Pomfrey had done at Hogwarts, so she it wasn’t as though she’d starve - but as wonderful as his blood always was, it lacked the connection that taking it directly gave her, and she didn’t dare bite him while under this kind of supervision.
And being forcibly isolated from him, psychically, for the summer had led Hermione to reach a horrifying conclusion: she could live without Galen. She could, in a place like this, where the puzzles and the research was fascinating enough to hold her attention - provided that she could find blood from a willing enough donor to keep her human. The intimacy of Galen’s presence in her mind - or hers in his, more often - was a loss, but she would survive it. She could go on, without him.
And if the Philosopher’s Stone fails us, I’ll have to . . .
It wasn’t a conclusion Hermione had liked reaching, and she wasn’t prepared to give Galen - or, for that matter, Takara - up to time, simply because she’d realised that she was capable of living without them. Galen or Takara could live without chocolate, after all, if they absolutely had to, but it didn’t mean that they’d give it up without a hell of a fight. The vampire witch was no less determined, and she’d spent the summer scouring every alchemy text she could find -
Takara’s sudden yawn caught Hermione’s attention, drawing her away from her thoughts. As the last droplets slid from the bottleneck into Hermione’s mouth, and the warm flush overtook her body, sky-blue eyes blinked sleepily at the her companion as the Japanese witch mumbled, “Sunset, huh?”
“A few minutes after,” Hermione answered. And as she suddenly recalled the circumstances she’d woken in, the vampire witch demanded, “What were you doing? I told you that trying to sleep with me was dangerous!”
“It wasn’t so bad,” Takara refuted, even as she worked out a crick in her neck. “Kind of like being back in Fuyuki. A few support Charms on that futon wouldn’t be too bad, though - ”
“Takara!” Hermione protested. “You could’ve been hurt, or worse!”
“But I wasn’t.” Now the Japanese witch’s voice was remarkably clear as she focussed all her attention on Hermione. “You couldn’t reach me, and I don’t think you even tried. So maybe it’s too risky to sleep facing you, but we can spoon, at least that way. And Galen could sleep on my other side, or I could sleep on his - and you won’t have to sleep alone.”
Hermione bit her lower lip, horribly tempted. It made both her human and her lioness aspects feel better to sleep with someone - and with the latter placated, controlling her vampire side was easier, as she wasn’t trying to contain two sets of feral instincts. In fact, sometimes the lioness was particularly helpful, as she didn’t want to do whatever the vampire urged, anymore than Hermione did.
Like, say, feed on my pride sister, or my mate . . . Hermione would be lying to herself if she said she didn’t want this, with either of them, or that it wouldn’t help - and both witches knew it.
“You have a point,” she admitted, “but I wish you wouldn’t take such big risks - ”
Takara smiled, as this was familiar ground. She’d always been the most adventurous of the three of them, even if Galen was generally more reckless (at least, where his own safety was concerned).
“I mean it, Takara,” Hermione said sharply. “What if you’d been wrong, and I’d attacked you?”
Takara countered, “Why did you ever go out in the sunlight, when you might’ve burst into flames?”
Hermione sighed. “. . . Because I needed to know.”
Takara nodded, acknowledging that she’d made her point - and she had. Ever since they’d rescued the Japanese witch from her captivity at the hands of the Tohnos, something had shifted in her worldview. Where once she’d been the most timid of the three of them regarding the ties that bound them, she’d thrown herself into supporting the idea of the three of them as a permanent domestic arrangement. Hermione suspected that the potion she’d been dosed with had a great deal to do with it - knowing that had she not loved Hermione, Takara’s body would’ve burned hotter with magically-induced lust until she’d either indulged (and thereby conceived), or possibly had a heart attack.
And if she could love Hermione, even as a vampire - and if Hermione could love her enough not to feed, even with the temptation of having her helpless, and her heart racing, then maybe it could work between the three of them, after all.
Galen’s opinion on the matter hadn’t been consulted. The reason for that was simple: both witches were sure enough that he wanted it like this, but would never ask, and equally sure that they could convince him to accept it, whether he felt worthy or not - or else.
Not that we’ve actually talked about it yet, Hermione reminded herself. Their current quarters were sequestered by gender, leaving Galen alone, and no real private time to talk - not that they really felt safe to discuss too much in here, anyways. Or had that much time or energy, given how busy they were usually kept . . .
It’s no surprise, given that we’re trying to cram at least a year’s worth of training and experience into roughly a quarter of the time. Not that we have a choice - Riddle could be back at any time, and presumably he’ll seize the Ministry, since he’ll have spent the time regrouping, whereas the Ministry has spent its time downsizing its forces following the “end” of the threat of the Death Eaters . . .
They knew better, of course, hence the urgent training - but it did make finding personal time with each other hard.
And speaking of which . . .
“What’s on our agenda tonight?” Hermione asked. “More curse-breaking? Learning another runic language? Going through more old research notes?”
“The first stage of your final exam,” came Rin Delacour’s voice from the doorway, causing both girls to jump. The Japanese-born witch stood with her arms folded and her expression stern.
“And I’m going to make sure you pass it on the first try,” she said firmly. “Because my sister is getting married in four days, and if I miss it because I’m retraining all of you from the ground up . . .”
Despite being at least several dozen metres underground, Hermione would swear she heard a roll of ominous thunder as Rin trailed off. And that was especially terrifying, because that was usually Galen’s trademark!
“You have ten minutes to get ready and be in the cafeteria, and twenty minutes from then to eat,” Rin pronounced. “And after that, you’re all mine again.”
The two witches exchanged looks. As an instructor, Rin was nothing if not a drill sergeant worthy of any cinematic military: ruthless, competent, and utterly terrifying. But she was effective - and on the other hand, dealing with her in this fashion made one future task much easier for them. Because really, compared to this, how much more terrifying could telling Ciel Aozaki about their relationship - and her true nature - be?
Neville sighed as he glanced around the greenhouse. This place had been his sanctuary and his joy for a lot of years, not to mention a not-inconsiderable source of income. He never liked leaving it at the end of summer, knowing that it would be summer again before he had a chance to properly look it over. This year in particular, however, he liked leaving the greenhouse even less - because there was every chance that either he wouldn’t be back again, or that it wouldn’t be standing when he returned.
In truth, though, he was cutting it dangerously close as it was. His situation wasn’t Harry Potter’s - he hadn’t been held up in the media as the “Chosen One” prophesied to save the world from Voldemort for over a year, making him too big a target to ignore - but neither was he someone Voldemort would simply pass over. Whether it was real or not, the prophecy that had driven Riddle to kill the Potters, and the Death Eaters to attack his parents was still something that Riddle believed in. And Riddle also believed that Neville was its subject.
Given that his seventeenth birthday was tomorrow, and he’d then be free to defend himself against attack, Neville had assumed that Riddle would try to eliminate him somehow, by now. So far, however, no attack had been forthcoming - but the young wizard wasn’t going to assume that there wasn’t an attack waiting, somewhere . . .
On the other hand, he’s lying low again - which means that the less attention he draws right now, the better, Neville reasoned. There’s no point in his going to all this effort in order to eliminate the ICW’s interest in Britain, only to stir it all back up again by making a grand spectacle. Especially since, so long as I’m returning to Hogwarts, he only has to wait to get his hands on me.
Which, he reasoned, also explained Riddle’s tactics when finally he had conquered Britain - why he’d hidden behind a Minister under the Imperius Curse. The answer was simple: because even aside from a disinterest in the day-to-day minutiae of ruling, if the rest of the world had been aware that England was under the control of a known Dark Lord, they’d have massed a veritable army against him. Even the student hostages at Hogwarts, however useful they might be in keeping the locals under his thumb, might not have swayed the invaders.
No, Neville understood why it was far easier for Riddle to have a puppet and scapegoat in place, leaving Riddle with the freedom to do as he wished, as the power behind the throne. And so, he’d felt relatively safe, waiting this long - but now things were too close, and it was time to move on - even if he and Gran didn’t have a wedding to attend.
The wedding was one of Neville’s bigger worries. When Riddle had decided, in the movie, to finally take Britain, he’d hit the Ministry first, even though the core group of his most dedicated enemies - including Harry Potter - was at the Burrow, instead. This time, the wedding was in France (the result of which had involved a fight that Ginny had described to him in detail, and that Neville was glad he hadn’t been anywhere near at the time). That made sense, of course, since it was traditional for the bride’s family to pay for everything. And theoretically, France would be safer, since it was out of Riddle’s comfort zone - but it was also in France, where a Death Eater attack would be scrutinised by the ICW, but not necessarily draw their attention back to England.
He could eliminate his enemies and leave his true target unprotected, still, Neville thought with a shiver. And while they’re scouring France to find them, he can move back in on England, and be running the place in short order, well hidden from the ICW’s scrutiny.
None of them had any doubt of Riddle’s ability to take England once Amelia Bones was out of office - there was just no strong candidate to replace her. And in fact, according to Gran, they’d likely choose someone weaker (sorry, “less aggressive”) to distance themselves from the wartime footing her administration had been characterised by. Which meant that whenever Riddle returned, he wouldn’t have nearly such a fight on his hands. And he would return, they were sure of that. It was just wasn’t in her nature to give up - and experience said that when he did poke his scaly head up out of his current hidey-hole, there would be a bloody army, or something equally threatening, behind it.
Which was why Neville was not returning to Hogwarts this year - not as a student, at any rate.
Because the students were hostages, in truth - insurance against their families’ good behaviour, under the Death Eaters’ rule. Luna’s treatment was proof enough of that. But they intended to organise a resistance at Hogwarts in order to force Riddle’s hand, because hostages were a double-edged sword. For fear of their safety, good people would do a lot of things - but as soon as that safety was compromised, they came down on the hostage-takers with extreme prejudice. The minute it became clear that their children were being tortured, or killed, those same desperate parents would be willing to do anything to protect them . . . Even if it meant striking back against the people who were hurting them, terrifying though they were.
By himself, Neville was too much of a target - but with the aid of an Invisibility Cloak they’d nicked a couple of summers back, the Marauders’ Map, and the two Fidelius-charmed boltholes they’d set up last year, he could do a lot as an invisible saboteur and support to whatever Ginny and Luna managed to set up. He’d become the Phantom of Hogwarts, everywhere and nowhere at once - and capable of striking at anyone, any time he chose.
That ought to quite properly terrify them, Neville thought with a smug smirk. And if not, I’ve still got a whole bag of tricks to play with . . .
The young wizard glanced at his mokeskin pouch, which had been fitted with an Undetectable Extension Charm. It had been as expensive as anything he’d ever bought before, but worth every Knut. The magic of the pouch itself made him the only one who could get into it, and the charm allowed it to contain everything he could think of that he might need, all in a container small enough to carry on his person. And it did contain pretty much everything he could think of, and that he’d been able to get his hands on, in case he’d had to vacate Longbottom Manor in a hurry. It was one of the new rules they’d all learned to live by, in the last couple of years: “Pack as though you’re never coming back.”
. . . And now, he wasn’t.
Once he stepped out of the greenhouse, that was it - it would be time to go, and he likely wouldn’t be back home until or unless Riddle and the rest of his scum were either dead, or in Azkaban. And even if things did go that way, there was no guarantee that he’d live long enough to see it, or that he’d be in any shape to recognise it if he did. Neville had only to look at his parents to understand the terrifying possibilities that lay ahead from this point forward. He and his friends had planned well, he thought, and they weren’t without advantages or hope - but the last couple of years provided ample evidence that they weren’t omniscient, omnipotent, or immortal.
Well, we’re not invincible, at least, Neville corrected himself. After all, technically speaking, Hermione is immortal - she’s just not eternal.
Regardless, from this point on, danger would be a constant companion, death a likely outcome, and he would almost certainly be on his own for much, if not all of what lay ahead.
And knowing that, Neville gathered up his pouch, and strode out of the greenhouse, locking it up behind him. Because he was, after all, a Gryffindor - and it was time Riddle and those like him knew that he’d been Sorted that way for a reason.
“Gran?” he called as he stepped into the manor proper.
“I’m here, Neville,” she called back. “You’re prepared?”
“All set,” he confirmed. “Are you sure that you’ll be all right?”
“Few people could imagine my leaving the manor,” she said drily. “In which case, I suspect I’ll be quite safe in France. We’ve owned a small beach house there for a generation or four - taking the air in France for one’s health was all the rage when I was a girl, you know - and while I suspect the house is somewhat worse for wear, we’ll soon have it back in shape.” She smiled. “And as no one’s used it since your parents were married, I imagine it’s been quite forgotten. I should be safe enough, Neville - and perhaps even some use, if the French Ministry requires a consultant.”
“As long as you’re sure,” he said.
“I’m quite sure, Neville,” his grandmother said sharply, and it caused Neville’s spine to unconsciously stiffen, as her tone and expression recalled the stern, disapproving dowager of his childhood years. Her voice was quite soft, however, as she murmured, “As I am equally sure that Frank and Alice could not be prouder of you than at this moment - and nor could I.”
“. . . Gran?” Neville said hoarsely. His parents were generally a subject that Was Not Talked About, and while she’d been freer in her praise since he’d started Hogwarts, this was an entirely different class of compliment.
“You know, as well as I do, what’s coming - you know what it means,” she said seriously. “Until now, you’ve always had your friends to rely on - and they’ve served you well, I admit it, and you them, in turn - but after last year . . .” Her face turned solemn. “Some of your friends are scattered to the four corners of the globe and, some are truly lost to you. This time, you will likely stand alone against the storm - because he will come for you, Neville. If he places any faith whatsoever in this prophecy, and history shows that he does, then he has to face you, and you him.”
His grandmother’s eyes were shrewd. “And you are prepared to meet that battle, as best you can be - are you not?”
“I’m still training and planning for it, Gran,” he admitted, “but I hope that when it comes, I will be.”
She nodded curtly. “As I expected. I don’t know all your preparations, Neville, and I don’t want to - what I don’t know, I can’t be made to tell. But no matter that your seventeenth birthday is tomorrow, today I see in you a young man who is every bit as fine as your father was - and your own man, still.”
It was likely the closest his grandmother would ever come to apologising for expecting him to be a carbon copy of his father, but at that moment Neville would’ve endured it all over again to hear the rest of those words.
“I’ll do my best to make you proud, Gran,” he promised hoarsely. “I’ll find a way to stop him.”
She smiled serenely, the way only the very old can smile, when they are at peace with their lives. “I’m certain that you will, Neville.” His grandmother held the smile in silence for a moment, and then barked, “Well! Come on, then - we’ve a wedding to attend, and they won’t hold that Portkey for us forever! Molly Weasley will have both our hides if you’re not there to escort Ginevra down the aisle, Neville, so hurry on!”
“Yes, Gran,” Neville said - not timidly, or sullenly, as he once might’ve, but with a grin so wide it threatened to split his face in half. “Whatever you say, Gran.”
Lord Voldemort considered the group before him - neither the greatest nor the least of the wizards under his command, though certainly the bulk of them. Detachments of them had been filtering into England slowly over the last month or so, preparing the way for the others. For some, it had been easy, as they’d had family to visit, or legitimate excuses such attending a Quidditch game, as England vied against their home country for the right to compete for the World Cup. Others had required a bit more stealth and finesse, but no one looked too closely at dealings within Knockturn Alley - and the goblins were sworn to neutrality, in any case. At this point, however, the result was that he had a small army available, a vanguard ready to open the way for he and his followers.
And it was one that he intended to use.
“How go the preparations, Barty?” the Dark Lord inquired pleasantly, for dealing with the last of the Crouch family very nearly was a pleasure. He was intelligent, talented, powerful, and loyal - a perfect workman’s tool in his hands, for that was where he served best. Bellatrix was his foremost killer, able to cow even savages like Fenrir Greyback, but Barty was his right hand, as Lucius Malfoy had once been - yet where Malfoy would attempt to solve a problem with money, or intimidation, Crouch had brains. As clever as Severus, and as devoted as Bella . . . These traits alone would have given Barty his favour, but Crouch was also successful in completing his tasks, which elevated him beyond all other Death Eaters, save perhaps Bellatrix.
And that, the Dark Lord mused, simply because I can’t have Bellatrix trying to kill him for it. The loss of either of them - or more likely, both - would be too great a hindrance to my plans.
“We’ll be ready on schedule, my Lord,” Crouch replied, “Three days at the utmost.” He hesitated slightly, but said nothing.
“Go on, Barty,” Lord Voldemort encouraged. “You, above all others, have earned the right to speak your mind.”
The younger wizard flushed with pleasure, but his voice was nevertheless hesitant as he asked, “Are you certain you don’t want to hit France first, my Lord? They’ll all be there - ”
“Indeed,” Voldemort admitted, “but why bother? So many of them will be unable to return to England, unable to interfere with my plans, even as they’ll know my hand in things when they see it, and the rest will return, directly into my grasp. No, Barty, Britain is the prize - why risk everything for a few pleasurable moments, when I can take what I’ve always sought, instead, and seek those pleasures later, at my leisure?”
“Of course, my Lord,” Crouch said in understanding. “My apologies for doubting you.”
“Doubt? From you, Barty? I think not,” the Dark Lord countered. “You simply lacked a complete grasp of my perspective - and as I said, if anyone has a right to such a thing, it is you, my most loyal, most successful Death Eater. Between you and Bellatrix, I have confidence that this time, we will achieve our goals.
“Britain will be ours - and the mudbloods and blood traitors will burn.”
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Update! :D. I find Ciel to be far more frightening than Rin. She has assault rifles! Takara and Hermione will eat those words.
The mighty Dark Lord has spoken! It's too bad laws and such never really stopped the Scarlet Seven.
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Great chapter's I am ver much enjoying it and have copyed it onto a notepad for when I get a new ereader
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Yay, update. Read it, now will sleep, comments tomorrow.
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Wow, after dealing with Takara's Vampire issues all last book, the Takara/Hermoine bit spammed the "warm and fuzzy feelings" button hard for me, and Rin in hard-ass mode was pretty damn amusing. I'm also *almost* surprised that Voldemort could ignore the gigantic bulls-eye in the room (almost :P).
The Neville segment took the cake, IMHO; He's almost gained a full rank in GAR from his thought processes and preparations alone,and the "Whatever you say, Gran.” leitmotif was really touching. The fact that you've made Grandma Longbottom(who I spent a good chunk of the original books wanting to punch) a compelling character is pretty awesome, too.
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Anyways, I've updated the epub,PDF, and added a zip of raw Markdown-formatted .txt to the new chapter. With my mighty Regex Sword of Asterisk Smiting, cleared out all the conversion oddities I could find, so books 1-6 should now be clean. I added all the youtube links into both versions, but a good chunk of links are dead, so you'll have to ask Kieran what the links were supposed to be to if youtube won't say the name.
epub: ****************************?b8uc5pr9foz4x1r
PDF: ****************************?xzq5adkdr2dkd5j
txt: ****************************?78rea7bks3zmz9c
To keep from polluting this thread with useless ebook updates, I'm going to keep all of the links the same from this point on and throw any important info as an edit on this post, and add something to my sig saying to what point the ebook is updated to. If anyone sees any errors in books 1-6, PM and I'll fix them ASAP. Also, I'm sorry about how lacklusterly the PDF is formatted still, but the LaTeX-Fu is weak in this one.
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EDIT: Fixed Book 4, chapter 29 getting truncated.