Chapter 11 - The Oath
November 9, 1991
Running through the forest is not as easy as television and the movies make it look. There’s no such thing as level ground, and in any dense concentration of woods there are roots, stones, holes, and other such snares, waiting to trip up anything moving unwarily. And the Forbidden Forest had its share of magical plants, capable of reacting more quickly, intelligently, and lethally than common flora. Therefore, it can safely be said that only a complete idiot would decide to run pell-mell through such treacherous terrain - so naturally, Galen streaked through the brush without a second thought.
To be entirely fair, he didn’t have a second thought to spare - his first ones were all based around locating the screamer, and doing whatever he could to alleviate the cause of the scream. Since he was presently without a wand, his options seemed limited to “distraction/meat shield,” but it was what he had to work with. And with luck, he might even manage to save the person in question before whatever it was killed him. Win-win situation.
The centaur - probably Firenze, he realised, the younger one who seemed to hold no outright antipathy for humans - had not followed. As far as his hearing could tell, he hadn’t moved at all. Pity - a centaur archer would be a handy guy to have along. They were good medics, too, as he recalled. Instead, whoever it was got him - a Sagittarian, true, but that wasn’t the same thing. Poor fool.
But who, he asked himself, would be suicidal enough - aside from the obvious - to be in here?
When he hit the clearing, he had his answer - and cursed silently but emphatically.
The protego horribilis spell had been as much accidental magic as anything else - and without a wand, he couldn’t count on focussing it well enough to even try. While this troll looked smaller, perhaps ten feet to the original’s twelve, it was the Harry Dresden rule of supernatural strength: for a human being, there’s not really much difference between facing a monster that could bench-press locomotives, versus one that could only juggle refrigerators. There was even less difference when the human being in question was a nearly twelve-year-old kid.
Still, he had to try something. While he was perfectly content to die knowing they were relatively safe and happy, he couldn’t walk away from this kind of situation - though the fact that he’d probably die anyway was a nice bonus.
Takara was the closest target for the troll - and while she had her wand out, he remembered how fast the bloody things were. More to the point, their duelling training under Flitwick so far had consisted of improving accuracy, speed, and magical control. Spells of any real power were still unknown to them.
Even though it was smaller, the troll had to weigh somewhere around two thousand pounds. If he tried to tackle it, he’d have about as much effect as a Nerf ball. But he’d always been pretty good at a running high jump . . .
Sucking in a lungful of air, Galen braced himself, then took off running again, pouring his emotional state into the loudest, most distracting scream he could manage.
Shirou cursed as he saw the troll set its sights on Takara. Flitwick had been talking about the differences between duellists in his last lecture - not just in power levels, or repertoire, but certain stylistic differences that could change the whole scope of an encounter.
Takara’s primary attribute was speed. She could fire off more spells than any of the others, and the diminutive professor admitted that when she came of age, she might be the fastest duellist alive. This translated into her physical movements, as well - she could evade and react better than any of them, so long as she had sufficient awareness to do so. Offensively speaking, her nature seemed to lean towards penetrative spells - things that didn’t necessarily carry a great deal of power, but were difficult if not impossible to block or shield. From what Shirou knew of her father’s reputation, and Takara’s own skills, it seemed almost a direct translation of her original abilities. She fought best by moving around the battlefield and using quick, invasive thrusts. She might not be able to floor a troll with one shot, but she could certainly give it the death of a thousand cuts.
Similarly, he seemed to excel at maintaining the power of his spells at incredibly long ranges. A standard spell might peter out at a distance of thirty or forty feet, assuming it didn’t hit something first. Certainly, it would weaken somewhat the longer it had to be held, as a matter of the caster’s power and concentration. With him, that didn’t happen - and he also seemed to have a knack for offensive spells. So tactically speaking, if Takara was best used as infantry or cavalry, he functioned best as heavy artillery, though he’d proven that was no slouch when it came to handling close up combat, either.
So, in some ways, they were in an ideal combat situation, where both of their specialties could be used to best effect. Unfortunately, neither of them had an arsenal to speak of. They were still limited to pretty much stinging or tickling hexes, which would only annoy the troll. Yes, they could blind it again, but that hadn’t helped too much the last time.
We need Galen, Shirou thought.
The third of their triumvirate had, as his overpowered spell had proven, an affinity for defensive spells. Shields, wards, counterspells - he could layer himself behind a nigh-impenetrable range of protection and then attack with relative impunity. Or, working in concert with one or both of them, bring down seemingly invincible foes in a remarkably short time.
Actually, from what he’d seen, Shirou thought he would do well partnered with Hermione. She was supposed to develop a wide array of spells, and be an excellent planner. In their mock duels, her weakness had always been time - if you could surprise her, keep her off-balance and reacting instead of thinking, she lost her advantage. But with Galen to shield her, she’d be able to bring her full abilities into play.
Unfortunately, he wasn’t here, and wandless in any case. And the troll wasn’t going to react to martial arts unless Galen was lucky enough to nail him in the crotch -
Chastising himself for missing the obvious, Shirou fired the strongest stinging hex he could muster into the aforementioned target zone. Unfortunately, the troll turned too far at the last second, and he only managed to hit it in the ass - though it did make the beast jump. It roared pretty impressively, too.
“Takara, get clear!” Shirou shouted.
Any answer the girl might’ve made was drowned out by a scream - a wild, tormented thing that preceded a blurred form slamming into the troll’s head.
Shirou winced. The way he’d landed, and was clinging, it looked like Galen was trying to hump the troll’s ear, and Shirou was going to need a good, stiff drink to destroy that image and any associated brain cells later. Still, Shirou had to admit his grip strength was impressive - as wildly as the troll was thrashing, it was a testament to the guy’s tenacity . . . Especially when Takara to repeat Shirou’s early tactic, this time successfully.
Howling in rage and agony, the troll dropped to its knees with a seismic thud, curling over its injured groin. Gravity and the sudden impact accomplished what determined effort had not, and Galen fell haphazardly before the troll, which raised its arm at the convenient target on which to vent its anger . . .
Hermione hastily spoke a few well-chosen words - from the sounds of it, with no small amount of panic - and the fur loincloth the troll wore suddenly burst into flames.
Shirou added a new memory to the “death by alcohol poisoning” list: the smell of burning troll jockstrap, along with the contents of same. On the other hand, it gave them an excellent opportunity to escape - they’d found Galen, and the troll was sure as hell distracted now, rolling away and screaming in agony as it tried desperately to end the roasting of its chestnuts.
. . . OK, that metaphor has to go, too, he decided.
Takara helped Galen, who was obviously somewhat unsteady, to his feet. The effort proved completely useless, however, when a bushy-haired missile chose that moment to hit its target.
Takara stared, caught between amusement and bemusement, as Galen was suddenly pinned beneath about thirty-odd kilos of sobbing witch. His expression was definitely more towards the latter expression, though. The hazards of an older mind in a younger body, she supposed. He obviously wasn’t entirely sure what to make of the situation - or what he wanted to. If they were both a little older, his reaction would be a lot clearer.
“Air’s a problem,” he finally said, his voice somewhat strained. When there was no sign of relenting, he croaked, “Hermione . . .”
Takara pointed out, “If you wanted to kill him yourself, you should have just said so.”
Hermione sprang off him like she’d been shot from a cannon, her expression mortified.
Galen inhaled with an expression of relief. “That’s better.” He sat up and gave them a quizzical look, including the approaching Shirou. “So, why on earth would you have been crazy enough to come out here?”
Takara grabbed him roughly and hauled him to his feet, taking her own turn to hug him. “We were looking for you, you incredibly dense prat! You had us terrified!”
She felt him relax in her arms, as she’d been waiting for him to do, and slammed her knee into his crotch. It was a pity she could no longer reinforce herself, but it had the desired effect nonetheless.
“If you ever try a stunt like that again, I’ll kill you myself!” she snapped.
She knew it was the wrong thing to say when she saw his face close up, his eyes suddenly empty of expression. They matched his voice as he asked, “Promise?”
Takara had never walked the bloody road he’d conjured for the others to journey to Faust’s tower - had never seen her Servant destroy Berserker. But looking at the alien expression in his face then, she understood what her mother had told her, before they’d fought Illyria.
“He didn’t choose the Avenger class by pulling it out of a hat . . . I think he’d kill you, if he was angry enough. Not to mention any other living thing he could get his hands on.”
Anger might be his driving force - indeed, she knew it was - but looking at him now was scarier, when he was looking at her as though she didn’t really exist. Not angry, but too empty to care, about anyone or anything. She understood now how he could be not just a warrior, but a killer. She’d only ever seen eyes like that once before: in the mirror, when they were reflected back as a bright, shining silver.
Takara shivered - and gave a start when Hermione chose that moment to jump him again. Her voice was muffled by his chest and probably some tears, but this close, she caught the gist of it.
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! You’ve been so nice - and I was so - so h - horrible! After you saved my life . . .”
“Given what just happened, we’ll call it even,” he said quietly, starting to tentatively stroke her hair. Takara noted that he still didn’t look entirely comfortable, but it appeared that he had certain instinctive behaviours when it came to crying girls. She filed it away as something good to know for future reference.
“That was a nifty bit of spellwork, even for you Hermione,” he offered. “And you’re usually impressive to begin with.”
“Me!” she sniffed, staring at him. “Books! And cleverness! There are more important things - friendship and bravery and - oh Galen - I’m sorry!”
Takara stared as she buried herself in him again. It appeared that in no universe, and under no circumstances, would Hermione Granger ever finish that list of more important things.
“We . . . We weren’t exactly f - fair, were we?” Neville said quietly. “W - we’re supposed to be . . . We’re - friends . . . Aren’t we?”
“I thought so,” Galen said neutrally. “Of course, we may have different definitions.”
Neville flinched, and Shirou scowled at him. Galen’s only response was another dead-eyed look.
Takara frowned. At this rate, they were going to end up killing each other. They needed away to get through to him . . .
A burst of fire appeared, as if in answer, resolving into the form of a majestic bird with scarlet and gold plumage. It settled from its midair point of appearance onto a nearby tree stump, gazed at each of them with eyes like black marbles, and opened its mouth. A crystalline note emerged from the bird, and a corresponding warmth filled Takara’s body, as though she just taken a deep draught of a very warm and rich blend of hot chocolate. The tension flowed out of her body in torrents, and she could see the others relaxing as well . . .
Except Galen, she realised, who acted as though the sound was that of nails on a chalkboard. She recalled dimly that Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them said phoenix song caused fear in the impure of heart. Is it him, or is this a side-effect of his lycanthropy?
Takara honestly wasn’t sure which thought was worse: that he was a far bigger monster than she’d ever believed, or that the curse he bore would go so far to deny him peace.
Hermione stared at the bird in wonder. “Is that a phoenix?”
“Fawkes,” Galen said, and his tone was even grimmer than before. “I take it the Headmaster has decided to get involved?”
In answer, the bird ducked its head in the direction of the long, slender box in its talons, atop which was a letter sealed with wax.
“That’s the Einzbern crest,” Shirou said in disbelief, before turning to stare at Takara. “What did you tell*her?”
“You got Ilya-dono involved in this?”
“Would you have listened to anyone else?” Takara fired back. “She said she had a plan to keep you from doing anything stupid - I guess this is it.” The girl shrugged. “I assume the letter is for you.”
Shirou checked. “Yup.” He handed it over to Galen, who broke the seal and read it silently, while Shirou picked up the box. It was, unsurprisingly, sealed tight, with no visible keyhole. The phoenix chose that moment to vanish in flames again, startling them all.
Hermione looked between the three of them, then back at Neville, who shrugged. Finally, unable to stifle her curiosity, she hesitantly asked, “What does it say?”
Galen glanced at her, then the rest, before reading aloud.
“Circumstances have apparently dictated that I have your birthday gift delivered early, so I have chosen the fastest means available. I hope it arrives in time.
I thought it appropriate, as a knight’s sword should be properly girded on by his lady, not a shopkeeper.
“However, think carefully before you accept it. This sword is far more powerful, and bears equally powerful responsibilities. In taking it up, you will oblige yourself to obey the commandments I give you - and you will find neither wand nor oath as easily broken as before. This is an adult’s choice, not a child’s game.
“An ye wish to abide by this, swear unto me as ye did to her, and ‘twill be thine.”
“Is your sister - entirely well?” Hermione asked Shirou cautiously. “She doesn’t sound . . .”
“Sane?” Shirou offered quietly. He smirked at Hermione and Neville, but kept his eyes on Galen, who was gazing contemplatively at the box. “Ilya can be childish for her age - and she enjoyed playing princess to Galen’s knight, don’t doubt it. The language is designed to remind him of that, because he’ll respond to it.”
“But the last line especially - such archaic terminology! And what’s she talking about? ‘Swear as he did to’ . . . Who?”
“Contracts can have formal language like that,” Neville offered hesitantly. “Like with the goblins, and such. Old treaties, too.”
The next several minutes passed in silence. Finally, Galen looked at Takara.
“I need your knife.”
She withdrew it - not the same heirloom blade her father bore, but stamped with the same crest. Also unlike that blade, it had enchantments to deal with locks - had she been ahead of Hermione in the third floor corridor, she could’ve used it then.
Takara looked at him steadily. “Are you sure?”
He gave her a steady look. “It’s my choice.”
And that, she realised, makes all the difference to him. She handed him the knife.
Hermione stared at the two of them in bewilderment. Neville stared instead at the razor-sharp length of stainless steel as it was unsheathed, swallowing hard. “Wh . . . Why do you need a - a knife?”
Takara answered, remembering as she did so, “Because this oath is sworn in blood.”
Neville joined Hermione in staring at her.
Galen delicately pricked his left palm, cupping the vermillion droplet that welled up. Carefully wiping the blade clean before sheathing it again, he handed it back to Takara, gazed at the wound, and then the box.
“Ilyasviel von Einzbern,” he intoned, in a voice that was quiet but implacable. “I will serve thy cause on my honour, and bind myself to thee, by blood and power, until the end. So I swear.”
He tilted his hand. The droplet fell, and flared alight on landing. The box opened of its own accord, revealing a length of wood in a leathery wrist holster, and a wax-sealed square of parchment. Underneath the seal was written, “Eleven inches. Lignum vitae and Mother’s hair. Very passionate.”
“Oh God,” Shirou muttered. “A wand with a temper to match yours. That’s not a disaster waiting to happen.”
“I’ll have to thank Lady Irisviel,” Galen murmured. “Would you mind helping me - I’m right-handed, and my left one’s injured.”
Takara removed the holstered wand, and reached across him to set it on the proper arm, but from where she was standing, she couldn’t quite reach all the way around to affix it properly. She frowned, straining to stretch just a little farther . . .
Hermione’s hands caught her own. Wordlessly, she delicately tightened and tied off the straps.
No one commented on their absence following the Quidditch match. As it was Saturday, they had no classes, and so no real reason to be expected anywhere. Thus, they could quietly sneak into an empty corner of the library to discuss things.
“What’s the message?” Hermione asked, as soon as she was certain she politely do so.
Galen broke the seal and checked. “My orders.”
“Which are?” she pressed.
“Much as before - to serve and protect her interests. Though she says I am now ‘enjoined to sacrifice my life only in the direct*defence of others, and when bereft of other options.’”
“She does know you entirely too well,” Shirou said with a smirk.
“What exactly are her interests?” Hermione queried hesitantly.
“Nonsexual,” Galen answered in a deadpan tone. Upon seeing Hermione flush to the roots of her hair (and Neville, too), he added with a grin, “You know you were thinking it.”
He shook his head. “Effectively, monitor the school for signs of Dark wizardry, try to stop them.” He traded a glance with Takara and Shirou that indicated it was a bit more complicated than that, but nothing he’d reveal here and now.
“I wonder who did curse your broom, Takara,” Neville mused. “It was a nasty prank. You could’ve been killed, in front of everybody. Even Professor Dumbledore!”
Galen suddenly understood.
“That was the point,” he said. “Dumbledore’s already being scrutinised over the troll incident. If less than a week after two ICW-level Aurors come to Hogwarts with concerns about the school’s safety, their child is killed by Dark magic, right in front of the Headmaster. What do you think happens then?”
“They’d launch a full investigation,” Neville said with certainty. “Professor Dumbledore would be suspended, maybe even sacked or arrested for negligence. Hogwarts might even be closed down!”
Galen had forgotten the boy’s parents were Aurors. That he knew something of their procedures made sense, as a way to connect to his lost family.
“And if they found the cerberus on the third-floor corridor?”
“They’d investigate - probably impound or kill it.”
“Along with any other security measures,” Galen said urgently.
Shirou blinked. “I’ll be damned - it was all a diversion, wasn’t it?”
“Look at the repercussions - at the absolute minimum, Dumbledore, arguably the world’s most powerful wizard, is ousted from the castle. Even if he’s replaced immediately, whoever they bring in can’t be nearly as formidable. If the ICW goes so far as to discover the dog and what it’s guarding, and bring it out into the open . . .”
“It’s that much easier to steal!” Hermione said in understanding.
“And even if they don’t, and just close the school down, any wannabe thief then effectively has unlimited time to try for the prize undisturbed,” Galen finished. “No matter how it played out, Takara’s death in that match would’ve gained him something. I believe the phrase ‘diabolically brilliant’ can be rightfully applied.”
Inwardly, however, he was thinking, This universe has a Dumbledore with balls, and a Voldemort with a brain - we’re fucked.
“What can we do?” Neville wondered.
“We need to tell Professor McGonagall,” Hermione said immediately.
But that trick never works, Galen thought. Aloud, he said, “And say what, Hermione? ‘Excuse us, Professor, but the supersecret treasure we think is hidden on the third floor, in a corridor we weren’t supposed to be in, is being targeted by a mystery thief - we don’t know who - who keeps trying to kill students to either divert everybody’s attention or eliminate the Headmaster so he, she or they have a clear shot? Incidentally, Professor we can’t actually prove any of this, but we’re earnest eleven and twelve-year olds, so you should believe us?’”
Hermione looked crestfallen. “I suppose it does sound kind of silly . . .”
“It’s a nice idea,” he said kindly, smiling at her, “but it’s not practical in this case. Neither is going to the Aurors, right?”
Shirou and Takara shook their heads, the latter saying, “Assuming they didn’t just ignore us, we’d get in trouble for causing mischief.”
“Then if we can’t go to the teachers or the Aurors . . . ” Neville wondered aloud, “what should we do about the thief?”
Galen grinned. “The only thing we can do - beat him to it.”
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Originally Posted by shiningphoenix
