The Girl in the Broken Mirror

By: darienqmk

Fandom: harry potter

Summary: Fueled by curiosity and tempted by power, Iris Potter delves into magic far older and sinister than the kind they teach at Hogwarts. When she stumbles into a world filled with dark gods and primordial entities, she realizes that she's gambling with so much more than just her life. Eventually powerful Fem!Harry. Fifth Year AU.

Fic type: Books/Harry Potter

Pairings/Main char.: Harry P., Albus D.

Published: 2020-04-03

Last updated: 2020-09-28

Words count: 44,228

Chapters count: 9

Converted using www.FF2EBOOK.com
Date: 2020-10-24

1. Chapter 1

A/N: This chapter was beta-ed by the fantastic AutumnSouls. She also writes stuff that's really cool, so go check her out too.

Big thanks to dhazellouise for the cover art.

Foreword:

Hello, Iris.

When you are reading this, it is undoubtedly because I am dead. I asked Sirius to keep it safe for you, without anyone (except you, naturally) ever reading its contents. If I survive through the War, then I will retrieve this from him. If not, it will pass on to you.

One thing you must understand; this is not for the weak of mind and will. I will say this as honestly as I can - the contents of this book are very likely what got me killed. If this does not dissuade you, then read on - but know this; you will not be able to back away from this world if you have set even a foot into it. Your only chance to return to a more normal life is to burn this book, forget it ever existed, and carry the last knowledge of it to your grave.

I am conflicted about whether to allow you to even consider reading this. On the one hand, this book details terrible and horrific arcane arts that have been mostly forgotten in time, collected painstakingly by my grandmother and her grandmother before her, and from my own efforts during my Hogwarts years. On the other hand, I have sacrificed my body, my mind, and my soul to the study of these magicks purely to keep you as safe as I can - and you may understandably have people of your own whom you care for, even if only yourself.

I'm afraid there's not much more to elaborate without giving away the book's contents. I should mention that your life will become significantly more dangerous should you choose to delve into the contents of this book, but significantly more rewarding; you will find yourself gambling very often with your sanity, your life, and things that you possess yet you never knew existed; you will very likely lose everything in a single misstep, but should you succeed, you may obtain great things - power, authority, and knowledge that could change the course of history.

I ask you not to make a choice immediately. Think over it for at least three days. This choice can never be taken back, no matter how much you may wish it so.

I love you.

Your mother,

Lily.

Iris dusted the chalk off her hands and stared at the circle she'd drawn.

If Vernon and Petunia saw this, they would throw her out into the street. They were honest, God-fearing folk that didn't do things beyond their comfort zone and especially didn't delve into sorcery. Drawing a pentagram wider than Iris was tall was surely not one of the few approved activities on their list of things Iris could do.

She'd been visiting this place for almost a month now. A storm-drain, the place she picked being the center of a tunnel, utterly dark and damp, and consequently, nobody came here, not even vagrants. It had taken her three days to clear out all the broken glass and other gunk that had piled up here, then the next day it'd rained and given her all the work to do again. This past week, it hadn't rained at all, and the tunnel was relatively dry, dry enough to draw on with chalk. This, perhaps, would be her last shot to do something before it rained again and all her work was for naught.

A circle, thirteen feet in diameter. Five sharp lines forming a star, the outer vertices overlapping with the circumference. Ancient runes written into the spaces between the straight or curved lines, and a single lit candle placed on the northeastern vertex. She reached out tentatively with a foot, and scuffed the chalk circle at two places, the north north-east and east north-east, creating two small scratches. She stood facing the circle, standing at the southwest, and swallowed.

She didn't need her wand for this one. Not as complex as wandless magic, because all she was doing was releasing the magic from her body and letting it enter the circle, powering it. She took a deep breath, and slowly exhaled, focusing on her inner turmoil; the magic, taking presence of a gentle white smoke, rolled out of her mouth, slowly falling to the ground. She continued to exhale for twenty seconds, until a small puddle of the stuff fell. While the movements were slow, it quickened as it neared the circle, as if it were being sucked in; after a brief moment, the last of the mist was gone, and the circle and pentagram glowed a little bit brighter.

"I call thy name," Iris whispered into the silence. "I summon thee to the mortal realm. Heed my call, Eligos, and serve."

It might not have sounded as cool as Latin or Ancient Greek or what-have-you, but it was better than risking grammatical or pronunciation errors for a language she didn't know. The circle glowed brighter, just a little bit, and the light faded away. Iris watched the circle intently for several more minutes.

The candle remained lit.

Iris sighed, softly, so not to disturb the circle. A failure, then. Reading that journal, Iris was fairly certain that her mother was somewhat insane towards the end of it. She picked up her backpack, a frayed object that Dudley had once ruined; Petunia had given it to Iris without so much as repairing it, making her stitch it up herself instead. Her chalk, her candles, and her lighter all went back inside, and she was about to leave when she heard some hooligans approach from the exit she wished to go through.

"Well, well, well! If it isn't the Witch Bitch!"

Iris schooled her expression into neutrality as 'Big D' and his four lieutenants approached. Figures. They'd be the sort to look for abandoned areas in which to smoke pot and drink without getting yelled at by truant officers. Iris' hand unconsciously went up to her throat, where she clutched the silver chain that had been with her for almost all her life.

"What are you doing here?" Dudley said, smirking, although the smirk faded a bit when he saw the pentagram. "The fuck? Are you actually summoning Bloody Mary or something?"

"Bloody hell, she's an actual Satanist," one of his mates muttered. He managed to convey a surprising amount of disapproval in his tone despite being a failure at life himself.

"Well? What are you doing, slag?" Dudley asked. "Trying to bring mummy and daddy from the dead?"

"Fuck off, Dudley," Iris said with as much venom as she could muster. Dudley was sort of immune to it by this point, though, and he just smirked.

"Or maybe you're trying to resurrect Cedric?" Dudley sniggered, and Iris went deathly still. She vaguely recognized that her hands were impossibly cold and beginning to shake. "Always moaning his name in your sleep - who's Cedric, Iris? Your boyfriend? Your pimp?" He adopted a falsetto that was still deeper than Iris' normal voice. "Oh, don't kill Cedric!"

"Dudley, just - bugger off," Iris said.

"Shit, mate, she's pissed," laughed Piers Polkiss. "She looks like she wants to murder you!"

"She can try," Dudley said disinterestedly, but Iris didn't miss the way he glanced warily at the pentagram.

"Big D," one of the other pimpled gobshites spoke up. "Why's she off-limits, mate? You could let us teach her a lesson, you know. Maybe pound it into her, if you know what I mean."

Someone snorted, but Piers and Dudley shot him a dirty look. Apparently even they weren't so morally decayed as to find rape funny. Iris took a hesitant step back either way. She would defend herself, but she didn't want to. The Ministry never believed that a house-elf had cast a Hover Charm three years ago - they might very well snap her wand the next time.

"Not funny, fuckface," Dudley muttered, shaking his head. "You're not thirteen anymore."

The kid looked shamefaced, ducking away. "Yeah. Sorry, mate."

"So!" Dudley turned back to Iris. "Do you wanna hang out with us? I know you have no friends. Never managed to make any. Or maybe they're dead alongside Cedric."

The hesitance disappeared and the rage came back, bubbling to the surface. "Don't talk about him," she snarled. "He was a hundred times the man that you'll ever be."

The candle went out, and everyone stared at it.

There had been no wind. There had been no wind this entire day, in fact, and whatever wind there was didn't make it in that deep inside the tunnel. There certainly hadn't been any when the candle spontaneously went out, leaving the six of them with a little less light and a thin trail of smoke floating up to the surface.

"Maybe she actually is a Satanist," someone muttered.

"Whatever," Dudley dismissed, although he was definitely unnerved. He always was, when he suspected witchcraft, even if it wasn't that. Iris stared at the circle she'd drawn. White chalk, carefully drawn shapes, a single unlit candle on the northeastern vertex and two scuffs where she'd dragged her toes across them. Nothing had changed.

A low, mournful sound filled the tunnel, steadily growing louder. Dudley was frozen in place even as his mates began backing away. The sound became louder and louder, higher pitched, echoing through the tunnel, until it was an impossibly loud, inhuman shriek. Iris cried out in pain, clapping her hands over her ears, as the noise reached a crescendo and held the note. Dudley fell on his arse and began scrambling away. The pentagram faded away into nothingness and the chalk dust hounded after Dudley like a malevolent blizzard.

Then it stopped.

Iris staggered slightly, letting her hands go. She heard… nothing. Just ordinary sounds of the neighborhood. Cars, birds, children running home from school. Dudley stared at her with terrified eyes.

"What - what the fuck was that?" he snapped at her. "I'm going to tell mum and dad."

Iris didn't respond. That - that shouldn't have happened. What was going on? Dudley stood up and began walking from the tunnel, shoulders hunched and hands inside his jacket pockets, determinedly not looking at Iris. Iris sighed, picking up her backpack, and followed him out. She too determinedly didn't look at him, instead staring at the rubbish-covered ground just behind him, but a sudden movement caught her attention.

Her eyes snapped up to find a giant of a person wearing a coat, standing in front of Dudley. They were so tall that their head wasn't visible from where Iris was standing, being blocked out by the archway of the storm drain tunnel. Funnily enough, Dudley didn't seem to notice, walking straight at him. Iris felt a lump form in her throat, and she stopped, and hoarsely shouted.

"Dudley, stop! Come back!"

"Fuck off, freak!" Dudley shouted back, and walked right into the person, and finally realized he'd bumped into something.

Iris watched him flail about, wondering what he'd bumped into. Then he realized that he couldn't see it, and began to panic. When Dudley panicked, he was the kind of person to shut down. That was - that was not the correct response in this situation. A single, skeletal arm in an oversized coat sleeve lifted up, and grasped Dudley's shoulder.

He screamed.

Iris rushed forward, and grabbed Dudley's other arm, tugging at it. Dudley flailed fitfully, hitting Iris across the face and knocking her glasses off; Iris scrambled back, snatching them up as she did so. The skeletal being grasped Dudley's throat and lifted him up, pulling him out from the tunnel so that they could look at eye-level to each other.

Dudley's head disappeared above the tunnel archway. Then, the being let go of him, dropping him. He did not move.

Iris swore and drew her wand. There was no other choice, as much as she'd wanted to avoid it. She raised her wand, and bringing forth memories of studying with Hermione in the library, practicing Quidditch with Katie and Angelina and Alicia, and Mrs. Weasley's great big hugs - she spoke.

"Expecto Patronum!"

A silvery light burst from the tip of her wand, bubbling and coalescing into a beautiful stag, almost too large to fit in this tunnel, being forced to lower its head to make sure its antlers didn't scrape against the ceiling. A sense of tranquility and courage bloomed in her heart as her guardian charged at the terrible thing, roaring in such a way that she heard it in her mind rather than with her ears, and Iris stood confident.

The tall person caught her beast, skidding back a few steps. Then, it grabbed her stag's antlers, and twisted. The wet snap that followed sliced through all her courage and tranquility and replaced it with utter, utter dread. Her stag dissipated into mist, and Iris felt her knees getting weak.

What had just happened?

The tall person took a step towards her, and then stopped at the entrance.

Iris blinked. Was… was it waiting for her? To try and go home? Either way, it wasn't attacking her, wasn't following her deeper into the tunnel. Did it dislike the darkness? Strong against the light, weak against the shadow? Was that why it had managed to dispatch - murder her guardian? Iris took trembling steps forward, her wand held in front of her. When she came within three feet of the weird creature, it lashed out with its long arms, trying to grab her; Iris fell to the ground and scrambled back, the action of her slipping and falling fortunately keeping her from being caught in the thing's grasp. Then her arm brushed against Dudley's momentarily forgotten body and she shrieked.

He was… he was so cold. No pulse. No breath. And… and...

Iris screamed in horror as she witnessed the empty eye sockets that graced Dudley's face. The blackness stared accusingly at her, blaming her, but without anger, only sorrow and pain. She scrambled to her feet and ran towards the other end of the storm drain; she risked a glance back and saw that the thing was shuffling away from the entrance, as if to cut her off from the other side.

Her heart pounded more fiercely with the terror of the situation. People told her that she had her mother's eyes. They told her that enough that she got sick of hearing it but she didn't want to lose her eyes like Dudley did. She ran faster.

She charged out of the tunnel, nothing blocking her way, and she continued moving forward and onto the streets. She barely spared a glance for oncoming traffic, more concerned with getting away getting away getting away. Under the threat and the unyielding panic in her heart, there was no reason to the paths she took, and that was how she ended up in the local public library. She breathed hard, understanding why she might have been led here; this had always been her sanctuary from Dudley and his friends.

Iris ducked behind the closest shelf immediately, and peered through a gap in the books to look outside. The figure approached, taking slow, methodical steps, as if walking didn't come naturally to it and it had to put in effort to the motions. She began to shake as it approached, in its long, black coat hanging loosely off its eight-foot frame. The head was hidden by a hood that cast a shadow over its face. For some reason, Iris was glad for the hood. Otherwise, she might be staring into something quite horrific…

"Are you alright, love?" a voice interrupted her train of thought, and Iris flinched violently. A young librarian, maybe in her early thirties, pursed her lips. "No. You're clearly not. What's wrong?"

Iris swallowed, her words trapped by fear. She glanced at the front of the library again. The creature stopped as its head bumped into the doorway. To any other observer, it must have appeared as though the automatic doors were opening and closing without reason. The librarian followed Iris' line of sight to the doors, and frowned.

"Strange," she murmured, and made to approach.

"No!" Iris let out a strangled yelp, and the woman paused, turning back to Iris.

"What's wrong?"

"Th-there's something there," Iris stammered. God, she must sound like a lunatic. "I - damn it, you have to believe me. It's been following me. My cousin - oh, God, it killed my cousin. You have to believe me."

"Something there, you say?" she looked again, scrutinizing it from a distance. The figure in the doorway restlessly shuffled, agitated at its inability to move inside, at the glass doorway for preventing its entrance. "Okay. Would you like me to call the police, love?"

Iris shook her head. "I - I don't think they can help. You can't see it, can you? I doubt they could either. It's after me. I know it is."

"Alright. No police," the woman said after an infuriatingly long pause. Probably wondering if she should call the police, but not for Iris. "What can I do instead, then?"

"Y-yeah. No police. Don't want them to get hurt," Iris said quietly. "Hey, could - could you open the back entrance? I know there is one, even if it's not used. I used to come to this place all the time as a kid. Hide from my bullies."

The woman didn't like that suggestion, Iris could tell, but at the same time she was probably trying not to upset her, thinking she was high or something. Iris laughed bitterly. Fuck. She should've thrown her mother's journal in the fire the first time she set eyes on it, like mum had suggested she do. Instead she had to look at it, read it, get curious, because she had been locked in her room all summer with nothing to do.

"Please, just open the back door for me. I won't hurt anyone. I'll be on my way, alright? Don't make me go near that thing. I can't. I don't want to die…"

The woman finally nodded, though clearly not happy. Probably just to make sure that Iris didn't hurt the patrons of the library or throw a tantrum and ruin the nice categorized books. She began walking briskly towards the rear doors. They were made of wood with windows, not automatic like the front doors were. The wood was worn and the paint peeling in some places. It would lead straight to the public garden behind the library, where people could enjoy their books, once upon a time.

There was a massive crash and Iris flinched, looking back, the librarian doing the same. The glass doorway had shattered as the thing finally ran out of patience. Now it was walking through the library, the dark hood aimed at Iris, purposefully slow in that strange gait of theirs. The shellshocked librarian stood dumbly with the keys in her hand.

Iris screamed in frustration, snatching the keys from her limp fingers. "Which key?!"

The librarian didn't respond, her eyes going glassy. Fuck, fuck, fuck!

Iris picked the oldest-looking key, a simple and worn brass one, and jiggled the lock, which was also made of brass. A pretty good guess, except for the fact that the key got stuck. Iris shoulder-charged the door to no avail. She ripped the key from the lock and tossed it away; she shoved the librarian in the opposite direction, and drew her wand.

"Confringo!"

Her emotions toiling, the blasting curse was significantly more violent than usual. The glass shattered into fragments the size of her pinky nail; the wood fractured and splinters flew in all directions, including on Iris' exposed arms and cheeks. She charged through the half-ruined doors and spared a glance back; the creature was less than fifty feet from her. She sucked in a deep breath, and thrust her wand at the thing.

"Bombarda!"

The thing made no attempt to dodge the explosion curse; dust was raised and nearby bookshelves fell like dominoes when it struck with a bang. The thing continued to walk as if it had encountered nothing. No magic, then. Iris turned around and ran, as fast as she could. She thought of her options. Where could she go? She didn't have any friends here. She knew where Hermione lived, but that was on the other side of London, and she wouldn't want to drag the thing to Hermione anyway. The Burrow? If only she could apparate - fuck! What else could she possibly use? She didn't have her school supplies, her small amount of magical currency, and she didn't have her Firebolt either-

She almost paused in her epiphany, with only the threat of whatever was chasing her prompting her to keep running.

Iris raised her wand at the general direction of Privet Drive, and uncaring of who saw or heard, she screamed.

"Accio Firebolt, money-purse, Hogwarts supplies!" And Hedwig! "Accio bars on windows!" There. She'd be able to get out now.

Then she kept running.

After a minute, she heard something fly towards her; hope bloomed in her belly as she wondered if her things had come. No, it was a fucking Ministry owl, all regal and pompous-looking, and it dropped a letter. Iris did her best to ignore it, but the stupid scrap of parchment was fast enough to keep up with her adrenaline-fueled sprint, and it unfolded. The owl disappeared somewhere, probably going back to the Ministry so it could start sending her letters about how she'd used Blasting curses and all that as well.

"Iris Potter," said the smug voice, "the Ministry has received reports of a Patronus charm cast in the vicinity of-"

Iris shot a tongue of flame at it, instantly incinerating the letter. Fuck the Patronus, fuck the Ministry, and fuck the house arrest that Dumbledore had put her in! If she'd had access to her friends, maybe she wouldn't have gone stir-crazy and read the journal that belonged to her insane mother.

She took a deep breath, painful as it was with her ragged lungs, to try and calm down. No. It wasn't their fault that Iris decided to ignore her mum's warnings and keep reading. It wasn't their fault that Iris tried drawing a bloody pentagram to summon otherworldly creatures. But it would've been great if she had some actual company, instead of being left to wallow in her depression and continue to have nightmares about the graveyard with nobody to comfort her.

She continued running.

What about the Knight Bus? Did they take IOUs? After all, her stuff was flying out here, including her purse, although Iris wasn't certain if it could catch up with the magical torture-transportation. Her heart went wild for a moment as she considered the possibility of her summoning charm not working; she wasn't in a right state of mind, she might have been too far away from 4 Privet Drive, could it be possible that she was all alone?

Her worries disappeared as her trunk, her purse, and her firebolt came from the distance, coming to a neat stop in front of her. She leapt onto the broom, used a special clip that she'd bought at a Quidditch supplies store that locked her trunk onto the read end of her broom, pulled the cord of the purse around her neck and stuffed the purse itself under her shirt; and then she took off into the air.

Summer temperatures meant nothing when she was flying, not wearing protective equipment, and the sun was low. Flying at a reasonable one hundred miles an hour, her fingers were already simultaneously numb and stinging from the cold; her arms were covered in goosebumps, and her ears felt like they were going to fall off. Still… she needed distance. She needed to get away from whatever that thing was. She couldn't stop now, she couldn't rest, until she had enough distance from that thing that she might be able to get a decent amount of rest.

Where was safe? She had no idea where Sirius was staying. She had no idea how to get to Ron's place, because the last time she'd gone, it had been via Floo rather than actual physical travel. She lamented again her inability to apparate. Maybe she would be safe at Hogwarts? After all, Hogwarts was a stronghold of ancient magics, layered with protection for things that were forgotten these days. If anywhere was safe from what was chasing her, it would surely be Hogwarts.

Her destination decided, she flew north. It would take hours, and she would need to gear up. She came to a halt in mid-air, and stood on her toes atop the broom; in this uncomfortable position that Wood had made her practice her balance with, she unlatched her trunk and dragged out her Quidditch robes. Heavy, breaking wind, waterproof, it was everything she needed for the journey. The additional padding on her crotch helped too - another reason brooms weren't the nicest transport, even with cushioning charms, especially for the men. Iris couldn't say she'd ever tried changing clothes a thousand feet in the air, but there was a first time for everything. Her broom was clever enough to compensate for her wobbling somewhat, so Iris managed to change, taking three whole minutes to do so.

She wondered how much ground the thing had covered.

Thinking about the tall man made her shiver still, but she wasn't panicking anymore. She began pushing the broom to its top speed, a theoretical 244 miles per hour indicated air-speed. She wasn't sure how good hers was still, with all the wear and tear on it, but it was fast enough. She pulled on her padded leather flying helmet - something she'd thought was really cool ever since she visited the Imperial War Museum on a school trip back when she was nine years old - and her aviator goggles, magically charmed to match her prescription. She cast a bubble-head charm around her lower face to improve breathability and resist the cold, even as she drove her Firebolt up in a steep sixty-degree incline.

She punched straight through the clouds, and shot into the sky. She might not have gone to Muggle school beyond occasional summer classes, but she wasn't dumb (especially with all the time she spent in that library as a kid) and she knew full well that higher altitudes meant going faster. It was hard to tell just how fast, considering how the sky around her was so vast, but even with her Quidditch outfit - fully concealing, made of multiple layers of leather and wool padding, with warming charms stitched into them - she was starting to feel cold.

The sky was beautiful. There was that, at least.

She'd never climbed so high on her broom before. There really had been no need to do so; brooms, for the most part, were used as sporting items rather than meaningful transport, due to their inability to carry more than one or two people, with little to no cargo, and their speed lacked when compared to the Floo or apparition. And if they were only used for Quidditch - and a few other sports around the world, like Broom Racing or whatever - then they didn't need to get up so high. With that in mind, brooms weren't really suited to high altitudes, either. But her trusty Firebolt sped on, gaining speed. Three hundred miles per hour sounded about right, measuring by instinct.

As the sky darkened, she almost struck something in front of her.

Iris let out an undignified yelp as she performed a barrel roll, twisted down and out of the way of whatever she was about to hit. What the hell? A balloon or something, maybe? She spared a glance back, and ice-cold terror gripped her heart.

It appeared like a bolt of fabric, accidentally rolled out in the wind, stretching fifteen feet. The fabric was tattered and worn, visible even in the darkness. At the top… a pair of rotting arms emerged from torn-off sleeves, the skin unattached to the flesh and limply hanging off whatever was left of the meat, and the face of the thing was hidden by a mask made out of some sort of avian skull, dirty and cracked, and the strangely black eye-sockets (Dudley's missing his eyes) stared right at her. She tried to forget that glint of gold on the corpse's left index finger, a cheap and tacky gold ring just like the kind her cousin used to wear.

A coincidence. It had to be.

Coincidence. Coincidence. Coincidence.

Iris pushed the Firebolt into a violent downward spiral as the thing lunged at her, covering hundreds of feet in seconds. A scream was torn from her throat. She plunged through the clouds, letting gravity drag her down, going faster than she'd ever gone; she pulled up sharply and pointed herself at the horizon, the broom bleeding speed as gravity once again became a force to be fought against instead of an ally to be welcomed. Behind her, the thing emerged from the clouds, chasing her in a straight line, the fabric billowing behind it like infinitely thin tentacles waiting to grab her.

The wind howled, deafening her even as the sound of her own blood rushed through her skull. It reminded her of the time Mrs. Figg had taken her to an RAF air show and the sky overhead roared with English Electric Lightnings and F-4II Phantoms. If only she had afterburners now - she could feel the Firebolt straining under her tight grip, vibrating slightly as it pushed its top speed.

Despite her terror, she glanced back. It turned out to be the correct choice, as when she did so, she saw a tendril of cloth snap at her like a whip. She pulled into a tight roll and the cord snapped past her head. She rolled over again, hanging from her broom, and yanked hard, dropping her like a stone as she began to dive. The creature followed her, and as the tree-tops appeared in front of her, Iris pulled herself back up.

The broom creaked in protest as she barely managed to avoid flattening herself across the Scottish countryside. The creature, seemingly defying physics, straightened out easily and continued to follow her. Iris desperately dodged between the trees and branches; at the speed she was going, protective charms on her clothes or not, she was going to die if she crashed into anything. Although, frankly, death might be a better option than being caught by whatever it was.

She drew her wand and pointed behind her. "Bombarda!"

Dirt and chips of stone sprayed from the earth with a bang, traveling fast and hard enough to be shrapnel. The creature plowed into them, stumbling as the physical force of it sent it off-balance. Definitely uninjured, but it did buy her a precious second or maybe even two. Iris pulled her broom into a climb again, hoping that the momentary advantage would be enough to give her safety even in the open.

The chase continued for some time, during which the thing strained to catch up with her. The Firebolt was a little faster, but the thing didn't experience fatigue - mechanical, like her broom, or mental, like Iris herself - and Iris occasionally had to dodge tendrils of cloth snapping out at her.

Iris grimaced. She was getting pins and needles in her arms - this was not the time! She let go of her broom with one hand, steering with the other, clenching and unclenching her fist to try and get the blood flowing again. She put her hand back, and repeated the process with her other arm. She shook it slightly and made to focus on the flight again.

Then something struck her from behind.

Iris yelped as she was shoved forward from the force of it. Behind her, the thing lashed out at her again; it was only due to years' worth of honed instinct that Iris managed to dodge them, and even then only barely. She tipped the broom over again, sending it into a dive towards the Scottish woodland. Hogwarts had to be close now. She had been flying for at least a few hours at this point, almost always near or even above the theoretical top-speed of the Firebolt. She had flown for at least four-hundred, five-hundred miles, maybe even six.

Then the broom stuttered, and whatever charms made it fly began to fail. As she spiraled downward, feeling a burning sensation on her back where she'd been struck, she wondered if she was going to die.

She regained control of her broom, and it jerked back into a hover. She urged to go forward - it was a bit more sluggish, the acceleration a little weaker than usual, but it still moved. She glanced up. The thing - it wasn't following. Where was it? Iris looked around - all this stress was not good for her heart.

She raised her wand. "Lumos Maxima!"

A bright light illuminated the tree-tops. Nothing, no matter how hard she looked. Could… could she finally be safe? Had the hunt ended? A weak, bitter laugh came from her mouth. This might have very well been Dudley's (he's missing his eyes) final round of Iris-hunting, if the implications… if her hypothesis was true. (Just a coincidence.)

She continued coasting, her wand lit, wary for threats. None came at her, no tendrils of cloth snapping out at her from between the branches, no tall people with trench coats stepping out of the shadows. She picked up some speed and continued to fly. Then she kept accelerating, until she was desperately hurling herself in the direction of Hogwarts. It couldn't be far. She did a double-take; were those a set of train tracks? For the Hogwarts Express? It was very possible, and if it was, it would take her directly to the outskirts of Hogsmeade, and then she'd be able to find the school.

Elated, she charged forward, but her broom stuttered again.

Iris grunted as she managed to reign the broom back in; even a momentary lapse in power could be dangerous at such high speeds. The acceleration when she took off again was even slower than before. After two minutes, the broom stuttered once again, this time for six whole seconds during which Iris was plummeting towards the ground. Panicking, she cast "Arresto Momentum!" on the broom, and she barely managed to hang from it. After that, she took it low and slow; this turned out to be the correct choice, because only a minute after the broom had regained functionality, it lost it again - this time permanently, as far as she could tell.

She gasped as she hit the gravel, her broom ploughing its handle into the ground and tossing her forward. She clenched her fists and stood back up, her hips and thighs aching where she landed, and limped towards her broom. She pulled it out of the ground and released it; it dropped right back down.

"Up!" she barked, but the broom only rolled about uselessly. She sighed, picked up her belongings, and began to walk. She nervously glanced at the sky, hoping nothing was there chasing her. There wasn't.

Mars was bright tonight.

2. Chapter 2

Thanks to AutumnSouls for beta-ing once more.

So you have decided. As I have told you before, there is absolutely no going back. I hope you understood the gravity of your decision. In that case, let us get into it.

The students at Hogwarts did, on occasion, mock me for being a 'Muggle-born'; these pure-bloods will never understand that my line of sorceresses are far more ancient than theirs, and that their 'magic' is nothing more than a collection of parlor tricks compared to what I can and, eventually, you will do. But firstly, you must understand precisely where our power derives from.

The universe is not our own. You have learned that there are magical settlements scattered around the world, remaining unnoticed for centuries, despite the advancements of technology. Following that thought, it should not be so difficult for you to believe that there are entire dimensions, entire worlds out there that have remained unseen, inhabited by beings of great and terrible power. What are commonly dismissed as fairy-tales and myths were once alive on our Earth. And they are still alive beyond it.

Let us get on with our first lesson; the Thirteen Planes.

We humans reside primarily on the Twelfth Plane. The 'witches' and 'wizards', as we know them, overlap between the Twelfth and Eleventh - Muggles with only the keenest eyes are able to detect doings in the Eleventh Plane, which is why magic, and magical creatures, have remained largely undetected. Think of each Plane being like a layer, veils of fiction to be peeled back until we reach the 'core' of the universe, where we find the pure, unadulterated truths of the cosmos.

As for the 'core', we practitioners have recently adopted a term for it from astrophysics - the Big Bang. This place is so chaotic that all rules are broken; there are no laws, not even the abstract ones that govern the First Plane.

The mana generated in the Big Bang leaks into the lower planes. Naturally, the First Plane has the most of it, while the Thirteenth Plane has the least of it. In all Planes, mana is consumed by and is used as life-force for living things, not entirely unlike plants using sunlight to generate food. For example, witches and wizards, who tap into a greater well of mana, have greater longevity than Muggles do.

Likewise, the higher the Plane, the more long-lived and powerful its denizens. The greatest of beings that we have managed to detect, from the Third and Second Planes, are believed to have existed long before prokaryotic life ever evolved on Earth.

Our ancient art revolves around exploring the depths of the higher Planes. While ordinary, unambitious witches and wizards artificially restrict themselves to the Eleventh Plane, we - that is, you, me, and our ancestors - have long spent our days researching how to look deeper into the higher Planes. Why? It is due to, I suppose, the same curiosity that led mankind from their caves and campfires, to build great ships in search of new land, into space in a vain attempt to sate our ever-present curiosity. We practitioners seek to get closer to the eternal truth, beyond every Plane of Reality. Naturally, we are a long, long way from ever getting there, especially considering how mortal our species is. But that does not mean we shouldn't try.

I believe I am getting slightly off-track. Allow me to tell you about Ptolemaeus and his work regarding the Thirteen Planes…

While he didn't outwardly show it, Albus Dumbledore was reaching the end of his patience.

"I am far more concerned about Iris than I am of your legally dubious activities," Albus said firmly, his hands clutching the edges of the table. "So, tell me, how long were you gone?"

"I, uh, between about half past five and quarter to," Mundungus grunted. "Wasn't gone long, Albus, honest."

"Look at me," Albus said, and Mundungus flinched as they made eye contact; Albus was not in the mood to be particularly forgiving as he pushed into Mundungus' mind, sifting through the man's memories at speeds only possible without the hindrance of a physical body. Mundungus grunted a heartbeat later, clutching his head and looking away; in that moment Albus had the answer he needed.

Two hours. Two hours between half past four and half past six. Albus stood straight, utilizing his height to glower down at the petty crook, well aware that he wasn't particularly approachable at the moment and not really caring. He cast a glance around at the room - Molly Weasley, whose initial rage at Mundungus' failure had been replaced with fear, fear of Albus himself; he briefly watched her shadow reach up and place its hands over her face, as if to hide her eyes; an illusory product of Albus' higher sight, a dream-sight, a glimpse into higher Planes. Arthur Weasley had a tight grip on his wife's shoulder, his mouth set to a thin line; from the corner of his eyes, Albus saw a cancer-like growth slithering underneath Arthur's clothing, constantly forming and rupturing, an image that Albus had learned to associate with disgust.

Albus turned around on his heel and marched towards the door of Grimmauld Place.

"Albus!"

Albus did not look back as he threw the door open; when he did not hear it slam shut, instead hearing a meaty sound that suggested someone was holding it, he briefly turned around and stared at the man.

"Sirius, you are a fugitive," Albus said. "You leave your house and you will be arrested on sight. Likely Kissed as soon as you are found."

"I - bloody hell, Albus, I understand!" Sirius said. Albus did not flinch, internally applauding the man for his feelings for Iris but nonetheless continuing to wear his stern expression. "But I can't just sit around and do nothing when my goddaughter could be in danger! I - I can't lose her. If she's really in danger, I'll gladly sacrifice myself for her."

"What if I told you," Albus said flatly, "that you, an inexperienced Auror trainee, who has spent the last twelve years of his life in Azkaban and accordingly been malnourished both physically and mentally, would only be a hindrance to my work?"

Sirius flinched, and Albus felt some guilt about saying so. Still, it was the truth, and it had to be said; otherwise Sirius would simply sneak out on his own, without even having the first clue as to how to find Iris, and get himself arrested and Kissed.

"So I'm useless," Sirius said bitterly. "All I'm worth is the house I'm staying in. Is that why you've never let me go on missions with the other Order members?"

"Partly, yes," Albus sighed, softening his tone. "But mostly, I worry for you. I worry you will get caught again and I must knowingly subject you to that… torture, that the Ministry of Magic calls justice."

Sirius bristled. "I would go through another twelve years of that if it meant Iris was safe."

"You're not going to back down, are you?" Albus said, raising an eyebrow.

Sirius sputtered, the wind taken from his sails at the sudden shift in tone. "I - yeah. I suppose not."

"Very well. Then you will come with me, and you will obey every single order I give you. Is that understood?"

"Of course, Albus."

"Even if you were to see Iris being tortured by Voldemort and I told you not to try and rescue her immediately?"

Sirius bristled again, but Albus raised his eyebrows in an expectant, reproving manner. The former sighed, resignation rapidly cooling the red coals of his rage. "Fine," he muttered. "You wouldn't even let me help otherwise..."

"No," Albus agreed. "Let us go. Side-along with me."

Sirius grasped Albus' offered arm. "Where to?"

And then they were in Little Whinging, Surrey.

"Iris' neighborhood," Albus said. "I believe the area is familiar to you?"

"Oh. Heh." Sirius grinned sheepishly. "You knew about that?"

Albus approached Privet Drive, Sirius following him. Along the suburbian street, in all its glory, was the perfectly ordinary, bland house of 4 Privet Drive, and the two men went to the front door. Albus paused before knocking, and turned to Sirius.

"They may recognize you. Your face was aired on Muggle television a few years back, after all. It might be best to…" Albus trailed off, as the man morphed into a shaggy black dog. "Try not to play childish pranks on the Dursleys. We have more important things to think about."

The dog gave a soft bark.

Albus knocked on the door. No response came, until a grumbling man, likely Vernon Dursley, came to the door. "Who is it?" he called.

"It is Albus Dumbledore," Albus said neutrally. "Do open the door. We have something to discuss."

"Never heard of you," Vernon growled. "Now get!"

Albus drew the Elder Wand from his sleeve, and pointed it at the lock. The lock clicked, and Albus pushed it open, forcing Vernon Dursley back with a strength that belied his age. Albus stepped inside, examining the living and dining room. At the dining table, there was food laid out for three, but only Petunia's and Vernon's food had been touched, which, if the Order's impression of Dudley Dursley was correct, was an impossibility. Sirius sniffed the carpet as he trotted inside.

"Oh! Who are our guests?" Petunia called.

"A Mister Dumbledore," Vernon called back. "You know such a person, dear?"

"I'm afraid I've not heard of him."

Albus stopped cold. The voice was lacking in the flat, snobbish tone that the infuriating woman so often used to him and others she wished she didn't know. It was genuinely lacking recognition. Albus pushed the man to the side and approached the dining room, where Petunia smiled up at him, a smile lacking in malice and entirely polite. "Hello. Did we invite you for dinner? I'm afraid Ver- V-" She cleared her throat. "The husband and I are getting rather forgetful recently, I apologize."

"There's nothing to apologize for, Mrs. Dursley," Albus said, as he scanned his eyes across the house for any traces of magic, specifically high-powered memory charms. "Tell me, have you seen anything strange recently?" Then he realized the futility of asking such a question.

Petunia hummed. "I don't remember anything unnatural. I won't be much help for you, I'm afraid, Mister…?"

"Albus Dumbledore," Albus said with a brittle smile. "I notice your son hasn't come down for supper. Do you know where he is?"

"Son?"

Albus felt his blood chill.

"Yes. Does the name Dudley Dursley mean anything to you?"

There was no trace of magic in the household, except a lingering sense of wrongness that he couldn't quite place, a sensation he couldn't tell even existed.

"I'm afraid not," Petunia shook her head.

"Yet you cooked for three, I see."

Petunia stopped, looked down at the table; two half-finished meals and one untouched, this portion monstrously large. A look of confusion crystallized on her face, and she stared at the table. Suddenly all her doubt cleared and she beamed up at Albus. "Then it surely must be for you! I must have invited houseguests and forgotten about it. Goodness, I apologize for my forgetfulness, Mister…?"

Albus ignored her. "What about the name, Iris Potter?"

Confusion flitted across her face again, and she was about to respond, until her face froze. Albus glanced back, following her line of sight to the shaggy black dog that was Sirius in disguise, hiding under the coffee table to avoid getting petted by Vernon's stubby, somewhat greasy fingers. Then she screamed, standing up fast enough that she knocked away her chair, and grabbed the steak knife she was using the cut the meat before charging at the bewildered dog.

Albus drew his wand, and a heartbeat later the woman had dropped gently onto the floor, unconscious, and he easily dodged the steak knife flying back his way, letting it impale the wall behind him.

Vernon turned to Albus with murder in his eyes, inhuman wrath from the bottom of his gut, and he roared; a bestial roar, the rage amplified through higher Planes, that froze Albus in place, unable to act in surprise, until Sirius bit down hard on the man's bloated ankle, sending him stumbling. Albus quickly snapped off another stunner and slowing charm, allowing the man to join his wife on the floor.

Sirius returned to human form, shaken. "What the hell? What - what happened to them?"

"I shall attempt legilimency," Albus said, and Sirius nodded his head rapidly. Albus forced Petunia's unseeing eyes open, and gently pushed himself into her mind -

And gasped in pain, pulling away. Sirius helped him back up, the faint, uncertain clouds of worry hovering around his shoulders. "Are you alright? What happened?"

"I - I do not know for certain," Albus said slowly. "But I may have an idea." He gestured to Petunia then. "Her mind - it is being eroded. A strange fog is slowly eating away at her humanity; some strange miasma. Are you aware of those blatantly false stories that children like to tell about the terrifying things that occur in the Department of Mysteries?"

"Yeah, you mean like the Inferi Experiment and so forth?"

"Yes, those stories. I recall one about a flesh-eating miasma. No truth to it, of course, being a story that older students tell the first years to terrify them on Halloween and the like. But if I must compare the effect of this… fog, on Petunia's mind…" Albus paused. "It rather eerily reminds me of that story."

"…Right." Sirius bit his lip. "Can we fix it?"

"The first thing being affected is her memory," Albus said. "She did not recognize my name, or my face, both of which she despises to the point I would have expected her to have branded it into memory. She did not remember her husband's name. She completely and utterly forgot she had a son that she always doted on, and a niece that she always hated. Next is her sanity. She reacted to you in a way that belied normality. Remember Vernon attempting to pet you? By all rights, he should hate dogs after being bitten by one of his sister's dogs. Both of them have acted wholly irrationally - in Petunia's case, I suspect she may even have hallucinated and seen you as something monstrous, rather than how you appear in reality."

"It's going to get worse, isn't it."

"Naturally. Her mind will continue to be eaten away until all memory of being human has vanished. She will no longer be capable of speech, understanding human body language, nothing beyond primal instincts such as hunger, thirst, and the fight-or-flight instinct. Soon enough, even that will disappear, forcing her to forget to feed herself, to clean herself, or forcing her to forget why it is not a good idea to claw out her own eyeballs." Sirius paled at that. "It will reduce her to a wreck not unlike what a man becomes after being Kissed by a Dementor. At the rate it is progressing… she will have between one to two weeks to survive without outside intervention. And there is nothing I can do to help her, except perhaps a mercy killing."

Sirius swallowed, glancing down at the unconscious couple. "I never liked them, but..."

"Indeed," Albus said gravely.

"You said you had an idea of what might have caused it," Sirius said. "What is it?"

"Come."

They went upstairs to where there were two bedrooms, one of which was Iris' room. Inside was... cold, and emotionless, like Iris had done her best to decorate her room in the spirit of her newfound life at Hogwarts, but failed. Gryffindor scarves and banners decorated the walls, small knick-knacks that she'd received from her friends over the years lined her shelves, and Iris had hung up a few of her paintings, a skill she'd picked up after, if his memory served correctly, Miss Granger commented on how good her idle doodles were. But the room was still lifeless. Dark. Like someone had tried to decorate a slaughterhouse.

Albus noticed a few things. There had apparently been bars on the windows, sheared off now, preventing her from using her owl to contact her friends. Albus shook his head to himself. Perhaps it was not such a good idea to isolate her here after all. Hedwig's cage door was open, and some snow-white feathers were left in the cage and on the windowsill, implying the owl's escape. The room smelled stale, and there was a tang of iron in the air too, of old blood.

"What do you smell, Sirius?" Albus asked.

"Blood," Sirius said through gritted teeth. Frustration and anger swirled around the man like a dustbowl. "Fecal matter, probably Hedwig's. Or at least, I hope it's Hedwig's."

"Likely Hedwig, yes... I doubt even the Dursleys would have forced Iris into using a bedpan," Albus said. "Hedwig's cage is clean, though it seems Iris didn't use disinfectant."

"Alright." Sirius calmed down a little. "But you were telling about the possible cause of all of this."

Albus slowly turned to him. "Sirius… you must understand, this is purely hypothetical. I cannot know for certain, because if it is what I think it is, then I will not have the strength nor skill required to investigate."

"But... you're Albus Dumbledore." Sirius chuckled nervously. "The greatest wizard of our time."

"And our opponent here, if my hunch is correct, is not human."

"What, like a house-elf or something?"

"No. Not simply another magical creature, Sirius... With the amount of times you have snuck into the Restricted Section as a student, and as a heir of a dark family, grudging as you might be, I suspect you might know about what scholars and obscure groups call 'Others.' Have you heard of them?"

Albus watched Sirius pause, and his face pale rapidly. Albus strode forward and grasped the man by his shoulders, shaking him once, firmly.

"If you know anything, anything at all relating to this mess," he said, "you must tell me now."

"Lily," Sirius blurted.

"Lily? Lily Potter?"

"Yeah," Sirius said, and Albus guided him down onto Iris' red-and-gold bedspread, and they sat down on the creaky, old mattress. "Lily Potter. I thought she was a fairly normal girl, when I first met her - smart, strong-willed… but normal…"

Albus' blood ran cold. "She was a practitioner of the forgotten arts."

"Her maternal line all were, I think," Sirius murmured. "And now she's passed it down to her own daughter."

"Good God…" Albus whispered. "Where could it have gone so wrong?"

"…The book."

Sirius' voice was so quiet that Albus barely registered it, despite sitting next to him. "I beg your pardon?"

"Lily's book… She told me to give it to Iris when she came of Hogwarts age, if she died, told me to keep it safe until then. I kept hold of it, but I wasn't able to give it to Iris before first year as planned because I was in Azkaban, and I wasn't able to give it to her after third year because I was busy making Grimmauld Place habitable, but I - I gave it to her after the end of last year."

"And do you know what this book contained?"

"I have a suspicion - if it's true, I think Lily made me write several pages of it." Sirius gave a hollow laugh. "She said she was compiling a book of useful spells. Made me write one chapter from the information stored in the Black family library. She couldn't access it herself because many of the books had curses on them that meant only Black family members could read it."

"I see," Albus said. "And what did you write about?"

"Nothing too untoward, actually. Designs for ancient wards, anti-detection charms, everything the Blacks had on subterfuge, survival, evasion, and espionage, to a lesser extent. All of them based around hiding or disguising yourself."

"But the wards were designed to hide one from..."

"Exactly. Oh, Merlin, how could I have been so stupid?" Sirius pressed his face into his hands. "All I knew when I saw that little book was that Lily had asked me to give it to Iris if she died… I thought Iris might be happy to have something that belonged to her mother. I didn't even think once that it might be full of some kind of ancient knowledge to keep Lily's female line going for whatever reason."

Albus stood up but said nothing. Sirius looked at him with mild hysteria in his eyes. "You're - you're not - I mean, I know I messed up bad, but -"

"No, Sirius, I am not," Albus soothed him. "Your reasoning at the time was sound. Giving an orphaned girl a memento of their mother's is hardly an evil act. If I am mad at anyone… it would be at Lily herself." He looked out the window. "We have no time. We must chase after her."

"How? We don't know where she is, especially if the tracks are muddled because of whatever visited this place…"

"We would need to do some scrying," Albus agreed. Sirius looked at him dubiously, but Albus clarified, "Oh, not the hogwash that Professor Trelawney and her immediate predecessor taught, but ancient methods that have worked perfectly fine since the days of the first sorcerers in Mesopotamia. We will need a water-mirror, something that has a strong connection to Iris herself, and a needle."

"Needle?"

"To use as a compass. It may not point us to Iris directly, especially not if she has used any of the charms you indirectly gave her, but it will certainly provide us with a direction to which we can begin our search." Albus looked around Iris' room, looking for something he might be able to use. Hairs were always quite suitable; perhaps a hairbrush somewhere? Anything with magical attachment to Iris - such as pieces of Iris herself, or things she treasured - would work.

A small sample bottle filled with blood was partially hidden behind some of her knick-knacks on the shelf. He snatched it and looked through his Dream-sight; the arcane clouds around it coalesced into a vague, womanly figure, one that had not quite grown comfortable yet due to puberty; his nose detected a subtle phantom scent of wildflowers, Iris' preferred perfume; if he strained his ears, he could almost hear her practicing spells in the dead quiet of the night while the Dursleys were asleep. This would do.

As he pushed open the bedroom door, he noticed from the periphery of his vision that one of the cupboard doors had shattered from the inside, as if something was violently summoned from within. He quelled the brief rage he felt at sight of the broken chain and padlock, and went downstairs, Sirius following. He rummaged inside the Dursley's kitchen, pulled out a stainless steel bowl, and filled it with water before looking for something that could be used as a needle.

"A skewer? No, too big…" Sirius muttered as he went through the drawers. "Can we just use a butter-knife?"

It was a ridiculous notion; in any other situation Albus would have laughed at the absurdity of it, but there was no time. He nodded tightly and took the knife, then he unstoppered the sample bottle and allowed several drops of Iris' blood to stain the water pink, only for the color to immediately fade away, leaving the liquid transparent. Sirius watched tensely as Albus dropped the knife into the water, ripples expanding outward, and then he exercised his power, pushing the knife to the surface and the water suddenly stilling as if it were now ice.

Albus inhaled deeply, then very, very slowly, he exhaled on the water. The knife began to spin, at first lazily, and then faster and faster. The ripples crashed violently against the edge of the bowl but not a single drop was spilled. Albus straightened as he ran out of breath, and watched the knife slow down, and the ripples fade away.

It pointed northeast, and behind the knife, a watery illusion formed of a storm-drain. The picture was exceptionally clear, which meant whatever significance this place had, it was close. Albus looked at Sirius, who looked lost.

"We'll find something there," Albus said, gesturing at the illusion. "Not necessarily Iris herself, but something that will aid us in our search for her."

"That doesn't look like a particularly trustworthy location," Sirius said in a quiet voice.

"No," Albus said, "it does not."

They left 4 Privet Drive, running northeast. Sirius bounded forward in dog form, and Albus struggled to keep up. Robes were not exercise-wear, and he certainly wasn't as young as he used to be. Despite his age, though, it was barely five minutes before he saw the storm-drain, even more eerie during the night. Sirius padded forward near the entrance, but moved back and forth, hesitating. Albus could understand - an aura of pure malice hung about the storm-drain, so thickly that it might as well be a tangible curtain.

"Expecto Patronum," Albus whispered, and a silver phoenix burst from the Elder Wand, circling around them to dispel the evil. It worked somewhat: their hearts lightened and their minds were clearer, and the two of them, still hesitantly, pushed towards the darkness.

Then Albus stopped, noticing something from the gentle moonlight glow the Patronus produced. Sirius took a step forward, and yelped, scrabbling back on four feet towards Albus, morphing back into a human as he did so.

"That's a person!" he said. "What - what the fuck!"

Albus felt blood rushing through his ears as he took a step forward, and shined a light onto the object. It was a disembodied head. One that was… one that was remarkably similar to Vernon Dursley, despite the fact that (it's missing its eyes) it was already decaying, and ants swarmed the orifices, and a particularly large centipede was lounging in one of the eye sockets, undisturbed by the flies and ants and the maggots squirming in the flesh.

Albus drew up his Occlumency barriers as high as they could go, not daring to even glance through his Dream-sight by accident. Who knew what he might witness in the higher Planes.

"Is this our clue?" Sirius asked hysterically. "I'm not touching that. No way, no - no. Abso-fucking-lutely not."

"Let's look elsewhere," Albus said. His phoenix cooed into his ear, helping him feel a little more human despite the numbed emotions that were a side-effect of a powerful Occlumency barrier. "Into the tunnel."

"Are you insane?"

"Did you not come here to try and find Iris?" Albus asked, and Sirius closed his mouth with a snap. He looked supremely uncomfortable, but nodded, and followed Albus into the tunnel.

"Lumos," Sirius said shakily, and a light illuminated the storm-drain. But not particularly far. Shadow swirled and churned, shying away from the light yet still attempting to drown the two of them in darkness. Albus was thankful for his Patronus.

They continued to walk, slowly and carefully, as not to wander into some trap. Albus lowered his Occlumency - he wouldn't be able to see anything without it - and stopped. Sirius hesitated behind him, and slowly peered over Albus' shoulder to look at something he couldn't see.

"What is it?" he whispered.

"A ritual site." Albus knelt down. Droplets of blood - very few had survived, but it was enough to help him identify whose it was. As before, the murky cloud surrounding the blood formed a figure of a young woman, but it was - corrupted, somehow. Like static on the radio, the image flickered and blurred, and never remained constant. "Iris made a ritual with her blood. It… clearly didn't work the way she wanted it to."

"Merlin," Sirius muttered.

"But we have caught her scent, no? And by we, I mean you."

Sirius whined in halfhearted protest as Albus pushed him forward, then morphed into dog form. He sniffed around on the ground, and paused, then trotted forward, rather nervously. To help him Albus sent his copy of Fawkes in front of Sirius, dispelling the darkness of the place. Sirius began to run again, and Albus followed.

Sirius did not hesitate as he turned and twisted through the streets. As if Iris was running from something, trying to lose them. Soon, they came to a library; the glass doors were wrecked, and police had taped it off. Nobody was guarding the entrance, however, so the two of them ducked under the yellow tape and strode through determinedly. Sirius sniffed a couple of times and reverted back to human form so that he could step on the shattered glass without injuring himself.

"Over there," Sirius pointed, and Albus followed his arm. A rear entrance, blasted apart. So hiding had clearly not worked in her favor.

Albus continued through, and, ducking through another set of tape, Sirius morphed back into a dog and began bounding down the street. After two minutes, he stopped, wandering around the area, until he turned human again and looked at Albus. "It stops here."

"Wait." Albus stepped off to the side. "Broken bars?"

Sirius understood immediately. "From her window. She must have Accio'd her belongings and the bars so Hedwig could escape."

Albus nodded. "So she likely summoned her trunk with her school things in them, and her Firebolt…"

"And flew off," Sirius agreed. "Which means that she was planning to travel a long distance."

"A spontaneous plan, but likely," Albus said. "So her options, if she's being chased by something incorrectly summoned into this world through ritual…"

"My place is under the Fidelius, and she doesn't know where it is," Sirius said. "Her friend's house? Hermione or Ron?"

"Not only would have we been notified if they went to either of those places, but Iris would surely not put Miss Granger's parents in danger," Albus said. "Only if it were a last resort. And Iris has only ever been to the Burrow via Floo connection or apparition."

"So she doesn't know where they are. Hogwarts?"

Albus thought for a long moment. "Can you think of other possibilities?" he asked, but Sirius shook his head. "Hogwarts, then. It would make sense. Hogwarts is a bastion of ancient magic, layered with protection from almost everything we know of. If Iris is safe anywhere, it would be at Hogwarts."

"Do you think…" Sirius swallowed. "Do you think she made it?"

"Traveling by broom, even on a Firebolt, would take several hours," Albus said. "Three hours, would you say?"

Sirius shrugged. "Maybe. The Firebolt is fast, though, so I doubt it would take longer than that. Hogwarts is, what, six-hundred something miles from London?"

"About six-hundred and sixty," Albus agreed. "At top speed, it would take her three hours or so. If she left as early as four, then she would already be at Hogwarts, but I haven't gotten any message from Hagrid. If she left as late as six, then she's not bound for at least another hour."

"Should we go look for her?"

Albus raised his eyebrows. "We're not giving up so easily," Albus said. "And…"

"…There's always a possibility that she didn't make it," Sirius said grimly. "How do we do this?"

"Fawkes!" Albus called into the night. After three heartbeats, he appeared, trilling with a song that invigorated him, strengthening his resolve. Fawkes dropped two brooms, which he was carrying in each foot, and they slowed to a hover in front of the two men.

"The school brooms? Really?" Sirius gave a weak smile as he straddled one. "Doesn't the Order have specialized stealth-fighter brooms ordered from Germany or something?"

"If only," Albus chuckled. "Raise your hand. No, your right hand."

Sirius curiously mirrored Albus - who was raising his left hand in the air - and Fawkes suddenly swooped down, grasped their hands, and all three of them disappeared in a blaze of flame.

3. Chapter 3

Thanks to AutumnSouls for beta-ing, as always.

She dreams.

She looks up because she is shorter now. Like she had been. She sees a mirror. There is an arch at the top and symbols are carved into them. Familiar yet foreign. The symbols are indecipherable to her. She knows what they mean though. The Mirror of Erised. That's what the old man called it. The old man whose name she can't remember. The old man whose face she can't remember. The old man whose existence is up for debate. If he is truly real or if he is a figment of a dark corner of her imagination.

I show not your face but your heart's desire.

Her desire is to see her friends again.

A ginger-haired boy and a bushy-haired girl dominate the silver surface of the mirror. She can't remember who they are. She can't remember if they even exist. Maybe she's yet to meet them. Maybe she's forgotten about them. Either way she can't find them now. Maybe she has a different desire. Maybe her true desire is to see her parents.

The Mirror of Erised shifts. A young man with dark hair and round spectacles smile back at her. So this is one of her creators. What about the other? Humans had two creators. Did they not? Maybe she'd forgotten that too. It was hard. Remembering things. It had been so long. But she was pretty sure humans needed two creators. Where was the other one?

Oh. It's already there. She just had to squint really hard. It's a void. Colorless and lifeless. Distinguishable from everything yet difficult to spot. Distinguishable even from the featureless ether that seems to be swirling in the background of the young man. The young man beams at the void as if it looks like a human to him. The young man kisses the void and is sucked inside. Torn to shreds. Never to be seen again. And the Mirror is once again empty.

What does she desire?

She desires salvation. Salvation from her hell. Salvation from those things that chase her in the dark. Salvation from the wicked man who seeks her death.

The Mirror does not shift.

Hey. Are you still there?

Yes. She's still there. She's never left-

No. Listen to me. You have to get out. Turn away from the Mirror.

The void wraps over her. Protectively. As if she is the Mirror's child. The darkness begins to cover her soul. There is no body for it to cover. It is simply her. Nothing else. The lights in the Mirror flicker. They hurt to watch. But she keeps watching.

Don't you get it?

She turns away from the Mirror to return to a place she remembers. Remembers only barely, a room clad in red-and-gold ornaments. Where her friends had been. The ones with hair. She can't remember what their hair was like. They used to study here. Study what? She doesn't remember. Sometimes they'd hold parties.

She turns away from the Mirror to return to a place she remembers.

She turns away from the Mirror to return to a place she remembers.

Wait.

Something's not right.

She turns away from the Mirror to return to a place she remembers.

Something's not right.

She turns away from the Mirror to return to a place she doesn't remember.

Something's not right.

She turns away from the Mirror to return to a place that doesn't exist.

Something's not right.

She turns away from the Mirror to return to facing the Mirror.

Something's not right.

She turns away from the Mirror to see outside the Mirror.

Something's not right.

There is no salvation left.

Her eyes snapped open.

Iris was staring at a stone ceiling that was, despite her lack of spectacles, very familiar from her many Quidditch injuries and the occasional Weasley Twins prank. It was silent here, and that did not really reassure her. The tunnel had been silent; the flying thing had been silent as it moved in a way that defied human biology. She weakly raised her arms. Both were sore but neither were broken. Huh. Madam Pomfrey must have fixed it. She also felt a killer headache building up at the back of her head, but unfortunately, she couldn't go to sleep precisely because of the pain.

She reached over and groped the bedside table, feeling for her glasses. She found them, and she pulled them over; she accidentally poked herself in the eye before she managed to put it on right. The wing was eerily empty. Madam Pomfrey was, usually, a busy woman; even in the most quiet of times, three to four beds were occupied by students who were unfortunate victims of particularly malicious pranks or Quidditch practice or a first year who hadn't gotten the hang of the roving staircases yet and had fallen down. The busiest that Iris had ever seen was the first few weeks of when Lockhart was the Defense professor.

She glanced to the side as she heard the wide doors of the hospital wing swing open. Inside bustled Dumbledore, wearing what seemed to be one of his favorite silver robes. He approached Iris' bed. She remained silent as he pulled up a wooden chair and sat down upon it.

"Hello, Professor."

"Good evening, Iris. How do you feel?"

"Like I did after one of Wood's morning practices," Iris muttered, and the old man's eyes crinkled in amusement.

"I'd like to ask you a few questions, my dear," Dumbledore said, intertwining his fingers. "Do you remember the events of two nights ago?"

Iris blinked. Two nights ago? "Well, I was, ah, cleaning my room. And I was reading a book. Then I…" Wait. Isn't Dumbledore supposed to be able to read minds? Oh, Merlin. Whatever you do, do not think about that lewd magazine you found in… oh, bollocks.

From Dumbledore's perspective, it must have appeared as though she paused for a few seconds, then suddenly turned bright red. She saw Dumbledore's lips quirk underneath his beard. "I'm not reading your mind, Iris."

"That's exactly what you'd say if you were reading my mind," Iris said, sinking lower into her sheets.

"I truly am not. I read your mother's book, for one, and she explicitly named me as someone who could read minds; secondly, I can passively see emotions, though not thoughts. You suddenly felt, in this order: realization, suspicion, embarrassment. It was not difficult to interpret."

"Oh." And then, "You went through my mum's journal?"

"I was looking for answers." Dumbledore's face darkened. "I should've reframed my question. You'd been drifting in and out of consciousness the whole day yesterday, and you were apparently lucid sometimes, so I'd assumed you'd understand. Do you remember the events that led up to you being rescued by Sirius, with several broken ribs and a broken arm, bleeding profusely, and needing to be knocked unconscious so that Sirius wouldn't be injured in the process of trying to secure you?"

Iris felt the darkness creep back into her mind. "Some of it, yeah..."

Dumbledore didn't look… disappointed, necessarily. More like despair, which really wasn't much better. "What in the world possessed you to try and summon an Other, Iris?"

"But - Voldemort, if mum's method was right…"

"You could've erased him from existence, yes," Dumbledore agreed. "Voldemort also likely knows about the Others. He, too, can erase you from existence with the same methods you were planning on, yet he has not."

"Why not?" Iris asked, pushing down the shiver she felt at the idea of being on the receiving end of what she was planning to do.

"Even he, a man so reckless in his pursuit of power that he reincarnated himself into an inhuman body, knows not to deal with Otherworldly Beings," Dumbledore said gravely. "This decision of yours was… very unwise. Moreso than your usual blunders. Moreso than the average person's worst blunder in their entire lives."

Iris shrank back. "I..."

Dumbledore sighed. "I cannot fault you for being curious, Iris. Moreover, I cannot fault you for being desperate either, considering the return of the Dark Lord. What's done is done. You and I must prepare for the storm that is to come, for you have brought great danger to yourself, and those who are close to you."

Iris opened her mouth and closed it several times before the words finally came out. "What am I going to do?"

"The first thing will be studying Occlumency and Legilimency," Dumbledore said. "The latter is most difficult without an innate, ah, spark of sorts. But even without that talent, you should eventually be able to progress to a level so that you may see one or two Planes higher than the Eleventh, in which we reside."

"You know about the Planes?" Iris said in surprise.

Dumbledore smiled slightly. "I have learned many things over many years."

"Then… do you know what was chasing me?"

His smile fell. "A servant of the Infernal. A golem, I think, would be the best descriptor. A puppet made of the corpses of its victims; by itself, utterly unintelligent and vegetative, but capable of following their creator's commands, such as 'capture Iris Potter.'"

"…That was nothing more than a minion?" Iris whispered. "Will I be facing worse things, then?"

"Yes, and yes. Which is why we must prepare you." Dumbledore sighed out through his nose. "I will have Professor Snape teach you Occlumency, and the basics of Legilimency. I will, if my schedule permits, tutor you in the lost arts that your mother should have left alone."

Iris nodded and closed her eyes, sighing too. "I'm sorry, sir."

"I don't fault you. I will say this outright - I do not know the things your mother knew. She comes from a long line of specialists, while I only studied it to counter the Others that were involved in Grindelwald's War. Still, my experience with the Higher Planes is more extensive than yours, and I shall do my best to have you learn in the safest environment possible." Dumbledore smiled. "You did good by coming to Hogwarts. It was founded back when wands were a luxury for the rich, and most wizards and witches summoned Others for as mundane uses as cleaning or sending letters; thus Hogwarts has many layers of protection against these creatures. I hope this will keep you safe as we study this subject."

"Thank you," said Iris, opening her eyes and looking at Dumbledore in gratitude.

"What am I to do, leave you to the mercy of the Others?" he asked rhetorically. "I shall let you rest, now. Once you recover, you should visit Hagrid while he is still there. He will soon be leaving on a top-secret mission."

"About what?" Iris asked, and Dumbledore chuckled. "Do you really think Hagrid is the right person for the job, though? I mean, I love him and all, but he can't keep a secret. At all."

"I'm aware," Dumbledore said dryly. "I believe this task is well within his capabilities, however."

"Did you make sure to teach him Occlumency? Or at least tell him to use passwords and stuff?"

"Has someone been reading espio-mage novels over the summer?" Dumbledore chuckled. "Goodnight, Iris."

Iris smiled back at him as he left the hospital wing. He must have cast something on her while they talked, because she found herself unable to keep her eyes open; strange that the pounding headache from before was gone as well. She was grateful for that. Her jaw cracked as she yawned, and she settled into a more comfortable position on her side and allowed the comforting darkness to take her again.

Sirius watched his goddaughter eat. She claimed she was feeling better, which was good. She appeared better, too. It had been four days since that… event. Madam Pomfrey had confided to Sirius that Iris had been exhibiting symptoms of shock, and on the first day she wasn't bedridden, Sirius had to convince Iris to take a single bite (and had to repeat that forty times over so she would eat the necessary amount). She was eating of her own volition now, and plenty of it too - for that, he was glad.

Dumbledore had discussed his plans with him. If he said he was happy with it, he would be lying. He wouldn't trust Snape to teach anything well as far as Sirius could throw Hagrid; Snape was supposed to be a terrible Potions professor, and Sirius doubted he was much better at teaching Occlumency and Legilimency. He also sincerely doubted that Snape would care about petty things such as 'privacy' when teaching it to Iris. But Sirius had never had talent as a Legilimens, and not much progress in Occlumency, either. Dumbledore himself was busy with other things, he could understand that.

Still, according to what Albus said, Occlumency had a long history of being a mental protection against Others, rather than protection against hostile wizards. Sirius attempted to contain his shudder. Occlumency was a necessary skill going forward, the old headmaster had said. If Sirius wanted to do his part to protect his goddaughter, then he would have to self-study Occlumency, because there wasn't a chance in hell that Snape would be willing to instruct him.

"You okay?" Iris asked, peering into his face.

Sirius smiled, a weak one but genuine nonetheless. "I'm fine, sweetheart," he said. "Just thinking."

"What about?" she asked, shoveling more egg into her mouth. She needed more protein intake, Madam Pomfrey had said.

"Occlumency," Sirius answered. "Dumbledore says I'll need it. I know the basics, ever since James figured out that Snape was a Legilimens, and I definitely used it a lot while I was in Azkaban, but…"

"Right. And Snape wouldn't teach you," Iris finished. The heavy silence settled between them again.

"Can I ask you something?" Sirius asked, and Iris shrugged in response. "How do you…"

Failing to find the right words for his question, Sirius just gesticulated wildly with his arms. Iris raised an eyebrow and hid her smile with her mug of tea. Iris put her mug down on the very empty Gryffindor table.

"So what exactly do you mean by…?" she asked, waving her hands in the air.

Sirius failed to stifle his smile. "I mean… how are you dealing with all this? This… it's all pretty heavy stuff. I grew up with the Black family, for Merlin's sake, and I still feel uncomfortable."

"I'm not dealing with all this," she said dryly. "I almost died, more than once too. And my cousin…"

Sirius watched Iris' face scrunch up in a mixture of emotions. He couldn't quite name them all, but fear was prominent. She calmly - seemingly - placed her hands in her lap, underneath the table, and took a deep, shuddering breath. Sirius wished her hands still remained on the tabletop so that he could squeeze them in reassurance.

"I'm sorry."

Sirius looked up. "Why?"

"I brought this whole mess down on us," she whispered. "I - fuck, Sirius, I didn't mean to involve anyone."

"Hey, it's okay," Sirius tried. He had no idea how to deal with emotions. Not as if his parents had ever helped him out in that department.

"It's - it's not."

Sirius vaulted himself over the table landing next to Iris, and wrapped his arms around her. She began to release strangled sobs, burying her hair into his neck. It took a while for her to calm down, but he remained silent and as still as he could be. All the while he could only wonder what James would've done in his place. His lips curled into a slight sneer at his inability to do… anything, really.

"I just wanted Voldemort gone," Iris choked out. "I just wanted to be left alone. This maniac's been trying to kill me ever since I was born, and…"

"I know," Sirius murmured. "It gets to you."

"Every day feels like I'm walking the long walk," she said. "Like, like I'm a death row inmate awaiting my execution. I don't know when that bloody snake is going to show his face and - and torture me. Do this whole Dark Lord monologue while Death Eaters torture me and I'd be wondering the whole time why it had to be me, you know?"

"I know," Sirius lied.

"He's so much stronger than me. He has, like, fifty years of experience on me. The Ministry doesn't support me. I'm going to die," she said hoarsely, and Sirius swallowed thickly. "Part of me… I just didn't care anymore, Sirius. I didn't care that I was going to die. So I decided to…"

"You decided to take the option with the most risk to your life," Sirius whispered. "You didn't care that you might die."

"I… I thought that then, maybe," Iris said quietly. "But then… I saw that thing. I was scared. I was scared to die at its hands… Somehow I don't think mum went to heaven, if there is one. I didn't want that. I didn't want any of that and I don't know what to do…"

"Look, kid," Sirius began hesitantly. Think, you piece of shit - you weren't there for her for twelve years, you better make it up now! "I… I'm not in the same position as you are. I never will be, unless there's some prophecy that nobody's discovered yet. I won't be simultaneously hated yet put on a pedestal like you are. But… I do know what it's like to be scared for my life, and everyone else's."

As Iris sniffled into his chest, he continued. "Back during the first war, I was a prominent enough member of Dumbledore's movement that I had a bounty put on me. Partly because my parents had died at that point and the fate of the Black fortune was in my hands. You-Know-Who put a bounty on me, captured alive, of I think fifteen-hundred galleons. Not a small sum. And while the bounty was for me alive, you can probably guess I wouldn't come out alive if I were captured."

Iris almost imperceptibly nodded into his chest.

"It was… it was after Reggie died. I set foot in Grimmauld Place for the first time in, Merlin, six or seven years? Reggie and I had never been particularly close, but he wasn't as bad as the rest, you know?" Sirius sighed. "I went back to pick up some of his stuff. As it turns out, my dead mother in the bloody portrait had been making our family house-elf read the Prophet and this other 'revolutionary' paper to her every day, so she could keep up with the Muggles being murdered and the 'blood traitors' being executed. She heard about my bounty, and as soon as she saw me, she ordered Kreacher to kill me, bring honor and wealth back to the family. I had been caught with my trousers at my ankles - figuratively, of course - and it took me two minutes of running around to remember that I was Lord of the house now and could tell Kreacher where to shove it."

"After that, I was a bit more careful, but I still had close calls." Sirius idly handed Iris another napkin as he spoke. "One time I was slumming it with Moony in his Muggle apartment - it was summertime, we were sleeping in the nude, and that was when You-Know-Who's cronies decided to break in. We jumped out the window - from the second-storey, mind you - and we ran all the way to James and Lily's place, stark naked. We had to Confund a policeman who thought we were drunk.

"There's not really a point to it, I guess. Except… I know how you're feeling. I know the terror you feel when you're faced with your own mortality, especially when someone else is trying to kill you. And that… I wouldn't want to wish this fear on anyone I care for, especially not you. So I'm here for you. I always will be."

"Thanks, Sirius," Iris mumbled.

"Hey, it's not a problem."

Over the next few minutes, Iris had gradually calmed down and cleaned herself up. There were a rare few people graced with being pretty while they cried, and Iris was certainly not one of them. Sirius plucked at his shirt. "I don't have that many shirts, you know," he quipped, and Iris grimaced.

"Sorry," she said, trying to clean up her lower face.

"Since Dumbledore put me under house arrest, I have to ask Molly Weasley to shop for clothes," Sirius said, shivering. "The kind of clothing she picks out… Well, still better than Moony, if you ask me. I have a feeling that he's a time traveler from the 1920s because everything he picks out is gray."

Iris snorted in amusement, and regretted that immediately, covering her face with the napkin. Sirius tried very hard not to laugh. Tried being the operative word. Iris glared at Sirius through her red eyes. Meanwhile, Albus Dumbledore showed up, wearing fuzzy slippers on his feet and cradling a mug of some steaming beverage in his hands.

"Ah, Iris, Sirius," he said, perhaps a little more loudly than necessary. "How are the two of you this morning?"

"Well, thank you," Sirius said louder.

"M'kay," Iris mumbled.

"What?" Dumbledore leaned in, and tapped his ear. "I'm afraid you'll have to speak up, my dear."

"I'm okay!" Iris exclaimed, and Dumbledore nodded as if Iris hadn't suddenly spoken loudly enough to make Sirius flinch.

"I apologize for my condition," Dumbledore said, speaking a little more normally now. "I was awoken and hounded by howlers all the way down here." He smiled, although it seemed a tad forced. "Iris, do you, by any chance, recall how many spells you cast while trying to escape the golem?"

Iris blushed a little. Sirius sniggered. Hogwarts mail generally got directed to one of the professors, who would screen for dark magic before letting it be distributed; as the only Professor currently in the castle, Dumbledore was apparently in charge of dealing with all the howlers sent from the Ministry for Underage Use of Magic.

"In any case, the Ministry of Magic is putting on a show of force. They wish to take you to the Wizengamot," Dumbledore said, and Sirius's smile disappeared. Iris looked a little confused. "They want to snap your wand. Bring down whatever credibility that you have left, as well as leave you open for Voldemort."

"What?" she said, outraged. Understandably, in Sirius' opinion. The idea was absurd.

"We… would have to lie about our situation," Dumbledore said softly. Sirius glanced at his cup. Huh. He'd never taken the old man for a coffee person. "Summoning an Other is a crime punishable by… execution, actually. It hasn't been invoked in hundreds of years, since before Azkaban was a thing. Since your state of living is of great concern to us, we will have to… omit a few facts, I think." He steepled his fingers. "We'll tell them you were hounded by an Other's servant, but we do not know where it came from. We assume it was Voldemort, but we do not know for certain. In either case, there's no way a schoolgirl could have known how to summon a denizen of a different world. Isn't that so, Iris?"

Iris nodded rapidly.

"Fantastic. And you, my friend, are Remus Lupin, former Defense teacher at Hogwarts, who came to my aid when I learned Iris here was in trouble," Dumbledore said, turning to Sirius. "They will almost certainly ask for a credible source, so I have decided to volunteer my memory to be viewed in a pensieve. To protect your security, I will showcase only the part where we drove away the golem, and in the heat of battle, some of the memory turned out most unfortunately blurry, depicting you as only a man in a heavy coat and a vaguely canine Patronus."

"Sounds fine to me," Sirius said.

"Good."

"How did you manage to drive it off, if you don't mind me asking?" Iris asked, almost fearfully.

"Fire," Sirius said. "Lots and lots of fire."

"An accurate summation," Dumbledore agreed.

Iris stared at the two of them. "Is that it?"

"Well, our Patronuses - Patroni?" Sirius glanced at Dumbledore, who didn't react one way or another. "They worked overtime to keep the thing from actually reaching you."

"They worked? But my Patronus - it -"

"Yeah, it happened to mine too," Sirius said with a shiver. The sound of his wolfhound being slammed into the ground hard enough to have its spine snapped was eerily realistic. "Dumbledore's didn't, of course, because Dumbledore's a cool cat like that."

Iris shivered. "Please don't say that ever again."

"Say what? Cool cat?"

"I'm on Iris' side," Dumbledore said wearily. "Please don't call me that."

Sirius smirked at him. "Anyway!" He clapped his hands together. "There was also the time I smacked that bugger with your broom, although that didn't do much, so Dumbledore made it glow red-hot and I shoved the thing up the fucker's-"

Dumbledore pointedly cleared his throat, and Sirius stopped himself. Iris stared at him. Sirius shuffled awkwardly under her blank gaze.

"Anyway," Iris said, stretching out the word, "I'm sorry I ruined the broom you got me, Sirius."

"It's all right. I can get you another one."

Iris blinked. "How rich are you?"

"Huh." Sirius scratched his chin. "Honestly? I'm not sure. I did spend a lot of the Black fortune to spite my family. Usually on Muggle exploits, because they'd hate that the most. I'm pretty sure I had a Rolls-Royce at one point."

"A Rolls-Royce," Iris muttered. "I wonder how Uncle Vernon would've reacted to my godfather having that."

"Interesting," Dumbledore said, leaning towards Sirius. "I don't smoke often, but there is a brand of Cuban hand-rolled cigars I'm partial to. My birthday is on August 23rd, thank you for asking."

Sirius stared at him.

4. Chapter 4

A/N:
I tried my hand at writing from an animagus' perspective in this mini-chapter. This may or may not be your cup of tea; I didn't intend it to be relevant to the actual story, so you can ignore it if you like. AutumnSouls suggested that I should treat this as an omake chapter of sorts; if you enjoy it, great. If not, that's okay too.

Padfoot bounded out of the stone nest and onto the grass.

Usually Padfoot liked walks. Walks were fun! So many noises to hear, so many different smells to smell. Familiar territory is cozy but no new smells - big outside had lots of smells. He hangs his head low to the ground and sniffs.

"Sirius," alpha calls, and Padfoot remembers. Sirius is Padfoot's name when Padfoot is two-legs. He leaps easily towards alpha. Padfoot remembers now - Padfoot is looking. Looking? Looking for what? Looking for - looking for pack. Padfoot is looking for pup of pack, looking for the pup of big-horns and no-horns. Those two were pack. That means their pup is pack, too. And Padfoot is searching for her.

Worry grips Padfoot's heart. Alpha is hurrying towards Big Trees. Padfoot doesn't like Big Trees much, at least not when the sun goes down. Big Trees becomes too cold, too dark… to spooky. Padfoot is a brave dog. But Big Trees are very scary. Especially since the time he was chased through the forest by Hungry Things, and pup had saved him…

"Don't worry, Sirius," alpha says in a reassuring tone, but his smells are off. Alpha is worried as well. Maybe not scared like Padfoot is, because alpha is strong. Alpha is powerful! Alpha is grizzled and old, and has white whiskers, but is not to be underestimated. "I'm sure we'll find Iris."

Sometimes Padfoot wonders why alpha keeps calling him by the wrong name. Padfoot is Padfoot. Two-legs is two-legs. But that's okay - Padfoot can't correct alpha anyway, not unless he becomes Sirius and Sirius forgets being Padfoot most of the time. But what was alpha saying?

Iris.

Iris!

Pack!

Padfoot bounds forward. Pack is missing. Not good. Maybe because of Hungry Things - Padfoot remembers some of what Sirius remembers. Not everything, and some things get lost in translation. Padfoot doesn't understand everything. But Padfoot understands enough. Alpha is very worried - alpha is anxious a lot, but alpha is rarely worried. Alpha thinks a Very Hungry Thing is chasing pack, not just the Hungry Things that Padfoot ran from, but something worse, something hungrier. Alpha is scared of fighting Very Hungry Thing. That does not bode well for Padfoot.

Padfoot raises a whine of protest.

"Will you truly leave Iris to fend for herself?" Alpha asks.

Iris.

Would Padfoot, the brave black dog, leave pup to fend for herself? Would Padfoot take advantage of pup's protection years ago, but refuse to help pup now? Of course not. Padfoot is a good dog. Sometimes naughty, like the time he peed on Sirius' scary female cousin's bed, but the bitch deserved it. But towards pack, he is a good dog. He is a brave dog, so he'd go to pup, even if he was scared.

They go into the Big Trees. Padfoot remembers racing around with Prongs in the clearings. Playing tag with Warped Wolf. Those were good days. Padfoot remembers them dearly. Then Prongs died, killed at the hands of the Serpent. Warped Wolf went into exile. Padfoot was sad, but mostly angry, and back when he was two-legs, his primal rage had pushed him to chase after the Traitorous Rat. Then… Padfoot remembered being locked up, not really knowing why.

Padfoot will not let pup die like he let Prongs die.

Alpha leads the way, creating a light from his stick. Padfoot wonders what it might be like to be a two-legs. It looks like a load of bother, sometimes, but at least everyone got their own stick. Padfoot loves sticks. He likes chasing after them and picking them up and showing them off to everyone. He remembers the time Sirius got his stick snapped in half and Padfoot could only wonder how he'd been such a bad dog that he'd get his stick snapped.

They keep going deeper into the Big Trees. The Trees get Bigger and the skies darker. Padfoot doesn't like it, but he keeps going. Because pup is valuable to him, not just to Sirius. Pup gives good scratches. Padfoot wonders if pup can turn into a four-legs as well. What kind of four-legs? Maybe a Prongs, like her father and mother? Maybe into a two-wings? Or maybe even into a no-legs, no-wings that lived in the water! Padfoot had seen a few of those before. Very dumb things. He'd managed to catch one in a river once.

Then he wonders what alpha might turn into. Alpha was very powerful. There were very, very, very few things that were stronger than Padfoot, but a few existed. Prongs, despite his tranquil nature, could be very strong - and his prongs could be sharp. Warped Wolf was very strong, much stronger than Padfoot. When Padfoot was running from the Hungry Things, he met a two-legs that could change into a brown-humpback-beast that sometimes towered over Padfoot on two legs. At least the two-legs had managed to get along with each other; Padfoot and the beast, not so much.

"Sirius," alpha says. "Can you find Iris?"

Iris. Pack. Could Padfoot find her? He wasn't sure. He bows his head and begins to sniff the dirt. Very earthy, but nothing to help him find pack. Alpha sighs. A noise that two-legs made to convey disappointment. Padfoot shrunk into himself, but alpha doesn't seem to be aiming his disappointment towards Padfoot, so he perks up again and follows.

He was briefly distracted by a two-legs-two-wings and wasn't watching where he was going, so he bumps into alpha's legs. Alpha glances back at Padfoot and raises his stick higher, letting more light spill on the ground. How long had they been walking, now? Padfoot's ears perk up; a skittering noise from his right. He turns, and lets a low growl rumble from his throat. Alpha notices and looks.

"Acromantula," alpha murmurs. Padfoot didn't know the name, but he could smell alpha's annoyance. Good to know Padfoot was allowed to hate the eight-legs. They were creepy and Padfoot wishes he could eat them like he could eat their smaller pack members. "Come, Sirius. We have no time to lose."

Padfoot continues to follow alpha deeper into the Trees. But the skittering noises continued to bother him. More and more and more; it gets on his nerves. He turns back in the direction of the eight-legs, lots of them, and growls. Louder, more menacingly, like he did that one time that stupid-looking, buggy-eyed tiny bitch thought it could intimidate him. Stupid tiny dogs and their high-pitched barks. Annoying. Padfoot growls in a way that would've had that bitch pissing itself.

"Sirius, we really must get going."

Padfoot is reluctant. The eight-legs aren't helping. There are lots of eight-legs, and they are… scared? What are they scared of? Padfoot doesn't want to admit it, but the big eight-legs are pretty strong. Not much that can really hurt them, especially not their entire pack. He swivels his ears to try and pick up more sound.

A scream.

Faint. Very faint, very far away, almost inaudible because of all the skittering. Skitter. Skitter. Skitter. Annoying. Padfoot thinks. A scream? Where from? Not a dog. Not an eight-legs, either. Eight-legs make ugly hissing noises like serpents. Possibly two-legs? Possibly female two-legs? Possibly female pubescent two-legs?

"Sirius," alpha calls. Alpha should not be disobeyed, but alpha is kind. Won't punish Padfoot for a little disobedience. Alpha is also old. Eyes and ears and nose are not as strong as Padfoot's. Padfoot sees and hears and smells better than alpha.

Is that pup?

Padfoot barks, and bounds into the woods. Alpha is startled but pulls out his big bristly stick and follows Padfoot. Padfoot rushes through the Trees, the wind parting his fur. Padfoot breathes, even, heavy breaths, the air cool on his tongue as his muscles burn. Padfoot lopes through the Trees, dodging roots and rocks with the grace that only a four-legs can have (and specifically the grace of a dog, who is superior to all other things). He can hear alpha following behind him, the wind whistling against alpha's body and his riding stick.

Padfoot turns his head briefly to look at an eight-legs. It's a big one, but it is fleeing, running back to its underground nest. Padfoot ignores it for now. Only a problem when lots of eight-legs come together. Padfoot and Prongs and Warped Wolf barely made it out, that one time. But this time is different. Looking for pack. Need to rescue pack. Eight-legs will prove no obstacle to Padfoot.

Padfoot runs. It feels good; he runs as fast as he can through these obstacles. Wind is good. His breathing his even, it is good. He pants to keep himself from getting hot. Running like this - he could run for hours. Maybe days. He's only tried once before but he'd just escaped from his cage. He'd been malnourished back then. Now? He feels better. He can run better.

He gets his thoughts back in order. Running is not important. Well, running is important, but only because he can go fast. Padfoot must find pup. Won't abandon pup, not this time.

Padfoot sees several eight-legs running back to their nests. Running, hiding from something. What from? Padfoot slows slightly, and sniffs the air. Smell of iron - smell of blood. He turns back, straining his nose and ears.

Skitter, skitter. He filters that out, even as alpha twirls his smaller stick to do something. Padfoot feels his hairs stand on end, as if a gentle breeze had washed over his immaterial body. Some sort of sixth sense, for the two-legs that didn't have a sixth sense. Padfoot launched himself through the groves, nimbly dodging the uneven parts of the earth. He even ran under one of the eight-legs.

Another high-pitched scream that made Padfoot wince. At least he knew where the pup was, now.

Alpha hears it this time as well. He chases after Padfoot. Padfoot disregards alpha's commands. He charges towards the pup, behind the shadows of those trees. He can smell her, now, and he smells blood. It doesn't matter whose blood, but it makes him angrier. He feels raw, primal rage bubbling up from his stomach, infecting his mind with the blackness of it, urging him further, to bite, to claw, to kill.

Whomever has done this to pup will die.

As he bursts into the clearing, Padfoot gets the first good look of the Enemy. Big. Bigger than two-legs. Clutching at pup's throat with one limb, digits sharpened like claws. Padfoot and Sirius are united for one brief moment as they howl in rage. The Enemy does not look at them; Padfoot charges, the rage bubbling inside him quite literally, bloating and enlarging his physical form ever so slightly; he slams into the Enemy's legs, dragging his sharper, longer teeth across its not-fur covered leg.

Padfoot gags as the taste of rot spreads through his mouth. The Enemy looks down as if noticing Padfoot for the first time, and idly kicks him away. Padfoot lands heavily against tree roots, a rib might be broken. Padfoot grunts and scrabbles to his feet. Alpha arrives, twirling his stick, and white-hot flame bursts from the tip of it. The Enemy screeches, dropping the pup to the ground; she gives a choked cry of pain. Padfoot leaps forward, grabs her not-fur near the neck, and begins to drag her back.

She screams, flailing. Padfoot chuffs in annoyance as pup continues to babble, once striking across Padfoot's head with an arm. Padfoot can smell her injuries. Badly injured. One limb is broken. She smells like fear. It almost manages to drown out the smell of blood.

The back of Padfoot's mind flickers. Sirius is calling. Sirius thinks fighting the Enemy is a job better suited to him. Annoying. But Padfoot can't deny that, and he is a good boy, so he won't jeoparsize pup's safety for his pride. He feels drowsy, all of the sudden, and his body begins to move without his input. He feels to sleepy, now, and his last thought is of pup. Padfoot hopes she will be safe…

5. Chapter 5

As always, thanks to AutumnSouls for beta-ing.

Chapter Two: Foci

Simply put, foci are what allows us to channel magic easily and safely. One of the most commonly seen of instruments, and one you undoubtedly have, is the wand. The wand will concentrate and channel your magic, much like a garden-hose will concentrate and channel water. Without it, you will be left to scoop up water in your hands; this obviously means you can only carry so much of it at once, and it is very likely that most of the water will spill through your fingers before it reaches its destination.

Naturally, some wizards and witches are talented enough with magic that they can cast spells without their focus. This is not equal to designing a ritual - a ritual circle is a focus in its own right, after all. Apparition is one of the easiest wandless spells, but if you hear from anyone in seventh year, you will understand how difficult it was for them to grasp that particular skill. It will be even more difficult when the spell you are attempting to cast does not directly affect your body.

Foci come in many forms; materials, shapes, and sizes, for example, will change the overall effect of its usage. You may recall Ollivander telling you about the specifications of your wand; if they did not matter, then we would have mass-produced wands. However, the most important element, perhaps, is intent. Just as magic itself requires will and conviction, so do your instruments have to convey intent.

The Amulet. The amulet is, compared to other instruments, subtle. It is most effective for passive effects; luck-based charms, resistance to certain curses, or camouflage. It is also difficult to 'wield' an amulet; this means that the intent is to be worn and forgotten about, rather than used - allowing even Muggles to make use of them. This is why amulets have traditionally been used for protection throughout the ages.

The Crown. The Crown is a symbol of authority, first and foremost. It is placed on one's head, which is a place that draws attention to itself. Monarchs have worn crowns and, on the battlefield, officers often wore plumed helms. This makes them distinguishable, and assumes command. It may also represent clarity or wisdom. Crowns are powerful tools, and will greatly aid you in practicing mind-magics, such as Legilimency, Occlumency, should you choose to learn those, and generally organizing your mind.

The Ring. The ring can be said to be a mid-point between the Amulet and the Crown. It is good at passive effects, but not overly so; it also represents authority, as those in power have historically used family rings to press their seals onto official documents. As an accessory on one's hand, it can also be 'wielded' more easily, paving the way for combat magic. Merlin is said to have used a Ring as his primary focus.

The Staff. Staves are not dissimilar to wands. Like wands, staves are made of magical woods, possibly decorated with gemstones or precious metals. In any case, the wood - which forms the majority of the Staff - represents nature, life, and attunement. More flexible timbers, such as cedar or aspen, further represents flexibility; adaptability, and the ability to bounce back. Rigid timbers such as ironwood further represent unyielding strength and power. As the Staff relates to life and attunement, you can expect the Staff to grow more powerful with time, as you and the Staff grow; furthermore, it excels at protecting its wielder against death magic.

The Sword. The Sword traditionally represents authority, strategy, and prowess in battle. They are not only famous as weapons, but also symbolism - even in modern militaries, officers' formal dress includes sabers and such, and swords have also been used to represent the authority of kings (such as the Sword in the Stone). Hence, swords are best suited to combat magic, as well as magic that establishes sovereignty; dominions; feudal bonds, and the benefits to both parties are generally greater as a result.

The Wand. The wand is what you have, and is generally agreed to be the best all-rounder. It is like a staff, but lesser, and also involves an element of showmanship. It represents attunement, martial prowess, and most relevant to you, learning. New magic may come easier to a practitioner that uses a wand, but it will also help you in conflict, due to its usage in dueling.

These six foci are the most common. Others exist and in greater number than you would expect; the chalice, cross, and skull are some examples. However, I would not suggest their usage as they tend to have religious connotations one would avoid if one were studying magic from a purely utilitarian or scholarly perspective…

"You know something, Fred?"

"What's that, George?"

"I think our poor old headmaster's finally gone barmy."

"Right you are, George. Right you are."

"Don't be so disrespectful!" Hermione interjected with a hiss.

Ron leaned forward, attempting to get a better look. "Can you think of any other reasons that - blimey!"

His cry of shock was accompanied with gasps or flinches from the other people staring out of the window of 12 Grimmauld Place. Headmaster Dumbledore had finished chanting in that strange dialect - Latin, perhaps? - and grabbed the sheep by its head, and slit its throat with a carved knife of bone. Dumbledore did look like he'd rather be doing anything else, but went through with it anyway. He allowed the blood to stain his knife, and the fingers, and as they watched on in horror, Dumbledore finally released the sheep, which collapsed onto the bloody earth, its formerly pristine white wool stained a dark red. Dumbledore drew his wand and began twisting ribbons of flame. The dark wool caught fire, and Dumbledore controlled the flame, making it burn higher into the sky and yet never touching anything Dumbledore didn't want it to touch.

As the creature was reduced to ashes, Dumbledore ran his fingers through them, scooping it up in his weathered hands, and began to sprinkle it on the perimeter of Grimmauld Place. Once Dumbledore returned from his full lap of the property, he sighed, and twirled his wand; a phantom wind picked up the ashes, sending it spiraling high into the sky and destroying the chalk pentagram he had drawn on the property.

The bloodstain remained, however.

"It's done," Dumbledore said, and Sirius nodded.

"Seems about right."

If Hermione had to choose one thing she understood the least out of all this, it was the fact that Sirius had turned into a scholar overnight.

He often disappeared into the Black family library (and wasn't that something she was supremely jealous of) and would not emerge for hours. It got bad enough that he had Kreacher of all people, whom he hated with a passion, delivering Mrs. Weasley's cooking up to him so he could eat in the library instead. She had asked even Professor Lupin what the cause of this might be; he had, however, simply shrugged in response, equally ignorant and uncomfortable about this situation as Hermione herself was.

"What the hell?" Ron muttered, as Fred and George, uncharacteristically silent, retreated into the home. "Did he just kill that sheep?"

"Ritual magic," Hermione said.

"Well, yes, thank you for that," Ron said. "But for what?"

Hermione thought about it, but when Iris of all people stepped through the gates, she decided it wasn't as important. She and Ron glanced at each other, and then raced down the stairs to the entry hall. As they reached it, Dumbledore had just opened the door, letting Iris through. Sirius was smiling, and Hermione loved the way Iris' expression brightened at the sight of them.

"Iris!"

Sirius grinned and nudged Iris in their direction, and Hermione glomped her.

"Hello, Hermione," she said. She gave Ron a hug that never failed to tinge the tip of his ears red. "Hello, Ron. I notice that you haven't responded to my letters."

Hermione froze, as did Ron, who was unfortunately still stuck in Iris' grip and settled for desperately glancing at Headmaster Dumbledore. The old man chuckled. "I'm afraid I instructed them to limit communication. It's my fault, if anyone's; do not push away your friends."

"I suspected," Iris said dryly, releasing Ron and patting his shoulder. "But I forgive you."

Dumbledore inclined his head slightly. "I thank you for your limitless mercy."

Iris rolled her eyes, but was smiling. Hermione glanced between the two of them. Something must have happened, something that pushed them closer together - despite popular belief, Iris and Dumbledore had never been on such casual terms, for Dumbledore was too busy to deal with even the Girl Who Lived most of the time. Maybe they had gone on a fishing trip together? That was what Hermione's dad kept trying to do with her. Though she'd rather be indoors and reading a good book instead of outdoors and cold and miserable, some people were clearly capable of getting enjoyment out of such an activity.

"Miss Granger, Mr. Weasley," Dumbledore said, inclining his head towards them. "I should like to speak with the two of you, in private. I shall remain in Grimmauld Place for a while longer, so you need not worry about making me wait. Please, do make dear Iris feel more at home."

Hermione blinked. Something had definitely happened between them, then, and it wasn't so mundane as a fishing trip. "Of course, sir," Hermione said, while Ron simply nodded, bewildered. "Come on, Iris. Do you have your things?"

"They've already been taken care of," Dumbledore said as he breezed through towards the kitchen. "Ah, Molly. I see you are preparing dinner; is there anything I could do…?"

"Enjoy your time, Iris," Sirius said. "I'll be in the library. Hermione knows where that is, if you need me."

"Thanks, Sirius," Iris said, smiling, and brushed her hand against Sirius' own. Sirius smiled back at that gesture, and went upstairs. Then, Iris turned to her two friends. "Well?"

"House tour?" Hermione said, smile tugging at her lips, and Iris gestured. "Come on. Over here is the kitchen, which Ronald is intimately familiar with."

"Oi," Ron said, but he was struggling to contain a smile.

"The bathrooms are over here, and…" Hermione led the girl upstairs, Ron following. "Fred and George are sleeping in this room, best not to go inside unless you want feathers sprouting from your head. Ron's sleeping in this room, Ginny and I are sharing this room. You'll probably end up sharing with us, because there aren't that many rooms, and one is already being used to hide Buckbeak - I'm sorry, Witherwings, I mean."

"I don't mind," Iris said. "Is Ginny here?"

Hermione and Ron shared a glance. "Downstairs, maybe?" Ron said with a shrug, and Hermione shrugged back. Ron opened the door to his room and Hermione frowned.

"Ron, there are two people in my room and it's still neater than yours."

"You did get a bigger room," Ron argued.

"That doesn't mean your room is small, and you still managed to cover the floor with your dirty laundry." Hermione rolled her eyes. "Boys. How do they manage to keep Hogwarts upright with four of you in the same room?"

"Well, Iris, we can talk in here unless you'd rather sit on a throne of books," Ron said, and Hermione snorted.

"I don't really care," Iris said with a shrug. She pulled a chair under herself and sat on it backwards, folding her arms over the headrest. "So what has your summer been like?"

"Boring," Ron immediately complained.

Hermione thought about it for a moment. "My dad tried to take me fishing, again," she said, and Iris' lips quirked. "I managed to haggle him down to a trip to the aquarium."

"The what?"

"Like a zoo," Hermione explained, knowing Ron had been to a zoo before. "But for marine animals."

"What's so exciting about fish?"

Ah, Ronald.

"But yes, that's about it, I think. I read plenty of books, some fiction…"

"Her idea of light reading involves around eight hundred pages," Ron said. "She's kept trying to make me read her favorites, but half the words I don't even understand, and the topic is all stuff like… existential angst."

Iris laughed even as Hermione crossed her arms. "You just can't appreciate the classics."

"Well, I'm sorry my parents aren't educated like yours."

"At least you enjoyed Lord of the Rings," Hermione said. "If you didn't enjoy that, I might very well have had to denounce you."

Ron shrugged. "It actually had a story. Unlike the other books you keep forcing down my throat."

Iris chuckled. "You can't skip straight to Russian literature, Hermione. You have to start smaller."

"I guess," Hermione admitted grudgingly. "What about you? What was your summer like?"

Hermione did not miss the flicker of emotions that ran across Iris' face, although she did not have the time to properly see what emotions had been displayed. "Exhausting," Iris finally said. "Nothing happened for a long time… and very suddenly, a lot of things happened."

"It doesn't have anything to do with the fact that Dumbledore did a sacrificial ritual on the front yard, does it?" Ron asked, intending it to be a joke, but Hermione could see the significance in the way Iris' face became carefully neutral.

"I'm sure Dumbledore himself will tell you about it," Iris said. "I can't imagine what else he'd want to privately speak to you about."

Silence reigned for a moment before Hermione shifted the topic. "You don't know what happened to Sirius, do you? He's started studying," Hermione whispered the last word.

Iris' smile was bitter. "Also related."

Oh, dear. So Hermione had failed to change topics after all.

"Can't you just tell us?" Ron asked.

"I could," Iris said. "But Dumbledore will explain it better. Also, I don't want to speak about it."

Hermione rubbed Iris' back, going in circles. Iris glanced up at her. "It's okay," Hermione said. "Whatever it is. It will be okay."

"If only," Iris murmured, and Hermione almost failed to catch those words.

They were called down to supper later, a supper which was also attended by Headmaster Dumbledore, surprisingly enough, and even Sirius. Mrs. Weasley's cooking was not to be underestimated - and she made sure everyone got plenty of vegetables, too. Iris excused herself halfway, her food only half-consumed; Hermione did not miss the worried looks aimed at Iris' back, most notably from Mrs. Weasley (who was likely wondering if her cooking wasn't to Iris' taste). Ron gladly finished off the rest of Iris' meal.

"She's just tired, I'm sure," Dumbledore said. "She's had a long day. Miss Granger, Mr. Weasley, if you wouldn't mind following me?"

Hermione and Ron followed Dumbledore into an unused study. Hermione and Ron glanced at each other before settling onto a couch; Dumbledore himself sat in the chair he withdrew from a heavy oak desk in the corner of the room. He paused, going still, perhaps considering his words. Ron fidgeted, but even he did not interrupt the Headmaster.

"As you have already likely noticed, Iris is under a lot of stress," he said. "The source of her stress comes from yet another targeted attempt on her life."

Ron blinked. "How many assassination attempts has she gone through?"

"Quite a few," Dumbledore murmured. "You all remember Professor Quirrell. And I doubt you could forget the basilisk…"

"And last year," Hermione added quietly, and Dumbledore nodded once.

"Yet another one, from a different source this time," Dumbledore said. "For once, it did not come from Voldemort himself." The way Ron did his best not to flinch at the name was simultaneously exasperating and commendable. "No, the source is far more dangerous than a mere Dark Lord."

They stilled.

"More dangerous?" Hermione asked quietly.

"Significantly more," Dumbledore confirmed. "Iris is fortunate that she only managed to mildly annoy said source, rather than anger it outright."

"Exactly who is it?" Hermione asked. Dumbledore seemed reluctant to respond to that. "There's a reason you must be explaining this to us. If you didn't intend for us to know the gruesome details, you wouldn't be speaking to us."

Dumbledore withdrew his wand, and silently cast a myriad of spells, each of them meant for concealment and protection - as far as Hermione could tell, anyway. Despite her near-encyclopedic knowledge of spells (even those she herself could not cast - yet), she could barely guess at half of what Dumbledore's selection of spells did.

"Eligos," Dumbledore said abruptly, and Hermione blinked.

"What?"

"That is the name of the entity that ordered the death of Iris Potter," Dumbledore said. "You will not repeat it. You will not write it down. You will not spell it out. You will not refer to this entity by name at all, even if you are speaking to me and only me. Is this understood?"

Hermione swallowed at the intense, laser-like focus of Dumbledore's blue eyes. "Yes, sir," she said. Ron, not trusting himself to speak, simply nodded.

"You will notice that I referred to it as an 'entity'," Dumbledore said. "That is because this particular enemy is not human. Never has been. It is far more ancient, powerful, and commands an army of Infernal creatures. Even the creature's foot-soldiers possess great power, much greater than the average wizard or witch. It was by one of these lowly soldiers that Iris was almost killed."

Hermione swallowed again. "So what do we do? For Iris."

Dumbledore smiled, though wearily. "I commend you for your loyalty, Miss Granger. I see not even Hufflepuff was out of the question for you," he said. "As for your question, we prepare Iris, and perhaps prepare you as well. You are not a direct target of this entity, and the entity in question likely does not know, nor do they care, about the two of you. However, I can only assume you will try something suitably heroic and foolish, like sacrificing yourself for Iris, should you ever be in a situation to. The best thing you can do for her, is to become stronger. Train yourself. Physically, mentally, magically."

"Physically?" Ron asked.

"You may find yourself needing to run away." Dumbledore sighed. "Meanwhile, I will personally mentor Iris in the forbidden arts she should have never tried to interest herself in. If performed correctly, non-human entities - similar to our enemy, although far weaker - can be bound to her service, not unlike a House-Elf, serving as Iris' guardian. This will hopefully give her an edge that will allow her enough time to escape, should she ever end up in a predicament."

"A slave," Hermione muttered, unable to help it. She flinched when Dumbledore's gaze swung back onto her.

"Indeed," he said, and Hermione paused. "In effect, Iris will surround herself with slaves, and they will be forced to sacrifice themselves to protect her. House-Elves, at least, form a symbiotic relationship with humans. However, the enslaved creatures - and I use that word quite generously - do not have our best interests in mind. They have never had the best interests of humans in mind, and nor will they ever. Should you ever encounter them, you must fight for your life, for you may find yourself enslaved to their will." He paused. "It is a distasteful practice, I understand. But when dealing with Others, morality becomes the least of one's concerns. It is a practice one can only avoid by never stepping foot beyond our allocated Plane."

"So you're saying Iris has no choice?"

"Not unless you desire her soul to be tortured for all eternity until she goes insane, yes."

Silence stretched.

"It feels like I'm out of my depth," Ron said with a weak laugh.

"You may choose not to step into this world," Dumbledore said gently. "If anything, I would recommend it. The only thing I ask of you, in that case, is to avoid Iris outside Hogwarts, or when I tell you to. I would not have you killed as collateral damage."

"Don't be ridiculous, Professor," Ron said with a weak smile. "I'm not going to abandon my best mate."

Dumbledore smiled, ever so slightly. "I'm proud of you, Ronald Weasley."

Hermione watched Ron swallow.

"It will be harsh going, however," Dumbledore said. "I mean it, when I say you must train yourself. Historically, you have done… pardon my words, but you have done mediocre at best in all your studies. This will change. You will need every scrap of knowledge, every scrap of wisdom, every scrap of cunning you have in your body should you wish to survive to the end of all this. You will put the greatest effort into your studies, both in your standard classes and in extracurricular studies headed by Professor Snape and myself. You already possess an animosity with Professor Snape, like Iris does; this will be cast aside, and you will do everything he tells you to do, with no complaint. Remember, Iris' life will be at risk should you fail at your duty."

Ron swallowed again, but it probably wasn't a result of happy emotions like last time.

"I expect much of your spare time will be taken up by these extracurricular activities," Dumbledore said. "If only because we have so little time. We will need to cram it into you, get ready for the inevitable confrontations." He looked to Hermione. "And yourself, Miss Granger?"

Hermione licked her desert-dry lips. "Of course I'll stand with Iris."

"I'm glad to hear that," Dumbledore said quietly. After a moment: "if only I had chosen friends like yourself when I was younger." Then he looked back up. "In that case, this meeting is adjourned. I will provide you with a list of some items you may wish to purchase during your annual school supplies shopping. I shall do my best to find some funds to at least partially cover the costs."

He stood up. "Before you forget to ask, Mister Weasley, the sheep sacrifice was to create a guardian spirit around the property. It is weak, but will hopefully be enough to repel creatures such as those that Iris ran from last week. Usually, an animal that has a close attachment to the dependant - such as one's favorite horse, a faithful hound or other pets. It is a sacrificial ritual seen often in history, from the Viking warriors sacrificing their best steeds or hunting dogs to their gods, or to Ancient Egyptian statesmen being buried with their animals and relatives. We will unfortunately have to make do with what we have."

Hermione's mind drifted to Hedwig, before she quickly shut that line of thinking down. Iris would never harm Hedwig, even if she herself were to die as a result.

"I am unfortunately not exempt from my duties, however, and I must bid you farewell for the time being," Dumbledore said. "Study ahead of the classes; you will need the head start with all the other studies you will be assigned by Professor Snape and myself. I will forgive some halfhearted study, especially for nonessential subjects like Divination or Care for Magical Creatures, but I will see you perform at your best for Charms, Transfiguration, and Defense, at the very least."

"Yes, Professor," Hermione said.

"Good. I shall be off. It was good to see you doing well, Miss Granger, Mister Weasley."

And then, Ron and Hermione were left alone in the study, which seemed much colder than it already was.

6. Chapter 6

Thanks to AutumnSouls for beta-ing this chapter.

"Ah, Severus. Good day."

Severus scowled down at Black, as he entered the kitchen of Grimmauld Drive. He sat on the unoccupied side of the table. He paused, then watched Dumbledore as he beckoned with a crooked finger and a porcelain teapot and teacup answered his call; before him, steaming amber liquid was dispensed into the teacup, and settled between his hands.

"Thank you, Headmaster," Severus said. "What business did you wish to discuss? And what relevance is he to it?"

Severus' eyes scanned the room, a habit ingrained into him over many years. When one survived by dealing information, one had to be certain the information was airtight. He detected dozens of privacy spells cast across the room, and dozens more that reduced the magical signature created by those privacy spells to nearly nil, making it appear as if there were no privacy spells cast here. It was only due to his experience in Legilimency that he noticed.

"Do you read the Prophet regularly, Severus?"

"I used to. At least, back when it still had the decency to pretend it wasn't state propaganda," Severus said. "Now I can hardly trust what it says."

"This is from a week ago," Dumbledore said, and showed a front-page incident. Severus skimmed through it, and snorted.

Even by the standards of all the Ministry propaganda that they'd been spouting recently, this was extreme. Girl Who Lived Threatening International Statute of Secrecy! Beginning with that misleading title, the article went on to divulge exactly when and with what spells Miss Potter had cast in the presence of Muggles (which was confidential information, but he suspected the Ministry would take whatever it could get) and an interview with an ISS expert who was clearly not given the full picture and only included to make the article seem more reputable. The conclusion of the article mentioned the 'high likelihood' (according to Minister Fudge) of Iris Potter getting their wand snapped and expelled from Hogwarts.

"I would say good riddance." Severus paused as he briefly enjoyed the look of repressed anger and scorn that Black directed towards him. "However, I suspect you'd turn my opinion of the Prophet back onto me if I did so, Headmaster. So, what truly happened?"

Dumbledore banished the newspaper to a neat stack of the Prophet near the doorway. "Iris Potter was attacked," Dumbledore said, and Severus nodded, expecting as much.

"Not by the Dark Lord," Severus said. "If it was, he had kept everyone in the dark. Specifically orchestrated to fail, perhaps? Only to damage Miss Potter's reputation?"

"No," Dumbledore said, and Severus blinked.

"So you already know the identity of the attacker."

"I do. And it is not good news, I'm afraid."

"Before I ask, how is Black relevant to this?"

"Sirius is relevant in that he was there with me, providing assistance, when I went to rescue Iris on that night," Dumbledore said. "Furthermore, I have decided that Sirius should be included in our plans moving forward."

Severus narrowed his eyes. "What can he do that the others cannot? Nymphadora is a full auror, now, which is further than Black or James Potter has gotten."

Severus was somewhat disappointed in the fact that Black did not leap to his feet and slam his hands on the table. Black was impulsive at the best of times; the fact that he kept his fists clenched and his teeth grinding, but not throwing a fit, was somewhat impressive.

"Because Sirius Black is the Lord of the House of Black," Dumbledore said. "Not only that, but the others do not know the nature of this threat, and I would prefer to keep it that way for as many people as possible."

"The nature of the threat?" Severus said.

"Yes." Dumbledore steepled his fingers. "Severus, you knew Lily Evans well when you were children, did you not?"

Severus' lips twisted into a scowl. "Yes. Is there a point to that question, headmaster?"

"There is, actually." Dumbledore's eyes twinkled in that infuriating manner of his. "Did you ever, perhaps, notice something… off, about her?"

Severus' scowl disappeared. "Nothing that comes at me immediately. What kind of behavior would you classify as off?"

Dumbledore thought for a long moment. "These are possibilities," he said, "I did not know her well enough to understand how she expressed her behavior usually. But, if I had to raise an example - a distinct lack of empathy. Towards her peers, from a belief that she is superior to them. Towards animals, including small animals like housecats and dogs. Towards magic taught in Hogwarts, from a belief that she could do better."

Severus frowned. "I don't like housecats or dogs either, Headmaster. Am I suddenly a person of interest now?"

Dumbledore chuckled. "No, not in that sense. But I mean… you would never hurt a kitten or pup, would you?" Severus nodded slowly. "I mean, unempathetic towards animals, in that she would not be concerned if she were treating them especially cruelly."

"I'm afraid I haven't really detected such behavior," Severus said. "She did have an ongoing feud with many Slytherin and some Ravenclaw purebloods, but I suspected it was due to her status as a Muggle-born rather than anything else."

"What about over time, Severus? How did she change between, say, before attending Hogwarts, towards the end of her schooling?"

"She became more… aloof, perhaps. She ignored the same purebloods that she viciously competed against in her earlier years - to be fair, Lily's test results and the like always came back with very good scores. She became more introverted, I think, is the best word to describe it. She was a chatterbox when she was younger. Much less so once she grew up."

"Does that correlate to your view, Sirius?"

Black nodded slowly. "She definitely changed, somewhere between fourth or fifth year."

"It could probably just be puberty," Severus offered, and though he frowned, Dumbledore nodded.

"Indeed. One of the contributing factors is puberty. However, Sirius and I know for a fact there is a different contributing factor. You will not speak of this to anyone, you understand."

"Naturally."

"Lily Potter and her maternal line have been practitioners," Dumbledore said, and Severus felt a shiver run down his spine in recognition of the term. "According to Lily herself, her line is one of the longest, although that may simply have been an exaggerated boast. In any case, before Lily died, she filled a journal with information of the forgotten arts and left it to her daughter, to preserve their knowledge and mission."

Severus put down his teacup. "I assume Miss Potter ended up being chased by a nonhuman being."

"You are correct. You must understand, Iris is a child, one whose life has been threatened by a Dark Lord. She was under intense pressure, and with no aid from friends or mentors, when she made this desperate gamble to deal with an Other." Dumbledore sighed. "I suppose I am partly to blame, seeing as it was I who isolated her. For her own safety… I was a fool."

Severus took another sip of his tea to try and organize his thoughts. "You must understand, Headmaster, I only know enough about this topic that I know not to research further. I do not see why you would require my assistance."

"You do know the history of Occlumency, yes?"

Severus snorted. "History of Magic does not interest me."

Dumbledore chuckled. "Well, Severus, then I shall teach you something new. Occlumency is one of the oldest forms of magic. Encounters with the supernatural have existed long before we harnessed the same power, and before we did, not all subjects of these encounters were benevolent. Occlumency was developed as a way to protect our minds from Others, not from other humans."

Severus blinked. Something new, indeed.

"Once we did harness magic, however, we began exploring ways to improve our lives with it. For the first time in history, human sorcerers were capable of using their power to repel, ensnare, and in some cases, even destroy Others. We then learned that there were Thirteen Planes, each successful Plane with exponentially more magic than the last. Since then, certain cults of practitioners have dedicated their entire lives to the research of higher Planes. This is the origin of Legilimency, the art of seeing things unseen."

"I see. I suspect you want me to teach Potter Occlumency, then."

"And Legilimency, if possible. I would also like you to tutor Mr. Ronald Weasley and Miss Hermione Granger in these, as well, at least sufficiently enough to protect themselves and perhaps Iris if she needs the help."

"At least you have not asked me to tutor him, I suppose," Severus said, jerking his chin in Black's direction. Black scowled.

"I asked Sirius to self-study," Dumbledore said, mildly amused.

"Good."

"I am going to have to ask you to be very patient with Iris," Dumbledore said. "She must learn as much as possible, as quickly as possible, and she will not do that if you let your biases get in your way. The same goes for Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley - besides, the sooner you get those two to an adequate level, the sooner you may leave them for self-study. Sirius is currently going through the Black library for potential knowledge on the matter; I will be teaching Iris the skills and knowledge that she will need to protect herself."

"I see."

"You are not happy; I understand. However, I must ask you to keep her safe." Dumbledore's eyes flashed. "If you cannot protect Iris Potter, then at least try to protect Lily Evans' daughter. If you manage to fail to do even that, well… I can assure you that I will be far less forgiving of your past mistakes."

Severus' jaw clenched as the Headmaster's twinkling eyes went from seemingly harmless into arctic cold. He nodded, and he felt the mental and physical tension ease as Dumbledore relaxed.

"Now for the more immediate crisis. The Ministry of Magic is rattling their sabers. They have done everything to turn important parties against Iris Potter in the recent months, and they have suddenly gained an opportunity for a potential victory. Iris Potter is scheduled for a session with the entirety of the Wizengamot."

"I see Cornelius Fudge's electoral promises of being a proactive Minister have finally borne fruit," Severus said dryly, and Dumbledore laughed. Even Black snorted in amusement.

"It is absurd, I know. But I suppose bullying a fifteen-year-old girl for underage magic usage is more important than the response for the recent Floo Network workers' strike," Dumbledore said.

"It's because the Floo Union aren't defenseless schoolchildren," Severus said. "I'm sure the Prophet has already called them 'thugs' somewhere."

"They have, actually, in yesterday's article," Dumbledore said, amused. "Regardless. I have decided to volunteer my memory as witness testimony. While I am no longer highly trusted by a significant portion of the Wizengamot, I trust that enough are well aware of the fact that the Prophet is Ministry propaganda."

"Even if they are aware, some of them will vote against you on principle," Black said.

Dumbledore shrugged helplessly. "I can only have faith."

When Iris awoke, the sky was still dark despite it still being the middle of summer; yet muted sounds could be heard from downstairs. Iris grunted softly as she rolled over from her mattress, which was laid out on the floor in between the two beds occupied by Hermione and Ginny. Both were still asleep. Iris grabbed the wristwatch Hermione had gotten for her birthday years ago and saw it was half-past five.

Mrs. Weasley had folded and placed freshly laundered and ironed clothes at the foot of her mattress. Iris shivered slightly as she removed her nightwear and instead pulled on a button-up shirt, a pair of slacks, and a jacket to keep herself warm in the chill of the morning. She took a moment to rub at her eyes before she put on her glasses.

Despite the thick socks she wore, the hardwood floors chilled her feet as she made her way downstairs When she entered the kitchen, she was greeted by several people and, surprisingly, Sirius. Iris hadn't seen much of him recently, what with him taking care of Buckbeak and doing research on her behalf. She felt a little guilty about that, especially when the man graced him with a small smile.

"Good morning, Iris," Mrs. Weasley said from the stove, and the scent of bacon and eggs filled Iris' nostrils. "What would you like to eat?"

"Just toast, thanks," Iris said quietly, and sat down next to Sirius; across Mr. Weasley. Professor Lupin was standing with a cup of tea in his hands, leaning against the wall.

"Looks like the Floo Union are getting more aggressive," Mr. Weasley said in an amused voice. "I've spoken to a few of them, and they actually seem to be on your side, Iris. The fact that the Ministry is ignoring their demands to focus on a misinformation campaign against a teenage girl has not endeared the Ministry to them."

Mr. Weasley was not wearing his usual wizard's robes, but instead a pair of pinstriped trousers and an old bomber jacket. He turned the page on the Prophet and chuckled. "They're not exactly pleased at being called thugs either, it seems. And now the Ministry is accusing them of using their positions to further the agenda of Dumbledore and yourself, Iris, not that I'd know how you managed to infiltrate the Floo Union's ranks."

Iris felt her lips twitch up despite herself, but her stomach was still roiling and she felt colder than she had any right to. Mrs. Weasley placed some freshly buttered toast in front of Iris, and she thanked her - but the toast still tasted like cardboard and she only managed to take a few bites.

"I also got myself yesterday's Muggle paper," Mr. Weasley said proudly, holding it up for Iris to see. What she saw wasn't promising.

"You got the Daily Mail?" she said, and something must have betrayed her feelings on that because Mr. Weasley drooped a bit.

"Ah, yes. Wrong choice? It seemed popular enough." He shrugged. "Well, at least we can still use the crosswords, eh?"

Iris' sleep-deprived brain finally caught onto the fact that Mr. Weasley was simply trying to distract her from her nerves. While heartwarming, her realization pushed the thought of the trial back into her mind and really didn't help. She accepted Mr. Weasley's offer of sitting next to him and completing the crossword together, trying to ignore the feeling in her gut. Mrs. Weasley silently fussed with Iris' outfit, brushing off invisible specks of dust (then again, Iris was the one who needed spectacles, not Mrs. Weasley) and straightening out creases that didn't exist.

"Would you like me to brush your hair, Iris?" Mrs. Weasley asked.

Iris startled. "Um. You don't have to."

"It's quite alright, dear."

Iris tilted her head to allow Mrs. Weasley easier access to her head. She idly noted she was quite good at it. As she did so, she and Mr. Weasley continued to work on their crossword, with occasional input from Sirius and Professor Lupin.

"You have lovely hair, Iris," Mrs. Weasley murmured.

Iris smiled a bit at that. She would hardly call herself attractive, by any means, but she was proud of was her hair; jet-black, like her father's, but not at all messy like his; instead wavy and smoother than silk, which came from her mother.

Mrs. Weasley stepped back, admiring her handiwork. She frowned, but seemed to decide it was good enough, and squeezed Iris' shoulders. Professor Lupin smiled reassuringly, as did Sirius. None of that really served to calm Iris down.

"It'll be a long few hours," Sirius said. "But once that is done, you'll be cleared."

Professor Lupin nodded. "As much as the Ministry might pretend otherwise in your case, even underage wizards are permitted magic in life-threatening situations."

"And not to mention Albus Dumbledore himself will be testifying for you," Mr. Weasley said. "In a few hours it'll just all seem like a bad dream." He glanced at his watch. "I think we'll go now. A bit early, but better you're already there than possibly run into trouble."

Iris smiled weakly. "See you, everyone."

The adults spoke various words of farewell as Iris followed Mr. Weasley out of the apartment. The sun was just coming out around this time, and there were few enough people out on the street that Mr. Weasley's somewhat unconvincing Muggle disguise didn't stand out so much. Of course, the London Underground was significantly more packed with commuters in comparison, and Iris shrunk into herself as Mr. Weasley's enthusiasm at experiencing a marvel of the Muggle world firsthand really began to stand out against the dour dispositions of London natives.

"Simply wondrous," Mr. Weasley murmured, half to himself, as the train began to accelerate. "It's incredible, isn't it?"

"Sure is, Mr. Weasley," Iris agreed, because she wasn't about to take modern engineering for granted. As they exited the Tube, Iris turned to Mr. Weasley. "Say, how fast is the fastest broom produced?"

"Hm. I did hear Fred and George talking about a German company that supposedly managed to build a broom that can travel at… what did they say, again? Three-hundred-fifty or so miles per hour. Staggering, isn't it?" He glanced at Iris. "I'm guessing you want to compare that to the fastest-moving Muggle aircraft?"

"Spacecraft," Iris corrected, and Mr. Weasley stared at her. "Look… once this hearing is over, why don't we take a trip to a Muggle bookstore? I'm sure there are things you'll find fascinating."

"That sounds like a rather splendid idea, Iris," Mr. Weasley said with a smile. "We'll discuss it with Professor Dumbledore. Maybe we can invite Hermione and Ron and Ginny, make a day-trip out of it."

"That sounds nice." And it did.

"Ah, here we are."

Iris blinked before she was crowded into a red telephone box by Mr. Weasley, who picked up the telephone and dialed 6-2-4-4-2. The telephone rang once. Iris was startled, for a public telephone should not be ringing like that. She clutched at her arms when an ethereal voice echoed from all around and most certainly not from the receiver.

"Welcome to the Ministry of Magic. Please state your name and purpose of visit."

"Er… Arthur Weasley, Misuse of Muggle Artifacts office, escorting Iris Potter, who is attending a disciplinary hearing," Mr. Weasley said, talking into the receiver rather than the speaker.

"Confirmed."

The telephone apparatus rattled and spat out a badge. Iris picked it up, as the telephone box began to descend. She blinked and glanced out the window; a Muggle passerby was walking past the telephone box, and yet seemed not to notice anything strange. Iris wondered if all magical elevators were as creaky and shuddering as this one seemed to be. She clutched at the wooden amulet under her shirt; the amulet was certainly not designed to protect its wearer from doom via shaky elevators, but it was her only lifeline, it felt like. By contrast, Mr. Weasley seemed entirely unfazed.

After a minute of darkness, during which Iris continued to grip her amulet hard, she was barraged by a blinding light that had her blinking tears from her eyes. When her eyes once again adjusted, however, she was treated to an impressive sight.

The dark, wooden floor was polished enough that it acted as a mirror for the golden hieroglyphs that floated about the otherwise wine-dark ceiling; gilded fireplaces that crackled gently in the background lined the walls on either side; from Iris' left-hand side were incoming people, while more queued along the right-hand side, people occasionally disappearing in a storm of green fire. At the center of the atrium was a water fountain, built of marble, and hosting polished, golden statues; a handsome wizard and a beautiful witch stood in the center, with a centaur, goblin, and a house-elf looking up adoringly at the two humans. While it was undoubtedly well-made, the details exquisite, Iris couldn't help but feel some discomfort at the scene, the cause of which was unknown to her.

"This way," Mr. Weasley said.

Iris followed Mr. Weasley, weaving between the various comers and goers, some of whom were carrying teetering piles of paperwork (and Iris' more mischievous side was tempted to cast a silent banishing charm, but that would likely do little to improve the Wizengamot's impression of her) or reading the Prophet as they walked, and these people naturally nearly walked into every other person who was also reading the paper while they walked.

They passed through a security gate attended by a wizard who was clearly past the point of caring about how he presented himself, judging by how he missed entire patches of stubble as he'd shaved and how his peacock-blue robes were wrinkled. Iris grudgingly gave up her wand to the security wizard, who placed her wand on some sort of scale-like device. Iris discreetly shook her head, allowing her hair to fall over her forehead and cover her scar, even as the security wizard hesitated upon glancing at her visitor's badge. They existed into a smaller hall, where about twenty lifts were lined along either side, with wrought golden grills.

As coworkers spoke, Iris fidgeted. She wished she had her Walkman or something, although she wasn't certain just how effective it would be in such a magic-rich environment. Surely there was some way to make it operable? From what she knew, Technomancy was a budding field, but the promise of combining high-end technology with magic was very exciting, and thus the field was rapidly developing. At least it was, in the more, ah, progressively-thinking magical societies such as in Germany or in the United States.

"Level two," said a cool female voice, likely the same she'd heard in the telephone box. "Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Improper Use of Magic Office, Auror Headquarters, Wizengamot Administration Services."

"This is us," Mr. Weasley said. "My office is on the other side of the floor. 'Scuse me…"

Iris followed Mr. Weasley out into a corridor lined with doors. They walked past cubicles and occasionally large break rooms, stocked with biscuits and tea and the like, and a few people were chatting quietly to read the paper and the like before their shifts began in earnest. They turned a corner, into Auror Headquarters if the lopsided sign was anything to go by. A little farther along Iris saw Kingsley Shacklebolt sitting in his own cubicle, a pair of reading spectacles perched on his nose and, due to his height and girth, looking rather cramped in the cubicles. Iris briefly recalled Mr. Weasley's tent, from last year, and wondered why they hadn't put on the same charms on these cubicles. When Iris opened her mouth to say hello, Mr. Weasley stood on her foot.

"Ah, Weasley," Kingsley said disinterestedly. "I've been meaning to have a word with you. Have you got a minute?"

"If it really is a minute," Mr. Weasley said. "I'm in a bit of a hurry."

Kingsley stood, and the two men walked down the hallway as they spoke about whatever. Iris didn't really listen. They seemed to be acting like strangers, and both of them were surprisingly good at it. At the end of the hall was a larger room, several corkboards neatly arranged on each wall save one, which was covered by a large Mercator projection of the world, with little red pins stuck in them glowing faintly. One of the corkboards were covered in pictures of Sirius Black - including a photo of him as best man at the Potters' wedding - and a few other boards were covered in pictures of other people. Other criminals, Iris guessed.

"And don't delay this time, Weasley," Kingsley said, pushing a sheaf of parchment into Mr. Weasley's arms. "The delay on your firelegs report held up our previous investigation for a month."

"If you'd read my report, you'd know that the term is 'firearms'," Mr. Weasley said coolly. He lowered his voice. "Also, if you can get out at seven, Molly's making meatballs."

As they turned to leave, Iris caught Kingsley dropping her a wink. She smiled back at him and followed Mr. Weasley into his considerably less impressive office. She had thought the Auror cubicles were bad, but this one appeared to be a modified broom cupboard. Desks took up the majority of the space that wasn't already taken up by filing cabinets, overflowing such that even more files and stacks of papers were instead tottering on top of the cabinets. What wall-space remained were covered in posters of Mr. Weasley's obsessions; one poster was of a car - not even a sports car or something nice, but a promotional poster for a dingy Ford minivan, which proudly proclaimed starting prices at nine thousand pounds - and another was an instructional diagram on how to wire a plug.

"Apologies for the clutter, Iris," Mr. Weasley said. "There's simply so much work to do… not as if the Ministry cares about our little office…"

Iris pushed herself as best as she was able into one of the corners, trying not to flinch too hard and end up jostling the cabinets and creating an avalanche of paperwork when a paper airplane floated through the entrance. With practiced ease, Mr. Weasley snatched the airplane without even looking, then opened it up. "'Third regurgitating toilet reported in Bethnal Green, kindly investigate immediately.' This is getting ridiculous…"

Iris shuddered at the concept, even as Mr. Weasley continued muttering under his breath. After a minute, a short, timid-looking wizard ran into the room, face red and breathing heavily.

"Arthur!" He gulped some air. "Thank goodness, you're here, I wasn't certain if you'd get the owl I sent - I have some urgent news."

"I know about the regurgitating toilet," Mr. Weasley said.

"No, not that! It's about" - and his eyes flickered to Iris - "the Potter girl's hearing. They changed the time and venue. Eight in the morning, down in old Courtroom Ten."

"Courtroom ten?" Mr. Weasley's frown deepened, then he checked his watch. His eyes went wide. "Bloody hell!" he shouted, standing up and violently upending a few of the papers on his desk. "We were meant to be there five minutes ago! Iris, come on, we'll have to run!"

Iris thanked the stars that she had decided to go out on morning runs this summer if only because she had nothing else to do except chores assigned by Aunt Petunia. Mr. Weasley, in comparison, was huffing and puffing as they reached the elevator. He struck aggressively at the number nine button, and pummelled at the 'close doors' button every time they reached a floor that wasn't theirs. Iris felt her heart race, although not from exertion. She was young, not dumb. She could tell what was going on. They wanted her to miss her hearing, and thus be unable to provide any defense for herself. This trial was a mockery of justice. She scowled.

"Department of Mysteries," the cool, detached voice said, and the doors creaked open. Mr. Weasley practically shoved Iris through the doors in his haste, and began to run. Iris thought that might be the end of that, but no; Mr. Weasley turned left, and down a flight of stairs, leading to a set of dungeons not unlike those that Snape prowled in.

"They haven't used Courtroom Ten in years," Mr. Weasley said angrily. "The lifts don't even go down there. I can only really think of one reason why they selected this venue and time…"

Iris silently agreed. Mr. Weasley slowed to a powerwalk as he glanced at the numbers on the doors, and paused. "Here," he said. "Good luck, Iris. I won't be able to follow you inside. I have faith, but whatever the results may be, you'll always have a place with my family."

Iris smiled weakly. "Thanks."

"Now go on!"

And Iris was shoved unceremoniously towards the doors. She swallowed, grabbed the iron door handle, and pushed open the heavy wooden doors.

She realized as soon as she stepped foot inside the room that it was the same courtroom they'd used to sentence the Lestranges to life in Azkaban. The dark stone walls were not illuminated particularly well by the dim torches. Empty benches lined either side of her, but in the front, upon a raised platform, were dozens of shadowy figures, murmuring amongst themselves. Iris stepped forward, trying to hide her nerves. She took a deep breath, willed her muscles to relax, and slowly walked across the large and empty circle, towards the single, uncomfortable-looking chair in the center.

"You're late."

Iris felt nervousness and anger rise in equal measure. "Yes," she finally said.

The cold, male voice was silent for a long moment. "Take your seat," he finally said, and Iris glanced down at the thick, coiled chains for a moment before she sat.

"Very good," Fudge, at the very center, said. "The accused being present - finally - let us begin." He turned to the side. "Are you ready?"

"Yes, sir," said a voice eagerly, one that Iris was familiar with. Percy Weasley, steadfastly not looking at Iris, hand poised above his parchment as if self-dictating quills did not exist in the magical world. Fudge cleared his throat, and began to speak.

"Disciplinary hearing on the sixteenth of August, into offenses committed under the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery and the International Statute of Secrecy by Iris Potter, resident at Number Four, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey. Interrogators: Cornelius Oswald Fudge, Minister of Magic; Amelia Susan Bones, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement; Dolores Jane Umbridge, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister. Court Scribe, Percy Ignatius Weasley-"

"-Witness for the defense, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore," interrupted a quiet, yet nonetheless powerful and echoing voice. Iris' incessant twitching ceased, as she basked in the comfort of her Headmaster. A snap of fingers, and a woosh of displaced air, and a cushy and rather tacky armchair had emerged into existence next to Iris' throne of iron and chains. With a soft sigh, Headmaster Dumbledore sat.

The Minister was obviously flustered at the appearance of Dumbledore. Despite the fact that the Prophet had been running a campaign of slander against Dumbledore as much as against Iris for the past three months now, the Minister definitely did not seem comfortable with Dumbledore here. Iris internally smirked; externally, she kept her face a mask of practiced boredom, something she had good practice with in History of Magic class while she passed notes to everyone in the room.

Fudge nonetheless began proceeding with the hearing.

"Iris Potter," said Fudge, "you received a warning from the Ministry of Magic three years ago for the use of illegal magic, did you not?"

"Yes," Iris said. It was true. She had received the warning, even if she wasn't guilty of it.

"And yet you cast the following: a Patronus, a blasting curse, an exploding charm, a summoning charm, in plain view of Muggles?"

"Yes."

"Knowing that you are not permitted the usage of magic outside school under the age of seventeen?"

"I knew I was permitted-"

"Knowing that the area you were in was full of Muggles?"

"Yes, but-"

"Fully aware that you were in close proximity to a Muggle?"

"Yes, but-"

"You cast a Patronus?" A witch with a monocle interrupted in a booming voice, good for a courtroom. "A fully-fledged Patronus, more than mist or smoke?"

"Yes," Iris said, blindsided. "It's a stag. Always has been."

"Always?"

"Yes, Professor Lupin taught it to me, during my third year, because I had an adverse reaction to the dementors that were stationed around the school under Minister Fudge's orders." Iris turned very blandly towards the Minister of Magic, who glared at her, not noticing (or perhaps simply ignoring) the glances and snickers aimed his way.

"Impressive," said Madam Bones, staring down at her. "A corporeal Patronus in your third year… very impressive indeed."

A few nods of agreement, a few shakes of the head. Fudge very nearly raised his voice to a shout as he wrestled back control of the conversation. "It is not a matter of impressiveness. If anything, if it were corporeal, it would be worse, considering the possible Muggle witnesses." Iris' rage flared as he saw Percy nodding his head like he was some sort of bobblehead. He had always been a suck-up. Iris briefly wondered what Penelope Clearwater saw in him.

"I performed these spells," Iris said, raising her voice, "because I was in danger of my life."

The room descended into a brief silence before murmurs started up again. Madam Bones leaned forward. "I will admit, the selection of spells you used speak of an attempt to escape something or someone. However, I have not yet heard what exactly happened to you."

"Ah," Dumbledore said in a pleased voice, before Fudge could interrupt. "I believe I can help explain that one, since Iris herself knows little about the topic."

"Oh?" Fudge raised an eyebrow. "Do enlighten us, then, Dumbledore. Was it vampires? Werewolves, perhaps? Or even dementors?"

"None of them," Dumbledore stood, his voice suddenly grave. The shift in tone clearly captured the attention of the Wizengamot. "It was none of those things. The thing that was chasing Iris Potter on the night her offenses were committed, was an Otherworldly Being."

Utter silence.

"An Other?" Madam Bones furrowed her brow. "I don't understand."

"Oh, this is even better than I had expected!" Fudge said, very nearly crowing. "An Otherworldly Being. I had expected at least some tall tale, but I did not expect you to outright admit to being chased by a myth."

"It is no myth, Cornelius Fudge," Dumbledore said, and Fudge stopped. Iris swallowed. The old man's voice was suddenly full of steely rage. "We have been fortunate enough not to see any instances of Others in recent years, true. But I have. I am sure some of your older relatives have as well, during Grindelwald's War. They cut through brave witches and wizards like a scythe through wheat. Or are you calling your father a liar as well, Minister Fudge?"

Fudge did not respond to that.

"Besides, I assure you," Dumbledore said, his voice neutral now, "if it were not an Other, I will gladly accept that, as I am certain I would sleep better at night knowing so. I shall allow you to see for yourselves - I have already decided to volunteer my memory regarding the last moments of Iris Potter's flight from her enemy."

Fudge turned to the side, toward Percy, who nodded. "The memories have been tested and have been found to contain no tampering. Some inaccuracy, perhaps, but it is to be expected."

Iris wasn't sure if that was a matter of fact or a veiled insult.

"Very well," Fudge said with a small sigh he failed to completely hide. "Let us see the memory in question, then. Dumbledore, an explanation for the background?"

"For her safety, I had some friends keeping an eye on Iris," Dumbledore said. "I was alerted around six in the evening, on the fourth of August, that Iris Potter had been missing for at least an hour. I, and the Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor from two years ago - Professor Lupin - investigated. We found evidence of very dark magic, and we concluded that Iris had fled towards Hogwarts on a broom. We eventually found Iris, her broom ruined, and running on foot from the Other in question."

"Play it," Madam Bones ordered, and a modified pensieve began to fill the room with swirling mist. The lights from the torches grew ever dimmer until they disappeared; when the entire room was shrouded by fog, Iris realized she was sitting in a chair in the Forbidden Forest.

A scream. Iris' eyes, like everyone else's, turned to find… herself. She paled. She really hadn't looked good, had she? She was stumbling, her heavy Quidditch robes torn, her right arm twisted in an unnatural angle. Her face was bloodied, her spectacles cracked and covered in blood from the inside. Then Iris - the real Iris - froze, as a slender, skeletal hand reached out and picked her phantom self up by her throat, and phantom Iris did her best to scream with the little air left in her lungs. Dumbledore's real hand settled on Iris' real shoulder, and she relaxed, but only slightly.

The Wizengamot watched in silence as the impossibly tall and slender being began to squeeze. A wolf-life form barreled into the leg of the Other, only for it to be kicked away. A phoenix Patronus began clawing at the Other's avian mask, as well as a wolf-like Patronus. The Other tossed the phantom Iris away, against a tree, where she landed with a heavy thud. The Other reached out with its disproportionately long limbs and grasped the mist-like wolf with its talons, before slamming it down on the ground hard enough that it shattered like glass. The Wizengamot flinched as the Patronus seemed to cry out in pain in its last moments.

Dumbledore began to fight against the Other with a whip made of flame, striking at it. The other man, 'Professor Lupin', began to cast flame spells as well, but lacking the raw power that Dumbledore possessed, he could do little. As the Other approached, the man scrambled back, picking up Iris' abandoned broom in the process, and desperately striking at the Other with it. It did nothing. Dumbledore cast something, and the bristles of the broom glowed red-hot; 'Lupin' shoved the broom up the robes of the Other, igniting the tattered cloth from within. The Other screeched in a manner that resonated directly with one's mind, and the audience winced, despite this only being a memory. Within the memory itself, Dumbledore and 'Lupin' stumbled, clutching at their ears, before Dumbledore decided to add even more flame to the equation.

The room slowly cleared of the fog, and the torches emerged to life once more.

"Whatever that was, it was no mere dark creature," Madam Bones said, her voice subdued.

Fudge looked rather pale. "And you say this thing was chasing you?" he inquired of Iris. Iris nodded, not wanting to speak.

"I see," Madam Bones murmured.

A portly witch beside Fudge cleared her throat in an infuriating manner. Fudge stiffened, and spoke. "The Chair recognizes Dolores Jane Umbridge, Senior Secretary to the Minster."

"Thank you," she said in a high-pitched voice that made Iris flinch. "While we have reassurances that the memory is not tampered with, do we truly have any reassurances that the event was in no way staged? After all, you say Otherworldly Beings, but research from several accredited Ministry researchers have found no evidence of these so-called Other Worlds, and there have been hypotheses, repeatedly raised, that sightings of Others during Grindelwald's War and before that were exaggerations of uncommon, yet more understood phenomena, such as the usage of poltergeists and ghosts in war."

Iris noticed the way Dumbledore's fists clenched behind his back. "That is true," Dumbledore allowed easily, in contrast to his true feelings. "It could be entirely possible that the creature was not an Other at all." Umbridge gave a sickly sweet smile at that. "However, the fact remains that Iris Potter was being threatened by an unknown entity, and she reacted in a reasonable manner of self-defense, and Clause Seven of the Decree states that underage magic may be permissible under certain circumstances, including but not limited to if the witch or wizard in question, surrounding witches or wizards or Muggles' lives are being threatened."

"We know what Clause Seven is, thank you," Fudge said, after having regained some of his healthy color.

"Then I am sure you would agree that Iris' circumstances fit rather neatly into these exceptions," Dumbledore said mildly.

Fudge looked dearly like he wished to argue, but he had seen firsthand exactly what had occurred. Even if not an Other, a dark creature that had evaded detection from the Ministry all this time had somehow managed to target Iris Potter, and that was impossible to deny. He knew he was in a losing argument, and he was a politician; he was not in the business of continuing losing battles when he was able.

"All in favor of clearing charges?" Madam Bones' voice boomed.

Iris' heart soared as she saw well over half the hands raised.

"All in favor of conviction?"

Still, a good few raised their hands here, too. Perhaps a third, including Fudge himself, and the toady witch with the girlish voice. Fudge looked deeply displeased, but he knew he had lost.

"Very well," he said. "I pronounce Iris Potter cleared of all charges."

"Excellent, excellent," Dumbledore said, even as murmurs broke out among the Wizengamot, who stood to disperse. "Come, Iris. Arthur is likely worrying for you."

"Thank you, Professor," Iris said genuinely, and she was treated to the sight of Dumbledore's beard twitching and his eyes twinkling.

"It is no matter, my dear."

"Can I go out with Hermione and Ron and Ginny as a celebration?" Iris blurted. "Mr. Weasley said we might be able to do something like that."

"It's not out of the question," Dumbledore said slowly. "You have your amulet?"

"I do."

"Keep that on you at all times, then. Perhaps you can invite Remus or Nymphadora as well, to chaperone you alongside Arthur."

"I - I can accept that," Iris said, not that Dumbledore was suggesting that.

"That's good. If Remus and Nymphadora are willing to accept, which I'm sure they are, you can go." He smiled. "I have other duties, unfortunately. But I do hope you enjoy yourself."

"We will," Iris reassured him with a smile of her own.

7. Chapter 7

Thanks to AutumnSouls for beta-ing.

Chapter Three: Otherworldly Beings

Others, is the word practitioners use to describe 'Otherworldly beings'. Generally speaking, Others are entities that do not exist on the Twelfth or Eleventh Planes, on which humans reside. Beings that reside in the Thirteenth, or the Tenth Plane and up, are colloquially known as Others.

It is, in fact, possible to meet an Other as soon as you step foot into Hogwarts. What you know as House-Elves are, in fact, selectively bred offspring of Elves, a domesticated species much like dogs are to wolves. Elves are a species that reside on the Ninth Plane, whose violent and wild nature has been selected against, replaced with loyalty and subservience to humans. The advancement of ritual magic in Ancient Egypt is believed to have led to the development of House-Elves.

There are many species of Others, which I am sure you have heard of in folklore and myth. Some of the most populous include Fae, residing on the Seventh Plane, not to be confused with their far lesser cousins, the Fairy; the aforementioned Elves, residing on the Ninth Plane, largely wild and nomadic; Angels and Demons, two species locked in eternal war in the Fifth Plane; Deities, true beings of power with far greater than the gods we believe in; Djinni, Imps, Marids, Ghosts, Poltergeists, Eidolons. I should also note at this point that practitioners will categorize species by their biology, but also by their personalities or allegiance, due to the importance of intent in magic. For example, the Nymph and the Siren have very similar biologies, but the latter generally has a sadistic intention which is distinct from the former; hence, we consider them two different types of entities.

There are, of course, outliers. Some are first of their species, while others the last remaining member of an otherwise extinct species. Many of the latter remain hidden and are thus unknown, as unlike other Other species, they have no allies of note. Some 'last sons', however, are powerful enough to be gods in their own right; one example is Leviathan. In recent memory, Earth has only had to deal with Leviathan once - and that was about two million years ago, when our ancestors had yet to figure out tools, and the Earth was plunged into an Ice Age that killed off many dominant species of the time.

The primary difference between a 'practitioner' and any other witch or wizard is that the former utilizes the magic of a bound servant to perform tasks. While the western world has moved onto more 'civilized' magics and has thus forgotten the ancient arts, some regions - in Africa, among indigenous populations of Australia and South America, for example - the distinction does not exist, still. I shall go into the details of summoning and binding an Other later in this book.

Assume you have successfully bound an Other. What then?

A bound Other performs tasks for their summoner, utilizing their unique brand of magic or their considerable magical strength to do so. Even while chained, a bound Other will likely be stronger than their summoner; hence, one should avoid giving them any possibility of escape. If given the opportunity to cast off their chains, you will be retaliated against and likely killed. To prevent this, one should not give vague orders, instead being as specific as possible under the circumstances to ensure they cannot twist the interpretation of your order to their favor; you should further avoid giving multiple orders at once, on the possibility they may contradict each other.

Another important thing to note is that, unless summoned from the Thirteen Plane, an Other will weaken in your service over time. The higher the Plane they come from, the more magic they feed on - once on the Twelfth or Eleventh Plane, they will experience weakening, as if they are malnourished, or dehydrated. This effect will be more noticeable for summons from higher Planes, as they require the most mana to maintain their health. It is thus not recommended to keep an Other out at all times; rotating them in shifts has worked well for practitioners in the past. At the same time, one should keep in mind that by keeping an Other in the Twelfth Plane for a long enough period will eventually weaken them to the point that a practitioner can defeat them. This tactic has been used often enough in the past to contain and destroy Others who have gone rogue, or were summoned out of malicious intent…

It was frustrating.

Iris' eyes fluttered open again, staring at the wall. Hermione, Ron, and Ginny day with her, the four of them seated in a loose circle. Their eyes were closed, and they were sitting cross-legged on the carpeted floor of Ron's room (which had been cleaned out by Hermione, who couldn't stand the clutter). Their breathing was soft and steady, barely audible even in the silence of this room.

Part of her was jealous that her friends did not have to go through the painful process that she did. Another part of her was glad they didn't have to. Snape had not been particularly kind administering the mental attacks, leaving Iris blubbering on the floor. At least he seemed to possess some professionalism. Some, because he gave Iris regular recovery periods in between being tortured. During these periods, she was to meditate, and focus on creating a mindscape, just like her friends were doing.

It just wouldn't happen. Iris fidgeted. Beside her, one of Ginny's brilliant blue eyes cracked open, looking at her. Iris smiled weakly in her direction, and Ginny smirked. Ginny leaned over, close enough that her body heat was felt on Iris' skin.

"Don't get impatient," she murmured. "You won't make any progress if you get impatient. Just take this time to… relax. Just relax."

Iris exhaled slowly. Internally amused, she noted the rather unsubtle looks that Hermione and Ron were giving her, before closing her eyes again. In, out. In, out. This was all meditation was about - at least, according to that Buddhist monk she'd seen on the Telly a while back. Iris decided the Buddhist monk who meditated for a lifestyle probably knew what he was talking about, so she did her best to do so.

It was easy to lose track of time, after a while. In the back of her mind she knew she was with friends, that she was safe. She was able to relax the tenseness from her shoulders and let her guard down, so to speak. Snape had said much the same thing as the monk; the first, most important step, was discarding thought and achieving peace.

And then Ron sneezed.

Iris slowly opened her eyes, lazily turning to look at the boy. His face was red with embarrassment, and he had his mouth covered with one hand.

"What are you looking at?" he said, voice muffled. "Mind your own business."

Hermione giggled. Ginny rolled her eyes. Iris felt a sneeze coming on.

She sneezed.

"You too?" Ginny said, raising an eyebrow.

When Ron sneezed again, followed by Hermione, Iris began to suspect something was wrong. She stood up (stifling yet another sneeze) and threw open the door. She had already suspected the culprit, but when they disappeared with twin pops Iris knew for certain it was them.

"George!" she bellowed. "Fred!"

The twins popped into existence on either side of her, grinning. "How may we help you!" The last part turned into a shrill scream as Iris just picked one twin and sent a hex at them. They dodged out of the way, unfortunately, and Apparated down to the first floor. The other twin's eyes widened as Iris pointed her wand at them. Iris made to cast a spell.

She sneezed.

George or Fred, one of them, laughed and used this moment to follow his brother down. Ginny joined Iris in leaning out over the balcony, staring at the bottom of the staircase, where Fred and George were chucking to themselves.

"We are going to take revenge, right?" Ginny said.

"Do you even have to ask?"

"I doubt you'd want to go into their room, though," Ron said, rubbing at his nose with a handkerchief. "That's just suicide."

"I'm sure they'll regret messing with Padfoot's goddaughter soon enough," Iris said with a dark smile. "I'm going to go find him, just you wait."

Ginny, Hermione, and Ron looked at each other. Hermione sighed. "This is going to end in disaster."

"Probably," Ginny said. "But as long as it's more of a disaster for the twins than for us."

Ron sneezed again, and glared at nothing in particular. "Those gits," he muttered. "Probably targeted me specifically. I don't see you being affected."

Ginny adopted an air of confusion. "Who, me?"

Hermione's eyes narrowed at Ginny. "Why do I feel like you were the delivery service to the payload?"

Ginny blinked, and smiled innocently. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

Hermione and Ron glanced at each other, and looked back to Ginny. Ginny swallowed.

They lunged, and Ginny screamed.

Argus Filch was a squib, and a most dour man. As the caretaker of Hogwarts - the sole caretaker, excluding the many house-Elves - meant his job was difficult at the best of times. Children sneered at him and mocked his lack of magic; even the better children (and yes, he knew they existed) hesitated to approach him for his disposition. He was caustic and often argued with other staff members - his pride often being mistaken for stubbornness and foolishness.

Albus was not one such man that Filch felt was irrelevant. Despite rumor to the contrary, Filch was perfectly capable of respecting a man, provided they were deserving of his respect.

If Argus hated his job, he would have left decades ago. Albus was a man who had Argus' respect, and paid him quite well, knowing full well how hard a job he had. Argus was neither a slave nor a House-Elf, and yet he chose to remain at Albus' side - a man whom he'd fought alongside in the Second World War, or Grindelwald's War, as the wizards called it.

Thus, despite the summer holidays being some of the few days in the year that Filch was able to relax, he allowed Headmaster Albus his time when he came knocking.

"How do you do, Argus?" Albus asked, as they walked down the corridors of Hogwarts. Polished to a shine, thanks to Argus' very efforts.

"Fine enough," Argus said gruffly. "What's the purpose of this meeting?"

"The topic of the day concerns Iris Potter."

"One of the better ones," Argus grunted. He'd been prepared for a right terror back in 1991, expecting a spoiled princess. That had been far from the truth - Iris Potter has been visibly rattled, and though she did her admirable best to hide it, was terrified of social interaction at first. A child much like he himself had been, as a squib.

Did Potter truly think Argus didn't notice her occasional misbehavior? That was him conveniently looking the other way.

"She is being hunted," Albus said softly, as they reached Argus' office. "By beings of an otherworldly nature."

Argus, to his credit, barely paused in his stride. "Like we had been, all those years ago."

"Indeed. Iris' mother was a practitioner of the forgotten arts, as was her mother before her. Before her death, she orchestrated events to give Iris the knowledge she should have never come across."

"Bloody hell," Argus said. "Hogwarts is safe from those things, you said."

"I did," Albus admitted. "That doesn't mean Iris is safe everywhere. With the Ministry acting against her, Iris Potter will have enemies from within Hogwarts as well. Human enemies, admittedly, but I will not dare take risks that involve Others."

"Wise, I s'pose," Argus said, as Albus held open the door to his office. "What's your point?"

"My point is that I will be training Iris and two of her closest friends, how to protect themselves," he said. "But they will not always be able to do so. You have witnessed the enemy's power firsthand; fifth-year students, progidies or otherwise, will not survive for long on their own."

"I want something in return." Albus inclined his head ever so slightly at that, showing he was listening. "I want you to finally rein in the Weasley twins."

Albus paused, then chuckled. "I shall see what I can do, but they are rather devious on their own. In any case, they will have a new target to turn their attention to."

"Who's that?"

"Why, our illustrious new Defense teacher, of course," Albus said. His tone was mildly pleasant, with a hint of sarcasm underneath; Argus got the impression Albus didn't much like the woman, and he was the type of person to see the best in everyone.

"Must have pissed you off real nice."

"Among other things, she seeks to deny the existence of Others for her political agendas," he said, and Argus nodded. That would do it; Argus himself had never met the woman, and he already found himself disliking her. Albus strode open to a cabinet in the corner of the room, padlocked. It was highly guarded, containing personal belongings of Argus' (which would surely be destroyed if the Weasleys or Peeves were able to get to it) and protected in many, many layers of defenses that Albus had personally placed. Even after more than forty years, the defenses held strong.

Albus cut his hand with the tip of his wand, and smeared the blood across the iron knob. The lock clicked as it opened, and he glanced at Argus. Argus merely shrugged, and Albus opened the cabinet, revealing Argus' most prized possessions, those he hoped he'd be buried with in due time. Among those was one of Albus' old belongings, a staff made of English oak. It was as tall as Albus' shoulder, smooth and polished - except for six jagged lines along its side where it had been struck by a monster from nightmares.

He also plucked out a Lee-Enfield, polished and oiled and generally well-cared for, with a worn but still-sturdy leather strap attached to it. He passed this to Argus, who accepted it wordlessly. Argus had a few moments to admire the bloodied Union Jack, monochrome photographs that were beginning to fade, and medals he'd wished he'd burned but couldn't, before Albus shut the cabinet, and it locked itself once more.

"Hunting rabbits?" Argus asked, and Albus chuckled.

"If only it were so simple."

Argus went through the routine checks of his rifle, ground into him until it had become second nature. He shuffled after Albus, who walked out onto the grounds, heading towards the Forbidden Forest. Argus didn't like the dense highland woods - it was filled with all manners of creatures that could take down a wizard, much less a squib, and the forest itself was not actually part of the demesne of Hogwarts.

They walked past Hagrid's hut, currently unoccupied. Argus' eyes scanned the very edge of Hogwarts' powerful, ancient dominion, ending where the trees grew. There were people in attendance. Some of them were schoolchildren, most certainly did not belong to Hogwarts. They were dressed in uniforms from Muggle schools, for one, some of them old enough to be from the early twentieth century before Argus was even born. There were a few other people, such as a woman dressed in a matron outfit from the 19th century. Not quite unlike what Madam Pomfrey wore, in all honesty, but that sort of outfit was hardly seen in the Muggle world anymore. A soot-covered coal miner wearing suspenders over a collarless shirt; a policeman with a whistle around his neck and a truncheon hanging from his belt; finally, a young man dressed in deep, blue coattails and his hair slicked back, wearing gold-rimmed spectacles and sporting a gentlemanly smile.

Argus did not like the look of him.

When looking at the ugly schoolchildren or the Muggle policeman from the 1880's, he could see a few inconsistencies, especially if he focused. Cat-like eyes, vertically slit pupils; claws in place of fingernails; mouth a little too wide, jaw a little unhinged when they yawned, teeth a little too sharp. A little too thin, or perhaps simply longer than normal limbs. However, the gentleman was utterly and completely normal. And that was what set Argus on edge.

He clutched his rifle a little tighter.

"Good morning," Albus said, completely ignoring everyone but the gentleman. As expecting, the other creatures did not like being ignored; they muttered obscenities and snarled and frothed at the mouth, but none of them attempted to come within ten feet of the gentleman. Another warning sign. This one was strong.

"Why, good morning yourself!" The thing in human's clothing removed the boater upon his head, and bowed slightly. "You must be the illustrious headmaster of this institution. How do you do?"

"Well enough, thank you," Albus said, and he conjured a picnic table and two chairs. Filch knew that Albus knew he'd rather stand, so Albus took one chair, and the young man on the other. The man sported a smile that did not falter. Argus noted that the table was placed such that it was bisected by Hogwarts' boundaries.

Albus did not place a finger beyond the invisible line.

"Tea?" Albus asked, and the man made a pleased noise.

"That would be rather nice. With some milk, if you don't mind."

"Not at all," Albus said. "Dobby!"

A House-Elf popped into being next to Dumbledore. While many Hogwarts elves were dressed relatively nicely, this one elf - apparently having been freed from the Malfoys by Iris Potter - was dressed in what looked like a violet train conductor's uniform. The Potter girl apparently found the Elf dashing that way. The Elf looked at Albus, then at the gentleman, directing a fierce glare in his direction that failed to remove his smile.

"How can I help yous, Mister Dumblydore?"

"Some tea, for myself and the gentleman, if you please. Some milk as well would be appreciated."

"Of course, Mister Dumblydore."

The elf gave one last glare at the stranger before popping away; a moment later, a teapot, two teacups, and a jug of milk appeared on the checked tablecloth. With a casual wave of his hand, Dumbledore began to pour steaming tea into the two cups and milk into one of them. The stranger thanked him, and took a sip, before sighing in bliss.

"Ah, wonderful. It has been so long since I've had proper tea." He paused. "Ah, where are my manners? Call me Cian."

The so-called Cian reached out with a gloved hand towards Albus. Albus merely raised an eyebrow, making no move to take it. Cian sighed, shaking his head, and withdrew his hand. "I suppose I can't count on humans to be polite. Next you'll tell me you don't even consider me a guest!"

"Oh?" Albus' eyebrows hiked even higher. "Did you believe you had guest rights? I apologize, I must correct your misconception. You are not a guest of Hogwarts, and I suspect that you may never be so, for as long as I live."

"Oh, dear," Cian sighed. "I do hope that's not a promise."

"If it is of any relief to you, it is not," Albus agreed. "Times change, Cian. And mayhaps one day you will be welcome in Hogwarts, and mayhaps Hell will one day freeze over."

"Disappointing. It's quite alright, however," Cian said with a grin, flashing white teeth. "I have learned to expect discourtesy from humans."

"And I have learned to expect arrogance from your kind."

Cian threw his head back and laughed. "Why, indeed! It is one of our follies, is it not? Perhaps even the most obvious, up there with vanity and other such things."

Argus' eyes flickered to the side. The schoolchildren, the disgusting little creatures that they were, seemed agitated. The rifle was a comforting weight in his hands. Cian did not at all seem concerned about the little blights, shifting irritably and glaring jealously at the attention Cian was receiving.

"But enough quips, I should think," Cian said. "While it is good to speak to you, I must wonder if you desire something from me."

"I might," Albus said. "Although I believe what I'm looking for is rather trivial in nature."

"Is that so? Well, we shall see, won't we?" Cian smiled. "Go on, then."

"How fares Eligos, do you know?"

"Grumpy as usual, I suspect," Cian said.

"I require an answer, not supposition."

"And fact is also more valuable than opinion, would you not agree?" Cian leaned forward, elbows on the edge of the table. "Do you desire a deal, perhaps?"

"That would depend on how long you can negotiate without insulting me."

"Of course, my friend. I would expect nothing more."

"I must correct you again, Cian, but I am not your friend." Albus smiled thinly. "Do not test my patience. I have more than enough experience dealing with your species that it would not be difficult for me to torture the answers out of you."

"And would you be experienced enough to deal with those you would anger by doing so?" Cian countered.

"Tell me bluntly, Cian," Albus said, resting his cheek on his hand. "Do you have any allies still, or do you only bluster?"

Cian's smile remained fixed on his face, though he didn't respond. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, entwining his fingers and resting them on his lap.

"You must be desperate," Albus continued. "For you to come to Hogwarts. I have a feeling I know why."

"And I think I have a feeling you don't, and you're only saying these things to try to glean information from me." Cian took another sip of his tea. "It shan't happen, Albus. That is not how negotiators act."

"Ah, but it is, when one negotiator lacks all their cards," Albus said. "You have no allies, Cian. You are desperate. What have you that I can possibly want?"

"You know, Albus, a desperate man has nothing to lose," Cian said. "What is to prevent a desperate man from blindly lashing out?"

"Hypothetically?"

"Hypothetically."

"How about the possibility of being enslaved and starved to death?" Albus said pleasantly, and Cian met Albus' eyes.

Argus jerked. The schoolchildren lunged, at the little picnic table, and thunder roared. The smell of sulfur permeated the air, and the abomination in human skin was blown back, a significant portion of its head missing. It hissed, steaming, and Argus could see it regenerate. He pulled the trigger twice more, two more claps of thunder, and the disgusting creature stumbled. Unearthly screeching came from the other creatures; the policeman, the matron, the other schoolkids and the coal miner, as they all lunged at the felled insect and began tearing it apart. Blood and gore - both ornamental things - splattered around the group, although not a single drop managed past Hogwarts' property lines nor did any spill upon Cian. Argus' turned his gaze away from the cannibalistic frenzy, feeling sick.

"Assuming you were desperate, of course," Albus continued, as if nothing had happened, "you may find yourself specifically targeted by annoyed practitioners. You have no allies - none would come to your aid if you ended up bound. I also assume you have been living on this Plane for quite some time, now - you would not want to extend the duration of your stay, would you?"

Cian watched Albus silently. His cheerful smile was gone, replaced with a mask of neutrality. "You are annoying," he finally decided.

"My students call me that often enough. So does my Potions Master, actually. And the school matron. And the deputy headmistress. If you aimed to hurt my feelings, you'll have to do better than that."

Cian glared. "What do you want, Dumbledore?"

"You won't call me by my given name, Cian? I suppose it is your choice. For now." Albus smiled.

"You will regret this."

"Will I?" Albus chuckled. "Perhaps I will. Honestly, I don't even know."

Argus watched the exchange with concealed amusement. Albus' infamous riddles were apparently enough to annoy even immortal beings.

"I ask one more time, Dumbledore. What do you desire from me?" Cian glared.

"Why, I simply wish to know the state of affairs within Eligos' kingdom, specifically relating to Iris Potter."

Cian pursed his lips. "Eligos is annoyed that the brat managed to escape his soldier once more. The other nobility find his predicament rather amusing. Like he is being taunted by a mosquito that continues to escape his wrath."

Albus hummed. "And his soldiers?"

"Loyal. Annoyed at their lord's humiliation, naturally."

"And the civil war? Does Eligos still take part?"

"Naturally. One does not disobey a King of Hell," Cian said, raising a mocking eyebrow.

"And the price Eligos has put on Iris' head?"

"None." Cian smiled unpleasantly. "However, he has expressed that the one responsible for killing the brat will earn his favor."

"I see. I believe that will be all." Albus stood up from his chair, grabbing his staff, which had loyally floated beside him this entire time. "Oh, before I forget."

"Yes, Albus?" Cian drawled.

"I wasn't at all planning to enslave you," Albus said. Argus blinked. So did Cian, before his eyes narrowed into a glare. Cian also stood up, snarling, and Argus saw his teeth sharpen into points and his fingernails become hooks that could gouge flesh.

"Foolish insect," Cian rumbled, voice much deeper now. The eyes were amber, vertically slit, like a feline's. "I shall gorge myself on the flesh of your ward. I shall tear her from limb to limb; I shall scoop her eyes from her skull and send it to you, so you may witness your failure, so you may despair at the thought of ever daring to threaten me!"

Wind howled. The trees shook violently in the background, the noise of leaves drowned out by the raw power in Cian's voice. The picnic table was overturned and splintered as it was smashed into the ground, and the checkered tablecloth was torn into ribbons as it flew into the air. The lesser Others fled from the might of the enraged higher Other, and Argus stumbled to his knee, pushed down by the maelstrom, powerful even within the boundaries of Hogwarts. Albus stood patiently, apparently unaffected.

"But, I think, I have changed my mind," Albus mused. "You are powerful, Cian, I shall grant you that. And I doubt I could have trapped you in your current state, as weakened as you are."

"Fool of a mortal," Cian chuckled, ten feet tall, covered in fur and glaring down at Albus. "It is far too late to repent now."

"Even then, you still answered my questions," Albus said, as if Cian had not said anything. "For that, I am pleased. Even though you clearly said that it wouldn't happen."

Cian paused.

Then he raged harder than before.

"No!"

"Oh, Cian," Albus said with a dark smile, "you are far too arrogant. It is one of the greatest follies of your kind."

"I shall kill you!"

"You say that, but could I trust your word on anything you said?" Albus paused, and spoke a single world. "Liar."

"No!"

Dumbledore lunged with his staff, and Cian screamed as he was turned into atomic dust, swirling in a hurricane, this time powered by Dumbledore's magic. The dust was absorbed by a pair of plain, silver bracelets, which glowed briefly before returning to normal. The wind stopped abruptly, and the Hogwarts grounds descended to complete silence. Albus sighed.

"Well, that's over," Albus said. "I wasn't expecting so good an outcome, yet here we are."

"You weren't expecting it?"

"I wasn't expecting to meet a Fae," Albus admitted. "Lesser Others, yes. Imps, perhaps even Elves, but certainly not a Fae. Even more fortuitous that it was an unaffiliated, weakened Fae."

"How did you know it was unaffiliated?" Argus asked.

"Fae generally wear the colors of their respective houses, including a sigil somewhere," Albus said. "Solid blue is not the colors of any Fae house I know of. Nor did he wear a ring, amulet, or tattoo, of his house sigil anywhere. I checked. I decided to take a gamble, and it paid off."

"And if it didn't?" Argus asked dryly.

"I doubt you'd be here to ask me that question," Albus said with a bright smile.

Smarmy git.

"Let's head back inside. It looks like it may rain soon."

Argus followed Albus back inside. The old man looked thoroughly exhausted; he was stooped, leaning on his staff like it was a cane, and seemed to take longer than usual heading up the stairs. Albus smiled at Argus at the grand staircase. "I believe I might need a nap. Thank you for walking with me, Argus."

"My pleasure, Headmaster."

And so they went their separate ways, Albus to his quarters and Argus to his own. He suppressed a sigh as he unlocked the door of his quarters, and pushed open the door. The creaking noise woke the sleeping cat, which was lounging on a pile of old blankets atop a dresser. She meowed, and Argus smiled slightly.

"Interesting day, today," Argus said, and the cat meowed in response. "Felt it, did you?"

Argus removed the magazine from his rifle, and pulled the bolt, before leaning it against the corner of the room. With a sigh, he sat down on the edge of his bed, the mattress creaking slightly. The cat atop the dresser looked at him, and then disappeared with a small crack; she reappeared beside Argus, purring throatily, brushing up against his weathered hand. Argus smiled as Mrs. Norris' tail curled around his arm.

"We'll be seeing exciting days, soon," Argus said, and pulled a face. "More work for me."

Mrs. Norris gave no indication of having heard, and curled up beside him, resting her chin on his thigh.

8. Chapter 8

Thanks to AutumnSouls for beta-ing, as always.

During his school-years, there were even times that Sirius got along with the oldest resident trickster of Hogwarts. The Marauders had been quite a bit more dedicated to mischief than the average Hogwarts joker, and thus they had been bestowed with the favor of Peeves, the poltergeist.

Of course, considering the weird world that he happened to be in as a result of that single journal, he should have expected Peeves to have some sort of secret. Namely, that Peeves was not a mere poltergeist, but a shadow of something greater.

"Boo."

Sirius jumped as Peeves cackled. Sirius smelled vinegar as a jar of something - likely pickle juice - was upended over his head. Sirius sighed, cast a cleaning charm on himself, and twirled his wand in his hand. Thank Merlin for the cleaning charm. He had no idea just how many dungbombs and other such smelly things he'd been struck by in the past three hours or so.

"Peevsie wins once again," said Peeves, delighted. "The score is 94-nil."

"Wasn't the score 57-nil one round ago?" Sirius asked.

"Nuh-uh. You must just be forgetful."

"Figures these numbers are too big for you to count."

Peeves gasped dramatically, clutching at his heart, and mock-fainted, dispersing into briefly shining dust as he did so. He reformed a few feet from Sirius, and pouted, placing his fists on his hips and leaning into Sirius. "Just for that, I think I'll make you extra smelly this time!"

Sirius flicked his wrist and a jet of white light coursed through the Chamber of Secrets towards Peeves. Peeves cackled as he created a hole in the middle of his torso, harmlessly allowing the spell through, and disappeared. His laugh echoed from every direction, obfuscating his true position, and Sirius was forced to rely on his 'sixth sense' to try and find him. He blinked away the sweat that had poured from his brow.

Sirius rolled to the side as a dungbomb exploded where he was standing a moment before. Another bounced off a shield conjured barely in time. Sirius growled, and expanded his shield. One of the few things capable of stopping Peeves' avatar and, even then, not for very long. Peeves gave a wide grin as he bounced off the various shields like a rubber ball, inching closer to Sirius all the while.

A jet of sickly green light barely missed Peeves' head.

"Oh, that was close," Peeves said. "You're getting better, but not good enough!"

Sirius stared at the poltergeist, who cackled and split into ten of himself. They all darted in different directions, surrounding Sirius in all three dimensions. Sirius cursed as his ankle was snatched by one Peeves-clone from underneath, and he looked down briefly to see the ghostly arm sinking back into the stone. In this moment of distraction, Sirius was knocked off his feet by three Peeves-clones ramming into him from the side.

"One-hundred-and-six to zero!" Peeves said, puffing out his chest in a manner reminiscent of cartoon physics.

Sirius flipped the entity the bird, but Peeves merely snickered and disappeared. "I'll tell Dumbledore you were mean to me," Peeves' ethereal voice echoed. Sirius rolled his eyes and stretched before sitting down on the stone floor. After a few minutes of silence, Sirius realized that Peeves had gone off somewhere else. Sirius didn't begrudge the trickster spirit - actually being productive went against Peeves' near-immortal nature. The oldest portraits in the Headmaster's office claimed to remember Peeves being a sensible young spirit. Sensible!

To be fair, Sirius wouldn't have lasted two weeks at Peeves' job without getting bored. The fact that Peeves had managed a hundred and two years without playing tricks was quite the achievement.

Sirius stretched his arms over his head, feeling his muscles burn where they had been used extensively. What little he recalled from Auror training before he was sent to Azkaban did not prove useful. Well, his instructor had been Moody, so all the constant vigilance stuff was useful enough, he supposed, but the fighting styles, the choice of spells? Even the de-escalation training was useless at this point. Most Others did not de-escalate. They did not fear mere humans, if they could even understand humans in the first place.

Apparently, though, the Avada Kedavra was something Sirius would have to become proficient in. It shattered the soul into a million pieces, taking life without ever hurting the body. It was one of the few spells that could consistently affect Others.

Sirius didn't like it. The method with which to cast the Death Curse was not a pleasant one. One had to, from the very bottom of their rotten, black core, feel a genuine hatred for the life about to be taken, build it up like a pressure cooker, and release it in a controlled, yet violent manner. Revolting magic, revolting enough that every time he practiced his wand would scream in pain, and Sirius' palm was now covered in angry red burns that would have hurt if not for liberal doses of numbing potions.

Still, it was necessary, if he wished to protect his goddaughter. Most Others weren't like humans. They lacked humanity, for lack of a better word, the morals and ethos that made humans what they were. Even if they were intelligent, could speak eleven human languages and play the lute on top of that, they often failed to possess empathy; they considered humans to be far below them, and in some cases, treated them like cattle to satisfy whatever perverse needs certain species had.

Sirius looked up. Footsteps from the entrance. A few of Padfoot's traits had bled into Sirius over the years, it seemed; he often found himself smelling and hearing things that others didn't. He wondered if any of his own traits bled into Padfoot? He could well remember the actions he took in dog form, but he couldn't really remember the thoughts he'd had during that time.

Footsteps were closer now, and he could also hear annoyed grumbling. From the doorway, Iris stepped through, her body appearing small within the ostentatious entrance to the Chamber of Secrets. She looked up and paused as she saw Sirius. Sirius smirked. She was wearing the kind of expression Sirius imagined he wore when he ran into a professor just before he was about to set up a prank on someone else.

"Hello, Sirius," Iris said casually. "What are you doing here?"

"Oh, this and that," Sirius replied, equally cool. "And what brings you here?"

"Nothing," she said. "I just wanted to see what happened to this place."

"Hm," Sirius said, before scrunching his nose. He cast a wordless cleaning charm on Iris, who shivered as the gunk and muck vanished off her skin, clothes, and hair. "What's in that bag?"

"This?" Iris held up a Mokeskin pouch. "Oh, just books and things."

"I see," Sirius said. "Planning to study?"

"Yeah? I guess."

"Let me help, then," Sirius said. A quick gesture of his wand had the stone floor of the Chamber rise up into the shape of a table, and two stools. He plopped himself down on one and gestured to the opposite side. "Go on. What do you need help with? Charms? Transfiguration? Your father was better at the latter, but I was definitely good with both of them."

"Um."

Sirius smirked at his goddaughter. "Did you forget your schoolbooks, perhaps?"

"Maybe?"

Sirius nodded slowly. Albus had warned him this might happen. Iris was not a patient girl. Perhaps no less patient than any other teenager, but she was certainly not the kind of person to sit back and wait when they were told to. She would undoubtedly try to advance her studies in the forgotten arts, and where was more isolated in Hogwarts than the Chamber of Secrets, which as of now, only she and Albus had regular access to? It was also why Albus had Dobby tail Iris in secret, ready to intervene if she did something truly disastrous.

"I thought you might try something of the sort," Sirius smirked, and Iris feigned being offended. Quite good at it, too, Sirius could almost be fooled. "Which is why the Headmaster asked me to keep an eye on you, and on this place, too."

"Oh." Iris slumped. "I suppose you're here to stop me, then."

"If you were going to do something foolish," Sirius agreed. "But you do have to take this step eventually, and it was recommended that I help you in any way possible. Whatever you've cooked up for today, we can go through it together, try and catch any errors before we start. When we do, I'll call down the Headmaster and we can try to take this first step, together."

His god-daughter stared at him. She had a good poker face, one that would have been right at home with the rest of the Marauders, who had plenty of practice lying with straight faces. However, her body language needed work. One of her hands was rubbing idly at the wrist of the other, the same arm that had been broken during her flight from the golem, and her body itself was turned slightly away from Sirius.

"You're going to restrict my activities, aren't you? If you think they're too dangerous?"

"Why wouldn't I?" Sirius said bluntly, and Iris frowned slightly. "You've already made one big mistake, Iris. We can understand why, of course - you were stressed and desperate. But now that you know the consequences, does it really surprise you that we're unwilling to go through the same process?"

Iris nodded, frustrated but understanding. "Okay."

"So, why don't you tell me what you wanted to do?"

Iris hesitantly pulled out Lily's journal, innocuous-looking, bound in worn but soft brown leather. "Mum put in the names of a few trusted Others," Iris said. "Well, not trustworthy, but they've been summoned often by my family, so my family has experience dealing with them."

"Right," Sirius said, glancing at the upside-down letters on Lily's book as Iris flipped the pages. "I assume you've picked one out?"

"Hadrian," Iris murmured, her finger tracing the relevant section of the page.

Sirius turned the text towards him and read. "A Roman demigod," he said. "First summoned by a Roman sorcerer under the command of Augustus." He blinked. "A Roman sorcerer who happens to be one of your ancestors."

"Isn't it ironic?" Iris huffed. "All this time I hated the Slytherins for being pureblood snobs, but only up until about six hundred years ago, my family kept inbreeding at certain points to 'keep the talents alive', or whatever such reason."

"Your mother would have been elated to learn you're a Parselmouth, then," Sirius said idly. "Hadrian is cunning and clever, and is reputed to be the son of Mercury, the God of Travelers. He possesses powerful magic, and likes those who are daring and cunning like himself. He rewards ambition with his cooperation, and is interested in seeing conflict."

"It's… still better than the rest of them."

"Rewarding ambition with power," Sirius muttered, shaking his head. "I don't see what could possibly go wrong."

Iris flushed slightly, but didn't back down. "Wouldn't you rather have me healthy and in one piece? Instead of, you know, missing body parts that I gave away as offerings?"

"At least body parts are a one-time deal," Sirius said, but paused.

"Did you reach the part about the daemon?" Iris smiled, though there was no humor in it. "Yeah, showing Slytherin traits for a bit is somewhat better than slicing open my stomach and sacrificing my ovaries, I think."

"Merlin's shitstained briefs," Sirius cursed. "And one of your ancestors actually had the gall to ask for one of their sisters-in-law to be given as a wedding gift, so their womanhood could be sacrificed. And the father-in-law said yes." He looked up at her. "Your ancestors were fucked up, Iris."

"Look who's talking."

"That's fair, but…" Sirius pushed the book away from him. "Bloody hell, Lily. I did not need that mental image."

"So, are you going to help me bind him or not?"

Sirius twisted uncomfortably. "I would wait until Dumbledore goes through it. Shame your mum didn't leave instructions."

"Yeah," Iris agreed, pursing her lips. "She's mentioned 'forging my own path' so many times that I'm surprised she left me anything at all. At least she left some information on what would make it go better."

"And what do you need?"

"Sacrifices: feathers. Three, seven, or nine different feathers are preferable, arranged in a perfect triangle, heptagon, or nonagon. The feathers of migratory birds are preferred, with species that perform longer migrations being preferred. Feathers of magical birds are preferred. Feathers of birds with magical significance are preferred."

"What's the difference between the last two?" Sirius interrupted.

"Magical birds are exactly that. Birds with magical significance can be non-magical in nature, but have some sort of magical role." Iris paused, frowning. "Like… the ravens in the Tower of London. Magical significance, but not magical on its own. I think."

"Hm."

"But I've spent some time on this," Iris said, jabbing a finger at the book. "I think I'll get it right this time. I've gathered the feathers of a pern, a shearwater, and a goose. I'm hoping that is enough."

Sirius frowned. "Isn't seven or nine better than three?"

Iris made a wavering gesture with her hand. "It depends. I'm no expert on arithmancy or ritual magic, from what I've gathered the most important thing is stability. Sometimes less is more."

"As you say," Sirius said.

"I had Hermione look over it, if that helps."

Sirius stared at her. "Hermione may be clever, but she's only been studying the subject for two years. She hasn't even taken her OWLs. I wouldn't count on it if I were you."

"I guess not," Iris sighed softly. The words felt quieter than they truly were in this massive chamber, where the walls and ceiling were so far away that the sound never reached them, much less echoed. It was a discomforting silence; the grandiose statue of Slytherin at the far end, his face permanently etched into a cold sneer, great yet terrible, seemed to follow the occupants of the chamber with his unseeing eyes.

"Let's practice something else in the meantime," Sirius said. "I don't remember much from Auror training… Merlin's beard, it was fourteen years ago, now. But I'm sure I can still show up a brat like you."

Iris narrowed her eyes. "You're going to be eating those words in a moment."

Sirius opened his mouth to quip back, only to find a bolt of red light flying in his direction. Stunning spell, silently cast but still amateurish; the wand movement was exaggerated, characteristic of a novice; the red glare was bright and noticeable - someone of Sirius' natural talent and well-earned skill would be able to diminish the light, while the Dark Lord or Albus or Grindelwald would be able to make it practically invisible.

Sirius' fingers had barely curled around his second wand before a shimmering golden half-dome sprung up in front of him. The stunning spell crashed into the shield, the latter deforming slightly like a membrane, before slingshotting it back in Iris' direction. His goddaughter yelped and dived to the side before she was struck. Good reflexes, a product of Quidditch no doubt, but she lacked finesse.

"What were you saying?" Sirius said with a smirk he didn't bother to hide. "Ah, right. I'm going to be eating those words in a moment."

Iris released a barrage of spells. No really dark stuff, only Hogwarts-approved spells. One didn't need Dark Magic to be deadly in a fight, however - Moody was an absolute demon on the battlefield, and he made a point of not using dark spells unless absolutely necessary.

Sirius deflected them, using a dense and powerful shield located on the tip of his wand, doing a lazy impression of table tennis. The less useful spells like the leg-locker were sent flying off in other directions, occasionally sending them right back at Iris to keep her on her toes. The blasting curses, however, he redirected at the ground, causing small but numerous chips of stone to flake off.

Fog erupted from wand-tip at great quantities. Iris redoubled her efforts but her spells bounced off the passive shield in front of Sirius; the fog circled them both, also blocking off the ceiling. He cast a silent muffling charm on himself and began to walk, slowly, around the fog. When his toes bumped into some of the debris that had been created from Iris' blasting curses earlier, he levitated the flakes of stone and banished them at speed, in every direction.

He heard a muffled grunt of pain and annoyance. He immediately followed up with a salvo of non-harmful spells, such as the jelly-legs, the tickling charm, and so on. He heard a snort from the fog. A spell whizzed past, but the aim was very badly off; it came nowhere near hitting him. He was then rewarded by low giggles and undignified snorts, which had the undercurrent of rage and hate that implied that Iris was laughing against her own will.

Sirius dispersed the fog and was greeted by the sight of Iris squirming on the ground, laughing and crying simultaneously, though as the effect of the charm faded away the laughter turned into stifled snorts. When it all subsided she turned on her godfather with a look of venom; Sirius bit his knuckles to keep from laughing as Iris contemplated throwing herself (or perhaps Sirius himself) off the Astronomy Tower.

"I hate you," Iris said. "I hate you so much."

Sirius smiled and mussed up Iris' hair.

"Headmaster," the foul woman tittered.

"Undersecretary Umbridge," Albus replied, his voice mildly pleasant. "Auror Dawlish."

"It brings back memories, returning here, does it not?" Umbridge said with a seemingly genuine smile, and even the normally stoic John Dawlish's lips twitched upward at that. Dumbledore gestured to the comfortable if somewhat tacky (he was old, he was permitted to be eccentric) guest chairs on the other side of the desk.

"Only good ones, I hope?" Albus peered over his half-moon glasses.

"Quite," Umbridge said, smiling. Her eyes were cold, however. John's subdued nod was much more genuine.

"I'm pleased to hear that," Albus said. "Now, how may I help you fine people this morning?"

Umbridge withdrew a folder from her mokeskin purse - the purse itself was inconveniently small, and there was no other way that a folder of standard size could have fit if not for the magical leather. She opened it, turned it to face Albus, and pushed it across the desk.

"I am here on behalf of Minister Fudge," she began. "Educational Decree Number Twenty-Two was passed yesterday, as I am sure you know. For a long time, Hogwarts has been unable to find suitable, and most importantly, long-lasting replacements for at least one of its teaching positions. Hence, the Ministry will appoint a suitable instructor when the Headmaster or Headmistress of this institution is unable to find a candidate for a teaching post."

"Indeed, I recall something of the sort," Albus agreed. "Awfully close to the beginning of the teaching year, too. I trust there will be no complications that arise as a result of cutting this so close?"

"I'm sure there will be fewer complications than if it were left to your devices," Umbridge said with a toadying smile. "You must have been struggling to find so many posts over the years."

"Quite," Albus said, wearing a similarly fake smile. "You've come to notify me of a candidate?"

"Indeed. It will be myself."

Albus slowly raised an eyebrow at that. "Yourself, Madam Umbridge? If I may speak freely, I had thought you might have more important things on your schedule."

Her smile was frosty. "Do not be concerned for my sake, Headmaster. I volunteered for the position myself. What woman would not want to have the high honor of teaching at Britain's finest educational institute?"

Her tittering laugh made Albus uneasy. He believed that she had volunteered for the job, but why? It could be something as simple as wanting to return to Hogwarts but he somehow doubted that. His impressive memory meant he could recall most of his students, both as Headmaster and as Master of Transfiguration, and he could also recall what they were like, provided they had interacted. He hadn't interacted much with Dolores himself, but Horace liked to grumble and complain (quite loudly) about his students when it came to the time to choose new prefects and the Head Boy and Girl. What he heard of Dolores was not really flattering.

"Why, I am pleased you think of Hogwarts this way," Albus said.

"However, it has come to my attention, and the attention of other distinguished peoples…" Umbridge paused, pretending to choose her wording. "It has come to our attention that your recent hiring choices have not contributed to the traditional greatness of the school."

"Oh?"

"Last year's Defense Professor, Mister Moody, did not even turn out to be Mister Moody!" she tittered. "A Death Eater within a school of children… did you not suspect something was wrong, Headmaster?"

"I am ashamed to say I did not," Albus said honestly. "Young Bartemius' skill and talent in copying Alastor's mannerisms, form of speech, use of spells… all of it seemed uncannily like him."

Umbridge hummed, sizing Albus up for any hint of falsehood. "Mere negligence, then," she finally concluded. "The year before that, I believe you hired a werewolf to teach a school of children!"

"You'll notice that said werewolf has the highest number of OWL and NEWT graduates for the past ten years of Professors," Albus said.

"I believe said werewolf has the highest number of student casualties in the past ten years as a result of direct assault," Umbridge said coldly, and Albus raised an eyebrow. "Werewolf injuries are difficult to heal, professor, if their viciousness wasn't bad enough. Several of your charges were injured as a result of attacks, or in their haste to escape. Do you believe that is proper for this school?"

"I believe I could provide reasoning as to the hows and whys," Albus said, "but I suspect you'll want to continue."

"Indeed," Umbridge said primly. "The year before… well, I suppose you could hardly be blamed. Lockhart had us all fooled with his tales. Shocking to see fan-mail arriving to his ward even now. And the year before that, Professor Quirrell received no outstanding complaints other than his unfortunate verbal tic."

Albus inclined his head in acknowledgement.

"However, the fact that Professor Quirrell was formerly a… Muggle Studies professor, must have helped, because he too had a comparatively high number of OWL and NEWT graduates," Umbridge said. "Previous years have been half so lucky, going by raw numbers. This is unacceptable, Headmaster."

"The extracurricular circumstances of professors are beyond my control," Albus said. "I cannot force people to stay along and teach against their wishes."

"You could have turned to the Ministry for help," Umbridge said, smiling.

"The Ministry could have offered help before," Albus said, returning the smile. "But it is only after Voldemort's so-called reappearance that the Ministry has lent its ear. Despite the Ministry's very public stance on the Dark Lord's existence. Quite curious."

"The Ministry is the Ministry, Headmaster, not the Governors of the school," Umbridge said. "We are under no obligation to oversee your activities and solve every one of your woes."

"As you say."

"As for the matter of the Dark Lord..." She narrowed her eyes. "We at the Ministry have seen fit to stop any rumors regarding the figure. Considering that proof of his return remains highly dubious, it may cause a needless panic among the populace."

"You would deny my word?" Albus said.

"One's word has not been admissible in court since before the International Statute of Secrecy, Headmaster."

Albus hummed.

"If the Dark Lord were living, Headmaster, he surely would have shown himself by now," Umbridge said, changing directions. "He has not shown himself; ergo, the Dark Lord is not living."

Oh, how correct she was, on the matter of his state of living. "Come, now, Madam Umbridge, we both know Voldemort better than that," Albus said with a smile. Umbridge bristled ever so slightly.

"I'm sure you do, Headmaster," Umbridge said. "I was nobody of any import in the p… in the war. In any case, there are other matters to be discussed."

"Such as?"

"Iris Potter," Umbridge said. "While I still find it suspicious that she managed to get away without charges, she was supposedly attacked by an Otherworldly Being. Those in the Wizengamot that know little of the matter have been in uproar with their panic. Unfortunately, those fools exist in the majority and thus the Ministry is forced to act in the safety of students attending Hogwarts."

"I suppose you've consulted with the Unspeakables on this matter?"

"Naturally. But even they cannot progress beyond hypotheses unless they have more data," Umbridge said. "The Ministry requests a report on the wards and defenses surrounding the castle, the more powerful Otherbane wards being of particular note, such that the Department of Secrets may perceive more advanced defenses."

"I'm afraid I'll have to refuse then, Madam Umbridge."

John Dawlish blinked in mild surprise, while Umbridge did not seem surprised in the least. She tilted her head to the side slightly. "Headmaster, this comes bearing the blessings of the Wizengamot majority. I don't see how this can be refused."

"You didn't think the Founders would not think of this happening?" Albus said. "Hogwarts has many secrets, some of them as mundane as the private lives of students, others much more impressive. Secrets that rival wizards and witches would have killed for. The existence of Hogwarts before a unified magical government meant that yes, there was the risk of foreign wizards storming Hogwarts. The Founders put up a curse such that only the Headmaster knows of the various defensive mechanisms that the school possesses - and even then, not all - and even the Headmaster cannot utter it to others. I would sooner choke on my own words and suffocate to death than be able to speak these secrets to anyone."

Albus had no problem believing Umbridge wouldn't have minded that alternative at all.

"Unfortunate," she said simply.

"Perhaps."

Umbridge leaned back into her chair, clasping her fingers and staring at the edge of the desk. John seemed unfazed by all of this - he had always been a stoic lad.

"Is that all, Madam Undersecretary?" Albus asked mildly.

"I suppose it is," she said, getting off the chair. Albus noted with some amusement that she hadn't gotten much taller as she did. "Good day to you, Headmaster."

"And to yourselves as well."

The two of them made an exit through use of Albus' floo. Fawkes trilled from his perch, making him feel a little better after that meeting. But not entirely good. He sighed and set his spectacles on his desk before rubbing the bridge of his nose. That was one exhausting woman, one who was surely going to try his patience in the coming days. More than Severus whenever he felt slighted by Iris. Unlike Severus, that woman had official and unofficial backing from the Minister of Magic.

Perhaps Albus should have taken office long ago, if only the once, just to pass laws that made it so that Ministers of Magic couldn't take any significant 'campaign contributions' or any sort of non-personal gift. Cornelius had let all the galleons go to his head, clearly, having become Lucius Malfoy's stooge and all.

Albus opened a drawer on his desk, and a wooden box he knew to be filled with hand-rolled Cuban cigars greeted him. He was sorely tempted, but he knew they needed to last the year. He sighed and pushed the drawer closed. They would have to wait for when he was truly despairing.

He had a feeling it wouldn't take long.

9. Chapter 9

Thanks to AutumnSouls for beta-ing.

Iris lay on the bed, watching the cloth-covered ceiling of her four-poster.

The night was silent, but it was not calm. The darkness seemed alive, swirling in the dorm of Gryffindor Tower, pressing down on her from all sides. Despite being September in Scotland, the atmosphere felt hot and humid. The slow ticking of the mechanical wristwatch that sat on the bedside table seemed distant and sluggish, as if the sound were traveling through water.

She didn't know the time, not having looked at the clock, but she estimated it to be sometime near two in the morning. The other occupants of their shared dorm room were fast asleep, though how they managed to sleep was beyond Iris. Again, she tossed herself over to the other side, her eyes wide open as she stared at the dark crimson drapery surrounding her, looking like a shower of cascading blood in the gloom.

Her thoughts, seeking distraction, turned to the direction of the events that had occurred the previous evening. As always, there had been an announcement for a replacement to the Defense Against the Dark Arts position: Dolores Umbridge, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister. What someone from such a (supposedly) important position was doing at a school was beyond her, but that was what Hermione was for; Umbridge was here to spread propaganda against Dumbledore and, more relevantly, Iris herself.

Dumbledore, though his star was fading these days, still had clout of his own. He was among the most powerful wizards of the modern age and had proven his worth extensively in Grindelwald's War when he realized what unspeakable horrors were roaming the continent. He had eventually defeated Grindelwald on his own in a wizard's duel, ending the last major resistance of the war, with remaining pockets of fanatics eventually being wiped away by a group of accomplished wizards that later formed the Auror Corps. He was reputed as a brilliant mind in the field of transfiguration, and alchemy, which he studied under the legendary Nicolas and Perenelle Flamel. Of course, he had retired from such exciting adventures as he became older, but some fools equated being old with being obsolete.

She shivered slightly as the darkness churned. She knew it was illogical, that there were no monsters in the dark (except boggarts, but they were quantifiable), yet she feared whatever lay beyond the drapes around her bed. As if behind the thick curtains, where none of the girls could see, were man-beasts of shadow, dancing the Danse Macabre, waiting for her to come out so that they could induct her into their ranks.

There is no escape, they whispered. Join us.

Iris pulled the heavy woolen blankets over her chin, under her nose, and squeezed her eyes shut. Perhaps as a result of her upbringing with the Dursleys, Iris had never felt comfortable in large, open rooms. The Great Hall had been terrifying to her during her first year, and even now she spent as little time eating there as possible. By comparison, her bed, with curtains tightly drawn closed, was much smaller, and much more comfortable.

But as the Dance of Death continued, round and round her sanctuary, the air became thick and heated to unbearable levels. Iris whimpered slightly and curled herself up like a cat, making herself as small as possible, but the heavy linen curtains began to look like thick, stone masonry, ready to fall in on her. More and more specters joined the Dance, and they twirled and spun, faster and faster, the nonexistent footsteps louder, and whispers more pronounced and the laughter almost audible.

There is no escape, they whispered. Join us. Join us!

Iris hissed lowly, burying herself within the blankets, trying to block out the noise. Then she heard something - not a phantom noise, like all before, but a true noise. A hitching of breath, a hiss of pain. It came from her left. The only bed to the left of her own belonged to Hermione.

Her friend.

Iris threw open the curtains violently and grabbed her wand. She scanned the room. A murmured summoning spell had her glasses settle on her nose; even then, she could not see anything beyond the ordinary. No horned demons made of shadow joined hands and danced. It was silent, nothing but the silence of the night, when people slept through the blackest hours. Her bare toes curled into the soft, heavy carpet, taking muffled steps towards Hermione's bed.

Iris peeled the dark red curtains back. "Hermione?" she whispered.

"Mmh?"

Hermione rolled over in her bed, though still not showing any sign of lucidity. Iris smiled at the silhouette of her friend and poked her cheek. Hermione grunted in a distinctly un-Hermione manner. Iris felt a little bad, waking her up, but she could dearly use the company.

"Hermione," she whispered again.

"Mmh."

Iris nudged her friend towards one end of the bed and climbed into the other. The sudden shift of the mattress finally woke Hermione up, though she didn't seem particularly pleased about it. Her eyes remained glued shut as she turned in Iris' general direction with a scowl on her face.

"What is it?" she muttered.

"Sorry," Iris said. "I need the companionship."

Hermione merely hummed in response. Although Hogwarts boasted double-sized mattresses for everyone, squeezing in together was a little tight - but that was just fine. Hermione's darkened visage took up much of Iris' field of view, blocking out everything unnecessary and, in this case, terrible. She focused on Hermione's breathing, matching her own breathing with hers. Hermione's was slightly faster than Iris' own, and punctuated the equilibrium every thirty seconds or so with a deep sigh.

"Thank you for being my friend," Iris whispered.

Hermione's lips twitched upward. She opened her eyes, looking at Iris. "It's my pleasure."

In the darkness, Hermione's eyes were like bottomless pits. Iris frowned as she examined Hermione's face. Those didn't match her contours. Even with what little light there was, her best friend couldn't look like that. She swallowed and watched Hermione. The black holes on her face seemed to draw her in.

Iris recoiled.

Hermione's smile widened as Iris staggered and fell out of the bed, landing on her hip in her haste to get away. Hermione sat up, and it was as if the monster masquerading as her friend was bending the light to herself; the little brightness coming from the moonless night outside was drawn to Hermione's face, showing off the sunken pits of her eyes as the flesh of her cheeks sloughed off and rotted before Iris' eyes.

"And thank you," not-Hermione whispered, her voice exactly like the real Hermione's, "for being my friend."

The mannequin lunged towards her and Iris cried out in horror. The grip was strong, and Iris was forcibly drawn into an embrace, into a kiss; not-Hermione's lips and tongue tasted like ash and blood, thick and foul; Iris squirmed, but it seemed like her head was frozen, forced to look at the face (she's missing the eyes), forced to taste ash and the tang of copper as maggots crawled in not-Hermione's rotting, more and more inhuman face, as insects skittered at Iris' feet, their many chitinous limbs clawing and scratching at her ankles, and a monstrous centipede crawled from one of not-Hermione's eye sockets and reared up at Iris own eye—

"Iris!"

Iris woke up screaming.

Hermione winced at the sound but didn't pull back. Iris violently sat up in her bed, taking stock; the figures were blurred without her glasses, but they were undeniably different to the world she'd been in until just then. For one, the lights were on, and there were no terrible shadows, and Hermione still retained her warm, brown eyes.

"It's all right now, little girl," spoke an ethereal voice from just behind Iris' ear; she flinched, wondering why it sounded so familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. "Peevsie is here, now. You're safe."

Peeves. It was Peeves speaking, which was why it was familiar. And Peeves sounded concerned for her wellbeing, which was why it sounded unfamiliar. Iris wanted to laugh. She ended up crying instead.

She pulled Hermione close by her pajamas and sobbed messily into her shirt. Big, ugly, heaving sobs wracked with gasps of air, wiping snot and tears into Hermione's light blue nightshirt.

"Iris," Hermione said after a while, peeling her off of her. "You're bleeding."

Iris looked down at her hand through the tears; as crimson dominated her vision, she became aware of a sharp pain in her hand. Her amulet. Her wooden amulet, which Professor Dumbledore had prepared for her, was in her hand, covered in her blood, lying in three pieces. It had cracked right down the middle and one half had cracked again, somehow forming razor-sharp edges that should not be possible from wood. Iris' hand shook.

Hermione gently picked up Iris' hand and plucked out the pieces, including one that was still half-embedded in her flesh. "Episkey," she murmured, pressing the tip of her wand into Iris' palm. The wound began to close, but it healed slowly, sluggishly, as if the magic was feeling lethargic. Hermione cast a cleaning charm to clear away most of the blood on Iris' hand, and again on her shirt, which saw far less success.

"I'm sorry," Iris said with a sigh. "This is the second time this month I've ruined someone's shirt with snot."

"It's okay," Hermione said. "Just… please don't do that again."

Iris smiled weakly back, a response that apparently didn't reassure Hermione much. She stared at her friend. Her previously pleasant blue shirt had darkened, salty splotches and, on her right shoulder, a large, bloody stain. Hermione herself simply sat serenely at the foot of Iris' bed, her legs folded under her, and her hands settled in her lap. If someone had ruined Iris' clothes the way she had Hermione's, she might have gutted them. As it was, Hermione was entirely focused on Iris' wellbeing.

More tears threatened to spill from Iris' eyes, but she blinked them back down.

"I'll ask Dobby to clean those for you," Iris said with a watery smile.

"Thank you," Hermione said. "Let me get changed first."

Hermione did. Iris called the House-Elf and watched him salute before popping away with the ruined nightclothes. It was strange to think Dobby, or more likely his distant ancestors, were supposedly wild, uncivilized nomads with a tendency for cannibalism when their food supplies went too low. She turned to the attention of the amulet. Sitting, coated in now-dried blood, in three pieces. Impossibly sharp edges made of wood.

"Reparo," she said, but none of the three pieces shifted. She didn't have high hopes, considering repairing a magical object was much more complicated than a more mundane object like, say, her glasses.

It was also quite a bit more difficult to unravel the magic on an object to break it.

She shivered again, remembering the cold, empty eye-sockets, and wondered how much worse things could've been if her amulet did not take the brunt of the damage for her.

"I should've taken Arithmancy instead," Iris groused.

"Look on the bright side, mate, at least you won't have to take Arithmancy O.W.L.s," said Ron. "You'll be thanking me in ten months' time."

"Good afternoon," said Professor Trelawney. The various scented candles around the room wreathed her in multicolored smoke. Iris idly wondered if she should report the woman for creating aerosol hazards. "And welcome back to divination. I have, of course, been following your Paths over the holidays and I am delighted to see you all return safely which, of course, I already knew."

As she slowly paced across the classroom, the smoke clung to her shawls and braids, swirling in an almost impressive manner, creating eddies of subtle blends of color. The way the smoke moved reminded Iris of Snape's potion class, with his various personal projects littered about the classroom (his less important ones; he didn't trust the dunderheads not to knock over his most important potions) and causing vapor or mist to rise from the solution surfaces.

"Before you are copies of the Dream Oracle by Inigo Imago. Dream interpretations are one of the oldest methods of divination, and one of the most certain, and a subject that will most certainly come up in your O.W.L. Of course, if you have the Seeing Eye examinations and such are of no import, for you are destined to achieve greatness regardless, but the Headmaster wishes you to sit the examinations, so…"

She trailed off with a slight shrug of her shoulders, making clear her opinions of examinations.

"You reckon she failed her Divination exam?" Iris whispered to Ron.

"Nah, it was just too boring for her, she knew the answers before she even saw the questions."

Iris sniggered, drawing dirty looks from Padma and Lavender, but she didn't give them any mind. They idolized the batty professor with some fanatical worship, though Iris had no idea why. Besides, they had been rather rude to her last night, something about Iris lying about Voldemort.

If only Voldemort were still the biggest of her problems.

"Turn, please, to the introduction of the Dream Oracle and read what Imago has to say on the topic of dream interpretation. Then divide into pairs and interpret each other's most recent dreams."

Ron and Iris turned to each other, and Ron didn't bother concealing his noisy sigh in the slightest. "I never remember my dreams," he said. "You say one."

"I don't remember…"

To their right, Dean had partnered with Neville, who immediately launched into a thorough account of a nightmare involving a pair of giant scissors wearing his grandmother's best hat. Ron and Iris idly listened to his spiel, amusing themselves.

"You must have something," Iris prompted.

Ron scrunched his face up. "I think I had a dream I was playing Quidditch," he said. "What do you reckon that means?"

"You're going to play Quidditch in the future," Iris said, and paused for dramatic effect. "And you'll plow into the ground at a hundred and fifty miles an hour and snap your neck."

Ron clutched his breast and gasped in an entirely unconvincing manner. "Anyway, you have one?"

"I told you, I don't…"

"Iris?"

Ron's eyes widened and he turned his head, scanning the room for possible threats. He didn't find anything, though, and he turned back to Iris with a worried expression. "You alright, mate? What's wrong?"

"I remembered my dream," Iris whispered. "From this morning."

"And what was it about?" Ron asked slowly, quietly.

"It was… I dreamed of Hermione. But it wasn't Hermione, just something wearing her skin…" Iris crossed her arms under her chest. "When I woke up, my amulet was broken."

Ron slowly exhaled. "That doesn't sound good."

"Professor Dumbledore thought it was a probing attack," Iris whispered. "By someone. By something."

"Merlin's beard," Ron said. "But you're fine?"

"Yeah. I'm fine." Iris uncrossed her arms. "I think I'm going to need extra Occlumency lessons at this rate."

"Probably," Ron agreed. Silence fell upon their table, and the chatter from the people around them seemed to be muffled by the time the words reached them. The two of them awkwardly flicked through the pages of the book, having no words to exchange, and the class ended without having achieved anything. Not that that was out of the norm.

Iris was not enthused that Trelawney decided to assign them a month's worth of dream diaries. There was little energy in her gait as she dragged her feet in the direction of Defense Against the Dark Arts. On the way they met up with Hermione, who smirked at Iris' and Ron's rather defeated postures.

Professor Umbridge was already seated behind the teacher's desk when they entered. Her short stature enhanced her toady likeness, especially as she sat with her elbows propped on the edge of the desk with her fingers entwined. A wide pink bow sat atop her head, and Iris would have questioned the fashionability of that bow at the best of times, but on this woman, it did not look flattering at all.

"Good afternoon, class," she said, once all seats were filled.

A few unenthusiastically mumbled, "Good afternoon, Professor."

"Tut tut," Umbridge said. "That won't do, will it? I should like you, please, to reply 'Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge.' Good afternoon, class!"

"Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge," the class chorused.

"Much better. That wasn't so hard, was it?" Umbridge smiled sweetly at the class, before stepping off the chair. "Wands away and quills out, please."

Iris resisted the urge to palm her face. As Umbridge took out her own wand and flicked it in the direction of the blackboard, words began to form in the shape of her three course aims. As quills, parchment, and inkpots settled upon desks around the classroom, Umbridge turned to face the students.

"Does everyone have a copy of Defensive Magical Theory by Wilbert Slinkhard?" she asked. A dull murmur of assent echoed through the class.

Umbridge plastered on a faux-looking frown of disappointment. "I think we'll try that again," she said. "When I ask you a question, I should like you to respond with 'Yes, Professor Umbridge' or 'No, Professor Umbridge.' So, has everyone got a copy of Defensive Magical Theory by Wilbert Slinkhard?"

"Yes, Professor Umbridge," said the class.

"Good," she said. "Then please turn to page five and read chapter one, 'Basics for Beginners.' There will be no need for discussion."

It was utterly dull. It was as if someone had gone out of their way to make it as lethargy-inducing as possible. Another wonder of magic, Iris thought sarcastically, that it can apparently make even the most exciting of subjects as dull as a rock. Only Charms and Transfiguration were consistently interesting, and even that was more due to the experience and effort of their respective professors than their textbooks.

We don't need no education. We don't need no thought control.

"Whomever that is, do cease humming," Umbridge said, and Iris realized it had slipped out. "You are distracting the other students."

Undoubtedly some distraction was what the other students wanted. Iris saw Hermione flash her a smirk from the corner of her eye; Ron didn't recognize it, and just raised an eyebrow. He was missing out - the magical world had its many wonders, but music, unfortunately, was not one of them. Iris shuddered at the memory of the Weird Sisters at the Yule Ball last year.

Iris sighed, only somewhat successfully stifled, as she let the words wash over her. She idly turned the page when she'd gotten bored of the current scenery. Ron was idly turning a quill in his hands, staring at the same spot on the page. On her other side, Hermione wore a frown, before she slowly closed her book, stared at the cover for a full minute, then raised her hand. Professor Umbridge scanned her eyes across the class and completely ignored Hermione.

Iris was tempted to be insulted on Hermione's behalf, but the past couple of months had emphasized to her the importance of patience, so she did nothing except occasionally glance at her friend to see if she'd made any progress. She had not, of course. It was only after the majority of the class slowly closed their own books that Umbridge cleared her throat.

"Miss Granger, you had something to ask about the chapter?"

"Well, no, Professor, more about the course aims-"

Umbridge cut her off with a sharp spin to the blackboard. "Why," she said, still staring at the words she'd put up, "I'd have thought it would be perfectly clear if you'd read through them carefully."

Iris hated the woman, but she had to admire the way Umbridge could speak such condescending words with complete deadpan.

"Well, I don't," Hermione said. "It says nothing about actually using defensive spells."

"Using defensive spells?" Professor Umbridge turned around, feigning curiosity. "I can't imagine any situation which would require you to use defensive spells. Surely you're not expecting to be attacked in my classroom?"

"We're not going to use magic?" Ron ejaculated loudly.

"Students raise their hand when they wish to speak in my class, Mr.-?"

"Weasley, Ron Weasley."

Umbridge smiled sweetly at him for a moment. The smile did not reach her eyes, which movements were controlled and measured, and Iris felt a shiver run down her spine. Eventually, Umbridge deliberately turned her back on Ron. Hermione's hand was up once again.

"Yes, Miss Granger? You wished to ask something else?"

"Yes," said Hermione. "Surely the whole purpose of Defense Against the Dark Arts is to practice defensive spells?"

"Are you a Ministry-approved educational expert, Miss Granger?"

"No, but-"

"Then I'm afraid you are not qualified to decide what the 'whole point' of any class is. Wizards older and cleverer than you have devised this method of study. You will learn defensive spells in a secure, risk-free way-"

"What use would that be?" Ron asked loudly, to nobody in particular. "If we're going to be attacked it won't be in a classroom-!"

"Hand, Mr. Weasley!" Umbridge snapped. Ron didn't bother raising his hand, instead continuing to grumble the rest of his complaints under his breath.

Iris watched in mild amusement as the rest of Gryffindor, regardless of their stance towards Iris herself, united in an effort to see this so-called teacher humiliated. She herself felt some outrage at the woman, but there wasn't much she could do about it. She'd just spend this class the same way she did Binns', using the time to do homework from other classes and self-study Defense in her own time.

"...without ever practicing them before?" said Parvati incredulously. "Are you telling us that the first time we'll cast the spells is during the exam?"

"I repeat, as long as you studied the theory hard enough-"

"Yeah, but theory isn't going to save us if we're being attacked," Ron shouted over everyone else, his hand in the air.

Umbridge spun and faced Ron. "This is school, Mr. Weasley. Rest assured there is nobody here to attack you."

"What about after graduation, then?" Ron asked. "What about what's out there in the real world?"

Umbridge stared at him coolly. "There's nothing out there, Mr. Weasley." She smiled, then, looking around at the class. "After all, who would want to harm children like yourselves?"

Iris' head snapped up to meet Umbridge, but she didn't see his face. Instead, she saw Voldemort. Reborn in all his glory, smiling without lips down at Iris as she strained against her bonds; Wormtail, off to the side, his ugly face twisted into an expression of mixed terror and awe, both aimed at his master. And, of course, in front of her, Cedric's face, pale in the darkness, frozen in a picture of surprise, shock, and a small amount of fear. The helpless rage on Amos Diggory's face as he clutched at his pride and joy, going so far as to hurl curses at those who tried to take Cedric away.

"Do you have something to say, Miss Potter?" Umbridge asked softly.

Iris was standing. Aside from Lavender and Seamus, everyone was staring at her, eyes wide. Iris' fingers were curled tight around her wand, her knuckles bleached white, and her other hand gripped the edge of her desk. Her rage burned candescent and without her input, her mind went through a list of lethal and crippling spells she'd learned in the recent weeks.

Then she raised her Occlumency barriers as high as they would go, and liquid nitrogen doused her wrath. Her muscles relaxed instantly, and she stood straight but no longer stiff. She calmly met Umbridge's eyes, the lingering phantoms of Cedric Diggory no longer affecting her in any way.

"I believe Lord Voldemort would have some objection to your statement," she said in a monotone.

A few gasped at her speaking that name, but she paid them no mind. Umbridge's false smile disappeared and she reverted to that poker face of hers. Iris' eyes thoroughly scanned the woman's face, searching for some of her true intentions, but with her Occlumency barriers up so high, she lacked the empathy to instinctually recognize the signs given by body language and facial expression.

"Ten points from Gryffindor, Miss Potter," Umbridge said finally.

Silence weighed heavy in the room. Iris felt her Occlumency barriers crack as her rage, like some wild beast, began thrashing about, demanding to be uncaged.

"Allow me to make a few things clear," Umbridge said in a voice softer than a feather. "You have all heard the rumors that a certain dark wizard has returned from beyond the grave. This is a lie."

"Maybe we should ask Cedric," Iris said, her heat leaking through the rapidly degrading barriers. "Oh, wait, we can't. Because he was murdered."

"Mr. Cedric Diggory's death was a tragic accident," Umbridge said flatly.

"And how would you know? You were at the scene of the crime, were you?"

"I was not," Umbridge admitted, then paused. "But you were, Miss Potter. The Ministry has been lenient on you. Do not dig yourself in deeper."

The class slowly turned to look at Iris. Lavender's eyes were wide and, for the first time, her expression was fearful. Iris ran through the words that Umbridge said again in her head; her barrier shattered and her expression twisted into one of fury.

"Iris!" Hermione hissed in alarm as Iris curled her fingers around her wand once more.

Iris dumped her quills and parchment back into her bag and marched back to the exit. As she placed her hand on the door, Umbridge called out to her. "Leave this classroom before the end of class and I will be giving you detention for a week, Miss Potter."

Iris paused. Then threw open the door and left.

The woman frowned at the wand. It wasn't as good as her old one, and she dearly wished it hadn't been snapped, but this was still far better than she'd been expecting. She flicked it idly, bisecting the bookshelf, and dozens, if not hundreds of tomes, slid loudly onto the floor, where it collided with other debris and collected the pooling blood in its pages. Hm. That was a little ill-done; she'd been advised to keep her activity as 'Mugglish' as possible, but there weren't many Muggle tools that could quickly and effectively replicate the effect of an overpowered cutting charm.

She stepped effortlessly over the obstructions and glanced into the bathroom, where the formerly pristine white of the floor and wall tiles was covered in dark red splatters; most of the mirror had shattered and fallen into the sink, although the third or so of the polished glass remained on its hinges. The bathtub was beginning to overflow, and despite the volume of water it remained a deep red and would take a very long time for it to lose its opacity. All that could be seen breaching the surface was a mop of long, stringy black hair.

The clothes found in the master bedroom did not fit her, so she instead turned to one of the smaller bedrooms and rooted through the drawer. She wrinkled her nose at the gold-and-red decorations; entirely unassociated with Gryffindor house, of course, and she had no idea what 'Manchester United' actually was. Fucking hell, she hated these Merlin-damned reprobates, these upjumped apes. But she still needed the girl's clothes - the girl certainly wouldn't need them anymore, since she was missing everything below her ribcage at this point.

She sneered at the crop top that had found its way into her hands. The whore might still be able to wear this and show some skin. These fucking Muggles, with no sense of decency. The woman instead picked out a simple long-sleeved black shirt, a pair of blue jeans. She threw an overcoat on top and stepped out of the room, taking a moment to behold the expression of shock on the young woman's face, from seeing her own guts spill out onto the floor.

She entered the living room, where the furniture had been reduced to little more than rubble. Her master had told her to erase her steps, so that he would remain secret for a while longer. The woman raised her wand and a jet of flame rushed out, the metallic smell of dark magic seeping deep into the room. She watched impressive leather-bound books, collected painstakingly by the household patriarch, burn quickly. The cheap plastic and sometimes metal trophies collected by the eldest daughter were a little harder to burn, though it did not stand in the way of magical flame. The mother's cross-stitches turned to ash almost instantly.

And finally, atop the cathedral of shattered glass and burning family photographs, was a single red-stained teddy bear belonging to the youngest child of the family, who couldn't have been older than six. The woman watched the flames grow, hungrily consuming the newly arranged room and all the anguish and grief that saturated it. All the memories lovingly collected by this family over the course of more than twenty years, lay broken and burning on the floor to be never seen again, and the woman smiled.

Ah, Bellatrix thought to herself, it's good to be free again.