Accidents of Circumstance

Chapter 25: The Battle Begins

"She's not here," McGonagall said quietly, standing beside Dumbledore. It was just after four o'clock in the afternoon. She knew that there had been a frisson of magic permeating the world about a half hour ago, had thought it was Regina's Portal. She admittedly didn't know much about Old World magic, but there shouldn't have been such a noticeable ripple... should there have been?

"She will," Dumbledore said in his usual placid tones. "She has much preparation to do with the children, but she will indeed be here in time."

"How can you be so sure?"

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow at McGonagall. "Minerva... Surely you don't doubt your friend will come to your aid?"

Regina had been a faithful letter writer. She had come to many magical conferences and had been an understanding listener whenever they would speak of personal things. The fact that Regina had revealed very little of herself had never bothered her. What little Regina had revealed had been freely given, and had done nothing but hint at further recesses of misery. Regina had quietly revealed a past relationship with Severus Snape after she had woken from her coma, and had thought it was the reason for her sudden appearance in his classroom. She had a flat tone in the telling, as if she had shut away a great deal of pain. McGonagall had known then just how much Regina had once loved Snape, how much she had loved him still. She doubted Regina knew herself, but McGonagall knew how it worked. Once upon a time she had a great love in her life; unlike Regina, she never got a second chance to make it work. McGonagall knew better than to give advice where it was unwanted, and had quietly watched Regina corner herself into a solitary and miserable position.

Even in her haphazard planning of the castle defenses, Regina had been quietly observing and using everyone to the best of their ability. She had admitted that Dumbledore had put her up to the plotting, that it had been a political decision. It had isolated her a little further, forcing Trelawney and Weidmuller to finally agree on something: Regina had gone too far in her presumptions, and Hogwarts would suffer for it. McGonagall watched as Regina kept silent, reading as much as she could on strategies of war, puzzling out ancient mermaid prophecy and trying to teach Harry. It had been too much for her, and Regina had called on McGonagall and Flitwick to help her.

"She never complained once about all she's done for us," McGonagall murmured to Dumbledore. "But I always wondered if it was truly worth it for her."

"Regina knows what's best for the magical community. And she is the Ravana. They are an ancient line, directed by the Fates themselves. They serve a special purpose in magical history, even if their names are unknown."

Hypatia Vector walked up to them at that moment, a worried look on her face. "Minerva. Albus. We've barricaded the dorms with all sorts of spells, but it's still leaving too many entrances open to them."

Dumbledore nodded. "It will have to do, Hypatia. They will still be herded to the Great Hall. There is no other choice. We cannot have this battle out of doors, where the chance for escape is great. Here, they can be contained, at least."

"Do you truly believe that?"

Dumbledore's eyes began to twinkle. "Ah, but there's always hope, my dear. And we are skilled enough. Between all of us and the members of the Order of the Phoenix, we should be more than capable of holding our own."

Less than reassured, Vector walked back to her position in line. She had balked originally when she had found out that Regina had drawn up battle plans. Was there nothing that girl didn't do? Vector had wondered, less than charitably. Regina was friendly enough, and they talked, but Vector hadn't felt that kind of closeness that McGonagall seemed to share with her. And to be honest, she had wanted to help to draw up the plans. Arithmancy wasn't that far removed from the probability vectors of war...

But Vector had to grudgingly admit that Dumbledore's move was a smooth one. It was no doubt political, as every professor might have found some flaw in the design of a colleague. Here, with Regina behind the plans, there was no need to argue. It was easy enough to say she was an outsider and didn't truly belong. It was easy enough to say that one of their own could have done better, and complain behind closed doors. But there was a logic behind the planning, the placement and the spell lists that were recommended. The professors best at offensive spells were placed at the front lines, the first to attack the Death Eaters as they stormed the castle. She had thoughtfully provided lists of painful and incapacitating spells in various traditions based on ability. Not one of them were technically Unforgivables, which saved them from any possible inquiry from the Ministry. It wouldn't do to have Unforgivables used by the professors of small children, after all. It didn't matter about circumstances, it mattered about politics.

Vector suddenly wished she had been better friends with Regina. Maybe they never got past the pleasantries, but she respected the logic of the plan. Regina had done her homework, had observed everyone and assessed their strengths accurately.

Plus, Vector found it amusing that the inept Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher was placed as far away from any Great Hall entrance as possible.

Quiet conversations over the past few weeks had told Vector that she wasn't the only one beginning to truly respect Regina. She was unorthodox and a magnet for trouble, but she honestly did care about the children's welfare and put that above petty squabbles and rivalries. Perhaps it was the distance from most of the professors that had made her see them so clearly. She had been introduced to Hogwarts in the middle of a school year, in the middle of years-long friendships, rivalries and hatreds. She obviously could observe and judge personalities.

Vector found herself shivering suddenly. Almost four thirty. The Death Eaters were coming, creeping along the grounds to try and take the castle by surprise.

Regina had thought of that, too. As if she had expected a siege from the very beginning, as if she had known what would happen.

Selena Sinistra was a little warmer to Regina than Vector was, and had said that the tales of the Ravana were true. It was hard to find the root of the mystery surrounding them, but Sinistra had done some digging into Regina's history after it had been announced in the fall that there would be a new elective in the spring term. Regina herself was a gifted prodigy, but her personal history was largely uneventful in the magical world. It was her maternal family that provided the interesting facts, once Sinistra realized that Eugenia Reven was one of the Reven. From there it had been easy to go digging into the Restricted Section for crumbling books mentioning the Reven family.

The Reven family first became known in the Middle Ages, somewhere near Marseilles, France. Le Revenant, The Ghost, survived an early bout of the plague, marked with a scar running across his neck from ear to ear. The term became Le Revenu, The Returner, when he would constantly circle Marseilles throughout the next forty years. Sometimes he was seen with a young redheaded woman, sometimes with a young boy with his same dark features. Over time it became something of an omen to see his face, as tragedy seemed to strike whenever he was near. But while he seemed to bring bad luck with him, he never seemed to age, never seemed to die, never seemed to back down from trying to beat it back.

The boy left Marseilles after Le Revenu was cut down in the midst of defending the city from a band of thieves. Le Revenu was literally cut in half, the pieces thrown to either side of the road. After the city paid for a grand funeral, the boy left and never looked back.

He was next seen in Paris, with a beautiful blonde wife and eight children. His life was uneventful on the surface, a lesser nobleman on the fringe of court intrigue. But he was the hidden force behind the noblemen, and was mysteriously killed in a fire at his manor. His wife and children had been on a journey to Italy at the time. Only three children returned to the manor, one boy and two girls. They married well, but their noble houses were all marked by impossible heights of magic and political acuity, followed closely by the depths of misery and grief, culminating in their execution during the Reign of Terror.

A little digging and Sinistra found the Italian branch of the family. Two of those children married into the Italian court. Their lives played similarly to the French branch, though they lasted at least until Mussolini's rise to power. That Ravan had been on the wrong side of the World War, paying for his mistake with his life. One of Le Revenu's grandsons apparently had traveled to Germany, as records of his descendants existed into the Reformation era. The line sputtered and ultimately died out soon after. One granddaughter married into the Russian royalty; her ultimate heirs were Tsar Nicholas of Russia and his family, all slaughtered during the Revolution.

The final grandchild of Le Revenu ultimately had traveled to England. This child broke with tradition and did not marry into royalty or nobility. There was no clear record of this branch of the family, though the name of Reven was recorded in several instances in both Muggle and Magical history. The family flourished, ultimately branching out to the New World and parts of the British Empire. They were usually of the merchant class, though some were upper class and of lesser noble rank. Most of their lives ended tragically short, vital lives cut down in their prime by odd twists of fate.

And it all came down to Regina Liane Vial, the last of the Reven family.

The professors all hoped this wasn't where the family was obliterated.

***

"Something isn't right, Lucius," Narcissa said quietly. She had forced him to hang back in the Forbidden Forest as the Dementors and other Death Eaters surged ahead.

Lucius fixed his wife with a stare that made lesser men bolt. Narcissa met his gaze head on, something that both annoyed and thrilled him. He had chosen wisely; of all her sisters, Narcissa had the coldest temper and the most logical mind. She had been a studious little Ravenclaw in her days at Hogwarts, her nose in thick dusty books written in strange runes and symbols. She had taken advanced courses as soon as she could, never content with the stuff that mere mortals learned. She could have done anything she wanted with that esoteric knowledge, become a renowned expert or teach others.

What she had finally done three years ago was teach him.

Narcissa had lavished her attentions on their son, making him the center of her carefully delineated world. Lucius had been amused at first, less so when he realized it was because she could not have any more children after the difficult birth. Narcissa had a very slight frame. While it made her an excellent trophy wife, it didn't make her an excellent vessel for carrying heirs. It had been a blow to her ego, certainly; there was a flaw in her cold perfection. But Lucius had never found her wanting in any other way. Considering the relatively low birth rate of Purebloods, no one had ever questioned why the mighty Malfoy clan had only a single heir.

Lucius did what he wanted to train Draco, and Narcissa had her own methods. He grew into the image that Narcissa had wanted, that Lucius had approved of. He very rarely deviated from their carefully laid plans, and was certainly chastened once he did. Narcissa had her own quiet methods, ones that Lucius never learned and could never drag out of his son. In a way, he preferred his own direct punishments. They served as physical lessons as well as mental. In some ways, the body always remembered what the mind forgot.

But she had her ways, her Old Ways. It had been her research that helped to resurrect their lord, her research that had helped him survive in his incorporeal form. Lucius knew that there were some things better left unsaid, and his wife's methods were among them. It was best to remain blissfully unaware of some of her studies, just as it was best for her to remain blissfully unaware of some of his activities. He respected her opinion, as she never said a word that wasn't carefully measured in advance. She always held meaning, and never wasted an unnecessary syllable if she could help it. Narcissa was an observer by nature, just as he was a possessor by nature. It couldn't be helped, and they worked their strengths to their advantage.

Because of this, Lucius hung behind with Narcissa even though he would have rather gone ahead and been at the side of his lord.

"Something feels wrong in the energy fields around the school. The wards aren't the same as they were over the summer."

Lucius pondered this. "More wards added?"

"I can't tell."

Lucius didn't smile at the frustration in his wife's tone. This was a serious matter, one that Lord Voldemort deserved to know. "I must tell my Master."

"Of course," Narcissa murmured. "As you must protect our interests. Be careful. Let the others go on ahead."

Eyebrow raised, Lucius stared at his wife. Something was definitely wrong if she was warning him to be careful. "What did the scrying stones say?"

"They were unclear. They said the dragon would spill fountain blood and weep silently for it." Narcissa's face appeared unperturbed to onlookers, but Lucius could hear the slight tremor in her voice. She had mastery over herself, something she had no doubt tried to instill into Draco over the years.

"Draco?"

"If so, the meaning is still unclear. The stones refused to be recast."

"This isn't normal."

"No. Not at all." Now Narcissa's brow actually furrowed. Lucius found himself becoming almost worried, but pushed the feeling back.

"Love, let me warn our Lord. You stay back and observe the first wave."

"Caution, Lucius. They're brewing a trap."

"You've taught us all well, love." Lucius held one of her hands in his. It was cold, as he expected it to be. Her hands very rarely felt warm, as she had some circulation problems. He had always likened her to some delicate plant, a vine that was unassuming at first. Once you peeled away the leaves to see the tendrils digging in and hanging on tight, you truly understood the power inherent in quiet contemplation. "We will crush them, and then once the news has spread, the Ministry is ours."

The Ministry, she knew, was one of Lucius' main concerns. He wanted his arrest records purged, he wanted his position of power. He wanted his name to cause others to quake in fear once again. Narcissa understood this, encouraged it. That left her to her own devices, to cast her web in silence and shadow.

Lord Voldemort may not survive this day, but Draco would. And Draco would then be infused with a power even Harry Potter couldn't rival. Her son would be great, would go on to ultimately lead the Wizarding World.

And she would be the force guiding him on his way.

It was the stereotype she had railed against intellectually as a teenager at Hogwarts. Why should a woman be recognized by the males in her life? Why be limited to merely being a mother or wife of someone else?

Ultimately, as Narcissa had discovered, it gave them an out. Being the power behind the throne meant there was a screen of protection in case the power backfired. She doubted that Draco would ever be gauche enough to cause as heated an uprising as the one fermenting against Voldemort. But if he found out about Narcissa's plan, it would cause him to crumble, ruining her plans in an instant. He was a willful boy, full of his father's pride. His pride had been hurt when his father had pulled the strings too soon, and he had reacted by rebelling. Narcissa understood this, too. She had built safeguards against such things happening to her. Draco loved her and feared her unconditionally ever since birth. Lucius inspired more fear than love.

But the Seventh of Seventh will make you fail. This was prophesied before you were even born. The sightless crone had warned your mother that a Seventh of Seventh would be born that would unravel your most magnificent of plots.

The prophecy hadn't told when the Seventh of Seventh would be born. That was clouded and hazy for the Seer her mother had hired. If it hadn't been, Narcissa would have calmly committed murder to prevent her fall.

No one crossed her. No one.

She watched as Lucius and Voldemort conversed. Voldemort wasn't the way of the future for the Purebloods. How could an insane megalomaniac possibly lead such a squabbling band of power-hungry and selfish rabble? The Purebloods may have held themselves as elite, but they often acted just as crass as the Mudbloods and Mixed Bloods they railed against.

It took precision to lead an army, precision to lead a nation.

She had taught Draco as much as she could as quickly as she could. Soon it would be time to witness the fruits of her labors.

***

Side entrances blocked, the Death Eaters burst through the main gates with a shower of splinters and slivers of stone. The side entrances had refused the exploding spells, bound with a red sheen that seemed to mock their efforts. The Dementors swirled about then spilled in through the doors, sensing the souls inside. Up the stairs and across the Grand Entranceway they went, silent as the wraiths they appeared to be. The Death Eaters followed, the sound of booted feet ringing out on solid stone. The Dementors flowed across the main staircase, a black tidal wave, the large oak doors to the Great Hall opening before them.

There was a chorus of "Expecto Patronum!" that rang out throughout the Hall, and the Dementors began to make their inhuman screams. The various patroni danced toward the Dementors, silvery specters blending into a silver wave to counter the black. Some Dementors turned and grabbed the closest humans. In a desperate bid to rid themselves of the patroni chasing them, they gave the Kiss to Death Eaters in order to give themselves strength. Their empty husks were tossed to the side, and they were carelessly trodden on by their own comrades. The patroni kept coming, wave after wave of them. The Dementors shrieked, the sound high and wavering, the sound of bone grating on tombstones.

Voldemort arrived at the foot of the main staircase and set fire to the Dementors with a single word. They were incinerated to ash within seconds, and he cast his narrow red eyes upon his followers. The hood still covered his face, and skeletal hands barely were visible from the edge of the robe's sleeves. He looked up, eyes glowing in anger. "Destroy them all!"

As the Death Eaters surged ahead, Voldemort hung back for a moment. He could almost scent the magic that bound him to the Potter child. The magic that had brought him back into corporeal form had also given him ties to all things human within Harry Potter. Voldemort could almost feel the anticipation in the boy, and it was coming from the dungeons.

"He had sought to hide from me, but I know where he is," Voldemort said.

"My lord?" Lucius asked, wand at the ready. "Who is hiding?"

"Potter."

Lucius' lips narrowed into a thin line. "Do you need me at your side, my lord?"

"Bella will be more than enough. Lead my men forward. You are my general."

Lucius swallowed his displeasure and bowed slightly. "Yes, lord. As you wish."

"Of course. Now lead them to victory. When Hogwarts falls, all of this world is mine."

He sincerely doubted that, but Lucius wasn't about to try and dissuade Voldemort when he was in one of his moods. Lucius went off in the direction of the Great Hall, and Voldemort turned to one of the side corridors. He dimly remembered his days in the school, when he was Tom Riddle. As much as he had tried to blot out all reminders of those days, something always remained of the old persona. It was as much ingrained into him as the thread of magic that had come from Harry Potter. Narcissa had tried to explain, but the terms were too vague. The magic was too old, too strange, and Voldemort left the understanding to Narcissa. She had been the key to his resurrection, and he had gifted her handsomely with the keys to a hidden library of Dark Arts books he had collected in his early rise to power. Honored, Narcissa had hurried to devour the contents of the books. Voldemort had been amused. She valued such things so highly, but he knew what true power was.

Once you held the power of life and death over others, everything else paled in comparison. That was true power, to guide and mold others in your vision, the hold complete and utter control over all you could see.

Voldemort had been thwarted once by the love of a mother for her child. He would not be again; he now carried the same blessing as the boy. That tie to the dead could no longer save the boy from certain death. Avada kedavra was bound to work now.

Voldemort moved down the corridor, headed to the dungeons. As he knew she would, Bellatrix Lestrange followed him at a respectful distance. To his surprise, at some distance behind Bellatrix was her sister Narcissa. She carried a look of determination, as if she thought her old magicks would be of some use. Voldemort doubted it, but he appreciated the thought. His two Warrior Maidens, one of body and one of soul. Bellatrix Lestrange liked her blood games and her torture sessions a little too well. Narcissa disliked anything so messy, preferring the cold perfection of her books. Voldemort had often thought there was something else shimmering behind Narcissa's eyes, but doubted it. It was merely the unsteady knowledge of the Old Ways; Narcissa's pride would never allow her to betray her family to double cross Voldemort. Of this he was sure. She had no ambitions of her own, which made her safe enough for his purposes. She wasn't as blindly loyal as her sister, but Narcissa was loyal enough.

Voldemort knew where the dungeons were. They had been his home for seven years, the place where he had plotted and learned the means to carry the plots to fruition. He had met many of the people that would become his first Death Eaters, had determined what his true purpose in life was. It wasn't every day Slytherin's Heir arrived, after all.

"I'm coming for you, Potter," Voldemort hissed in Parselmouth. Bellatrix was laughing, a high twitter of insanity. Narcissa was silent as always.

Even Fate would have to agree that Voldemort was more powerful. He had the Old Ways with him, he had his pet torturer and his had his sheer force of will. Potter was a mere boy, easily frightened. And the Fates themselves were old and senile, gone too long from this plane of existence. This would be merely one more boy marked with runes, one of many. They wouldn't be able to tell the difference between one boy and a thousand others. Narcissa had been right about that; there had been no retribution so far.

Everything was falling into place.

***

The perfect place was a windowless room perfectly square in shape. The cubed room was built into the very foundations of the castle, tight with magic and acted as the central point for the joining of a dozen ley lines. It was reason why the castle had been built on that exact spot, why the cube room had been placed just so in bowels of the castle. The original castle had been rather rectangular in shape, then it had been added to in order to mask the source of its power. The oldest stones were here, and they had absorbed the sheer power of the ley line junction over the centuries. The stones themselves were conducive to magic, and it was for this reason that Regina and Harry waited within it. The stones seemed to whisper their encouragement; they had been infused with the purpose of the building, the hopes and dreams of its inhabitants. The stones knew that they were there to help house a great school of wizardry, that they sheltered the fragile students and teachers from the elements and the dangers outside their borders. The stones bordered on intelligence here, the magic a part of its very substance.

The plan was simple. Harry would speak to Voldemort, Regina would speak to the stones.

Snape parted with a kiss and headed to the Great Hall. The other students ranged out to pick off stragglers and try to herd them to the Great Hall. It was the only place truly shielded with protective spells, and it was directly above the cube room. The Great Hall was tied to the center of Hogwarts' magic field. For no other reason was it built there, and it made a convenient meeting place. Magic ebbed and flowed there, the passage of thousands of feet making the magic sway in a rhythm like language. The castle understood its purpose, understood its charges and the needs of those charges. The pull of the Headmaster was great as well; Dumbledore understood Stone Speech and would hold conversations with the castle itself. The castle hadn't been aware it was lonely, and thirstily absorbed humanity from Dumbledore. When Dumbledore had introduced Regina Vial, the castle had rebelled against her plan. She planned on using the Black Egg, a force of such magnitude that it had been forbidden from this realm entirely. But she spoke in very halting Stone Speech, more image than sound, and tried to explain the limiting spells she had placed upon the egg. The fact that she tried to speak to them in their own tongue was impressive. She was trying to be respectful. She was trying to help. With that alone, they were willing to listen to her unorthodox plans.

Some aspects were quite simple, even to stone. Some aspects were a little more convoluted, mostly because it relied on human nature. But as she and Dumbledore were human, the stones left it to them. They knew humanity best, stones knew their own kind best. They slowly came to understand that Regina needed their help to make her plan work, to contain the blast of the Black Egg, to keep the invading Death Eaters from harming the castle's integrity. The castle would recognize most of them as former students, but these students weren't respectful in the slightest. They wanted to bring down the castle if it would help them kill their enemies, those who protected the children and opposed darkness. The castle had reacted with a shiver of horror at the images Regina had shown them. A victim of theirs, Regina made sure the castle saw the damage done to her body during her capture. The castle soon made the connection, understanding that there would be structural damage if the Death Eaters captured it.

Regina was no general, but she tried. She did the planning, and she would let the others surge forward to fight for their lives and the lives of those they were charged to protect. She would do her part to train the Boy Savior, but she had no true place in the final fight.

The stones had accepted her explanation. They understood a thread beneath the images, that another plane of existence ran through her blood. This was how she could attempt Stone Speech without the wisdom of the ages. The stones had seen this before, several generations ago, in a young man named Wesley Reven. The boy had sacrificed himself in the Great Hall to stop an intruder from attacking the castle. He had loved the place enough to keep it safe at the cost of his own life, and he had joined the castle's magical energies. This was why Regina's magic resonated so well with the castle's defenses, why it was able to sense the different threads of magic running within her. Tempar had plans for this battle, and would try to force this human girl to open a doorway into their dimension.

The stones were wary, but the stones would survive. The stones were strong with magic, had survived for centuries. The stones would always survive.

Humans were another matter.

This one believed she had no place here, but the stones knew better. This one had a place in the course of the battle's history; Tempar would never have sent her there otherwise. They understood what she had done already, what the Headmaster asked her to do still. The Headmaster asked much of her, and she tried to give as much as she could; the chaldorim had spoken with the castle stones about this girl's pain and suffering. The living truth stone had spoken to the Headmaster, had spoken to the stone. It normally was housed in the central cube of the castle, but now was being used to block the other entrances to the castle. The chaldorim was proud to be of visible service to the castle, had assumed its places of position without question once the alarm had sounded. The stones had approved, as the girl understood about using all available help within the castle. The castle itself had defenses, but she wanted to save this as a surprise for the intruders. They had forgotten about the castle, had forgotten about the life within it and the magic running within the crystals encased within the stones.

It was going to be a painful lesson to remember.

They remembered the boy that had grown up in the dungeons. The stones remembered him moving among disused corridors, speaking in tongues and trying to become great. The boy hadn't understood that greatness wasn't the same as power, but something more refined and pure of spirit. Greatness wasn't bought, but earned. The castle felt the boy within the reptilian creature stalking its halls and knew that the boy hadn't learned the lesson yet. He would. There was no doubt of it, as there was much the boy still did not know.

Stone is stronger. Stone is best. Stone is solid and pure, hearty of spirit and silent witness to the greatness in others.

There was another boy, a fragile echo of the reptile boy. He had also grown within these walls, but in the tower and not the dungeon. He had been proclaimed great through no real action of his own, and tried to live up to the name. He tried so hard he often failed himself. The stones saw this, knew that one day he would feel comfortable in his own skin. It happened often enough in others like him. It wasn't the presence of sun or friendship or familial history that made one great and worthy. It was the self assurance of righteousness, it was the confidence of a job well done, it was the knowledge that the difficult but correct path was the only path to take. It took more courage to follow through on the ethical decisions than to bow down to the masses, and it took only great fortitude to be confident in the outcome. Many have been tested within the walls of the castle, and many have found the strength within them to rise to the challenge and become better human beings. Dumbledore had been one, and as such had been a natural choice to become Headmaster. He understood the trials of humanity and time, he knew that sometimes there was no choice but the right choice if the conscience was to be lived with.

The stones knew. They felt the echoes of Dumbledore's influence within the boy. He didn't work directly, as that would be too obvious a push. Sometimes this tactic backfired, and the stones felt his disappointment. He never liked to be obvious, but liked to figuratively hold the hand of his students and wipe away tears while pointing them in the right direction. He never liked to push, but felt that the students would choose their own way eventually. He had such hopes in the goodness of humans, the ultimate virtuousness present in every soul. Sometimes he was wrong, but it wasn't very often. He took each failure personally, and worked even harder for the benefit of the young charges in his care.

The stones sighed with him now. Dumbledore was watching the beginning of the battle, felt the disappointment that things had come to this, that a battle was inevitable. The stones felt his disappointment, but knew it as a human emotion. He hadn't been able to save them all, he hadn't been able to turn them from their purpose. But the stones knew that not all minds could be swayed, that not all hearts were ultimately pure. They felt all the pieces of this chess game fall into their proper places. Dumbledore could feel what the stones felt, having given over much of himself into their care. He was getting old, his body frail and weak. Dumbledore doubted he would survive the outcome of the battle, had already made arrangements.

The stones had their own arrangement.

The battle had begun, the escape of souls too sharp and sudden to be mere deaths. The stones knew the feel of Dementors, knew what they did. The stones braced themselves, knowing it was only the beginning of the battle. Everything was converging to its eventual center. The battle had been inevitable. The stones knew.

Everything was only a matter of time.

***

The Fates, the Three-In-One, the Eumenides, the Erinyes, the Kindly Ones, the Silver Sisters, the Maiden-Mother-Crone, the Tempar.

They watched and waited. Their emissary wouldn't fail them. The teaching had been complete; history was already shifting as it progressed along its chosen track. The boy had learned his lessons well. He knew the Old Ways.

Everything was only a matter of time.

***

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