Against the Tide

Briar Gryffindor turned off the German Autobahn, sliding the thirty year old Passat, which she had stolen in Berlin, into a parking space next to a train station. Her legs were cramped, her back ached, and she really had to go pee. Beyond that, driving the Autobahn was not something to do while preoccupied by doubt.

She had spent three weeks in a Polish hospital, recovering from injuries she sustained while taking out a large group of Death Eaters. A nasty concussion and a broken arm had kept her indoors for too long, giving her resolve and righteousness time to deteriorate into hesitation. The doctors had been understandably nervous to release substantially pregnant women who had no identification and no visitors. Once her personal items had finally been returned, a quick flick of her wand had dealt with the situation.

Now, she had to return to Hogwarts, much more of a trial than one would expect. The train ride from Warsaw to Poland had been misery, the continuous swaying and lurching forcing her into the washroom every few minutes. Unfortunately, responsible pregnant witches would not consider Apparition, and while Briar had never been considered responsible, she'd never been pregnant before, either. Taking out a nest of Death Eaters is one thing, but a mistake in Apparition while pregnant quite another.

Air travel was out of the question, as well. She wouldn't be able to get a broom high enough to gain any speed; she couldn't sit on a broom long enough to travel any long distance; she couldn't deal with the constant ducking and hard turns necessary to fly; she couldn't stand the cold, frigid air. Muggle air travel was similarly nixed, as, again, pregnant women should not fly. Moreover, governments were so paranoid that they demanded passports and visas and the like. She could magick a passport, but not with the security features that were regularly scanned at airports.

So, she had stolen a car in Berlin; the old, dilapidated bucket had no redeeming qualities beyond that it worked, had heating, and did not lurch, sway or make sudden movements. Briar thought back to her days in Canada, when she had swooped around the back hills in ATV's and preformed loser laps in the bed of trucks or a ski-do.

Generally, Briar thought of anything she could, so long as it had nothing to do with the baby. Or Malachi. Because, really, how could she explain to Malachi that she had sort of lost track of time?

"Sorry, Chi, but I just forgot I promised I'd be back in September," she mimicked to her reflection, as she washed her hands. "I didn't even notice it was autumn. You know how things are on the continent."

Except, of course, she'd still been in Britain in September. One night, when she'd returned to Hogwarts to brief Dumbledore, she'd passed in front of his door. She rationalized with herself at the time, thinking she had to go and destroy the cell in Warsaw. But now, two days before Christmas, heavy with child, cold and tired and lonely- she could finally admit that she was lonely- she wished she had at least told him where she was going, and why. It would have been easier than this.

Malachi would be beyond angry; he'd probably be apoplectic. He had every right, as it was his baby too, but what got Briar crying every time she thought of it, was that he was worried for her- Adam had told her so. The fact that she'd come so close to dying, and worse, losing the baby, reiterated to Briar how stupid she was. Malachi was at Hogwarts, and she loved Hogwarts; Malachi loved her, and she was having Malachi's baby; there was a war on, and she had decided to fight alone.

"Stupid!" she accused the reflection in the rear-view mirror as she turned back to the autobahn and drove west, towards France.

**

Draco stood in the atrium of a Muggle shopping center, on Christmas Eve, and tried to fit in. He hadn't any last minute shopping to do, not that any one on his list would want anything from a Muggle shop. He wasn't browsing, or ducking out on annoying relatives, or meeting up with friends.

Draco was there to meet the Dark Lord. A Dark Lord who had discovered the one Muggle in the world who was at all useful to him: Jock Michaels, proprietor of Pizzalicious, a food venue at a Muggle shopping center in Bristol. Never having eaten pizza, Draco wasn't sure, but he would venture to guess that this wasn't very Dark Lordy of the Dark Lord.

Glancing about, he kept an eye out for pickpockets and street urchins, but there didn't seem to be many underfed, diseased criminals about. In fact, all these Muggles looked as if they bathed and ate everyday. One gentleman in particular looked as if he ate far too much everyday; he also had the worst taste in clothing, wearing a red and white suit.

The elderly gentlemen wearing the wretched clothes locked eyes with Draco, and a wave of revulsion swept along his spine. The man's eyes were a warm shade of brown, but the joy Draco expected to see in one so corpulent was replaced with abomination. Recognition also flashed in the old man's eyes when they reached Draco, and he queasily made his way toward him.

"Master," Draco intoned in a properly respectful way.

"Draco," the old man boomed, so gaily that Draco snatched his eyes up and accidentally made contact with the Dark Lord's.

"Forgive me, Master," he begged quickly, not interested in dying in a Muggle Mecca of materialism.

"You needn't worry, Mr. Malfoy," the Dark Lord said in a quieter voice. "I won't kill you yet."

"Yes, my Lord."

"I've commanded you here for a purpose, Mr. Malfoy," he said, but the sentence broke off in a mumbled curse. "This is fantastic! Have a slice, Draco."

Draco looked up to see the Dark Lord, dressed as Father Christmas, picking pineapple off his pizza. Somehow, he managed to laugh.

"Thank you, my Lord, but I've eaten."

"Very well, but the offer stands." The Dark Lord was really enjoying the pizza. No wonder he used Father Christmas for Polyjuice, if he ate that much in one sitting. "However, we have things to... discuss." The intonation was so cryptic that Draco nearly swallowed his tongue.

"I am aware of your activities, Draco. I'm not stupid, and you're not that clever."

"My Lord."

"I am willing to overlook certain indiscretions in return for services rendered. You've instigation quite the revolt against the Ministry, which furthers my goal of domination. However, further actions in this nature will not be accepted."

"I understand, my Lord." And he did.

"Good," the Dark Lord said, although Draco wasn't sure if he was speaking to him, or the pizza. "Now that we have cleared that business, we can move on.

"The final battle is coming, Draco, and you will play a role in the glorious ascent of the Purebloods into their natural position in the world."

"My Lord," Draco said again, trying to muster the proper enthusiasm one should have when told such news. "I will not disappoint."

"No, you most certainly will not. You see, Draco, what I am asking of you is not mass murder or treachery. In fact, I'm asking you to save the lives of the students of Hogwarts."

Draco was so dumbstruck by this statement it took him too long to reply.

"You don't want to save the lives of innocent children, Draco? You'd rather kill them all?"

"No!" Draco replied. "That is, my Lord, I'm honoured you would choose me for such a task."

"Don't be, Draco. This is my revenge upon you."

"What? I mean- Yes, my Lord, I understand." But he didn't.

"No you don't. I'm charging you with the timely death of Potter. If Potter dies before our planned attack on Hogwarts, in which many students will die, then there is no need to attack Hogwarts. By killing Potter, you will save lives."

"My Lord," Draco said, not sure what else to say. The choices were few. "My Lord, what if I fail. Potter is tricky and very good with a wand."

"Don't I know it," the Dark Lord replied with a small chuckle. An oddly robust small chuckle Draco assumed came from the character and not the Dark Lord. "However, Draco, you will not fail. You cannot fail. Do you know why?"

"No, my Lord."

"I have moles in the school. Well," he said with a shrug, "I have several. Who they are is not important. What is important is that you do as you are told."

"Kill Potter."

"Yes. Well, not exactly. You see, Draco, I understand that you have a certain connection to Potter. All rivals have such a connection, and honourable men, such as you, are sticky about their rivals dying honourable deaths. That is why you will use the Comadra Curse against Potter in your Dueling lessons. Do you know the Curse?"

"Yes, my Lord," Draco said. "However, the effects of the Curse are simple to reverse with the Mandrake Restorative Draft, of which the school has a supply."

"Oh? Do they really?" the Dark Lord asked slyly. "As I said, Draco, I have my ways."

"Yes, my Lord. However, the counter to the Curse is certainly within the abilities of Potter. What if my Curse doesn't work?"

"The counter is within Potter's abilities, yes. Is it within yours, Draco?"

"Truthfully, no, my Lord."

"Then you'd best make sure he doesn't counter it, Draco."

"My Lord."

**

It was a quiet Christmas Day at the Burrow. Or, rather, as quiet as Christmas could be when at the Weasley home. The twins seemed to have matured considerably since Christmas past, and were not raising quite as much hell as expected. Bill was sitting anxiously in the kitchen while his parents met his new girlfriend, Persephone. Charlie and Tonks had yet to arrive, and Percy and Isabelle were so dull, they hardly made a noise. Ginny was visiting her friend Abigail Twist before returning for dinner.

Which left Ron and Harry playing a game of Chess, which Ron was easily winning and not really paying attention to. His new Weasley jumper itched a bit, and he scratched idly while considering his next move. Without much thought, he moved his queen into the checkmate position.

"Damn!" Harry said. "Set up again?" Ron shrugged and they reset the board.

However, Ron wasn't considering how to manipulate the pieces into checkmate. He was considering how to move his parents, rather his Mum, into the checkmate position. He had to get Harry to the Ministry soon, and the best choice (for personal reasons) was the day of Percy's wedding. Getting out of the wedding was going to be tough, though; Harry hadn't been kidding when he'd said it would take death or disowning. Since death wasn't an option, Ron was left with the more painful option of getting tossed out by his Mum.

Hopefully temporarily.

"Ron, its your move," Harry said. Ron moved his knight to take Harry's bishop. "Damn!"

Ron grinned his cockiest grin and got back to planning. He'd have to be terribly rude to Percy (not a problem), and make his mother so angry she'd be forced to shout at him. However, Mum hated arguments at Christmastime, and wouldn't be easy to provoke. Once she was shouting, though, it would be simple to manipulate the argument into a huffing, "Well, fine then!" The real trick was to get Harry to leave with him.

Ron felt bad about that. He knew the Weasley's were the only real family Harry had, not counting the Dursley's. Leaving would be difficult for him, though he was sure Harry would. It was part of this prophecy that Harry go to the Ministry, and discover the truth. Also, Ron's mother couldn't stay mad at Harry, so he'd be welcomed back, probably with an enormous stack of buttered toast and a tearful committee. Ron, however, would have to apologize.

That evening, Percy offered the perfect opportunity to be terribly rude.

"Merlin's Beard, Percy, can't you shut up?" Ron demanded, half way through Percy's re-enactment of his last encounter with the Minister. "No one really cares!"

"Ronald!" Mum gasped. "Don't be rude."

"He's right, though, Mum. No one does care," Fred put in. "Dead boring, really."

"Doesn't excuse his behaviour," Percy said pompously. "Very rude."

"Don't you think it's rude to bore your family to death while trying to make yourself seem important? Your not, you know," Ron rejoined.

Percy turned a lovely shade of scarlet and was about to speak when Mum spoke instead. "Ronald, if you can't be polite, you'll have to leave the table."

"Really, Mum, I'm not a child anymore. Sending me to my room won't make me sorry," Ron said. "And is it really polite to sit through a mind-numbing story about two tedious persons last unimportant meeting? Isn't it rude to pretend rapture? Honestly, Mum, I think years of politeness might have left Percy with the idea that he was interesting. We might be responsible for the dullification of countless people." The entire table, except Mum, Percy and Isabelle, tried to hide smiles at that.

"Ronald, if you can't be polite, you'll be sent to your room," his mother claimed, rearing herself up to her full, terrifying height. Ron had to take a deep breath and remind himself that there was prophecy to fulfill.

"Mum, you're not sending me to my room. It's Christmas. Percy's an awful bore, and an awful person. Do you know he pulled his wand on Hermione? I'm sick of pretending he's my brother, when clearly he's not!"

Her face turning bright crimson, she began to splutter. "Ronald Weasley! You may not consider yourself a child anymore, but you will obey me! Go to your room!"

"Um- no," Ron replied, stuffing some stuffing into his mouth. If he was going to miss desert, he had to get as much food into his belly as possible.

"Now!" Mum shouted, jumping from her seat and trying to pull him from his chair. "You'll leave this table and stay in your room all night. No desert for you!"

"Mum, no! I can speak my mind. I'm an adult."

"Well, if you're an adult, you can leave the house altogether!"

Silence reigned at the table. Even Percy looked aghast. Mum was heaving from the effort of pulling him from his seat, and didn't look about to rescind the opportunity he'd been looking for.

"Molly, please..." Dad begged. "Ron, she didn't mean it."

"Oh, yes I did. If he's going to act a child, flaunt our rules, he'll have to leave. Right this minute, Christmas or not," she said, defiantly.

"Fine!" Ron said, swinging around to glare down at his mother. "I'll go." He turned to face the others. "Coming, Harry?"

"Er-" Harry said, uncomfortably. "I- uh, yes, I suppose."

"No, you're not, Harry," Mum said. "Ron is leaving because he's been terribly rude. That's not your fault."

"Yes, but he's right. Percy is a horrible person, Mrs. Weasley. I'm sorry, that's not your fault. If Ron's leaving because of it, I'll go too."

"But where?" Dad asked. "Where can you go?"

"Here," George said, pulling a key from his pocket. "Stay with us."

"Not unless you want to leave with them," Mum shrieked. "And only if you don't want to come back."

"Molly!" Dad shouted. "That's quite enough!"

"I mean it," Mum said, still glaring at George. Slowly, he replaced the key in his pocket, sending an apologetic glance at Ron. "You were leaving, Ron?"

"Yes, I was," Ron said, now truly angry. He'd never thought that his mother would take things so far. Stomping into the hallway, he took the stairs in three's and began packing his things. Harry came in just after him.

"What's wrong with you, Ron?" Harry demanded as he began to shove things into his own trunk.

"Nothing. It's her who's off her broom."

A minute later, they'd returned downstairs. Ginny and Dad were there, apparently willing to incurred Mum's wrath and see them off.

"Boys, this will blow over, I promise. She's just under stress because of the wedding. It isn't easy on her."

"I know, Dad," Ron said. "But I'm really not a child any longer, and I won't be treated like one."

"No, you won't," Dad said, pulling him into a hug. "You go to your Aunt Imelda's, if you will. She'll take you in, no questions."

"Thanks Dad," Ron said, turning to Ginny. She'd just said good-bye to Harry and had tears running down her face. "Ah, Gin. Sorry for taking Harry away. I know you wanted to dance with him at Percy's wedding."

"Ron, you idiot! I'm crying because I'm scared for you. Mum's serious," Ginny moaned, bursting into tears again and diving in to hug him.

"It'll be all right, Ginny. Don't cry and don't worry."

"Hah!" Ginny said, smiling. "Someone has to worry. You two are likely to starve and be eaten by bears within a day."

"It must be good to know the men you love most are useless and weak," Ron said, chuffing her under the chin as he opened the door.

"Not either. Just stupid," Ginny laughed, pushing him through the door. "Don't you come back until Mum apologizes, alright? Don't give in."

"Right, Gin. Good-bye," Ron said, blinking against what felt like tears.

**

Briar spent Christmas Eve holed up in a cheap French inn, suffering from a bad case of indigestion. At least, she hoped it was indigestion. She had to get to Hogwarts before she had the baby, otherwise, she'd be delayed in reporting to Dumbledore for possibly a week. And, she wanted Malachi to be there when the baby was born. He deserved that.

However, Christmas night was spent in a hotel in Lincolnshire, stayed by blasted snow. Apparently, a Passat was not a vehicle willing to fight a bit of snow. Or go up mountains in a snowstorm. Or go anywhere, since the car was refusing to start.

"Come on, you stupid..." Briar cut off her sentence as the car sputtered to life and the heating kicked in. "Thank-you, Merlin!"

Pulling onto the road that would wind its way up the English countryside and into Scotland, Briar turned the radio on, than shut it off in frustration. What was it, exactly, about Christmas, which forced radio stations to play Christmas carols? A law, perhaps? The need to depress those who don't like Christmas, or were alone? Don't they realize that people who listen to the radio on Christmas Day aren't usually with others, and aren't generally cheerful? Breaking a Wizarding law, Briar Charmed the radio to play real music and began and sing-along.

"Yeah I'm free, freefalling!" Of course, it was all a distraction. It was a way of ignoring the currently small but insistent pains in her abdomen, the ache in her back and the constantly movement in her belly. "I'm so screwed."

It was Boxing Day already; she'd hoped to be at Hogwarts Christmas Eve. Further delay was not an option, as wisdom passed down through generations of the Sisters of Beltaine stated that a daughter would be born on the December Full Moon. It was the most powerful Full Moon of the year, and birth of a Daughter of Beltaine would keep the world from destruction for one more year. Briar knew it wasn't really true, but she wasn't in a rush to disprove the legacy passed down since prehistory.

She was carrying the Daughter of Beltaine, an honour for herself, and a blessing for the world. That, she supposed, was more important than carrying her own daughter, or Malachi's, but in the end, it was the same. She had a name for her daughter: Bronwen. Now all she needed was to place herself in the Infirmary at Hogwarts, and it would be fine. Madame Pomfrey would do the rest.