Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

There Be Dragons, Harry	By : Scioneeris Category: HP Canon Characters paired with Original Characters > Slash - Male/Male Views: 58493 -:- Recommendations : 9 -:- Currently Reading : 28
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of its characters. I make no money by writing this story..

Chapter List
- 47
- 48
- 49
RECAP: In Nevarah, Harry is sleeping after sharing some of his past with Theo and Charlie. Arthur, Percy, Ron, Fred, George all turn up on the doorstep of an unplottable manor, to meet the Weasley Torvak Patriarch-Arthur's father, Septimus.

WEASLEY MANOR : UNPLOTTABLE : MONDAY MORNING (Earth Time)

It opened.

For a moment, there was a hush as children quieted.

A taller, distinguished version of Arthur hovered in the doorway, his face set in a neutral expression, his posture regal and intimidating. He was dressed in rich, elegant robes that added to the respectful air around him. The main difference was the pale blue eyes and the salt-and-pepper look to the rich red hair. As if on cue, a lovely lady appeared at his elbow, her hair a mass of crinkled, honeyed ringlets as she peered curiously around him to see who had come.

"Septimus, who is it-oh." There was a long pause and then sad, hazel eyes fixed solely on Arthur before flickering up her husband.

He patted her hand, reassuringly and gave a nod of his head, directing her back into the inner shadows of the manor. The same sad look in his wife's eyes flickered briefly through his own pale-blue ones. "Arthur." He said, simply.

"Father." Arthur responded.

"Bloody hell!" Ron sputtered.

"I warned you to never darken this doorway again with your presence. Do you wish for death so early?" Septimus folded his hands into the sleeves of his wizarding robes. His pale blue eyes held the same icy hardness often seen in the gaze of the once feared Malfoy patriarch. There would certainly be no question of pure blood now.

Arthur drew himself up tall, looking his father square in the eye, soft brown orbs meeting icy blue ones. "I come on behalf of my children, Father." He said, clearly. "It is only for their sake that I would dare—trouble—you." The words seemed to be spoken with some degree of difficulty.

"Children?" Septimus' piercing gaze swept over the brood behind his son. "What of them? They have no place-"

"Molly placed suppression seals on them from birth." The words came out in a rapid tumble of syllables. Arthur looked away, fearing to see the expression on his father's face. His children shifted restlessly behind him.

Nothing happened.

A chilly gust of wind blew through them. Arthur chanced a look back.

Septimus blinked. "I could have sworn you had come here with a most extraordinary-"

"Please." Now, he fixed his gaze on the tall imposing figure once more. This time, Arthur's gaze never wavered. "They were innocent, they had nothing to do with it."

"Were they?"

"For the sake of the children." Arthur swallowed hard. "Deny me, but not them."

"Some wayward nemesis or an old friend turned foe?"

The expression of pain that filtered across Arthur's face was raw and vulnerable.

"Arthur?"

"Molly." He whispered, lowly.

"And how would Molly," the name was said with disgust. "Be able to do a thing like that?"

"Dragel."

That was all it took. The door was suddenly forcefully flung open, banging into the wall as the taller man stepped to the side, holding it open. His piercing pale eyes scanned the foggy, swirling surroundings that shrouded the entire front stoop from view.

"Did you follow the usual routes to reach here?"

"I am not as foolish as you would believe." Arthur snapped back.

His father snorted. "Well, you have shown me little proof otherwise." He shot back. "Are those all of them?"

"The oldest will be portkeying into Hogsmeade after he is off of work. He is bringing his fiancée. Veela."

"Full-blooded?"

"Quarter."

"Have you instructed him?"

"Again, I will say that I am not so foolish as you would believe. Nor did I assume that you would be extend your hospitality to us all."

"You were never very good at verbal spars, were you?" Septimus retorted. "I shall send someone. Write the location on the parchment in the hallway." He leaned out, cautiously once more, his eyes scanning the fog. "And get in here quickly, the whole lot of you!"

"Take the children into the coat room." Septimus directed the house elf that popped into existence beside his elbow. "Please see to their coats, boots and things. Please provide dressing robes, as I feel a bit of a chill coming on." The house elf bowed deeply and trotted to the front, directing the Weasley children with a high, squeaky voice.

Arthur started after them, only to be halted by a strong hand that clamped down on his shoulder. He remained behind, sending a reassuring smile to Percy and the others when they looked back for him.

He had expected this after all.

"Dad?" Fred's voice held enough worry for all of them.

"It's alright children. Just go on in. I'll be there in a minute."

"A minute?" Percy demanded. His worried gaze flickered between his father and apparent grandfather. They narrowed meaningfully in silent promise.

Arthur was proud of him. "A few minutes, then." He corrected.

Percy gave a noncommittal nod and urged a gaping Ron further ahead, to follow the others.

"Arthur." Septimus murmured—again. The hand on his son's shoulder tightened to painful proportions.

"Father." Arthur answered, neutrally.

"Sparing the children?" Septimus mocked. "Their delicate sensibilities and impressionable young minds?"

"If you are going to kill me after all, you needn't make a speech of it."

"Ah, but that would be too easy, wouldn't it?" The powerful hand move from the newly bruised shoulder to wrap purposefully around Arthur's throat. "I should kill you here and now." He hissed.

Arthur merely closed his eyes, holding his head tall.

"No last words? No final pleas?" The hand squeezed gently on that vulnerable throat.

His son gave the faintest shake of his head. The hand gripped tighter and forced him down to his knees, before fisting in his hair and yanking it back to show the shadowed face of Septimus hovering above.

"Open your eyes and look at me!"

Soft hazel eyes popped open and stared upwards, gazing into the unfathomable expression on the haughty face that hovered above him. The face that had once held admiration, pride, respect and yes, even love. Arthur drew in a shaky breath. He was roughly shoved to the ground. His father's feet paced the small section of floor before him for a long, torturous moment.

"I should kill you." Septimus repeated. "But somehow, it feels as if it would be a waste." He sat down on the floor, his polished, dragonhide boots inches away from Arthur's face and the cold floor. "So tell me something, hat do you have to offer to make it worth my while for admitting you within these wards and across this threshold—again? And do not be hasty nor foolish enough to say you would renew your oath." The hand fisted angrily in the thinning red hair of the head at his feet. "I will tolerate no lies—least of all—from you."

The silence stretched between them.

Septimus did not speak. His hand did not gentle.

Arthur did not speak. His body remained still, compliant.

"Nothing." Arthur said, hoarsely. No matter which way he turned it, there was nothing he could offer, nothing he had to offer. That which he could give was that which he had never taken—his loyalty and that itself, was now tarnished. His stomach churned, his nerves rattled, but he worked to steady his breathing. No sign of weakness could be shown now. He owed it to his children—his precious, precious children.

"Nothing?" Septimus repeated.

"Nothing." Arthur didn't dare breathe.

The hand in his hair slid free, massaging gently along the crown. "Had you lied to me," his father's voice was velvety soft. "I would have crushed your skull, son of mine." He stroked Arthur's head. "Breathe child." He ran that traitorous hand over the trembling body before him. "Talk to me, why come? After all these years? You turned your back on all of us. On everything that we are. On your brothers, your mother…myself. Do your children mean this much to you?"

Arthur did. He forced himself not to take the relief that seemed so close now. "Need you even ask?" He snapped back.

"Aye."

"…you said I would understand." Arthur sucked in a breath. "You said I would understand what it meant to stand in your shoes when my first child would enter realms of life."

"Ah. So now you acknowledge there may have been truth in an old man's babblings?"

"I have nothing but respect for you!" Arthur half-rose, his head jerking around, searching for those mocking, pale-blue eyes.

"Calm yourself." Septimus pressed him back to the floor, the strength in his hand surprising, as it caught his son offguard and thunked his head against the cold, tiled floor. "Respect is nothing, if I do not have your loyalty."

"You have always had my loyalty." Arthur growled. His hazel eyes flashed with a hint of fire.

Septimus smirked. "Have I?"

Hazel eyes glimmered with unshed tears. "Always." He murmured. "Always."

"And yet you left."

"I could not stay."

"One woman was worth everything?"

Septimus rose from the cool floor, dusting off his expensive robes as he did so. He stood tall and imposing as before. His severe gaze remained cast downwards on his son's prone figure on the floor—at his feet. There was an expression of complete disgust on his features before they schooled themselves away into that unfathomable mask once more.

"Father—I, please-!" Desperation shone clearly in those pale brown eyes.

"I change the rules for no one, Arthur." The voice was cold, stiff—as fitting for the Head of the Weasley Torvak clan. "You may be my son, but that does not excuse you, nor does it render you exempt from the prices that must be paid. You left of your own accord. I made allowance for your life when you left, because you were my son by blood!"

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry, Father. I did not mean to-"

"My word was nothing to you. Everything that you are was nothing. That cannot be excused."

Shamed, Arthur's head nodded, faintly, slowly. His hands clenched and unclenched.

Fear. Pain. Panic. Despair.

They danced across his son's face in leaps and bounds, settling before changing just as quickly as the other. But Septimus remained unmoved. There was no weakness to be shown.

"I can't."

"Then there is nothing more to be said." Septimus turned away. He started towards the door when a hand shot out and caught his ankle.

"Wait."

"Do not embarrass yourself any further than you already have. This disgraceful display of-"

Arthur heaved himself up from the floor, careful to keep his head no higher than his father's waist. He shifted to kneel, sitting back on his heels as he placed his hands on his thighs and then forward to rest on the floor, before he bent forward. The coolness of the tiles on his forehead was enough of a stimulant to propel him forward.

Silence reigned.

"Please." The tone of voice shifted, a little less pleading, a little more demanding—a tad more authorative.

"Please?" Septimus mocked.

"Memores acti prudentes futuri." Arthur murmured. He did not move.

The sound of feet shuffling filled the air.

"Lift your head." His father intoned. "Do you understand that which you invoke?"

"I have strayed. I have returned. I have—learned—my lesson. I humbly beg of you to grant me the chance to atone for my misdeeds." Arthur lifted his head, meeting his father's gaze square as he spoke. Daring him to contradict the truth in his words. He had known it would not be easy to do this. He had chosen this path. And now, he was trying to fix that which had been broken. He silently implored his father to give him the chance—and phrase—he needed.

"That was more than a misdeed, child." Septimus said, quietly. "A mere misstep or misspeak does not warrant the status of Blood Traitor."

"I was young and foolish. I seek forgiveness."

"Youth is forever wasted on the young."

"In the custom of our ancestors-" Arthur began.

"-let that which has been approved, be thus carried out."

Silence settled down.

It hung thickly and darkly over the duo of father and son.

Septimus folded his arms, waiting.

After several long, agonizing moments, he took a breath, preparing to turn away.

Arthur moved.

Pale blue eyes locked onto soft hazel ones as Arthur bent his head.

Septimus watched as his middle son, kneeling, lowered himself further to kiss the tips of both polished boots. "Ab antique." He murmured. "From the Ancients and that which grant me the rank and position due, with their permission and acknowledgement, I receive your apology." He extended his left hand, the family signet ring gleaming in the flickering light of the dimly lit entryway.

Arthur straightened and knelt, reaching for the proffered hand with both of his own. He kissed the ring and then touched it to his forehead, murmuring his apology in the latin that their kind was so fond of.

It seemed like an hour, though reality made it naught more than a tense few seconds.

The signet ring hummed and flared to life, a jolt of warmth spiking through it, showing acceptance of the ritualistic apology and admittance to the family he'd once foolishly abandoned. The delightful warmth burned pleasantly through him, gently easing the pain of humiliation and coaxing his dignity back to the surface.

And then, he made to release the hand. His touch lingered, hesitating, he snuck an upwards glance at his father's impassive face and gently held it to his cheek. A gesture too plain to be anything other than what it was.

That strong hand fell to his shoulder once more and Arthur found himself in a hug that brutally squeezed the air from his lungs as his head was awkwardly nestled in the crook of his father's neck.

"Do not ever force me to do that again!" Septimus whispered harshly. He hugged his son tight, his own pale eyes glittering with tears that he would not shed. "Never." He squeezed a little harder than necessary and then slackened the punishing embrace. "Oh Arthur." His son made a quiet sound of agreement. "Whatever am I to do with you?"

"Am I forgiven?" Arthur had to ask. Under any other circumstances, any other person, he wouldn't have asked. Wouldn't have had to. But here, he did.

Those strong, powerful hands cradled his face, tenderly and the faintest of kisses was pressed to his forehead. "Forgiven." Septimus murmured. "I daresay your brothers will hate me."

"Mother?"

"For a few nights."

"…thank you."

"There is nothing to thank. Come along." They shuffled forward together, shoulder to shoulder. "…you said you had another son?"

"Yes. Bill. My oldest. I wrote what you wanted."

"Good. I'll send someone."

Septimus sent someone to retrieve Bill and Fleur, once Arthur had provided the necessary information. He'd then called for his wife, Cedrella, who had instantly appeared out of the shadows, her entire appearance as severe and imposing as her husband's. She looked to him for guidance and he gave a faint shake of his head.

"Septimus-"

"Not yet, love. I will hear him out and then we shall decide, agreed?"

"Swear it." She eyed him, warily.

"You do not trust my word?"

"Not when it comes to Arthur." She sighed.

"The same could be said of you." He countered, gently. "We shall have them to tea and we shall listen to what they have to say. If nothing else, then you cannot say that I never allowed you to see your missing grandchildren."

Here, Cedrella turned hopeful eyes to the uncomfortable children, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Indeed." She moved forward to close the gap between herself and her husband, pausing to kiss his jaw before moving around him and out of the room. "I shall have the elves send something up to the North sitting room. Do you require the others?"

"You might as well. I see no reason to keep this from them."

"Wise choice, husband of mine." She purred, melting away into the shadows once more, her slate-colored robes blending with the dreary interior as her footsteps faded off.

They gathered in the North sitting room, which turned out to be a room just as gloomy as any of the rooms in 12 Grimmauld place. It was dark and shadowed in every corner and there were musty portraits peering out from behind grimy curtains.

Arthur and his children sat together on a magically transfigured settee, large enough to hold all of them. The children crowded close around their father, the oldest one present looking after the youngest, while the twins mirrored each other with blank, expressionless faces.

Silence reigned.

"Father?" An imperious voice cut through the somber mood.

"In here, Bilius." Septimus looked up from where he had regally seated himself on a newly cleaned armchair. The upholstery was dull and faded, but it was dust-free. "You will have to enter with more than just your head." He commented, dryly, when his youngest son ventured to crane his neck around the darkened doorway.

"Did Mum have to pick this room?" Bilius entered, his appearance hooded and drawn as he moved in short, jerky movements. "It always feels alive."

"I believe it is her way of handling our comments in regards to upsetting the luncheon she planned last weekend." Septimus waved him towards a settee in the corner. "Sit down. It does not bite."

Bilius did, his hawk-eyed gaze flickering around the dreary depths of the room before amber eyes flared bright and in a burst of black feathers, he gave an inhuman screech.

Septimus was on his feet in an instant, a very visible barrier between his two sons. "Calm yourself, Bilius!" He trilled, his voice taking on a slight warble. "I did not order you to react. I asked you in on good faith."

"Traitor!" Bilius hissed. His wizarding robes had shredded themselves to useless rags and he now stood clad in trousers that bulged at the seams, while his entire upper torso had become thickly feathered with shimmering black tuffs. A feathered ruff flared with agitation around his neck as his face seemed to be fighting the transformation that would covert his features to that of an entirely avian nature. "You betrayed us! You fool! How dare you set foot in this ho-"

"Bilius!" Septimus roared. His pale blue eyes burned a dull amber hue as small feathers began to sprout along his cheekbones and down the side of his neck, disappearing into his shirt collar. "Calm yourself!" The words were weighted with magic as he spoke.

With visible effort, Bilius seemed to retreat into himself. His body trembled and shuddered as feathers melted back into pale, partially freckled skin. His head rolling back with the transformation, his eyes turning white, before one last shudder completed it. He stood, scowling, his amber eyes not quite fading away. "You threw him out!" He accused. "You called him a traitor-!"

Septimus strode forward two strides to grab his son's thick bushy hair and force him to kneel. Within a moment, Bilius crouched on his knees, before his father, babbling in a set of cheeps, trills and gurgles. After a long moment, the hand in the hair gentled and stroked the bushy locks twice before shifting to rest on an available shoulder.

Bilius' pleas settled to more coherent terms of English and the faintest glimmer of light showed tears on the broad face. He sat back on his heels, remaining on the floor, his head resting against his father's thigh, thankful for the hand of forgiveness that rested on his shoulder.

"Felix, as I am sure your eyes are always everywhere," Septimus began. "Spare me the headache and your mother the nerves and do not repeat your brother's disgraceful display when you enter."

Arthur's head snapped up at once and he stared, transfixed at the doorway where Felix stood, lounging, as if waiting for that very invitation before he entered the sitting room.

"Father." Felix acknowledged. He pushed away from the doorframe and entered the gloomy room. His gaze swept quickly over Arthur and company before settling on Bilius' compliant form at his father's feet. "Arthur. Bilius." His dark-eyed gaze flickered to the Weasley offspring and his lips quirked faintly. "And various nephews that I have never seen before." His head gave a slightly mocking tip towards them. "Mother says I am to make sure that the portraits are not listening." The brown-black eyes burned a light shade of amber, before all the curtains hanging 'round each portrait suddenly snapped shut, muffling and silencing any protest the portraits might have had. "I do hope you do not intend to blame Bilius for this slip-up, it is hardly his fault. You made all of us swear to never let Arthur set foot in this home age." The amber eyes darkened and faded back to their lovely brown-black gaze. "You made us swear on pain of death."

"Felix." Septimus greeted, somewhat grumpily. "I am head of this house, am I not?"

"As if you would be anything else." Cedrella snapped. She entered with three house elves trailing behind her, bearing silver platters, lovely china plates and embroidered napkins. "Serve the guests." She said, with a wave towards Arthur. "And for goodness sakes', both of you sit down somewhere!" This was directed to Septimus and Bilius as she accepted Felix's arm as he led her to an armchair across from his father. Her soft brown eyes locked onto Arthur's own hazel ones. "It is safe for you." She inclined her head towards the tea. "The children should only eat the biscuits."

"I knew that witch was trouble!" Bilius spat, his blue eyes fairly glowed with triumph. "I knew it! None of you would listen to me!"

"I listened." Felix retorted. "And drink your tea before I dose you with one vial too many of calming potion!"

His younger brother glared at him, but did drink his tea as requested, when encouraged by a glare from his mother.

"A Dragel." Septimus repeated. His own discomfort was mirrored by Arthur's pained expression. "I take it you didn't know at all?"

"Found out this weekend, actually." Arthur said, tightly.

"Really? Pray tell, what brought it about?"

"There was an—an attack at The Burrow."

"Burrow?" Cedrella's delicate eyebrows arched upwards in confusion. "You live in a burrow?" There seemed to be something akin to horror in her voice.

Arthur managed a small smile. "No, others call it that and the name sort of stuck. It is a rather—cheerful place."

"Cheerful." Bilius snorted. "A hive full of-"

Felix surged off the armchair where he'd been nursing a cup of lukewarm tea and set it down a split-second before he tackled his younger brother straight off the settee across the room.

With strangely coordinated timing, both Septimus and Cedrella took a sip of tea, followed by a bite of biscuit. They appeared blissfully oblivious to the scuffles of their fighting sons just a few meters away.

"And?" His mother prompted. "What kind of an attack? Was it bad?"

"Very." Arthur allowed. "Death Eaters."

"Those still?" Septimus frowned, holding out his teacup as a house elf replenished the hot brew. "I thought they had disappeared after a time."

"They have returned in recent years." Arthur explained. He had to remember that the Torvaks were nearly as notoriously private as the Dragels. They didn't necessarily hide from conflict, but they generally didn't engage in it, if there was nothing to be gained from it. "It was more so, because of a specific person."

Septimus' smile was strained.

"And which person was that?" His mother encouraged. She took another sip of tea and swallowed delicately. "Felix, dear, don't tear up the rug. I am rather fond of it."

By the time the brothers had finished their scuffle, Arthur had told his story and the children had been introduced. At that point, Septimus had insisted they retire to a more welcoming room and the house elves were sent off for the evening.

The other room turned out to be a brighter, warmer parlor with softly colored tapestries, comfortable chairs and a flickering fire on the hearth.

"William, Percy, Fred, George, Ronald." Septimus recited as he sounded of the names of his newly introduced grandchildren. "And you said there were two more?"

"Ginny is with her mother. She refused to leave." Arthur looked away. "Charles…went with Harry."

"Went with Harry as in…?" The question was prompted, the pale blue eyes narrowing. "Arthur. I am not asking for your honesty. I am requiring it."

"Harry Potter is a Dragel and he is mated to a young Earth Alpha. Charles was…taken by them."

"Taken or turned?" Bilius demanded. "There is a difference."

"I'm not sure." Arthur admitted. "No one saw what happened."

"Did you hear it?" Felix tried. "Was there anything that sounded off?"

"Many things." Arthur sighed, wearily. He rubbed his aching face and then for a moment, buried his head in his hands. This was taking so much more from him than he'd been prepared to give to so easily. He started when a gentle hand rested on his shoulder. He looked up to see his mother's compassionate face just inches away from his own.

"Oh Artie." She sighed, bending to kiss his wrinkled brow. "Your golden heart brings you the deepest of sorrows at times." She pulled him up from the settee, out from amongst his children and smothered him in the kind of hug that only a mother could give. "But it makes you glow like no one else." She soothed, rubbing one hand up and down his back, holding him close. She shot a glare at her husband.

Septimus smiled serenely and merely moved forward to join the embrace.

The weary wizard melted into the embrace, soaking up the affection and reassurance that meant so much from the ones that offered it.

Shuffling in the background alerted him that others were up and moving closer. Arthur was dimly aware of other hands and arms weaving their way around him, before his family—both his children—and his parents and siblings, wrapped themselves protectively around him. He sagged helplessly into the proffered strength and cried as ache in his heart refused to be soothed away.

Aiden scowled and grumbled in alternate bits as he made his way back to the fireplace where he'd left his new Consort. He clutched a handful of silvery herbs in one hand and a large, ornate staff in the other. His ears twitched, faintly, his hound nature begging to be released as he moved in the awkward, two-legged form.

There were some days he cursed his existence.

Some days.

Today was not one of them.

He wrinkled his nose as the damp smell of the earth clung heavily to the air. Normally, it wouldn't bother him, after all, he'd only need to stop breathing to avoid such unpleasantries, but he'd been tracking. And now it seemed that whatever had been stalking him, had left as quickly as it had come.

He didn't like that very much.

Death would not be happy, he mused.

But he continued on anyway, retracing his steps back the way he had come.

He hoped his new charge was recovering better. The herbs would help to soothe her throat and he was relieved to know that he'd managed to reach her in time. The potion she'd taken—whatever the vile concoction was—it had slowly begun to destroy her vocal cords and would have managed to collapse her internal organs in a quick matter. He hadn't known what else to do, other than to infuse her very veins with his own darkened magic. Forcefully.

It had to have been painful, he knew that much, the kind of magic he wielded wasn't the happy, fluffy, bunnies and roses sort. It was the more the screams of despair and the terrors of the night. But it was powerful. Oh so powerful. It had saved her—as he knew it would.

Her sudden pleas and frantic panic had pulled sharply at his non-existent heart.

His very non-existent heart. Hellhounds didn't have hearts. Not that he knew of, anyway, and if anyone would know, then it ought to have been him.

He huffed again and tromped a little harder through the underbrush, even as his shadowy feet made no actual sound upon the carpeted floor of the Forbidden Forest. He had traveled to clean up his Mistress' mess once more.

Not that he minded.

He could never mind.

He sighed and cast a look overhead. He could feel the oppressive air and mixing magics beginning to descend. That definitely wasn't good. He'd have to move Hermione—the moment he laid eyes on her. As a muggle-born witch, she certainly wouldn't be prepared for something as old and powerful as the Ancient Magics.

A fleeting shadow streaked overhead and Aiden froze, tensing. A shadow. A darkened, bird-like shadow.

He growled low in his throat.

Torvak.

They were the only kind of creature that were bold enough to be streaking around overhead during such trying times as this. Perhaps it had been Fabrine tracking him again, but they knew better than to do so. Something was off about this. He'd have to tend to it another time. Especially now that a Torvak had suddenly shown up.

Aiden paused, waiting. After a long moment, he silently reached out with his talents and could not sense the lingering presence. It suggested that perhaps the Torvak had been running from the swiftly approaching doom. That made some sense. He cocked his head, listening, feeling with otherworldly senses that curled sensuously around him.

In the distance a nearly haunting melody wafted through the air.

He sighed. He could already hear the luring call of souls begging to be harvested. Soft and teasing, tantalizing as always.

Throwing his head back, Aiden rolled it to the sides and then upright. He could not go hunting on his own. Not without a Reaper and he knew of none that would be willing to spare him a luxury during what promised to be a rather large gathering.

He sighed again, the glower returning as he realized that the possibility of joining a gathering or a reaping was nil, with the whole having a little-suicidal-witch-turned-consort on hand.

Then again, she will most likely remain in a healing coma for days. That despicable potion was something else. How can mortal creatures stand to fill themselves with such wretched things to seek Death? Why cannot they simply summon her like a rational being? I hate cleaning up their sordid messes…

And so he scowled, silently complained and glared all the way back to the campsite where he'd left the recovering witch, covered in his travel cloak of thirty-nine shadows and kept close to a fire where he'd thrown in a handful of incense and a good chunk of herbs to produce a healing effect from the heat and smoke.

When he reached the campsite, Aiden simply stared.

He had to.

There was very little else he was inclined to do when that particular sight caught his eyes.

The camp was broken, dismantled and a certain half-dead witch was missing.

So he stared.

He hadn't cast any wards nor circles 'round the camp. He shouldn't have had to. There was nothing dangerous to him in this forest and certainly nothing stupid enough to take what was his—and he had branded her. She belonged to him after all and he always took very good care of what was his.

An itchy, irritated feeling blossomed in his left shoulder and spread to his right, creeping up his neck and settling into a dark scowl on his face. He was vaguely aware of the shadows swarming around him and rushing toward him with the subconscious summoning. They were reacting to his mood and his current mood was very vicious and very dark.

The ground trembled, faintly.

He stilled it by looking away from the destroyed camp.

Lips curled back in a sneer, showing gleaming, wicked fangs as his eyes burned a scorching red. "Whist." He hissed, the summoning spell to call his eyes and ears. "Come to me."

The spirits rose up at once, they'd been mired in the forest for ages, but they answered his call because he demanded it of them. They moaned and groaned as the dead of their kind were wont to do, but they still when his gaze burned over them. "The girl." He spoke stiffly, coldly. "The mortal witch. Who took her?"

An unearthly howl split the air, shaking the ground and making the sky rumble.

It was long, mournful and breathtakingly eerie in its apparent displeasure.

Albus Dumbledore gripped his wand tighter as the sound seemed to dance around him.

"Albus?" Minerva paused, her own wand tight in hand. "Whatever is that creature?"

The elderly wizard had paled beautifully, but his blue eyes hardened over to pure ice. "Nothing to fret over, Minerva." He murmured, continuing onwards, up to Hogwarts. They would need to remove that ugly mark from overhead and see about strengthening the wards and whatnot. It wouldn't do for the children to miss an entire week of classes.

"It's ghastly." The mature witch sniffed, drawing her simple, green robes tighter around her, whether from habit or necessity, it was hard to tell. "Absolutely dreadful."

The howl repeated itself again.

Albus waved his wand and cast a muffilato over them both. He couldn't stand to have Minerva distracted right now. Not by that infernal howling. They needed to prove a point and they would, by removing Voldemort's mark over Hogwarts. The Dark Lord could unleash whatever dastardly plans he had, but so help him, Hogwarts was a school for children—and Albus certainly had no intention of giving up his school for the sake of a few scares.

Ancient magic! He nearly scoffed. Hogwarts was a perfect runic casting ground—and he surely didn't intend to lose it to Voldemort—who had certainly learned that much of the very school he'd attended, but Ancient Magic? That was ridiculous! It was as much a myth as the strange creatures a certain Mister Lovegood continually encouraged his promising daughter to search for.

Pity too. The girl was a bright witch.

A movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention.

His deputy headmistress was looking around, with her usual sharp-eyed gaze, but there was a strange, nearly fearful gleam in her eyes. A shadow seemed to flitter overhead, but Albus immediately dismissed it. He could sense his own kind and it was merely a stray Torvak. As to what it was doing at this particular time over this place, he didn't care. The recent events were sure to stir up every kind of creature and he knew it wouldn't be long before things started happening.

He would have to throw things together much faster than he had originally intended.

And a certain Harry Potter back at Hogwarts was a very necessary thing.

Minerva stumbled and she instinctively grabbed his arm for support. He did not wince when her bony fingers dug firmly into his arm, holding a tad tighter than necessary, perhaps. But he could fairly hear her heartbeat pulsing through her veins and—just as abruptly, she released his arm and stalked forward as if nothing had happened.

Albus pretended not to notice. It would've been best to do this with Severus—the man had always had incredible magic—but his resident Potions Master was nowhere to be found when he'd flooed back to his office and there was no one in the dungeons now. Something was wrong.

And he couldn't put his fingers on it.

It fairly rankled.

His blue eyes darted towards the clinging fog that seemed to be swooping down towards them.

It would be best to hurry up.

This was not a ritual to try during the night.

It was a rather disgruntled Dark Lord that swept into the bowels of his mountained residence, the one darkened hollow where he could both intimidate and hide from his worthless followers. Even cruicoing hadn't relaxed him the way it usually did and he'd had to simply remove himself from his usual headquarters and escape elsewhere.

Yes, escape.

He raged and stormed in the caverns of that cursed manor, before he finally calmed enough to do what he generally did, once his temper simmered down.

Think and scheme of better way to bring about his original goal.

So he thought and thought, while reviewing the most recent events.

He couldn't fathom how it had turned out quite so horribly.

That worthless prophecy of Trelawney's had only caused him more headache than anything he had yet to encounter. Every attempt he'd made so far, to get rid of that miserable Harry Potter and to at least gain a steadfast foot in the wizarding world, had been met with equal resistance—almost. Lord Voldemort had some available options, but Tom Marvolo Riddle had acquaintances that were certainly questionable.

With a huff, the Dark Wizard-turned-Dark Lord cast the usual glamours to bring up the physical appearance that had once let him charm his way through any necessary negotiations. He stared at the grimy windows and shattered mirrors in the room he'd chosen to brood. His splinched reflection was irritating to squint at, so he waved his wands to have everything repair itself.

The cursed manor shuddered.

He smirked, wickedly at the lovely reflection that was now presented to him.

That was workable.

There were a few souls to scare—souls he hadn't seen in decades.

One stray thought niggled in the back of his mind and he wondered briefly about it. Then paused and quickly made a list. After all, it wouldn't do to forget the fundamental blocks for his dastardly schemes.

One, the Deathly hallows, they would prove useful, though most likely difficult to obtain, two, his horocruxes—it was dangerous to leave them lying about—three, the whereabouts of the former, pathetic dark wizard, Gillert Grindelwald, four, the burial ground of that famed Ariana Dumbledore, five, a meeting with that interesting creature fellow—the one with the black wings, that certainly hadn't been a veela—and six, he would have need of a necromancer.

Ah, yes. A most satisfyingly short list, with plenty of useful items and no particular order. Voldemort sifted through his known followers, both those trusted and those not.

Here, he scowled, remembering a certain incident with a certain, stubborn, two-faced Potions Master. Did Snape really think he could fool him? Sure, he had agreed to allow the Potions Master to play the spy for him—but playing both sides of the game made him vulnerable to each side in turn and recently—in the past year alone—there had been a very obvious change in the wizard. Severus Snape was a powerful wizard in his own right, for all of his heritage declaring him a half-blood, but that had not been an issue from the first time he had seen the man duel.

Voldemort had decided then and there, that he'd wanted that dark-eyed menace for his own minion. Severus had always been faithful and loyal in every way possible, there were a few regrettable instances between them—such as the death of that pathetic Lily-witch—it had sent his only Potions Master running to that despicable Dumbledore and that had been that.

It had taken some finagling through Lucius to discover Severus' betrayal and Voldemort had allowed him a longer leash, just to see how far his pet would take it—if the most recent meeting was any indication, then apparently, Severus was willing to take it quite far. It had been the beginning of a very bad mood that had yet to lift.

Especially since he'd received news while in the midst of his plans about the attack meant for Harry Potter.

Harry Potter.

That wretched child.

It should have been an interesting afternoon of diversion—he'd meant it as a test to see how well his lovely Death Eaters were faring with all that new training he'd been allowing beneath the Carrows and a certain mad witch. He hadn't meant for it to be a bloody massacre!

Something shattered and consequently exploded somewhere in the distance, but Voldemort made no move to check his temper. It wasn't as if it could affect anything at present, anyway.

The report had come in of death, arrests and a sudden, fierce display of power.

Fierce.

Power.

Display.

The words had echoed hollowly as Voldemort had processed that bit of information and reacted appropriately. Of course, it was shortly afterwards that he had taken himself away to the Cursed Manor. It would have helped to curse his remaining followers senseless, as it was, he'd need every single one of them in the near future.

His mind flickered back to the list.

He could add Inferi to it as well as requesting a penseived memory of what had taken place at the Burrow, along with a list of the captured followers, he would need to see if they were worth redeeming or not. He had allowed the ever useful Lucius Malfoy to sit in Azkaban for a little while, just enough to teach the proud man a lesson—and then some dark creature had torn the place apart from the inside out.

There hadn't been anything he could discover from the ruins left behind. It had taken the workers weeks to repair the damage and there was still a growing list for the death toll—even as the building was completed. There had been some rather impressive spells left behind to ensure that rebuilding the miserable prison had required blood. Blood that was not freely given.

Voldemort studied his list for a moment, tapping it thoughtfully with his wand. Necromancer was probably the easiest thing to handle—he could do it on his own and through old connections and that would set some other things in hand.

It took a moment for him to call forth the memories—they were old and foggy—to remember the name and the face of the charming young lady that he had once befriended. The young woman called Niko with a bright, gleaming smile, eyes the color of rainbow, hair as thick and black as ebony. She was neither muggle nor witch, but what she was, he hadn't even dared to ask nor question.

They had laughed and perhaps, even, almost loved. A strange, twisted love, for Niko was barely a wisp of a girl. She boasted the age of sixteen, but there had always been a shadow haunting her eyes, betraying a truth as if she were decades—no—centuries, older, than a mere sixteen years. She had fascinated him. Teased him. Taunted him.

And then, she'd disappeared.

But she had left one single gift behind.

He summoned her gift and waited.

It took some time.

He took a drink in the meantime.

It almost reminded him that he wasn't a shell, a husk of the wizard he'd once been. But those days were past and he'd had enough of brooding for today. Perhaps he could ask more than a few favors of her. If Niko was anything like she'd once been, then he would have an invaluable ally. If not, well, then, the few times they had dueled—he had bested her.

He would never lose.

In the aged jewelry box, a single, white pearl lay nestled on the old velvet.

Picking it up, he placed it in his mouth, chewed a few hard crunches, then spat on the ground.

A drop of blood, a lock of hair, a touch of blue fire and a scrap of a dementor's robe completed the necessary ingredients.

Without warning, a pillar of bright green flame streaked upwards, to a height of about six feet. It burned steadily, showing nothing at first, before a young face came into view.

Voldemort frowned.

That was not Niko.

In fact, it seemed to be a young man—definitely not a young woman!

For a moment, the two stared.

Then Voldemort sneered and the young man looked away.

"Tavit." He said, irritably. "Tavit McGwain." There was a pause, then a mumbled addition. "Necromancer. How may I be of service?"

"I require your services." Voldemort said, stiffly. He surveyed the youth with a calculated gaze.

"Obviously." Tavit retorted. "Is it immediate?"

"And if it is?"

"Then I shall step through. Do excuse me." The green fire shimmered and a moment later, young Tavit stood, fully formed and breathing on the floor of the west parlor in the Cursed Manor. He brushed off the sleeves of his ornate black and violet robes, with rich golden embroidery along the sleeves, collar and hems. He bore the same ancient, black staff, with glowing blue runes—the one that Niko had always kept nearby. His nose crinkled as if something in the air annoyed him, but nothing was said, as he turned an expectant face to Voldmort's glamoured figure.

"Are you always this presumptuous?"

"Do you require my services or not?" Tavit drawled in response.

Voldemort inclined his head. "Your price?"

"Shall be discussed after I know what it is you desire."

"Inferi." Voldemort said, bluntly.

Tavit rolled his eyes.

"and a body, as close to life as possible."

Startling blue-purple eyes snapped to his face, searching, scouring, as if to verify the words. "Male or female."

"Female."

"Human, creature or immortal?"

"…witch."

"Human then." Tavit snorted. "That will cost the usual."

"The Inferi?"

"When do you have need of them?"

"Ah, that would be a problem for you, wouldn't it?" Voldemort smirked. "How long can you hold the animations?"

"As long as you live." Tavit snapped back. "I do not bear my own enchantments."

"How…unique."

"Indeed." The young necromancer's cold smile spoke volumes. He inspected neatly trimmed and buffed fingernails. "Speaking of which, how did you come across that summoning pearl?"

"An old friend." Voldemort smiled, dangerously. "A very old friend. It seems, Mr. McGwain, that we shall have a great deal of business to arrange."

Aiden howled to the sky until he felt his fellow brothers in shadows answer him.

He didn't care if he was working up a storm. He didn't care of the consequences of using so much death magic in a forest that held Unicorns. The blasted beasts could stay away for their own sakes. The snorting and pawing of thestrals nearby reminded him that not all creatures were nuisances, but he resolved to keep his own opinions, they served him quite fine.

Having called the dark creatures to him though, he directed them to where he'd left the mess. Death had ordered him to clean up, but she hadn't said that he needed to grovel and do it himself.

At that, he'd decided to make use of the ranks afforded him.

For now, his mind was stuck on the image of one distraught little witch.

He'd been able to pick up that there had been on set of creatures to tear up his campsite and another set to cart of the lovely Miss Hermione Granger. A few careful sniffs had alerted him to Fabrine—wings or flighted kind—he could not be entirely certain what they were, but then he'd scented Dragels.

Faintly, but the scent had been there nonetheless. Two of them, to be exact, one older and one much younger. One mated. One not. The mated one had taken his Hermione. His consort.

It made his blood boil.

He'd traced the scent all the way to the horrible castle—the one warded with Ancient Magic—he'd begged for entrance and it had barely granted him that much. Once inside, he'd prowled the halls until he had found the rooms. He'd been in time to discover the rooms—and portal residue. It was good news—she seemed to be in good hands, as the portal was headed for Nevarah, a realm that welcomed his kind—that was good. He could retrieve her from there later.

Hopefully.

He'd have to contact Niko again. It had been some time since he'd seen the girl. It never hurt to have one nearby after his own shadowed heart. She would be helpful to have nearby. Hermione was sure to have questions and require looking after—both things he did not have the patience nor the time for.

Niko would be useful there.

He hoped his howls had wakened her.

And with that thought, his feet went out from under him.

The castle promptly ejected him before he could further ruminate on a specific course of action and he had nearly cursed the wretched build before he'd heard the calls again.

It was a welcome call this time.

Reapers had been released.

Something had happened.

Something worthwhile.

Aiden smiled, darkly. His eyes flared a lusty red.

There would be good eating tonight.

Miles away in a musty bedroom, a young girl sat bolt upright in the center of the bed, rubbing her sleepy eyes with one closed fist and tugging on her excessively long, black hair with the other. Her pink lips curved into a pout as she squinted and listened, her hands falling back into her lap as she shivered in the drafty room.

She heard a whisper—someone calling her name—again.

Niko. Niko. Niko.

The chant continued.

Her left ear ached and burned.

She stifled a whimper.

Then the chant quieted.

A loud mournful howl rang through the air and rattled the glass squares in their little window panes. Niko's eyes lit up in undisguised joy. The ache in her ear faded considerably as she scrambled off the bed, grabbing her long hair in a hasty handful before shoving her feet into ratty bedroom slippers.

The shadows in the little bedroom in the shack, were terrifying and dark in their own right. But to Niko, they were more like friends—just like that heart-wrenching howl that carried itself to her ears on the winds of the black moon. She pattered over to the window and carefully pried it open, leaning out as far as she dared, before cupping her hands 'round her mouth and giving back a loud, long, full-throated howl.

There was no answer, but she felt a sudden inkling of giddiness.

That was good.

She trotted over to the broken nightstand beside the rusty bed and picked up the crude dagger there. With a careful slice of one hand, she hacked through her thick hair until it lay in a lovely silken carpet beneath her cold, bare feet. She threw the dagger to the door, watching where it lodged, quivering, in the worm-eaten wood.

Settling down on the bed of hair, she clasped her hands together and whispered the incantation. Her hair burst into flame and the with a sudden, loud pop, she disappeared from that forsaken room.

And reappeared on the front steps of a certain building housing a family under the name of Snape.

Theo shifted restlessly beneath the covers, he could not lay still and think.

His mind refused to cooperate.

It seemed as if it had been hours since he'd murmured the perfunctory goodnight to his Beta and Harry had curled up comfortably in his arms, making soft, muffled noises of protest with every restless shift the Slytherin made.

He sighed and stared up at the dark ceiling.

The best thing to do was to simply go and ask the man himself. Ask him to his face and judge the reaction.

With a weary groan, Theo turned and shifted to bury his face in Harry's neck. He mouthed the mating marks, gently, insistently, until Harry squirmed and pulled away from him. A soft, rumbling sound—not quite a growl or a purr—had Charlie shifting in his sleep and moving, instinctively to open his arms to Harry.

A second later, Harry was comfortably nestled in Charlie's strong arms and both of them merrily snuffling away in their sleep.

Theo watched them for a second longer, then slid out, surreptitiously from beneath the covers. He was almost out the door when he heard Charlie's voice. It was thick and heavy with sleep, slurring with the words.

"S'thing wrong?"

"Can't sleep. I'm fine. Don't leave him." And Theo escaped before Charlie could ask another question. He stole quietly through the silent, shadowed halls within the Snape's quarters. His nose led him straight to the room he sought. He could scent Severus behind the door and that was really all he needed.

With a light hand, he tapped on the door and waited.

He knew Severus would hear. The man never missed anything.

A/N: This chapter was a bit tricky (and LONG...argh). Any mini subplots introduced in here will be cleared up in the next few chapters (I estimate about two-ish). This was NOT meant to be a Harry chapter, so please do not whine about it. Harry is currently "sleeping" while all of this is happening and time is working itself together.

Arthur/Septimus scenes were necessary-Septimus is full-blooded Torvak, remember-Cedrella is not, so Arthur doesn't quite have all the primal instinctive points that his father does, but he can understand there are some things that need to be done, such as the formal apology. The phrases in Latin just mean "Ancient one" and "I've learned my lesson" as a loose translation.

If you have questions, ask away. I'll answer what I can.

unneeded---yeah, they'll have their hands full and Harry is not about to let himself sit back and watch, so it's going to be fun. :D I estimate quite a clash of tempers, personalities and plenty of silliness. Thanks for reading and reviewing! Glad you enjoyed the chapter.

Meleeanna--Thanks for reading--I'm really glad you're enjoying the fic. This chapter is nearly 9k long, my longest one so far, I think. Do enjoy! :)
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There Be Dragons, Harry