Disclaimers: Dark themes, police state ideas, mention of spousal abuse (including rape) on and off-screen, death of minor characters, graphic imagery and violence, frank sex discussion, copious bad language, bashing the fucking Weasley's and Dumbledore, liberties taken with mythical history.
***
Neville drummed his fingers on the hilt of Gryffindor's Sword in his belt, as he paced around the hilltop. He was impatient, restless. But not through fear. He'd been taking this sort of risk for ages, longer than Harry, even. For when Harry had been abroad being tooled up for war, it had been Neville who had borne the brunt of the risks on the infinitely more dangerous Home Front. Not that he resented Harry for any of it. It was quite the opposite, actually. He felt proud to be Harry's most trusted General ... and Harry was always appreciative of the risks and efforts he undertook. They were a tandem operation.
And it had given him the coolest skill set. Stealth, evasion, espionage ... it was one hell of a fucking life as far as adrenaline rushes went. And Neville had proven to be very good at it, which made him love it even more. His early life hadn't been flush with success and respect, so he relished his adroitness now. The fact that he got to stick two fingers up to the most dangerous dark sorcerer in the world just made him feel even more of a badass.
And he liked that.
But, still, that now familiar niggle pinched at the back of his thoughts. His mind could never fully be on field work now. Two-thirds of it were permanently planted miles away, at that beautiful spot in Wales, where his stunning wife and beautiful daughter were safely ensconced. Oh how he'd love to just live there with them, raise a family and see if he could ever master the local language!
It was a simple dream, but a million miles away right now.
So he paced, and fretted, and waited for the Portkey at his feet to turn blue. If it didn't, they had problems. But he had a few minutes before he had to consider the ramifications of that. And in those few minutes he could think about his daughter, so pure and happy and a bundle of joy. And how his heart would be ripped to pieces if Tom Riddle ever slashed at her throat ... as he'd so mercilessly done with the Queen of England.
The very idea made Neville throw up a bit in his mouth. He spat it out and took a series of deep breaths. Then he went back to pacing.
"Nev, son, you need to give it a break. I'm an old man ... I'm exhausted just watching this marathon you insist on walking!"
Neville stopped and laughed. "Sorry, Dad. I forgot you were a cretin!"
"Hey! I said 'old' ... that does not mean I am 'cretinous'."
"Is there a difference? I've never noticed."
"You know, you may be a full-grown adult with a wand these days, but that doesn't make you beyond a spanking from your old Dad!" said Frank, chuckling.
"That's child abuse, Father," said Neville in mock seriousness. "Do the CSA or Childline have a wizarding branch? I can pass your details on to them easily enough!"
Frank heaved with laughter. "Oh, Nev ... they'd take one look at you and decide I was being too lenient. But, by all means, make a rod for your own back if it makes you happy."
"Shut up, Dad," Neville smirked.
"But, seriously ... what's wrong?" asked Frank. "You seem troubled."
Neville stilled and blushed. "Just worried, you know? For Ennie and Ally ... you and Mum ... the whole lot of us, really. We are at open war, now, in case you hadn't noticed. When we were darting out of the shadows and giving those Death Eater pricks a little prick or two, it seemed daring, exciting. But now ... I don't know ... it seems a hundred times more real, more dangerous. I suppose it's just playing on my mind a little bit more."
"Ahh," said Frank, sagely. "And your cock, so I'm told!"
"Dad! What the actual fuck!" Neville cried, hotly. "What a thing to say to me!"
"Why ... when it's the truth?" asked Frank, unabashed.
Neville coloured in the rapidly dimming evening light. "I'm not discussing this with you."
"Yes you are, Nev," Frank disagreed, sternly. "I don't want to point out the bleedin' obvious, son, but I'm not just your father ... I'm a man, too. I might just know something about this."
Neville turned around. "Y-you do? What do you know?"
"Tell me your problem first. Maybe we can compare notes."
"I don't have a problem!"
"Your wife disagrees ... and so does your mother!"
Neville's face dropped, his eyes fraught with timid embarrassment. "Mum knows about this?"
"Of course she does," Frank replied, dismissively. "Who do you think told me?"
"And I suppose Ennie told her," Neville bitched. "I'll have to have a serious chat with her when we get home ... this is supposed to be private."
"You should be thankful, son, that your wife and mother get along so well," Frank quirked. "You're lucky ... you should have seen some of the battles that your Mum had with your Gran ... they were epic!"
"Mum and Gran didn't get on?" Neville asked, curiously. "I never knew that."
"I was an only child, and you know what your Gran was like ... fierce as a dragon with a sore head!" Frank chuckled. "An army of angels wouldn't have been good enough for her only boy, so poor Alice was a brave witch to take on a Longbottom. But then, she was a Slytherin ... and she needed all of her cunning to get my Mum to warm up to her!"
"Mum was in Slytherin?" Neville whispered, honestly a bit put-out. "I never knew that, either! And did Gran ever warm up to her?"
"In the end," Frank nodded, wistfully. "But by the time she did ... well, that bitch Bella Lestrange came along ... to pay a visit to her best friend from their Hogwarts days ... you know what happened next."
Neville blinked in shock. "Mum ... and Bellatrix ... what?"
"That's a story for another day, son," Frank waved him off. "Right now, your Mum has insisted that I talk to you about this problem with your one-eyed snake!"
"Dad! Seriously!" Neville moaned. "I don't want to talk about it ... certainly not like this!"
"Is it a sex problem?" Frank went on, stubbornly, his concerned tone robbing Neville of his embarrassment. It was firm and, well, frank. "Because ... and don't take this the weird way it's going to sound ... but you do realise that you married a veritable goddess of a girl, don't you? I wouldn't have expected you to have bedroom problems, not when you have a witch like that waiting for you every night!"
"Of course I do!" said Neville, grinning despite the oddity of the conversation. "We've been married for three years now but, sometimes, I still just out and stare at her. For no reason at all ... well, other than she's fucking divinity incarnate, of course. I have to pinch myself that I married her."
"So, what's the problem?"
"I ... I don't know," said Neville, his voice tiny. "I've just stopped ... being able to be intimate. In a, well, practical sort of way."
"Ah ... I see."
"I know Ennie is getting frustrated by it, too," Neville moaned. He turned his helpless eyes to his father. "I ... I'm turning into a terrible husband, Dad ... and I don't know what to do."
"The first thing you do, is you stop thinking all this nonsense about being a bad husband," Frank replied, firmly. "You're a great husband, and a doting father to boot. So you can put those ideas down right this instant, my boy!"
Neville smiled weakly in thanks. "Putting things down isn't really the problem ... getting them up is the real issue. Did ... did you ever have that problem?"
"Me? No," said Frank, shaking his head. "Your Mum turned me on like a horny tap!"
"Oh, sweet Merlin, Dad! Stop right now!"
"What? Do you think you got here by immaculate conception, or something?" Frank chuckled. "I don't know ... maybe you do. I never did get the chance to have the birds and bees talk with you, did I?"
Father and son looked at each other a reticent moment ... then they chorused together. "Fucking Voldemort."
And they both fell back laughing.
"Look, Nev," said Frank, still grinning. "You and Harry, for all intents and purposes, brought your mother and I back to life when you came for us ... certainly brought us back into your life. You gave me a second chance ... to be the father to you that the Lestranges tried to deny me. I lost your childhood to them ... but being your father is a forever job. If you need to talk, we can talk. No holds barred."
"Thanks, Dad," said Neville. "But I think this is a problem I need to work through on my own."
"You're wrong, son," Frank disagreed. "You are a married man with a wonderful wife ... joined in a very unique type of marriage. There is nothing you will do alone anymore, and you should be thrilled by that."
"I am," Neville grinned. "I really am."
"Then use it," Frank encouraged. "Look, Nev, I'm not going to force you to talk about this with me, not if it embarrasses you. But, for Merlin's Sake, talk about it with your wife. She's a Healer with immense power, but that's nothing to how she can help you emotionally ... and how you can help her. If you keep her out, she'll get lonely and upset. And that's a problem you can both so easily avoid. So, that's my fatherly advice for the day. I can face your mother in good humour ... so long as you agree to do as you're told like a good little boy!"
Neville barked out a laugh, but then his attention caught, as did his breath.
For the Portkey in front of them was glowing blue.
"On your feet, son," Frank commanded, leaping up and deftly pulling his wand. Neville rose, too ... unsheathing the Sword of Gryffindor as he reached his feet. He held the hilt tightly in his hand, feeling its warm power sweep up from his fingertips right to his shoulder. His great ancestors were with him tonight, ranged alongside him and his father.
The Portkey shook and rattled violently, then it shot up into the air, and created a swirling vortex of light and colour. A single wizard span into existence in the middle of it, before being dumped unceremoniously onto the ground, where he lay quite still a moment. Neville watched him carefully, his eyes fixed on his wand-arm. He didn't move initially, so Frank nudged him with his boot. The wizard moaned in response.
Neville bent down and looked at the wizard's face. Then he reeled back in disgust. It was horribly mangled. He was deformed, almost to the point of being unrecognisable. Neville had to cast a diagnostic spell at his body just be sure it was him. His face was slashed with deep lesions, his nose smashed and his eye sockets nothing more than bulbous, black lumps.
"Steve! Steven!" Neville asked pointedly. "Can you hear me?"
Steven Maxwell, one of the old Queen's Guard, groaned in response and tried to open his eyes. He could barely even manage that. Neville looked closely at him. He was clinging to life by only the merest of threads.
"Davies? Where is he?"
Maxwell shook his head with the tiniest of movements. Neville swore loudly. In the meantime, Frank knelt down at the wizard's side and passed his wand up and down Maxwell's broken body. Neville met his eyes as he completed the diagnostic. His expression was stony and grave and he, too, shook his head.
"Steve ... did you find her?" Neville pressed, though his tone was a little softer. "Did you find Luna?"
Maxwell moaned again by way of response, but it was a small movement of his hand which drew Neville's attention. Maxwell opened his fist and a bundled scrap of parchment fell out. Neville took it and read the single word written upon it ... and swore loudly as he did so.
"What is it, Nev?" asked Frank.
Neville handed over the parchment, spitting angrily at the ground.
Frank read the parchment. "Bollocks. Nev ... we have to abort this plan. We'll never break into there without Harry's help."
"No, we have to proceed," Neville returned, stoutly. "After what we learned about the Death Eaters building that mass pyre in Nottingham ... we have to move quickly. If Luna's body ends up on that bonfire, then all she's learned for us over the past few years will be for nothing ... and our final plan will fail. Harry knows how important it is to prevent that.
"In any case, he's always had a soft spot for Luna ... he'd want us to make every effort to rescue her, if we knew where she was being held. And now we do."
"But that is a military grade installation," Frank pointed out. "It wont be the standard grunts that are doing the guard work on a place like that. We can guarantee the elite of Section Seven at the very least."
"Then we'd better let the others know that this is the kind of shit that could get them killed," Neville growled, taking the parchment back. "They wont be happy with us if we don't let them share in the excitement. Rhian!"
Harry's head elf popped into view. She looked at the mangled body before her and screwed a stormy expression onto her face.
"I take Mr Steven back for healing," she said, stepping forwards.
"No, there's no call for that," said Neville, sadly. "Take him back by all means ... but have Gwillym prepare him a proper plot ... in the cemetery."
"Oh, Master Neville!" cried Rhian. "Is he that far gone?"
Neville nodded grimly. "I'm afraid so. Have your elves take good care of his body."
"Yes, Master Neville," said Rhian.
"And take this message to Lady Longbottom for me, will you?" Neville went on. "I've been gone for three days already. She'll be going crazy not knowing where I am."
Neville handed the now folded scrap of parchment to the elf. Rhian looked swarthily at him, as though she could read the writing on the closed, blood-splattered sheet.
"Master Neville going into silly danger!" she admonished, crossly. "Master Harry would not approve. And Lady Longbottom will kill you ... if yous get out alive."
Neville just chuckled at that. "We'll be alright. The Inner Circle are on their way. It's time to give old Tom Riddle a taste of what unified ritual magic can really do."
Rhian growled, her battle laugh. "You want the elves to join?"
"Oh no, not yet," said Neville. "We will keep that little gem for another time. They put the shits up us with that little trick of pulling dead Dumbledore out of the hat. It's time to show the Deathies that we have a few surprises of our own."
"Master Harry still not approve," Rhian frowned. "He be very mad with yous when he finds out what yous doing. He tell yous off for a month for this caper."
Neville hooted another laugh. "Don't worry about Harry. I have the perfect tonic ... I'll just get Hermione to kiss him senseless, then he wont be able to tell me off! His gob will be too busy with Hermione's tongue and it will put him in a good mood ... it's a plan with no drawbacks!"
"That probably work, too," Rhian nodded, grimly. "I go now, but yous be careful Master and Master Longbottoms. You bes coming home to Lady Longbottoms when all this be done, yous hear Rhian?"
"Yes, ma'am," Frank and Neville chorused.
Then Neville exchanged a secretive, knowing wink with his father, who nodded back with a steely, war-like resolve ... they were ready.
Rhian reached down and placed a hand on Steve Maxwell's cold skin before Apparating them away. She didn't bother to tell Neville and Frank that the last Queen's guard had already died in front of them.
***
Harry lounged back in the hammock and stretched his arms above his head. It was another beautifully sunny day in Wales. He scoffed at the notion that it always rained here. He couldn't remember the last time it wasn't baking down and bright. Lying bastards. He might as well have been sunning himself in the Med. Okay, so he wasn't at the beach, rocking gently instead between two holly trees in his palace garden, but the ambiance was pretty much the same.
It was calm, serene. This was the life for Harry.
No cares, no worries. No impending death to avoid, or evil life to take. He wasn't chasing after Dark Wizards who put their cocks into snakes and split their souls just for poops and giggles. He was relaxed, carefree. If he wanted to run and play like he was a child again, he could. Not that he'd ever run and played much when he was a child, of course. He had run a lot ... from piggy Dudley Dursley and his gang of bullying bell-ends, and from Uncle Vernon's fists and steel-buckled belt, or from Aunt Petunia's clothes iron, her rolling pin and ... which may have been the worst of the lot ... her acidic, abuse-spouting tongue, and the belittling insults which lingered long after Harry's bruises had faded.
But none of it was what you'd call play.
The running didn't stop at Hogwarts either, really. Only now Harry was being chased by said snake-bothering wizards, who liked to hide out in forests and drink unicorn's blood ... and twelve-foot trolls ... and giant serpents. And the occasional dragon. And the repeated recriminations of his school yard peers, the Wizarding Media and the magical public in general. Not to mention being hunted by arms of Wizarding Government just for the fun of it. Actually, Harry had been handed a pretty hard run of things, when he stopped to consider it all.
Which was what the hammock was for. He could lie here idly by the hour, going over all the fucked up crap he'd had to endure over the course of his wretched existence. All the while sipping cocktails from a magically-refilling glass. It was a bizarre contrast. But he could almost laugh at it now, marvel at all the things he'd experienced and that he'd somehow managed come through it all alive. He'd flirted with Death a few times, but they'd never gone much further than heavy petting. It was certainly a story to tell. One day, perhaps, maybe he'd write it all down, serialise his life story to give old Lockhart's books a run for their money. It was peaceful enough here, should Harry ever decide to try his hand at being a scribe.
The only thing he missed about the outside world was Hermione. One day he'd bring her down here ... down into the only part of his mind that she might actually like. They could spend years in here if they wanted, just being together without any earthly distractions. They could make up for all the time they'd lost trying to right the wrongs of the world, or pacifying misplaced love interests who were a very contradiction of the term.
Love. Harry barely had any true notion of the idea until just recently. It was always something he was vaguely aware of, something he saw in others, but could never quite grasp in himself. Even when his mother had told him he was in love with Hermione, he didn't really believe it at first. He'd have known, surely? He'd hardly been out of her company for seven years, so any urge to take their relationship to something more than just best friends should have been right there in front of him, shouldn't it?
And people always said that you'd know when you were in love ... so why had it taken Harry so long, to understand the true nature of his feelings towards the most incredible witch he'd ever met?
He rather thought that their unusual closeness was probably part of the problem. Hermione was right there in front of him, or next to him, all of the time. And he had just grown so used to her being there, supporting him, checking him, becoming the voice of reason in a mind of chaotic recklessness, that he'd overlooked so many of the more obvious things that she was becoming to him. But some part of his psyche had realised it, and he had fallen in love with her for just that, without even consciously knowing that he'd done it.
Harry was a dense sort when it came to his emotions, he always had been. The early examples of love he been given to learn from always made things conflicted in his mind. Petunia and Vernon loved each other, and Dudley, but could spare not a drop for him. Sirius tried to protect him through aggression when he first came into his life, and the first girl to show an interest worshiped his legend and new nothing of the real him at all.
So Harry had little idea of how to spot real love when it finally came to him. He needed it to be spelled out and obvious before he could even begin the process of accepting it. So had it been where Hermione was concerned, too. They hadn't ever been apart long enough for him to pine for her, to miss her in a way that might have woken him up to how he was starting really to feel about her. And the only time he might have felt jealousy over a love rival, Harry had the shadow of death hanging above him ... whether it be Krum during the Triwizard, or when Ron stormed off leaving him alone with Hermione in that god-awful tent.
That event might have been a trigger for Harry and Hermione to bond even closer, to be drawn together in a way that might have led to something far more intimate than they'd ever tried before. But it was hard to make the leap to getting hot and amorous, not when you were stuck with no food and little hope in a tent that smelled of unwashed Weasley.
Harry's life had been one of cruel distractions.
But he didn't know love would feel like this, when he finally allowed himself to accept it. It was so anarchic ... ranging to such extremes, for better or worse. It made Harry lose his mind either way. And he was senselessly content at either pole. Whether he was wildly enraged in his defence of his love, or passionate in embracing it, he was equally heightened, and so very alive. And, in a life that had diced so casually with death, there was something to be said for that.
And Harry was confident that Hermione would like him so much better down here, he was sure of it. This is where he was calm and could be playful if he wanted to, where no-one else would see that side of him. He'd gladly show it to Hermione, maybe see her playful side, too, and they could frolic together with reckless abandon. And he could look at her with unimpeded vision, drink her in with both his eyes ... for he had no scars in this plain, his wounds banished to another place entirely. And he was prettier, too, even if he said so himself. Hermione could have him all to herself, to do with as she pleased ... for they would be all alone.
Although, they wouldn't be.
For Harry was blithely aware that he wasn't alone for once. It was a niggle he'd been trying to swat away, like an irritating fly making moves for his cocktail glass. He tried to pass it off as his magic recovering. After all, he'd given Ron and the Death Eaters a beating in the Ritual Chamber. Even Riddle had shown up in some form, if only to get a handle on what he was up against with the resurrected Harry. That wasn't a battle ground they'd be keen to meet him on again in a hurry. Dumb twats. He hoped he'd put the shits up them something good and proper.
But it had cost him a lot of magic. He was shagged out, in truth. He'd been on the hammock for ages recuperating and regenerating. Merlin, it could have been months that he'd been down here. He had no concept of the passage of time in this place. But he didn't feel a hell of a lot healthier yet. It had been one epic fight, and he needed some alone time to recover his strength.
But still ... this niggle in his mind ... one that just wouldn't leave him alone ...
It was constantly hovering on the edge of his awareness, like a darting movement at the corner of his eye. A barely perceptible, sprite-like presence, but a presence nonetheless. And that was concerning, for there was never anyone else down here. It was just him and his thoughts. Not even Enola came here. She just opened a path for him, but she never took it herself.
But this new presence had.
It was soft, playful, but distinctly unfamiliar ... though undoubtedly young. It was skirting around the edges of Harry's mind as though tempting him to pay attention to it, and the more he thought about it, the more the irritant became an itch that he would just have to scratch.
Eventually, it got too much. Huffing, Harry pulled himself up from his hammock and began his search. It wouldn't be easy. This version of the palace was empty, devoid of life. Even the walls, which were charmed and enchanted to respond to him, were silent in this realm. It was Harry's mindscape, a facsimile of the real thing. It didn't work the way he'd normally use it. So this hidden life, wherever it was, would have to be located the old fashioned way.
So it became a game of hide-and-seek now.
And Harry was a skilled hunter. He moved through the grounds, checking every lawn and copse until he was confident this elusive spirit wasn't there. Then he began a meticulous search of the house, locking rooms as he ticked off each one. Every now and then, he would catch a flick of movement down a corridor, or through a gap in a door, or between the railings of an upper-floor landing, and it was tempting to go after each one. But he wasn't to be distracted.
And as he chalked off each floor, he grew closer to his quarry. He felt it more, understood her more. For he knew this was a girl ... and a young one at that. Not as young as Alison, but not as old as the youngest teenagers who lived in the settlements in the grounds. Harry had a fair idea who it was, but how she'd managed to penetrate his mind was a curious conundrum for him to ponder on his search.
Then he turned a corner of one of the top-floor corridors ... and there she was, standing waiting for him. As he'd suspected, it was the girl he had rescued from Glastonbury. This was damned peculiar.
"You found me!" she giggled. "People almost never find me! This is going to be so much fun! It's your turn to hide now."
Harry strode forwards and offered the girl a warm smile. "My mother told me not to play with strangers. I'll play ... but I need to know who I'm hiding from first. You could be a monster ... and I'd have to make my hiding place really good if you were!"
"I am not a monster!" the girl protested.
Harry sat cross-legged on the floor in front of her. "That's what all monsters say," he teased. He patted the floor in front of him, beckoning the girl to sit.
She mimicked his actions. "My mummy calls me her little star."
"Does she now?" Harry quirked. "And does the little star have an actual name?"
"My name's Celesca," said the girl, brightly. "And you're Mr Harry."
"You know me?"
"We're in your mind, so of course I do!" said Celesca haughtily, looking around the corridor. "It's very quiet here. You must be lonely."
"I need a quiet space sometimes," said Harry. "It helps me think when I come here."
Little Celesca nodded. "Your mind is very busy. I can tell that. You have lots and lots going round in it. It whirls and whirls like a nasty storm."
Harry eyed the girl curiously. "How do you know that?"
"I can see things," said Celesca, shyly. "Some things are far away ... but others are right in people's heads."
"And you've been inside my head?"
"I was only looking," Celesca returned, bashfully. "You saved me ... so I wanted to see what you were going to do with me ... if you were going to be like the Bad Men in the gold gowns or not."
Harry gazed at her in astonishment. She was biting her lip nervously, but Harry couldn't stop looking at her eyes ... for her very irises seemed to be moving. It was as though they were pools of swirling liquid, shockingly bright and blue and in constant motion. Harry was borderline hypnotised by them.
"You're a Seer?" Harry whipsered in surprised understading.
Celesca grinned shyly. "My mummy used to call me her Little Alice."
"Like Alice Through the Looking-Glass?"
"How do you know? That's a Muggle book."
"I was raised by Muggles," Harry explained. "And I've always loved to read. That was one of my favourites as as boy."
"Mine too!" Celesca chirruped. "Not that I was ever a boy, obviously. Ew ... that would be icky!"
Harry chuckled. "I have a huge library here, you know. I'll be happy to show you round it ... if you want to talk when we wake up. Maybe you can show me which books you like to read."
Celesca suddenly looked terrified. "I don't think I'm ready to wake up just yet. I need quiet time, too."
Harry nodded sadly. "Because of what happened to your mother? I'm sorry, Celesca. If I'd have gotten there sooner, maybe I could have saved her, and your dad."
"Oh ... they weren't my mummy and daddy," Celesca replied. "I had to say they were ... when the Bad Men asked ... but they weren't, really."
"Okay," said Harry, slightly suspicious. "So, who were they?"
"That was Aunt Venusia and Uncle Colin," Celesca explained. "But I had to call them Mummy and Daddy. The Bad Men would have taken me away if I'd been with my real Mummy. But she didn't know I knew that ... so I had to be very good at pretending."
"So ... where is your real mum?"
Celesca shifted awkwardly. "I can't tell you because you're a stranger. It's a secret ... one that was supposed to keep us both safe."
"Supposed to?" asked Harry. "Are you saying it didn't?"
Celesca shook her little blonde head sadly. Harry wasn't sure if she was about to cry ... it was really hard to tell with those whirlpool-like eyes of hers.
"You can tell me what happened, you know," Harry cajoled. "You're safe here ... I'm not going to hurt you. What happened to your mummy?"
"I don't know," Celesca whined. "Only that they took her away and hurt her."
Harry ground his jaw angrily. "And where was your daddy in all of this?"
Celesca frowned nastily. It took Harry by surprise ... her pretty features didn't seem capable of such vitriol.
"Don't mention him!" Celesca hissed. "He's a bad, bad man ... and no daddy at all! He put me in my mummy's tummy without asking her. I saw it once in a dream. She cried so much when he did it ... but my mummy loves me, and even if she didn't want me to start with, she keeps me safe now. Well, she did ... until my daddy came to get her. He was the one who took her away."
Harry was primed to fighting concern now. "And where did they go?"
Celesca shook her little, white-blonde head. Glistening moisture appeared under her striking blue eyes again. "I don't know ... and I'm too scared to See."
"If you were very brave and had a very quick look, one that wasn't too scary," Harry began, gently. "I could go and rescue her."
Celesca looked up in blind hope. "You could?"
Harry nodded firmly. "If I knew where she was, I could certainly try."
"Why would you do that? For me? You don't know who I am or anything. Why do you want to help my mummy and me?"
"Because I haven't had a go at being a Daddy yet," Harry explained. "I never knew my own Dad ... but I think he'd be the sort of Daddy who would help people if he could, so I want to be like him. And this would be a good chance to practice, don't you think?"
"Well, I suppose it would," Celesca replied, thoughtfully. "But it's very dangerous, Mr Harry."
"Dangerous? Why's that?"
Celesca closed her eyes. "Because I did look for my Mummy once ... and she's not in a nice place at all."
"Describe it to me, if you can remember."
"She was in a little room ... or was it a box? I've never seen a room like that before. It was dark, and Mummy was standing up, but she was very squashed. There should have only been one person in the box, see, but she had three more witches squished in with her. Two of them were crying because it was too hot for them like that. I think the one in the middle was sleeping. They didn't have any clothes on, but I don't think they wanted to be like that. I don't know what they were doing."
Harry fumed with anger. He felt his power surging to fuel his growing restlessness. He knew what Celesca was describing ... it was a particularly cruel type of torture chamber, one that kept the victim stood upright for hours on end and was frustratingly too small to get any kind of respite. Add in tightly packed other bodies, and very little fresh air, and the whole thing was a nightmare of an experience. Harry needed to help this poor woman, whoever she was, but these torture chambers were standard all over the internment camps. She could be anywhere.
"Can you remember anything else?" Harry pushed. "Something that might tell me where the box is?"
Little Celesca scrunched up her eyes, pulling the memory to the surface. "It was in a place with lots of long buildings. Lots of people, too. I didn't think there was enough room in the long buildings for all the people ... there were just so many of them. And they all looked sad, but I thought it was because they all had to wear the same clothes. They didn't look very comfy in them."
It was definitely one of the camps then, Harry mused to himself. But which one? There were over a dozen to choose from.
"Do you remember anything else?" Harry urged. "A name sign or ... or a flag?"
"Ooh, yes, Mr Harry! There was a flag!" Celesca chirped excitedly. "It was on top of all the square towers ... I don't know what they were for ... and it was red ... or was it orange? I don't know ... but I do know what the little picture on it was."
"And what was it?"
"A weasel, Mr Harry," Celesca chimed back. "I know because my Aunt Venusia was a vet and we had a weasel stay with us once for a little bit, while she was making it better."
Harry blinked in his shocked anger. A weasel sigil ... on a ginger background ... only one of the new Loyal Houses carried such a weak motif on its family crest ... and none other stirred Harry's anger with more potency.
He stood up and placed a comforting hand on Celesca's shoulder. "I think I know where your Mummy is. So, if I go and rescue her, will you try and be awake when I get back? I mean ... properly awake ... in your own body?"
Celesca looked at him shrewdly. "That sounds like cheating, Mr Harry. But if I do, will you promise to look after me? I need someone to. I'm only five ... and I cant look after myself, can I? And I think you'd make a pretty good pretend Daddy."
Harry felt his heart jolt at that, as though he'd missed a step on the stairs. The girl had a way of being startlingly disarming ... and not too unlike another dreamy blonde he once knew ...
It couldn't be ... could it?
But Harry didn't have much time to answer, for Celesca had stood up, suddenly solemn and serious. Something else was on her mind.
"You'd better tell me, Mr Harry ... better ... hurry."
"What is it?" Harry asked.
Celesca glanced up at the ceiling, her eyes swirling more rapidly now. They looked like violent vortices. Harry couldn't say how he was sure, but somehow he knew she was looking up at another world ... or, perhaps, another time.
"Mr Harry ... please?" Celesca asked in a whisper, her voice distant and fearful.
Harry was suddenly irrationally afraid ... but he couldn't have said why. "Of course I'll look after you. I promise. But why must I hurry to go now?"
Celesca returned her wide gaze to Harry. "Your lady knows, too ... she knows where my mummy is. And her friend, the pretty one with the baby ... she's very upset. Her baby's Daddy is already going there ... and he's going to get into trouble ... and her baby might not have a Daddy anymore ... so your lady is going to try and rescue him and bring him back. I do hope she's not too late ..."
Harry leapt up, taut and wired. "Lily!"
There was no flash of flame, no crackle of fire ... but suddenly, an elegant, leggy woman was stood before him. They exchanged looks.
"You know I don't like being without my feathers, Harry," Lily admonished. "I feel naked."
"You know what I'm going to ask you to do," said Harry, firmly. "Hermione's in danger ... so I need to share your power right now. I'm sorry ... I know how much Burning Days hurt you. And you've only just had one. Thank you for that, by the way ... you saved my life."
"I'd do it again in a heartbeat, as you well know," the phoenix-turned-woman sighed in response. "Come on, we don't have much time. Let's draw the circle. You cast the runes, and I'll set them aflame for you."
Harry nodded. "Thank you. Burn fast, my love, burn fast ... there's more than one witch we need to save tonight."