Crown of Thorns

Chapter IV: Illusions

We barely remember what came before this precious moment,

Choosing to be here right now. Hold on, stay inside...

This body holding me, reminding me that I am not alone in

This body makes me feel eternal. All this pain is an illusion.

-Parabol by Tool (Lateralus)

________________________________________________________________________

"Complaints from Scotland, from Ireland--both North and South, and they never agree on anything--and the biggest amount from Wales. Complaints from our own England, from France, from Germany, from Switzerland, Austria, Italy, Spain, Portugal, etcetera. We've got the White Dragon rising in the Magical People's Republic of China. We've got Susano's Children in Japan, and the Pure Society in the Americas, Europe, and Africa. There's the Elder Ones in Egypt, and at least seven of these damned organizations in Britain. The Elder Death Eaters, who aren't quite dead yet. The Bloodstorm in Wales, led by some faceless freak in a hooded robe. And their rival, the Chimæra. The Servants of the Skull in Ireland, and Phantom Sun in Scotland. We've even got the Devourers in London--they bombed Hyde Park last week!--and a French organization operating in both France and Wales. They call themselves the Lutèceans. They're devoted to the memory of Catherine Deshayes, later called Catherine Montvoisin." Martin Brown, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, took a deep breath.

"You've done your utmost to destroy them, Cassandra. But you have to admit--they aren't going to die out anytime soon," said Dumbledore gently.

Cassandra crumpled. "I know." The Minister of Magic was a graduate of Hogwarts. Poor Cornelius Fudge had been killed by rogue dementors during the brief return of Salazar Slytherin. Arthur Weasley had taken the job for a while, but after the chaotic events that had ensued the latest fall of the Dark Lord, he had backed away from the position and had shook his head violently. He was now employed by the Ministry to study Muggles. Cassandra Gibson, at twenty-five, became the youngest female Minister of Magic ever. Her time in office had brought ruthless hunting of Death Eaters, and the Dementor's Kiss for anyone barely associated with the Dark Lord. Some complained about this, but the Beast had laid down its ugly head for a while, and some began to call this era the Pax Gibsonica.

Evidently, this peace had just ended.

"That damned Catherine Malfoy is rumored to be in China," continued Brown. "But Director Li is being most uncooperative. The Chinese seem to think that a woman can't do much harm."

"A foreign woman," corrected the Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation, Percy Weasley. "One of the last empresses was a... erm... tyrant. Forget the name. On the tip of my tongue."

"Well, if we haven't heard from her, I doubt we will," said Cassandra.

"What, the Empress?" asked Head of the Department of Magical Catastrophes, Jonas Fletcher vaguely.

"No, not Empress-Dowager Tzu-Hsi," said Dumbledore kindly. He was the only one who attempted to explain things to him these days. They were all well aware that he was good with dealing with illegal Apparating and that embarrassing incident last summer with the constipated dragon (located in the files of 'I wouldn't ask if I were you'). But he was as quick on the uptake as a tortoise after four beers and just as intelligent.

"Not Tzu-Hsi..." said Alastor Moody somewhat absently, a distant and slightly homicidal look on his face. It was heightened by the fact that his glass eye seemed to be looking somewhere other than his real eye. Somewhere that was possibly not in the physical realm. "Catherine Malfoy."

"Oh," said Fletcher, looking just about as lucid as a particularly retarded sheep.

"Bugger Catherine Malfoy," said Brown, an expression on his face that was near close to tears.

Henry Cromwell, the Head of the Department of Mysteries, muttered something that would have ended up on TV as Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep. "That woman's confounded us for decades--files on her were removed during the confusion of the Years of Terror--we have our suspicions but--"

"She's Catherine Deshayes," said Mad-eye Moody. "I've said this before--"

"But it's bloody impossible!" expounded Cromwell.

"It's bloody not! Flamel--"

"There has not been a major working of magic that has not been registered or found in fifty years--"

"You know very well that--"

"Quiet!" shouted Cassandra Gibson, hands over ears. "If that Malfoy woman ever shows up again, set a Hit Wizard on her. If you want, get a whole bloody squad. But for now, we need to stamp out the fire that's raging in our own country."

Moody, Brown, and Cromwell all exchanged looks that reached across the vast chasms between departments. This Gibson girl was too young to understand. And too bloody female. It was Catherine Malfoy. The very same Malfoy woman (who, although she had only married into the family, seemed to have had a remarkable instinct for allying herself with trouble) who reduced the most hardened and cynical Aurors to tears. The same Catherine Malfoy who had the thickest file in the ministry, even after information was destroyed during the Years of Terror. Of course, this was because Moody continued to insist that she was Deshayes (and brought loads of documents to prove it) and Cromwell insisted that she wasn't (and also brought loads of evidence). Catherine Malfoy. She was a bloody woman. She was bloody American woman. Or at least a Frenchwoman who immigrated to America, but anyone stupid enough to leave Europe for America, was definitely American.

Catherine Malfoy. French. American. Woman. And still the most 'bugger-all-this!' case in all the Departments involving breaking the law, and seeming accidents.

Even Fletcher understood. And Fletcher had a hard time understanding anything that didn't involve people seeing dragons after something that a street vendor called a sausage-inna-bun.

"Well," began Jonas Fletcher, trying to explain to Cassandra Gibson just who exactly Catherine Malfoy was. "You see, it's like a dragon and alka-seltzer. You know those new security spells a year back, that disguised runaway dragons as ordinary birds? Well, this girl just happened to feed the seagull an alka-seltzer. You know? It's just fate. You can't muck around without magic without mucking about with destiny. It's like a law. Out of all the seagulls, it has to be the one that's really a dragon. Out of all the dragons it has to be the one that's really big and also genetically defected so its blood is pretty acidic. And then everything sort of just roils up and writhes and then it's not just one dragon, it's chunks of it that just happen to drip burning stuff on you. And then the Office of Misinformation has to go and make up some story off the top of their minds, radioactive sewage and what not... don't feed a seagull an alka-seltzer--"

Cassandra was beginning to get the kind of glazed look typical of what people get when Fletcher talks to them.

At that moment, both Moody's and Brown's pagers cleared nonexistent throats.

"The American government," said Brown's pager crisply.

"News from the American government, sir," trembled Moody's pager.

"Later," said Brown, turning his pager off without another word.

"I'm in a bloody meeting," growled Moody.

"It's urgent, sir. Red alert." The two Aurors' expressions changed.

With a sigh, Cassandra pressed a button that added the fireplace of the Council Room to the Network. A fireplace always connected to the Network would mean that they could be spied on. The Disconjoiner had been invented by Arthur Weasley, so that he could receive messages while in a meeting.

The Magical American President looked worried. "Minister Gibson, I'm sorry to interrupt your meeting, but, er..." President Jamison ran a finger under his collar. He heaved a great sigh.

"Spill it, man," said Cassandra grimly.

"Mr. Brown, Mr. Moody... I regret to inform you that a British Auror was murdered four hours ago."

Moody half rose out of his seat. "Who?" he breathed, his eyes (both glass and real) looking almost red.

The president cringed. "His Apparating license said Alexander Blair."

Moody slumped into his chair.

"Not Blair..." mumbled Brown. "Not Blair..."

"I'm very sorry to hear of your loss," said President Jamison in what seemed to Cassandra, an automatic voice.

Dumbledore's expression was unreadable.

"Who killed him?" asked Cassandra, her mouth twisting into a wry smile--an expression that Dumbledore recognized as a bad sign.

"Our Aurors are on the job," said Jamison.

"In other words," she said pleasantly (another bad sign), "You don't know."

"No. We don't."

Moody spoke up, a murderous look glazed over his face. "How was Blair killed?"

"An unknown curse."

"We'll be sending over a team of Aurors and experts," said Cassandra with an even more pleasant smile. "Thank you." She disconnected the fireplace and cursed.

"You sent Blair to track down records on Hesper Malfoy, didn't you?"

Mad-eye Moody looked at Dumbledore, his face stricken with grief. "Yes. I did."

Albus Dumbledore, headmaster of Hogwarts, said nothing. Then, "I'm very sorry, Alastor."

"I'm sorry too," said Moody. "Sorry for the bastard who murdered him."

******************

Nothing was going right for Stephanie Smith that day. She was stuck in rush hour, she was going to miss her date with her boyfriend, and she hadn't had any coffee that morning. Her veins were screaming, caffeine, now... caffeine!!!

And then a motorcycle came out of nowhere and cut her off. Stephanie cursed with fluent precision, honked indignantly, and waved at the rider with an angry finger.

Other cars honked. But not all in resentment.

It could have been the black leather. It could have been the shiny red motorcycle. It could have also been HELLSPAWN picked out in silver rhinestones on the back of her jacket.

The rider's helmet was black with a design of silver roses running around in a circle.

Stephanie cursed again. "You goddamn came out of nowhere, you bloody motherfucker!" she screeched at the motorcycle rider.

The woman ignored her. It may have been A Perfect Circle blasting away on her headphones. It may have simply been being accustomed to all the attention.

Overcome by your moving temple

Overcome by this holiest of altars

So pure, so rare

To witness such an earthly goddess

That I've lost my self control

Beyond compelled to throw this dollar down

Before your holiest of altars

I'd sell my soul

My self-esteem a dollar at a time

One chance, one kiss

One taste of you my Magdalena.

Stephanie Smith did not know the woman was leaving the Magical Side of New York. She did not know that hundreds of American Aurors were looking for her. She did not know that the woman had just caused an international crisis--and that that crisis would be the first in a wave of disaster for the United Kingdom.

Even if she had, she couldn't have cursed louder.

******************

"'The fifth element, or the quintessence, can be found through purification and--' oh, bugger all."

Hermione pushed away the textbook and lay back on her bed. She closed her eyes and thought about years gone past. It seemed so long... and yet it had only been a year. No, a year and a half.

The Dark Lord's yellow cat-eyes... Harry's face full of hurt and pain... Draco tremblingly reaching for his wand even as Lucius Malfoy's foot came down slowly, ponderously, on his left hand... Ron screaming at the top of his lungs as the Death Eaters tried to strip his soul from his body...

None of us were the same afterwards, Hermione reflected. Ron's been... shallower. As if he's trying to drown himself in mundanity. Draco is hiding deeper pain. His wit is even more brittle than before. Merlin knows he tries to relax, but he is doubled over with pain inside. We all tried to protect each other...especially Ginny.

I wonder...maybe this rift in communication is only our fault.

And Harry...

She didn't want to think about Harry.

He had only plunged into deeper depression after Voldemort's death. Months had passed before she had seen a smile pass across his face.

And as for herself, Hermione had fallen apart inside after--

No. She didn't want to think about it.

Her eyes screwed shut, so she couldn't see the Muggle photograph sitting on her desk.

They had all lost so much to win. The Death Eaters had insinuated themselves into the Ministry, among the people they knew, and all around them. They were everywhere. Even at home.

No, she didn't want to think about it.

She remembered that it was May when Ginny urged them to go to the party that Lavender and Dean were hosting.

May. A month after the end of the Silent War.

Silence in the streets. Silence in Diagon Alley, even. Silence inside homes, perhaps. Afraid to move, afraid to breathe. No one knew what was happening. Not even Albus Dumbledore.

Thank Merlin that the Death Eaters had been defeated before they began their holocaust of Muggles and the Muggle-born.

Evil defeated... at a terrible price.

She remembered that Harry didn't laugh at the party. He only gave a sickly grin... Ron immersed himself around girls. Draco had silently glided about, chatting to one or another, sipping his drink placidly, no one able to see the hurt behind immaculate silver eyes.

The radio was blaring, she remembered. The music of Nimue Reed had been interrupted by a news report. Cassandra Gibson's temporary government was done with, but her administration was by no means over.

No one else had stepped forward. No one else had been willing to come forth and be Minister in a time of terror and suspicion.

She was now Minister in name, and the executions of Death Eaters continued.

How many trials had not been carried out to the full? How many innocents had died? And would Draco also have been sentenced if not for the only too obvious evidence? Was this Peace of Cassandra Gibson only based on bloodshed?

Hermione remembered Harry's emerald eyes riveted on the radio. He had whispered, "She'll never bend. She'll just snap."

Six months passed. Hermione and Harry had slowly been drifting apart. She went home--home, among Muggles--for a while. Surrounded by her books, she tried to put the events of the Silent War together. But she couldn't. She had to start a year before... when Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter became more than best friends--they became brothers.

Uncertainty churning about in her head, she had tried to write it down. Write it all down.

The smell of magic... the sound of 'crucio!' drowned out by the overwhelming pain. Harry, her Harry, forced to give up as the wand was pointed at her. "Don't give up," she had shrieked. "Don't you dare give up!"

But he had. He had looked at Lucius Malfoy with smoldering hatred, and at her with the kind of love that made her feel like the ground had suddenly gone missing. Her eyes had slowly filled with tears, and she had shouted at him, but the wand was prodding her back, and Lucius' voice said softly, "Crucio."

And she was dimly aware of someone screaming, and Harry crying, "Don't hurt her!"

"Finite Incantatem." And the pain was over, and white-hot streaks still burned in front of her eyes. "Oh, Harry," she had cried over and over again as they clapped the adamantine cuff on his hand. He had only looked at her with despair that was bottomless--and she knew, she had been the undoing of him.

Tears trickled out of her eyes, and she opened them, her room blurring in front of her. She blinked and everything came into focus-- including the photograph on her desk.

The photograph of her dead parents.

******************

It was a hellish afternoon in Druid College University. Students had fled for town, away from blistering lecture halls. Others hid in too-warm dorm rooms, setting up their own cooling spells or crowding into rooms whose occupants who were skilled enough to do so.

The art studio, the rectangular, high-ceilinged room with long tables and tall windows, was empty. Save for a lone figure, gently caressing modeling clay into the form of a dragon. Her hair, face, arms, and clothes were smudged with the beige clay. Her silver eyes looked iridescent as she, enraptured by her work, shaped the clay.

She didn't notice the heat. She didn't notice that she was ever-so-slightly dizzy and that she should go and drink a lot of water. Enough to make anyone else start squelching.

She didn't look up when a shadow fell over the dragon. "Hello," she said, wiping the sweat from her eyes.

"Are you alright?"

"I'm okay," she said automatically, frowning as she poked at the dragon's wings.

"You don't look okay."

"I'm fine." There was the kind of glitter in her eye that smart people run away from. The brilliance of insanity.

Or in this case, extreme dehydration in a magical environment.

A bottle of lukewarm water thumped the table, landing right beside the dragon. "Drink it," he said in a warning tone.

Hesper looked up into Charlie's serious face. "Okay," she shrugged. She emptied the bottle, and set it down on the table. Or tried to. It bounced off and clattered onto the floor. "Yecch." She made a face. "Tastes like clay."

"It would," Charlie pointed out, "if you had clay all over your face and hands."

Hesper explored the skin of her face, smudging it even more. "Oh."

"Are you alright?" he asked again.

"Yes. What are you doing here anyway?" she asked belligerently.

"There are wards against health hazards," he said. "Not that you're a health hazard, but dehydration is one, and the spells went off and indicated the studio. Nobody wanted to leave the cooling spells in the Teacher's Lounge, so they made me go." He held out another bottle of water.

Hesper squinted at it. "Dehydration isn't that dangerous."

"It is, if you're around a lot of magic."

"Oh." Hesper looked like she knew that already, but her mind was probably wandering off on its own. She examined the bottle. "I don't need it," she declared.

"Yes you do."

"Nooo..." she disagreed, a slightly distracted look on her face. "You don't believe me."

"Of course I believe you," said Charlie dryly. "Now drink the water."

Hesper swayed slightly.

Oh great, thought Charlie. What did Dr. Elliot say symptoms of Magical Shock Through Dehydration would be? She had rattled a lot of terms off really quickly, then simply said, "Look, she's going to be kind of like a really belligerent toddler. But just remember, after a few more hours without water, she might go out of her body." Charlie had been horrified. "Die?" "Of course not," Dr. Elliot had snapped. "I mean she'll go around wandering. In other dimensions. Find herself in Faerie, the Between-Spaces, all sorts of nasty places. I know that it'll be hard--I have a three-year-old son--but if she doesn't come back to her body, we're going to have to invoke a demon or a god or whatever they invoke nowadays." Charlie knew about demons, gods, and anthropomorphic personalities (also called WTIN, Whatever They Invoke Nowadays). There were rules, of course, but you couldn't be sure if the WTIN knew about them. Sod MSTD. Why can't people refuse to drink water outside of a sorcerous environment?

"Drink it," said Charlie patiently.

"No."

He decided to take another approach, one that he hadn't taken since Fred and George had grown up. Ron and Ginny had never really been that troublesome. In fact, Charlie doubted that anyone in the world could be as troublesome as Gred and Forge at age four.

"Fine then," said Charlie. "Don't drink it."

"Okay," said Hesper.

"I'm just going to set this right here," he put it on the table behind him, "and you're not allowed to drink it."

Hesper glared at him.

"Don't drink it, alright?"

An excruciating glare. The twins weren't as good at that as she was. Rather, they weren't good at glaring at all, and Hesper was a Malfoy. Her silver eyes bored into him.

"Give it to me."

He wondered what she had been like when she was a toddler.

"No," said Charlie.

"Now."

Charlie handed it to her, and still glaring, she emptied that bottle also.

There was a moment of blistering silence in the studio. Then Hesper said, "What was in that potion?"

"No clue."

"It tasted like... armpit. And now the taste is sort of... burning away. Leaving my mouth... really dry."

Charlie made a mental note to drink at least six cups of water everyday. And that dehydration was okay, but only far, far away from magic.

Hesper's eyes unfocused and focused again. "So... what are the side effects of the potion?"

"Dunno," said Charlie. Inwardly he thought, Lightheadedness, Delirium, and Rambling that lasts for about two hours.

He couldn't exactly see her delirious. Even in Belligerent-Toddler mode, she had maintained a proud and disdainful composure. Even while he was reminded of George and Fred and the dreaded bath, he was still keenly aware of how beautiful she was. Her black hair was long and damp, her silver eyes brilliant--almost iridescent. And the bright flush in her cheeks... And the Malfoy haughtiness had not rubbed off as 'What a sodding git!' but rather as 'She's got a temper, but...'

The sentence hung in the air. It could have been filled in with '... but she's probably good on the inside,' which might not exactly be appropriate for a Malfoy. Decent, maybe, but definitely not 'good.' It could have been filled in with '... but she's got a nice personality.' A personality, definitely, but not a nice one.

But most probably, it would be more like, 'She's got a temper, but... look at those legs!'

Charlie studiously kept his eyes off them.

The delirium seemed to be setting in as Hesper returned to her work. The Common Welsh Green glared at Charlie with a baleful eye. It didn't bother Charlie much--it's when a dragon grins at you that you should be scared--but he knew that it wouldn't be very pleasant for Professor Lyons.

"Has anyone loved you so much, you were crushed and broken underneath all that love, and you just had to get away from it all?" she asked thoughtfully.

It hit him so hard that for a moment he could breathe. Like Liz. "No, not really," he lied.

Hesper pondered that. "I think I have. I'm not so sure what happened, but one day I woke up and I hated him."

Like Liz. He remembered her hanging onto his arm, almost as if he was a prize to be flaunted. Trying to shape him into the boyfriend she wanted. Not understanding that he wanted to get away from her love, not from Liz herself.

In the end, it was all the same. The break up. The pain of being alone, curiously refreshing now that he was out from beneath her love.

She was shaping the dragon, almost savagely. "We're just clay," she said. "Obligations and responsibility shape us... Our choices have little to do with anything. Everyone wants me to do something, and I don't want to do anything."

"I know," he said, half to himself.

"The snake is hissing," she said quietly. "My blood before me begs me to open up my heart again. But why should I? There's nothing left to desecrate anyway."

"Everyone has to open up in the end," said Charlie. "Otherwise you suffocate."

"Open up to what? What is there to breathe? Carbon monoxide?"

"You've got to take chances, sooner or later."

Hesper's hands fluttered over the dragon. "Obligation blinds us to what we want. Duty takes over necessity. And then our souls begin to die."

Charlie said nothing.

"We destroy to fill ourselves. But we've been destroyed, and we can never be filled."

"Maybe," Charlie said. "Maybe. Or maybe not."

"Best answer in the world." She looked down at the dragon. "Well," she said to herself. "Why not?" And with one deft movement she smashed the dragon under the heel of her palm and turned around to do the last thing that Charlie expected.

The touch of her lips was electrifying. He pulled away, and for an eternal instant in time, silver eyes looked into brown. His hand entwined in her long black hair, damp with sweat and smelling sweet. She smelled like lavender.

The stillness of the air seemed to burn while time suspended, like crisp white linen singeing under the heat of a forgotten iron. A bead of sweat rolled down his neck and her uneven breathing mingled with his before he leaned in closer and their lips met once more.

******************

A lone figure stomped through the wilting grass on the way to the studio. "Just wanted to see Charlie," it grumbled. "Bloody teachers. Don't want to leave their bloody cooling spells. Just came in to see Charlie, and next thing I know, I'm sent off with a bunch of bloody potions disguised as water. Bloody stupid. Bloody hot."

Ginny Weasley muttered about the injustice of the world, then pushed open the door of the studio.

The first thing she saw was a lump of clay. Pretty ordinary. The next thing caused her to be utterly speechless.

Then she swore.

Charlie and Hesper jumped apart guiltily; looking stunned, surprised, and betrayed. But Ginny felt that they had backed off each other rather reluctantly.

She swore again, her eyes focusing and unfocusing on Charlie. She felt as if someone had hit her with a brick that just happened to be attached to an enormous boulder.

Embarrassment was beginning to set in for the two. Twin spots burned crimson on Hesper's face, but there was something else also. Fear.

Her hand flew to her neck. "It's breaking," she said, wide-eyed. And she fled.

Charlie just looked stunned.

"What have you not been telling me?" asked Ginny incredulous (the sentence liberally sprinkled with words Charlie would have normally pounced on her for saying).

Charlie continued to look stunned. Then he sprinted after Hesper.

Ginny said something that should have landed her in Azkaban. "What happened?" demanded Ginny dazedly to the empty studio. The crushed dragon sat on the table. Part lump of drying clay, part perfect talons, and bits of awe-inspiring wing, it sat in the hellish day.

*******************

One moment, it was just a scorchingly hot dorm room, the heat heavy and oppressive. The sunlight was slow and sluggish, sapping the energy out of everyone.

The next moment, Harry Potter rolled off his bed. Two seconds later he was puzzled and embarrassed. Another second later, he wasn't.

Instinct does that to you sometimes. Makes you do something completely and outrageously stupid.

And yet it still saves your life.

The arrow hit the wall, skewering a poster of the Chudley Cannons--then a few more thudded into a rather surprised Silvia Keel, Chaser for the Cannons. Her eyes narrowed and she gave the unknown assassin the finger while mouthing words that she could not say.

"That poster cost me nine Sickles," he heard himself say indignantly.

Then it hit him. The realization, that is, not the arrows, which had now peppered the entire team. "Ohshit."

Someone was trying to kill him.

Again.

******************

Charlie caught up with her eventually. He grabbed her by the shoulders. She didn't turn around, only faced the same direction. "Look--I--"

Her hand was clutching something at her neck. "It's shattering," she said hoarsely. "It's shattering."

"I--"

"It's shattering."

"It wasn't--"

"You, me." Hesper turned to look up into his face. With shock, Charlie noted the tears tumbling down her face. "It's impossible. It's completely, absolutely, absurdly impossible."

"I--" he began, for the first time getting the chance to complete a sentence. But Charlie closed his mouth. Then said, "I'm sorry." And forced himself to walk away.

She watched him go... then also turned her back, clutching shards of glass in one hand.

*******************

Draco Malfoy's eyes flew open. "Sodding hell." He Apparated before he realized what he was doing--

Ron Weasley, sitting across from his current girlfriend, Amy, at the Ki-Lin, blinked. He thought he saw something... but his Diviner-sense had been taken from him during the Silent War. Along with much of what made him himself. And yet... a flicker... and arrow... a familiar head with dark, tousled hair crouching behind a bed...

He had lost much, but he hadn't lost his friends--

The bracelet linking her to Harry went cold against her skin. A soundless scream echoed in her head, and she rushed out of her room, brown eyes wide open and manic, dragging an Alchemy textbook with her--

Ginny Weasley was running toward her dorm room when she thought she--no, it was her imagination--

Harry groped for his wand, cursing under his breath. Another arrow thudded into the wall. It was over.

It had to be.

The wand rolled away from him.

Don't be stupid. You're a damn Magid.

"Accio wand!"

******************

"I know you're a witch."

"Fuck off," said Hesper. The old woman tottered, leaning on her gnarled cane.

"Rude child. In the olden days--"

"The olden days are over," she snapped. "The olden days have always been over."

"BURN 'EM ALL!" shouted the hag suddenly, waving her cane. "Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust! Send Satan's children back to hell!"

"Shut up."

The old woman toppled over and started to blubber in the dust.

With an exasperated sigh, Hesper tossed aside her broom and heaved the old woman back on her feet. "I know you're a witch," said the crone. "I have my ways. They all laugh, but I have a horseshoe on my door, I do. They're all off to play rugby. But I wun't have witches burnin' up me house, oh no."

Hesper picked up her Thunderswoop 99, and turned to the chapel.

"And dun't think you can get away from God's holy wrath!" bellowed the old woman. "Ye witches are damned to hell!" After waving the cane about, she turned and tottered back to her home.

The residents of the small Muggle village were away to a rugby game, like the crazy old woman had said. The chapel was empty.

Racing into her room and grabbing her Thunderswoop from the closet and jumping out the window trying to lose her sorrows in the clouds dripping she landed and realized it was here

Hesper reached out against the door and pushed against the darkened wood. Her steps echoed as she walked up to the altar.

The church was off-white and dark brown and tarnished silver.

She stared at the suffering Christ, who gazed back at her from His cross. The Holy Virgin stood on the altar, hand raised in benediction, but her face bored and uncaring. Dying flowers filled the air with a sweet and sickly fragrance. A priest had been buried under the altar ten years before the Black Plague had struck the village. He had died of influenza.

Ten years later, the churchyard was filled with his flock. No one survived, except for a young man who buried them all. In the end, he fainted beneath the crucifix. His skeleton was finally found after decades... when the population began to grow again.

He was finally shriven and put to rest in a corner of the churchyard.

Darwin was an idiot.

All the truly good people stayed and died. Everyone else died or ran away--carrying the Plague or escaping it, carrying on their cowardly genes.

All the good people... She closed her eyes, but the images kept flashing beneath her eyelids.

It's never the survival of the fittest. It's degeneration. Degradation. Entropy.

Foolish Darwin. Typical of a Muggle.

"You heard her," said Hesper abruptly, opening her eyes at last. "Damned to hell."

Silence.

"Are we?"

She walked up to the altar, to the sickly sweet incense of the dying flowers, her footsteps echoing in the empty chapel.

She stood for a moment, before the altar, and opened her hand slowly. The pieces of glass dug into her hand, and blood dripped onto the floor. The shards may have once been a blue glass heart.

Hesper flung the pieces away, one large shard clanging against a brass candlestick. Fragments smashed onto the floor. The pieces lay there, gleaming in the dim light.

She clutched at her neck, to the empty silver chain. Empty except for a jagged piece of glass that had gouged into her pale skin. "It's shattered," she whispered. She tore the chain off her neck, biting her lip as her skin blossomed in pain. The necklace clattered to the floor.

And she knelt, her head laid down at the altar, her grey eyes closed and her cheeks flushed pink with the heat. And she remembered.

She was five. She had returned from Sunday School with Mommy and Daddy. A grand lady was waiting at the door. She clutched at Mommy's hand. There was something in the lady's dark green eyes that she did not like.

"Why, good afternoon," said Mommy graciously.

"Good afternoon," said the lady, her smile like a pointed 'v.' She was dressed in a flowing dark green velvet skirt and black satin blouse with wide sleeves. The lady had a great deal of green gems--emeralds, she remembered; Daddy, who was a jeweler, had taught her--and her black hair was put up in a little silken net. "I'm here from the Agency..." Her words blended into Mommy's cries of shocks, and Daddy's indignation. The lady handed them a paper, and Daddy looked at it with anger, looked up from it with grief.

"Eva," cried Mommy. "Eva, Eva, Eva." Mommy clasped her and hot tears flowed into her hair.

The lady was here to take her away.

She packed her bags, Mommy crying all the while, and the lady sat in the living room quite gracefully, with the same pointed smile on her face.

She wasn't afraid. No.

And the memories came rushing down a flood in her mind: an angry, destructive flood.

She held the lady's hand and followed her into the sleek black limousine. "To the Mansion, Thomas," she ordered the chauffeur, and pressed the button to close the little window-thing between him and them. She watched, fascinated. The lady pronounced 'Thomas' 'Toh-mah.' And for some reason, it sounded right.

The lady turned to her. "Your name isn't Eva Malloy," she said in a matter-of-fact voice.

"I know," she replied, something in her heart twisting. "Will you tell me what my name is?"

The lady was taken aback. She began to laugh. "You are the daughter of your father, truly." She opened a compartment and pulled out a little tin box. She opened it, revealing it to be full of marzipans in all sorts of pretty shapes. "Have one," said the lady with a smile.

She took the one shaped like a star, but did not eat it. "Please," she said. "Tell me my name."

"First I will tell you mine. I am Cathérine Malfoy." She pronounced it 'Katrine' and that sounded right too. "But you will call me Grandmère."

"Grandmère..." she rolled it over in her mouth. She liked the sound of it.

"Good," said Grandmère with approval. "You are a true Malfoy." Her dark g eyes--almost black--glittered. "You true name is Hesperides Ashtoreth Malfoy. And you are the daughter of Blanche Malfoy and--"

She screamed in the chapel, her cries echoing over and over again. Mother Mary stared blindly, impassionate and uncaring.

The name sent shivers down her back. So many questions echoed through her mind--Who is he? Is he alive? Did you know him? What was he like? So many questions echoed through her mind, but the one that finally came out of her mouth surprised her.

"Did she love him?" she asked timidly.

Grandmère was taken aback. Her green eyes widened with surprise, and her mouth gaped open. "I don't know," she said finally.

"Did he love her?"

Grandmère was silent. But eventually she said, "I don't know."

No. Father never loved Blanche, and Blanche never loved Father, and here was the fruit of their union, an unloved child who could not, perhaps, feel love.

She was five. It was now autumn, and she was going to be sent to Nostradamus Wizarding School, K-8. "I'm sorry that I'm afraid," Hesper had whispered to Grandmère.

She had sniffed with disdain. "Those who do not fear are fools. But greater fools are those who let fear control them."

And although she was only five, she understood her.

And then she was seven. Her best friend was Alysoun Keenan, her teacher was Miss Damien, and her grades were excellent. She loved Grandmère, she forcefully forgot Mommy and Daddy, she tried not to think about Blanche and Father.

Blanche, who had died in prison when Hesper was only a year old. Blanche, the proven Death Eater, who had committed suicide rather than suffer the Dementor's Kiss. And Father, who--

She screamed and screamed and screamed but her Father would not go away. The darkness that lay at the edges of the tiny clearing of built of rules and beliefs that we call the universe crept closer toward her... closer and closer and closer...

And then she was fourteen. She was accepted into Salem Wizarding School. Grandmère gently kissed her on the forehead. "Dux femina facti," she had said to Hesper. That was her motto. A woman was leader of the exploit. And Grandmère had given her a stack of books, and said, "Keep them safe, ma cherie, ma Hesper. I will find you again."

And Grandmère went away. And the Aurors came through the house in the same hour, searching, destroying, condemning... Grandmère's library of Dark Arts grimoires was seized, as were many Dark Arts materials. But they never found the books she gave to Hesper, which she had transfigured into school books, Arithmancy I, Intermediate Charms I, Magical World History and Geography, Intermediate Transfiguration I...

Hesper had outsmarted them. She was a true Malfoy. Dux femina facti.

When they had gone, she took a look at them. Grandmère had given her some grimoires on the Dark Arts, but nothing really diabolical. But there was one book that stood out amongst the rest--a Muggle book with the picture of a woman in a farthingale and little ruff around her neck sitting before a round glass of water. The Oracle Glass by Judith Merkle Riley. In the bos written, in Grandmère's neat script, 'Don't worry if the Aurors seize everything. I have left you assets in a Swiss bank. Our solicitors will tell you how to get them. But this book is your true legacy. Decide if it is indeed foolish Muggle fancy, or perhaps all that transpired was indeed true. I love you, my dearest. Don't ever forget me.'

And she never did.

The flowers were dying and rotting and their sickly fragrance clotted her nostrils and made her gag.

For a moment, she thought she saw a girl with wildly colored hair, one side shaven and the other side short. The girl was pale--even paler than Hesper, she could not be human. The girl was dressed in baggy trousers, a vest, and fishnet. She sat on the altar and blinked at Hesper. "yOu aRE MiNE. BuT YoU wOn't bE mInE FoREvEr."

Then the girl was gone.

And she was fourteen, and the ouija board with only four options was placed on the table. And Professor Ladner called out, "Martins, Karen." And Karen walked up nervously to the board and the pointer simply pointed to Goldenbeech.

And she let out a sigh of relief and joined her new housemates at the Goldenbeech table.

"Malfoy, Hesper."

And she strode up confidently to the board--and the board spoke to her!

Why. You taste familiar.

Get out of my head, she had told the ouija board.

Hmm. Like Blanche Malfoy. Any relation to her?

My mother.

The arrow was spinning wildly, not hesitating at all.

You can hear me, right?

Yes. Get out of my head.

Hmm. Empath. Well, what do you want? It's definitely not Oakbranch. You're not stupid enough. And Goldenbeech just isn't... you. What do you say, Willowstream, or Rosethorn?

Willowstream.

The board probed deeper and hit upon the Secret.

Nah, said the board. With a lineage like that, it better be Rosethorn.

And the pointer stopped at Rosethorn.

She looked up at Alysoun, at the Willowstream table. 'I'm sorry,' she mouthed.

'Don't worry,' Ali mouthed back.

It was alright, she tried to lie to herself. It was alright...

And then she was 15, a sophomore at Salem, and she was hiding from David Green under the bed.

"I know she's in there!" he bellowed.

"Fuck off!" shouted Alysoun.

He stormed in anyway. "No time for this, Ali. Where's Hesper?"

"She's not even in my house. Go look in Rosethorn. Why would Hesper be in Willowstream? Think, David, think. Are you in there? Hesper, is, a, Malfoy. Get. Out."

He did. Ali was scary when she put her mind to it.

After that she had crawled out, brushing the dust off. They had heaved out huge Muggle tomes that they had borrowed from the library, and examined them for the witch that they were studying for their Magical History Project.

A Dark Wizard or Witch, and their influence on the Muggle World.

"Let's do Catherine Montvoisin," she had said.

"Who's she?" asked Alysoun.

"Oh... just this witch I read about in this book called The Oracle Glass..."

Catherine Montvoisin, born Catherine Deshayes. Married Antoine Montvoisin. Became a witch to support her family. Became the head of a vast network of Paris witches, who were the rage for the nobility. Witches: they gave you love potions, abortions, charms to cheat at cards, poisons, and your fortunes. The source of darkness, the fount of intrigue.

Catherine Montvoisin was arrested when her plot to kill the King was revealed. She was burned. When the priest came to give her the last rites, it is said that she shoved him aside.

She was burned. But she was not killed.

No. She was not dead.

There are witches and then there are witches. The witches of the wizarding world, who are, almost, a separate species from the human race. And then the other 'witches.' A little gifted, perhaps. They were seers, empaths, telepaths, and other kinds 'gifted Muggles.' Some dabbled in esoterica, tried to call up demons. And yet a wand could not channel their magic into even the simplest of spells.

They were called Esotericans by the wizarding world. When they even admitted their existence. Esotericans made up La Voisin's vast network. But she wasn't one herself.

Witches and Esotericans.

La Voisin was the former. A Flame-Freezing charm, and that was it.

Yes. That was it.

She was sixteen. The wind was harsh and biting. She lifted her arms to the moon, to Ishtar, to Astarte, to Ashtoreth, for whom Hesper was named. The tower, in fact, was called Artemis Tower, for another moon goddess. And then the sound of flapping--no, not wings. Cloth...

And then strong arms encircled her, embraced her, and Hesper knew that death awaited her.

She shrieked for her mother. And suddenly fire exploded from her fingers and the vampire gave an unearthly scream as he burned to ashes at her feet. And she shivered and cried and sobbed as the Salem staff took her downstairs, bundled her in blankets, and gave her hot chocolate.

She had killed a vampire. Hesper's Magid powers had awakened.

She had tried to save herself from the darkness. But how could she drag another one into it. "Charlie, Charlie, Charlie," she sobbed at the altar.

Christ gazed at her with pain.

"I'm hurting more than you, damnit!" she screamed at him. His gaze did not waver. The wound in his side. The nails in his hands and feet. The body of a someone consumptive and starved. The crown of thorns on his head, biting into his skin.

Mother Mary stared with boredom. "Hesper, Hesper, Hesper," she seemed to say. "You do nothing but whine."

The darkness began to creep into his vision, trickling into streams that ran through...

"I did it all for you," said Mary.

"You did it all for me... You did it all to me..." she tried to say.

Then the darkness swallowed her without chewing.

******************

It was nearing dusk. The trees were bluish black silhouettes against the darkening azure of the sky. Two cloaked figures grappled with each other. One of the two opponents' hoods slipped, and gold-red hair tumbled out. Blaise Zabini set her teeth and strained to point the man's wand away from her. At the same time she struggled to point hers toward him.

"Crucio!" shouted a voice nearby, as Carl Rozier took care of some more enemies.

"You Bloodstormers," said Blaise's opponent through his teeth. "Unworthy--"

She kneed him in the groin, then hissed, "Avada Kedavra!" As he slumped backwards, Blaise leaned into his face and spat, "Chimæra sucks, bastard."

The Chimæra operative's eyes were dimming.

She heard a noise behind her, and she swiftly turned and delivered a kick that made the wand fly out of the Chimæran's hand. "You got it, Carl?" she screamed, as she punched one and elbowed another in the stomach. Damn... Two against eleven really wasn't fair.

"The Net's--oof--interfering!" he shouted back as he exchanged blows with another Chimæran.<

The Bloodstorm and the Chimæra have been rivals for a long time. This was not the first time that blood had been shed between the two purist groups. But this was the first time that the Bloodstorm seemed to be losing.

Most clashes had ended as a stand-off, with both sides running from Aurors. The rest had ended with both sides thoroughly massacred and no one let to say who really won. And Blaise would be damned if she was going to lose the first battle.

"Keep trying!" she yelled back at Carl, who was majoring in wizarding communication. Her partner could do amazing things when they were stuck places without fireplace, spellphone, or any proper tools. He was excellent at setting up Portkeys, and renowned for his competence at communications.

But there was very little that he could do when the Net, the magical field, started fluctuate. And absolutely nothing when they were stuck in a place of power like Cybele's Girdle, which was a far cry from something that only silly women wore.

Outside of the Girdle, it seemed that it was just a small ring of slender silver birches in a forest of towering oaks. Inside, it was a fair-sized valley of soft green grass and flowers. That just happened to drenched in magic.

The Girdle was a valuable asset. Major workings of magic could be done inside--with the permission of Cybele, of course. Blaise wasn't sure what would happen if one didn't ask the goddess first, but no one really wanted to bring modern attitudes and ideas into the Girdle... the last time someone had done something vaguely disrespectful... things had happened. Things that no one liked to talk about.

Many experts were fairly sure that the interior of Cybee's Girdle was actually another dimension, possible Faerie. But no one really wanted to experiment. The Ministry was wary of the idea of posting a guard around the Girdle, since that would be suggesting to Cybele that she couldn't take care of her own sacred places.

The Girdle was used by many Death Eater fragments as a sanctuary, though they could not stay long. This was the first time that two rivals had met inside the Girdle...

This was bad news for Blaise and Carl. No communications could go out or into the Girdle, magical or Muggle.

Blaise aimed a flying kick at a nearby face. We can't be trapped... she thought fervently. Surely not here... not here in the Girdle...

Then It Happened.

Cybele woke up. Or rather, her thinking slowed down. Gods think big. They think fast. They don't think in spans of days, weeks, months, or years. They think in centuries, or if you're lucky, in decades. The worshipped gods are the ones who are most time-conscientious. But when unloved and forgotten... they drift back and view time without any effort to confine themselves to human perspective.

Cybele found six men against one man and a woman. She was not the sort of goddess to be impressed by the last stands of the overwhelmed--if you don't have allies, it's your fault. But she was a woman's goddess, and there was no way that men would win over a woman under Cybele's jurisdiction.

Cybele was not a showy goddess. She was effective, and to the point.

The Chimærans found themselves suddenly and curiously dead.

"Uh," said Blaise uncertainly. "Thanks."

Carl lightly kicked a motionless body with a frozen look on his face. "There is no way I'm coming back here."

Blaise looked thoughtful. "How do you worship Cybele?"

Carl shrugged. "She seems like the kind who would like a black lamb or something. Wine libations. Lots of wailing and dancing around. That kind of thing."

Blaise glanced at her watch. "I need to get back," she said. "I have a Charms exam to study for."

Carl Rozier glanced at her sternly. "The work of the Bloodstorm commands greater loyalty than anything else," he said. It sounded like a quote.

"Yes, that's why I just spent my day sabotaging Muggle transportation and the Floo network, then nearly got killed hiding from Aurors in the Girdle. Now I'm going to spend my night studying because Professor Selden doesn't grade on a curve."

"You're not very passionate," he said somewhat sternly.

"You know I am, Carl. That's why I have higher grades than you do."

He made an exasperated noise as Blaise made her way toward the opening out of the Girdle. The sky was now dark, and moon hung full and bright in the sky.

"You know," said Carl as he caught up with her, "sometimes you're frighteningly zealous. Other times you're enragingly flippant."

"I'm psychotic," she agreed as they stepped into the gap in the trees, and found themselves in a forest of tall oaks.

"I didn't say that," said Carl, scrutinizing the sky. "Hey, it's a half moon!"

"So?"

"In... there. The Girdle. It was... full."

Silence. The two Bloodstorm members looked at each other. "She's a... um... nature goddess... right?" ventured Blaise.

Carl wordlessly handed her a Portkey.

"Thanks," she said before she was gone.

And not before long, he was gone too.

******************

It wasn't hard to find where she had gone--that is, once she figured out that Hesper had taken her broom. Ginny used a simple Tracking Spell, and following the quickly fading red streak along the clouds, Ginny lightly landed on the street a few hours later.

An old crone peered at her and waved her walking stick. "Witches these days. Think they can fly around on their damned broomsticks and kill us in our beds. I've got a horseshoe, I have."

"That's nice," said Ginny. She thought about using a memory charm, but the old woman probably saw things and heard bells anyway.

"Bugger witches," said the hag. "You an' th'other un."

"Other one?" Ginny narrowed her eyes. "Where did she go?"

"Nuh-uh. Hear no evil, speak no evil."

"I'll--I'll turn you into a toad," said Ginny desperately, despite the fact that she wasn't that good at Transfiguration.

"In the church," she said. "Dun't give me the evil eye, witch!" She shielded herself from Ginny's face, then tottered away.

"Bugger witches?" muttered Ginny as she turned to the old chapel. "Bugger old, crazy women. I'll bet her name is something like Mad Hettie."

She pushed the age-darkened door, and found Hesper sprawled over the altar strewn with rotting wildflowers. She started off t a fast walk, then broke into a run, and felt her pulse. Just a fever, just fever, Ginny kept saying to herself.

"... I don't want your bloody massepain, Grandmère," mumbled Hesper. "Je n'ai pas faim."

Ginny had spent a year as a foreign exchange student at Beauxbatons. She hadn't known that Hesper had taken French...

... I don't want your bloody marzipan, Grandmother. I'm not hungry.

"Weird dreams," grunted Ginny as she hauled her roommate to her feet. "Get up!"

"Grandmère!" she cried out. One hand groped at her neck, searching for something she could not find.

"Come on," said Ginny. She stumbled back, trying to hold Hesper's weight. I really need to work out. Enough with study. Her foot slipped against something--it seemed to be a thin silver chain, with something glinting like glass on it. It couldn't be glass. She had stepped on it, and yet it still held--

"It's breaking," giggled Hesper maniacally. "It's all breaking apart."

She grabbed Hesper's broom and dragged her out the church.

"Burned... but not killed," Hesper mumbled. "Perhaps all that transpired was indeed true... Dux femina facti... Charlie!" she screamed