Chapter Eighty-Two of IAATB: A Silver Splendour, A Flame

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Thanks for the reviews on the last chapter!

Warning: The last scene here (but only the last scene) contains very heavy slash. As usual, please feel free not to read it if you think you’ll be offended.

Also, this is another non-linear chapter, every “present-time” scene alternating with one from the past month or so, as Harry prepares for the Walpurgis ritual.

The chapter title once again comes from “Hymn to Proserpine” (the last one that does): “White rose of the rose-white water, a silver splendour, a flame,/ Bent down unto us that besought her, and earth grew sweet with her name.”

Chapter Eighty-Two: A Silver Splendour, A Flame

Harry grimaced as he smeared the oil across his hands. It was necessary, as a preparation for the Walpurgis ritual he and Draco would share later that night, but Merlin, it smelled strong.

It had to be put on in any case, however-at least in every place but the middle of his back, which Draco would cover for him. For now, Harry took a deep breath, sneezed at the scent of frankincense, and began to wipe the clear oil carefully over his face. It would dry and cling in a very light mask by the time he was done, and then he need only be careful not to move too fast, which would crack it.

Harry was sure the Silver Splendor and Flame, the third Walpurgis rite he and Draco would share, and the ninth of the thirteen courting rituals, had to be the strangest one.

*

Harry stood quietly in the entrance to Silver-Mirror, and did his best not to show how intimidated he was to the reporters gathered on the grass in front of his house and staring at him. He had thought it better to invite everyone at once-the reporters for minor newspapers as well as the Vox Populi and the Prophet-so that of the dozens of questions that could be asked, and the dozens of replies he would need to give, at least he would not be asked the elementary ones more than once.

But he hadn’t anticipated how many people would be interested in his news of the defeat of Voldemort. Draco had told him that the wizarding world had held off on celebrations so far, out of uncertainty that Voldemort was actually dead. That had increased Harry’s determination to give this press conference a week after his brother died. If he hesitated too long, panic might start spreading.

Draco hadn’t been happy about it, but after a short argument that had resulted in a heated snog, he was resigned to the fact that Harry wanted to do this. He leaned against the door of Silver-Mirror anyway, eyes cool as he regarded the reporters.

Harry coughed, and the whole gathering turned its eyes to him. Harry felt a moment’s disorientation. He hadn’t done anything like this since he fell off the mountain. The Ministry gatherings and other public occasions had always relied on the pureblood dances, and there, he could be confident, because the knowledge still existed in his head even after the suspension of his emotions cracked. But this-this, he would have to use his readings of people and the situation for rather than dances.

I don’t like this.

Nevertheless, he put on his best Slytherin smile and said, “Thank you for coming. I know you must be very curious about what happened in the final moment when we defeated Voldemort.”

He and Draco had argued about the pronoun, too. Draco thought he should say “I.” Harry refused, because, to his mind, Connor was just as much a part of Voldemort’s death as he was. Draco had stood down when Harry grew upset enough to use his magic to shake and crack the walls.

He won his share of their debates, too-what Harry should wear for this announcement, for example, and exactly how many political gatherings he should attend in the next few months-but he could read Harry well enough to know when something was really important to him. Harry half-thought he’d argued this time because he thought it expected of him, as Harry’s partner and as someone who hadn’t liked Connor much when he was alive.

He seems to have changed his mind, a bit, now that he’s dead.

“Mr. Black?”

With a start, Harry realized he’d been collecting Kneazles in his thoughts, while the reporters waited for him to say something about Voldemort’s defeat. He took a deep breath and herded the Kneazles into line, then lifted his chin proudly. Connor would want me to do this. I can’t run away from my responsibilities. He certainly didn’t.

“The Dark Lord was immortal,” he said, which attracted several gasps from the listeners. Otherwise, everyone seemed much more interested in what he was saying than their own reactions, which caused Harry to cough again. You can be nervous, whispered a voice in his head that sounded like Snape’s, just as long as you never show them you’re nervous. “His immortality depended on several enchanted objects that guarded pieces of his life-force.” He’d chosen the wording on that carefully. “Soul” might have said “Horcrux” to someone, and the last thing Harry wanted was to deal with this problem over again. Fighting three Dark Lords was enough for any one lifetime. “Unfortunately, destroying each enchanted object required a willing sacrifice, thanks to an Unassailable Curse Voldemort had cast.” He wasn’t going to mention wrestling the soul-shards, either. He was tired of people thinking he was Dark simply because of his actions, and the second-to-last thing he needed, next to a second Voldemort, was someone assuming a soul-shard had managed to possess him.

“Several noble people died to fulfill those conditions,” he said quietly. “Narcissa Malfoy.” Draco shifted beside him-small, but it was enough to tell Harry what he was feeling. Harry reached out and squeezed his arm without looking away from the reporters. “Minerva McGonagall, during the collapse of Hogwarts. Regulus Black. Henrietta Bulstrode.” He wondered for a moment how many people would disagree with calling Henrietta noble, and then told himself that was just a distraction to keep from speaking the last name. “Connor Potter.”

Several more gasps sounded, and Rita Skeeter called out, “Is it true that Voldemort kidnapped your brother, Mr. Black?”

Harry nodded. “He did. He intended to make me come to him and give up my life out of despair.” It was odd to remember that he might have done it, too. But then again, the events of those two days-the spring equinox and the day that followed, during which he’d been nightmaring, witnessing Henrietta’s sacrifice, brewing the Switching Potion, and approaching Voldemort’s lair-felt like disjointed pieces of another life, save for the bright point of pain that was Connor’s death. “But instead, I went armed, and Connor died willingly, and then I defeated Voldemort.”

“What proof is there of this?” A tall woman with keen brown eyes leaned forward. “Forgive me, Mr. Black, but we only have a lack of Dark activity to tell us that You-Know-Who is dead-and we’ve had that for the last several months, too.”

That question, Harry had expected, and it made him feel a bit more confident about the way he might handle the rest of the conference. He lifted an eyebrow, and then snapped his fingers together.

The tall woman ducked as a streak of fire manifested in the air above her head, and then turned itself inside out to reveal Voldemort’s body dangling there as if on a thread. Now the gasps were mostly noises of disgust; Harry heard more than one person retching. He didn’t know why. Voldemort hadn’t died bloodily.

Of course, perhaps he had underestimated the impact of a noseless face and empty eyesockets on people not used to facing Voldemort in their dreams and in battles several times a year.

“There he is,” Harry said. He hadn’t summoned the body. He’d had it ready, hanging invisibly in the air, but his magic had made it look showier. Harry saw less wrong with that than he used to. “Would you like to look at him more closely, madam? That can be arranged.”

The woman cringed, but didn’t back down. Harry found himself liking her. “How do we know that’s the real thing?”

Harry shrugged. “Are you going to trust my word that I defeated him? What other proof would convince you? You cannot prove a negative, so I cannot prove he’s not out there still.” He watched unsympathetically as someone else was sick and a few people closed their eyes and swayed on their feet. Better they understand this now, so they won’t plague me for impossible things when I have more important tasks to accomplish. “But I will say that he isn’t. This is the real body.” He nudged Voldemort’s corpse, and it spun as if on a string.

“Why hasn’t it been burned?” Melinda Honeywhistle complained. Harry would have recognized her nasal tone anywhere.

“If I did that, I would surely be accused of having a fake.” Harry gave her a sharp-edged smile and swept the body towards her. “Would you like to be the brave one who examines it, Madam Honeywhistle?”

“No, I-“ She turned her head away, flinching.

Harry shook his head. He had learned that nothing he could do would content everyone; that lesson still burned in his stomach like the cut of a sickle, after Connor. So he would keep the body a few more days and then burn it at sunrise.

He told them that plan, and they clucked like chickens, some approving the plan, a few objecting. Harry invited the objectors to examine the body. They all declined, but said that someone should. Harry asked for names of their preferred candidates. Other than one malicious rival who nominated Honeywhistle, no one said anything. Harry nodded and hid the body behind magic again. He didn’t miss the way most people subtly relaxed when it was gone.

And that was his attitude for the rest of the press conference: tell them the truth, offer proof where he had it, and ignore questions that he couldn’t have answered to their satisfaction anyway. Several departed with a gleam in their eyes that said he would have their articles biting at his heels soon. Harry felt almost relieved. If the defeat of Voldemort had transformed him into the darling of the press, he would have felt even less like he was living his own life than he already did.

*

Harry finally finished smearing the oil everywhere except the middle of his back, and corked the vial, setting it aside. That wasn’t the end of the preparations, of course. He waited a few minutes for the newest oil to dry, then turned slowly to examine the robes on the end of the bed.

Draco had had them made. No courting partner could enter the Silver Splendor and Flame wearing anything but those clothes their partner had given them as gifts. Thus Harry would have the silver ring that Draco had given him as a gift of intention during the first ritual-

And these.

The cloth was deep black, which unexpectedly flamed blue in the light when Harry cast a Lumos charm. It made for heavy but comfortable robes, and Harry didn’t think they would scratch his skin. His real problem was with the symbols in silver and golden thread stitched all over the hem and sleeves and collar. He had taken the trouble to look them up.

That had resulted in another argument with Draco. They spent a lot of their time lately doing that, as if to make up for all the years when each fight had been a devastating blow.

Harry could accept the variation on the Black crest that said he was the head of the family now, and the spread-winged raven that each Dark heir was entitled to, and the charging unicorn that Britain’s last potential vates had borne. He objected more to the sun in the arms of the crescent moon, a symbol Draco had taken from the Pact’s seal, and which he was using to mean “Lord-level wizard,” and the forms of all the various magical species he had freed. Harry didn’t want it to seem as if he ruled over those species, which he certainly did not. And he’d objected most of all to the small golden crest on the front of his collar. The only good thing about it was that his chin would, mostly, cover it if he kept his head bowed.

It was the Potter family crest.

*

Harry came face-to-face with Parvati for the first time since Connor’s death when he walked out of his room. He didn’t think she’d been waiting for him, and he hadn’t sought her out. He’d simply been walking in the upper hallway, trying to convince himself that he needed to see someone other than Draco, and then she turned the corner.

They both stopped. Harry braced one hand on the wall and met her eyes gravely. Parvati slowly inclined her head to him.

“No one else will tell me what happened,” she said.

Harry grimaced. Part of that was meant to shield her, no doubt, but it had also come about because no one else knew what happened, not for certain. And she had the right to know how her husband had died.

“Come with me,” he said quietly, and led her down the corridor towards a room that he knew about as head of the Black family, and which the wards would let him extend the knowledge of to Parvati, since she’d married his brother. All the way, he chided himself for the trembling weakness in his muscles. He hadn’t fallen from a height or hurt himself in the battle with Voldemort. Why should he feel as if he would like to go back to bed and draw the blankets over his head?

It had to be the conversation with Parvati, and nothing else, and that was silly. If she wished to hate him, that was her right. Harry had changed enough not to accept condemnation from everyone as justified, but Parvati-she had a right, a position with him now, that no one else in the world did.

The room’s door opened when Harry passed his hand just above the stone that shielded it. Beyond, the walls swelled into a sudden glory of green and blue, silver and red and gold. Parvati halted and stared in astonishment. Harry felt his cheeks warm. The walls showed stars from common constellations, but so close at hand that one could see their true colors. He hadn’t brought her here to impress her, just to insure their privacy.

“Please,” he said, and gestured to the chairs in the middle of the room, small white things that were easy to forget in the domination of starlight. “Sit.”

Parvati did, though she stretched her head back to get a glimpse of Orion sparkling overhead. Harry turned his own chair to face hers; ordinarily, they were meant to orient away from one another, to give the two people the room could accommodate a better chance to view the stars.

Parvati didn’t examine the walls or ceiling long. Her gaze rested on him, and her hands clasped together in her lap so hard that she uttered a little gasp of pain. “Now,” she said. “Please tell me, Harry.”

And Harry did, from the details of how Connor had become a Horcrux-or how he guessed that Connor had become a Horcrux-until the moment when Connor gave his life away. Parvati shut her eyes halfway through, and tears dripped down her cheeks with enough regularity that Harry had to fight to keep his own voice steady. By the end, Parvati had given up every pretense of control and was weeping softly.

Harry hesitated, then moved over beside her and put an arm around her shoulders. He wasn’t sure she would welcome it, but she turned around and hung on with frightening strength.

“He had a chance to live,” she whispered. “He would have died anyway if you hadn’t brewed that potion, and you could have left him like that, asked him to die for you without trying to remove the soul-shard, and he would have done it. But you tried to save him, and then-and then he gave it up.” Her head rested against his chest for a moment. Harry stroked her hair. “I thought I’d hate you for that, Harry,” she said. “But I can’t. You tried. You didn’t kill him. He killed himself.”

Harry just nodded. He felt, as he mostly had not since he climbed back into sanity, that he should have died. If Connor could have been with Parvati again, perhaps it would have been worth it.

And then he thought of Draco, and winced. One bad part of being human and in the midst of his emotions was that his ability to hide from himself had considerably diminished.

But even that he could not regret, since it was so essential to his path as vates.

At last, Parvati pulled away from him, and wiped her tears with a semblance of dignity. Relieved, Harry took his chair again, and locked his eyes with hers before she could look away. “You know that anything you need, you may come to me for,” he said quietly. “You’re my sister-in-law. And, of course, I think that you may fall heir to the Potter estates, since you took Connor’s name-“

Parvati closed her eyes and shook her head. “No,” she said quietly. “The ritual we used-it doesn’t bind us like that, because most of the time, the married couple have siblings who are still alive. It was rebellious younger brothers and sisters who used it most often, not heirs.” She gave a small smile. “And I think the vaults and the lands and Lux Aeterna should be kept intact, Harry. Give them to someone whom you think is worthy to become the adopted legal heir of the Potter line. Or maybe someone can be your magical heir, or you’ll find a Potter relative still alive.”

Harry felt a hope he’d not even admitted he’d borne die. “You’re not pregnant, then.”

“No,” Parvati said, opening her eyes. “I used the spells on myself when I first woke from my grief. I didn’t conceive. The estates have gone dormant, Harry, the way they always do in a situation like this, and connected themselves to you.”

“Dormant?” Harry hadn’t encountered the term.

Parvati smiled, but there was a tinge of pity to the expression. “James Potter did no favor in rearing you ignorant of your Light pureblood heritage,” she murmured. “Yes, Harry, that happens when an heir dies and hasn’t designated a replacement-or he has, but the replacement is someone who’s separated himself from the line, as you did by rejecting the Potter name. The estate, the vaults, and any magic attached search for the nearest possible relative, or the ‘heir of the heart’ of the family head, and attach themselves to him-or her, of course. You can’t use the Potter lands, properly speaking, but you’ll hold them in trust for the next heir, and they won’t respond to anyone else in the meantime. And you’ll be in charge of finding and training that heir.”

Harry nodded quietly. He had anticipated that for the Black line, and this was just another thing to add.

“I would have liked to see-a niece or nephew,” he said.

“So would I,” said Parvati. “Invite me to the adoption ceremonies when you find someone who suits, Harry. Though my right to be there is mostly formal, I would like to meet that child, and get to know him or her.”

Harry reached out and took her wrist firmly. “So far as I am concerned, you’re my sister,” he said. “You will be welcome whenever you choose to come.”

Parvati leaned forward, brushed her lips against his cheek, and then left him there.

*

Harry fastened the robes carefully, scowled one more time at the Potter crest, and shook his head. Draco had told him the symbol didn’t change even if one merely held dormant estates and vaults in trust for the next heir. A lot of shouting had left his partner unmoved. Harry huffed under his breath, and began the next step in his preparations.

Draco had told him he had to “do something” with his hair. Harry had imagined a glamour that would make it appear less messy.

That wasn’t what the ritual required.

Harry resignedly eyed the silver circlet-torque, Draco had insisted on calling it, though Harry didn’t think that was correct-that would hold his hair back. He would have to use spells to make it lie flat, and probably to hold the torque in place.

Why did I agree to a three-year joining dance, again? Or, at least, why didn’t I read up on the rituals first?

He knew the answer, of course. At the time, reading about it would be to admit to its happening, and Harry hadn’t wanted to admit that. He had still been, in his heart, more than half the humble servant, and less than half the person who wanted to join with Draco.

But I’m not the only one who’s changed, he thought, as he picked up the torque and stared into the mirror. And if my father can make such an effort, so can I.

*

Harry and Draco had said they would attend Lucius’s latest speech in pursuit of the office of the Ministry together-it was attend all of the candidates’ speeches or attend none, in Draco’s opinion-but Draco had excused himself with a murmured apology. Harry didn’t mind. Draco needed to circulate on his own, to exchange winks and nods and words with those who were fast becoming his contacts in the world of Ministry politics, and to establish himself as firmly outside Harry’s shadow. And Lucius’s, come to that, though Harry thought that rather more likely to be already in place.

He ended up watching Lucius’s speech while leaning against a wall. Lucius had chosen Diagon Alley as the site, and established a small platform in front of Gringotts. Harry had to admire the symbolism. Lucius wanted it to seem as if he had nothing against nonhumans. He wouldn’t be so crass as to claim that the goblins supported him, of course, but he would try to use a silent language to bolster his actual words, and have the best of both the magical creatures and the humans who didn’t want them in the Ministry.

The seventh of May had been chosen for the election, and it was the fourth of April now. Harry was rather looking forward to the election. He’d had a quiet word with Syrinx, and the Gloryflower artisans were at work enlarging the ranks of the golden voting owls. Harry wanted to see Lucius’s expression when he found out why.

“Harry.”

He glanced up in surprise. His father stood next to his shoulder and stared down at him. Harry straightened with a small nod. It was true he hadn’t spent much time in Snape’s company since Connor died, but then, Snape himself seemed occupied, brooding over Regulus and more concerned with Harry’s state of sanity and health than discussing what had happened to Connor. And Harry wanted to think of his brother’s death when he didn’t have something else he must spend time on, because he still needed to turn and settle it in his mind, and find a place for all his grief.

“Walk with me,” Snape said.

Harry nodded again, and followed him deeper into the crowd. Few people noticed him going, since he had tamped down on his magic and wrapped a Notice-Me-Not Charm around himself. Perhaps someone did and would anticipate it as a political commentary on Lucius’s speech, but Harry had finally begun to realize he couldn’t control everyone’s perceptions of his minor actions.

Snape guided him almost to the end of Diagon Alley, and the entrance that led to Muggle London. He halted outside the Leaky Cauldron’s back wall. Harry looked up at him and waited.

“I have not been sure what to say about the death of your brother,” Snape began quietly.

Harry nodded. Other families might have rushed together at once, extending sympathy and condolences. And his relationship with Draco was like that, because they understood each other well enough that Draco knew what kind of sympathies to extend. But he and Snape had always trod on a more formal footing. Snape would have wanted to wait until he was sure what to say.

“You know I didn’t like him.”

“Yes, I know,” Harry said calmly. He was no longer in that state of mind where hearing anyone disparage Connor cut him to the bone. He hadn’t been since the first three days he spent solely in Draco’s company, when Draco had talked almost solely of Connor’s virtues. “But you agreed to train him in dueling nonetheless, and you put up with him when you could have hurt him badly, and for that, I’ll be grateful forever, sir.”

Snape gave a small shake of his head. “I was not trying to create excuses for my behavior, Harry. I wanted to explain why I took so long to consider his sacrifice in the proper light.”

Harry cocked his head. “Isn’t even that sort of an excuse for your behavior, sir?”

Snape glared at him. Harry smiled back. No, his relationship with his father would never be perfect. He didn’t care. He had once thought he had the perfect parents, perfect in their attendance to the duties needed to save the world. If he never thought that again, he would be happy.

“I have been angry with you, as well,” Snape continued, “for going into Voldemort’s lair intending only to die, and for imprisoning us when you know we would have stood beside you.”

Harry shifted from foot to foot. This was something Draco hadn’t approached him about; he seemed to feel the death of his brother had punished Harry enough for his mad plan. But, of course, it would come up with Snape.

“You would have prevented me from doing what I intended to do,” said Harry quietly. “It was especially pertinent that I get rid of you, since you would have recognized the Switching Potion.”

“Yes, I would have tried to prevent your death,” said Snape. “And I will not think myself in the wrong for that.”

“I don’t think you should.” Harry ran his hand through his hair, and wished, for a moment, for the confidence that had led him to confront Snape after Regulus’s death and pull him out of his grief. Of course, then, he had been sure he was in the right and Snape in the wrong. It wasn’t easy when the shoe sat so heavily on the other foot. “But I didn’t care, at that moment, about what you might think, or Draco, or Peter-or Connor. I didn’t mean to give him a choice, you know. I drank the Switching Potion before I told him what would happen to the Horcrux. He was the one who made the choice to take it back and then swallow the h-healing potion.”

Fuck, his eyes were tearing up. Harry took a deep breath and held them shut for a moment. He would not suppress his emotions with Occlumency again, but that didn’t mean he wanted to tear up whenever he thought of his brother.

“What made you care so little?” Snape demanded. “I have never known you that deficient in consideration for others, Harry.”

“I know,” Harry whispered, and sought for words to explain it. But, at the last, only the truth would do. “I was insane at the time, sir. And I thought I had done everything I could for you, and I owed Connor my life and the chance for he, himself, to live. Dying was the only way I could think of to accomplish that.”

Snape’s hands closed on his shoulders with surprising force, and pulled him into his arms. Harry stumbled, but went. Snape held him there, in an embrace too tight to be comfortable, and hissed into his ear.

“None of us will ever be done with you, Harry. Do you understand me?”

Harry shut his eyes and nodded. A current of clear mourning ran through his head, mingled with a strange kind of pity. When his emotions first awakened and his magic shook off the phoenix web, he had been angry at Connor for having so much of their parents’ attention and affection. Now, though, he had to wonder if his brother had ever been loved like this.

He was. By me. The way he died suggests he knew that. I hope he did.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice muffled against Snape’s robe. His arms rose and snaked around Snape’s middle.

“For scolding you?” Snape sounded frustrated with himself. “I meant to explain myself, Harry, not excoriate you.”

“For loving me,” Harry said. “For being my father.”

There was a pause, and then Snape’s hands relaxed on his shoulders a bit. “Well.” His voice was the soft one Harry had often heard him use around his potions when the slightest bit of noise would disturb their brewing. “I can live with that, I think.”

*

The torque was as in-place as it was going to get. Harry shoved at it with the heel of his hand, and then growled under his breath. When they designed these rituals, didn’t they ever think about people with messy hair? The ancient wizards must have all looked like Draco, for as much consideration as they gave me.

Torque-given from Draco’s hand-done, it was time for him to call the tame slice of the Dark that powered this ritual. Harry shook his head even as he held out his hands. He didn’t quite believe that a joining dance was powerful or interesting enough to attract the attention of the Dark, but it seemed so. On the night when it raged wildest, a slice of it would come to the courting couple, if called, and make the magic that bound them what it was.

Rather like a shard of Voldemort’s soul-

Harry cut the thought off with a jab of his mind, and then whistled. He felt the calm, cool attention of a, well, of a something that grew more and more excited as it examined his mind. And then it burst into existence above his palms, a shimmering trail of dusty darkness edged with silver. Harry touched it, and felt soft warmth, like rotting meat, bathe his hands.

Except for the silver dogs-head, of course. Harry had to look at that in resignation. It remained cold, and always would.

*

Harry had had to get away from the celebrations. It seemed that most of the wizarding world did believe Voldemort dead, after all, and they had thrown festival after festival until Harry’s mouth hurt from smiling.

And no one who was outside his immediate circle seemed to care about the death that it took to achieve it all.

It was as his own private compact with death and mourning, in a way, that Harry went to the Forbidden Forest one night in the middle of April. He carried a hooked branch with thorns on it, and he carried much more knowledge of the web in question than he had the first time he went, and he carried Blood-Replenishing Potions so he wouldn’t lose his life there in the darkness.

And beside him walked Draco.

Draco had said nothing when Harry intimated that he wanted to free thestrals again. He had simply looked at Harry with bright eyes, and then reached over and put a hand on his forehead that felt as if it could strike down as easily as bless. Then he had said, “I’m coming with you.”

Harry nodded. “I would expect nothing less of you,” he said. “I need someone to help me with the Blood-Replenishing Potions. I want to free two thestrals at least this time, but the chains are so long that I’d die before I could shed all the blood necessary to cover and melt them.”

“The way you almost did last time,” said Draco, in a voice nearly without malice.

Harry inclined his head.

So they had come to the Forbidden Forest, after promising Snape that he could come after them if they weren’t back by midnight. The days were getting longer, but there were still hours of darkness before then, and a wintry chill in the air which Harry found appropriate, given their place and their purpose. He walked until he heard the taps of hooves sounding beside him, and turned to face the thestrals trotting towards him, their tails high.

A mare and a foal, he saw at once, and they halted and sniffed when he saw them. Harry could not communicate with them as easily as he had before, now that his phoenix song was gone, but having taken the web and the chain off the stallion, he thought he could do it a second time.

He bared his left arm. His right hand held the thorns that were necessary to cut his skin and shed the blood. The mare at once came towards him, tail flinging itself about like a flag. The foal crowded close to her, halfway, Harry thought, between the innocence that afflicted young magical creatures who’d never seen a wizard and nervousness about what these strange beings might do.

Harry knelt, and examined the web and the chain flowing about their hooves. Draco drew one deep breath, as if he could see them himself. Maybe he could. Then his hand landed in Harry’s hair, and latched tight.

Reminding me of what I could lose, if I insisted on falling so far into the web-breaking that I died to free the thestrals. Harry appreciated it. He would have reached up and clasped Draco’s hand back if he didn’t need both of his for the blood-drawing. As it was, he had to use his magic to lightly, warmly caress Draco’s fingers, and hope that would be enough.

A deep breath, and then he drew the bough down his arm.

Blood shed willingly, blood shed with thorns. The first drop made two links of the cold blue chain around the mare and her foal whirl apart into steam, with a slight hiss that was echoed by an ecstatic snort from the mare. It occupied the whole of his mind, and for the first time in nearly a week, Harry found that he could think of something else than how annoyed he was at people calling him a hero.

I did what I had to. Connor was the real hero, the one who made a decision he didn’t have to make.

But here, here was the work he’d dedicated himself to, not the work prophecies and fate and the hour of his birth had compelled him into, and so he dragged the thorns over and over again through his skin, parting it into ragged slivers and runnels of liquid, and the mare and the foal danced around each other as the chain lifted from their hooves and their necks.

When Harry grew exhausted, he stopped, panting, and leaned against Draco. Draco used his hold in Harry’s hair to force a Blood-Replenishing Potion more easily down his throat. Harry gulped, and grimaced a bit at the foul taste, and nodded his thanks to Draco as he moved forward again. Apart from anything else, the support of Draco’s hip and thigh against his cheek kept him much warmer and more braced than he’d been the first time he did this.

When he got close in under the mare’s belly, she whuffled at his hair and then bent her neck over his shoulder and between his arms to lick at the blood flowing from his wounds. Harry let her do it. The foal wanted a taste, too, and so he rested for a moment, touching the cold, slick short fur. The foal wriggled against him, seeming to have entirely lost its fear. At least when Harry set them free, they would have no cause to fear wizards again.

On and on and on, until Harry fell into a kind of trance where he dragged and cut and dripped, and only paused every now and then for a drink from one of the vials Draco held. It seemed almost anticlimactic when the final chains disappeared from the pair, and Harry could swallow the remains of their web with his absorbere gift. It tore like rotten silk, and left two more thestrals free.

The mare reared high, and her wings turned white. Harry blinked, lifting a hand to shield his eyes. The foal whirled around its mother, snorting and stamping and squealing, and Harry heard a sound like enormous gates of ivory swinging open.

He had expected the mare to mimic the stallion’s strange transformation, rearranging her bones, but, he supposed, there was no reason to expect that. Thestrals seemed to be individual creatures, as different from one another as house elves, not a hive like the Many.

The white light whirled like a whip through the Forest, or like the wheel of diamond shards he had used to cut Evan Rosier’s face apart. Harry felt the trees shivering in the wake of the enormous boom that accompanied its traveling, and lowered his arm to stare in silent disbelief at the burned area where the mare had been.

The foal capered for a moment, then stopped and bowed its head. A moment later, it, too, combusted in white flames that burned bright as magnesium before collapsing on each other.

In the silence that followed, Harry heard Draco swallow heavily and say, “I suppose you know best about what to do, since you’re vates, Harry, but it’s bloody creepy sometimes.”

*

It was time now, and Harry went to the entrance of Silver-Mirror where Draco would be awaiting him. The others had all left for the Walpurgis Dance already-well, at least those who were Dark had-and it had felt decidedly strange not to go. Harry could feel the wild Dark pulling at him, calling him on to the frenzied noise of music and movement of feet. He would be welcome there, it promised him, and it would be more than happy to help him forget.

But the small shard of tame Dark drifting around him helped him forget its mad cousin’s invitation. It draped like a stole on his shoulders now, and licked his face with a tongue full of maggots. Harry wiped them off, and nodded to Draco, who waited with a calm expression on his face.

Not that he hadn’t fussed when Harry bought pale robes for him, because he had. Harry didn’t care. The robes were the color of marble, and made Draco’s hair and eyes look exotic, and suited him. He’d bought the golden torque, too, which was almost lost in the ash-blond of Draco’s hair, and which complemented the golden Portkey bracelet on his wrist. It was Harry’s small revenge, that Draco looked like a creature of the Light this Walpurgis.

And, considering the name of the ritual, not entirely inappropriate.

Draco wore a smile that Harry hadn’t seen since the moment just after Connor’s funeral, when he had seemed to share Harry’s sense of peace in finally laying his brother to rest. “Ready?” he asked softly, extending the hand without the bracelet. The tame Dark surrounded that, too, in a blaze with silver on the inside and black on the outside, the opposite of Harry’s piece.

Harry nodded, and put out his own hand, and as their fingers intertwined, the Dark embraced them and took them-elsewhere.

*

Harry lifted his head and stared, then shivered. In spite of what Draco had told him, and what he’d read to prepare, he still found himself overcome by the sheer power of the room in which they stood. A black, cavernous hall, with a ceiling so lost in shadow that stars dangled from it and didn’t seem out of place, and walls of gleaming black stone, veined here and there with silver. Gleams of light near at hand revealed the black was either sleek dark green or at least had some shades of that color in it.

Light…

Harry turned and looked over his shoulder. A silver flame burned in the center of the hall, of course, in mimicry of the silver fire that would burn elsewhere that night as the Walpurgis celebrants danced, and to give the ritual its name. Harry cocked his head. The fires of Walpurgis often felt frosty. He expected to feel that sensation from this flickering, single tongue of flame, which wept sparks like tears to either side.

He didn’t. A soft warmth engulfed his body instead, and he closed his eyes against that, and against the silver light that had begun to shine from his skin.

“The Dark encloses us,” Draco whispered, the first of his ritual words. “The tame Dark we summoned has created this for us, and will hold us close this night and all the nights to come. My beloved, will you come with me and see the gentleness in the heart of the Dark? For even that which is pitiless may know joy.”

Harry nodded, and opened his eyes. Draco shone with glory like lighted obsidian, beaming out of him and making his hair hold soft glints of red, his eyes of green, his robes of black. He ought to be pleased, Harry thought inanely. He gets to look like a proper Dark wizard after all.

“I will be pleased,” he whispered, when he realized he hadn’t yet said the words he needed to.

Draco leaned forward and kissed him, then took his hand and drew him towards the fire. It grew warmer as they approached, and Harry found that he couldn’t take his eyes from it. He knew the flame would seek out his mind and offer him whatever glimpse of the paths, or the past, or the wild Dark, was most appropriate to his state of mind. Draco had called this the perfect ritual to undergo after a crippling loss, because it complemented the last Walpurgis in which Harry had taken the lead and cared for him, and this time it would focus on unlocking parts of Harry that had lain buried and diminishing those griefs that might keep him from happiness.

And Draco would take the lead. Harry suspected the ritual’s magic, as well as Connor’s loss, might lie behind his hovering overprotectiveness for the last month.

The flame grew larger and larger, until it consumed the whole of the world. And then it vanished, so suddenly that Harry wondered if it had managed to burn his eyes and lose him his sight. Or perhaps this was one enormous afterimage? Gaps and holes did begin to open in the darkness after a moment, like a spot from the sun slowly and gradually tattering.

And then he saw what lay before him, and lost his breath.

A group of women in dark robes surrounded a low altar of black stone, and on the altar lay flowers, locks of hair, goblets of wine, peaches, the carcass of a goat-

And a young woman with her throat bared.

Harry knew he’d made some noise, but he couldn’t tell what it was, whether a word, perhaps his brother’s name, or just a sound of distress. He stared in silence as the priestesses chanted, their voice soaring in joy. They didn’t speak a language he knew-or even words at all; their voices slid by like water or birdsong-and he did not know which god they praised. He only heard the happiness, and saw the corresponding ecstasy in the young woman’s eyes as she tilted back her head.

There could be no doubt that she was offering her life freely. Willingly. She would let her blood be spilled and go to whatever god or power they served because she wanted to.

Harry closed his eyes. Why had the ritual believed he needed to see a vision of willing sacrifice? He knew what it meant. He’d lived with it for months now. He’d been willing to perform it when he went into Voldemort’s lair. And he knew Connor had died of it, had done it because he wanted to.

And when that thought brought black resentment welling to the front of his mind, he knew why the Dark had chosen this sight.

He gave a shudder, and made a low, ugly sound that held fury in it. He hadn’t known he felt the fury. Along with all the tears he’d shed, the sad pride that Connor had died that way, the irritation that everyone who hadn’t been there seemed to think Harry had been the one to defeat Voldemort and not Connor-

There was anger, as pitiless as the voice of a crow, as pitiless as the wild Dark. In part, he hated his brother for having done this to him, committed suicide and left him here to mourn.

The silver light gushed from his skin, bending around in front of him, forming two distinct and parallel lines that touched each other like hands clasping, and became the silver flame again. Harry stood in the black room with Draco’s arms around him, and his own muscles fighting mindlessly to get free.

Draco hissed into his ear, “He did it because he wanted to, Harry, and while you have every right to be angry, that’s the true, the deep reason. Not to make you furious. He didn’t steal a death from you that you had the right to die. He died to spare you.” He hesitated for a moment, then said, “And all the people who love you.”

“How can you be sure what went through his head?” Harry ripped free and turned to face Draco, his eyes bright and furious. He saw two of Draco’s head, and knew he wept again. He didn’t care. These were tears of fury and frustration, not sadness. “You weren’t there.”

“No,” Draco said. His face looked half in shadow, half in dancing firelight, from the odd radiance that bled through his skin. “But we have something in common that you don’t-or, at least, that you didn’t have in common with us until very recently.”

“What’s that?” Harry snarled.

“Love for you.”

And then Draco kissed him, as intent as Harry had been the night he’d fallen off the mountain, pressing Harry back, to the side of the single flame, and towards a bed that the tame Dark raised from the floor for them. It was a replica of their old bed that had stood in the Slytherin seventh-year boys’ room at Hogwarts, Harry saw, dark green curtains and sheets and all.

He fought, at first. He wanted to fight. But the person he wanted most to scream at was gone from the world, and his rage dashed itself to pieces against the walls of both Draco’s understanding and his firm non-regret. He was sorry that Connor had died. He wasn’t sorry about it in the same way Harry was, and he wouldn’t be. He didn’t wish that Connor were still alive if it meant that he would have traded Harry for him.

Harry clenched his hands, and found himself lying on the sheets. Draco hovered just above him, breath coming short and fast, eyes piercing him.

“Will you let me do this for you?” Draco asked. “You’ve shown me openness. Will you let me show it to you?”

Those questions were part of the ritual. Harry knew it, though he had not known why until now. He shut his eyes and tilted his head back. Sweat slicked his forehead like tears, and he had to clench his teeth to keep screams behind them.

“Yes,” he said, aware that he sounded angry.

It was the permission Draco needed, evidently, not a particular tone. The sheets rose and wrapped themselves around Harry, turning him over twice, and when they let him free again, he was also free of clothes. He huffed out a breath and locked eyes with Draco, making their gaze a challenge. His power still streamed around him, his anger still rose in him, and the silver light made his limbs into swords. He stood a good chance of cutting Draco if they had sex now.

Draco, already naked himself, eyes dark with passion and limbs dark with the obsidian flare, didn’t look as if he cared about that.

He climbed onto Harry and urged him onto his stomach. Harry lifted his head with a gasp of surprise when he realized Draco’s fingers were heavy with more of the frankincense-smelling oil. Had the room given it to him, or the Dark, or had he conjured it himself? Harry didn’t know, and then had no more time to think about it, as Draco carefully smeared the oil over the one patch in the middle of his back that he hadn’t been able to reach.

And Harry found out why they needed the oil, and why the ritual had Flame in its name as well as Silver Splendor.

He shuddered, drowsy heat and gentleness flooding him. The oil had turned to liquid again, and was sliding everywhere on his body, bringing pleasure wherever it went. It didn’t smother his emotions, though, as he had half-feared it would, but only softened the anger, bringing it to full bloom and then bearing it away on a tide of other sensations. Harry bowed his head and huffed again. This time, he was trying to catch his breath.

Draco spoke softly to the nape of his neck, ritual phrase after ritual phrase that Harry didn’t bother paying attention to. He tilted his head back and sighed with relief as tight knots in his muscles that seemed to have been cramped for the last month unwound. Boneless, he dropped to the middle of the bed.

Draco came down with him, and turned his face for a kiss. Harry had to close his eyes, briefly, before the sight of the emotion in his face. Then he opened his eyes and returned the kiss, with interest.

And after that, he lay there while Draco prepared him with the oil, and the silver light swayed back and forth inside him like seaweed moving in a current, or leaves moving in the wind. He had never felt so relaxed, so comfortable, so open and flowing to the emotions within him. When Draco entered him, Harry arched his back and only wished he could prolong the moment.

Harry didn’t know how to describe the motion they shared then, other than motion. It wasn’t fucking, and it wasn’t making love, because emotions other than love sped his heartbeat and made his muscles languid and hazed his mind as he lay there. Best to call it motion, and to revel lazily in everything he was feeling.

One feeling never changed, of course: utter and complete trust in Draco. If he’d been hiding any of that, the ritual had successfully dredged it up and used it as a bedrock for the rest of his emotions.

He barely experienced his own orgasm, just a bright, sharp pinprick of pleasure in the middle of the rest, a star falling into the sea. He felt more keenly the moment when Draco gasped, stiffened, and lost himself, because in the next moment he collapsed onto Harry’s back and smeared the oil all over himself.

Harry’s eyelids fluttered. He should rouse himself. He should ask Draco about the end of the ritual, which he knew involved the tame Dark returning them to the world, but which he wouldn’t be awake to see if he kept lying here. He should explain to Draco what this ritual had made him feel, and how the anger had joined the rest of the emotions dancing through him-not something he’d suppressed, but something he wouldn’t admit to himself, and which, now, he could admit.

But all that came out of the mixture of embers and ashes filling him now was a dazed mumble of, “I love you.”

“The splendor has shone, and the flame has burned,” Draco said, the words to end the ritual. Harry felt the room dissolving around them, but he felt, more clearly, Draco lean forward and say into his shoulder, “I love you, too.”

Harry flopped, boneless. It was an utter luxury, utterly decadent, and probably encouraged more by the ritual than what he would naturally and normally feel, but, for once, he didn’t care:

He would relax and let Draco take care of everything.