Crown of Thorns

Chapter III: Anima

Delirium: wHat ArE You LOokinG At? you'Re LOOKING foR soMEThING. AREn'T you? I MeAN, THe way YoU KeEp LOoking AT thinGs. yoU'RE LOOkinG for... soMe... wHy DON't YOU have PRoPeR eyes? insteAD OF those THINGS? EVERyone ELSE IN the famILy'S Got prOPER eyes. um. EXCEpt deSTiny.

Dream: Destiny is blind.

...

Ruby: Listen. I couldn't help overhearing you earlier. You said that destiny was blind. Well, didn't you mean love? It's love that is blind. That's the saying, isn't it?

Dream: The subject is one I find entirely lacking in interest.

-The Sandman VII: Brief Lives by Neil Gaiman

________________________________________________________________________

"NO!!!"

"Hold still!"

"Don't you dare stick that thing in me!!!"

The syringe glinted maliciously in the fluorescent lighting of the Infirmary.

"Get away!" shrieked Hesper Malfoy as the needle loomed closer.

Dr. Diane Elliot looked irritated. "It's just a needle, for Merlin's sake," she snapped. "I can't fix your sprains without injecting a Rehabilis Potion!"

Hesper screamed.

Not a tiny screamlet, but a loud resounding one that echoed throughout the Hippocratus Building.

Dr. Elliot winced. "Hold still or I'll stun you," she barked.

Confronted with that indignation, the DCU student stiffened against the pillow in an uneasily motionless state. Her eyes were wide and dark grey. She clenched her fists until the knuckles were deathly white.

Her face contracted at the jab of the large needle. Although the wizarding world had adopted the syringe, it had not evolved with the Muggle syringe over the years. It remained large, thick, and one of the greatest fears of patients.

Dr. Elliot dabbed Antiseptus Potion on her arm.

"Ow," croaked Hesper Malfoy.

The mediwitch muttered something about weak Americans.

The girl sniffed. "I heard that."

She didn't reply, only murmured a spell and waved her wand over Hesper's ankles. The muscles beneath the bandages for a moment glowed a rich gold, then faded. Dr. Elliot then proceeded to unwind them.

Hesper, propped up against the pillow on a none-to-comfortable examination table, glared at the auburn-haired woman. "It took you long enough."

"Who's the one who's afraid of needles?" responded the caustic mediwitch. She disposed of the last of the bandages. The skin beneath the bandages were translucent white; even more pallid than the complexion that veela blood had given her.

The raven-haired girl hopped off the board. "Thanks," she said with a sardonic smile. "Even if your syringes are antiquated and wide enough to inject small beads into my bloodstream."

"You're welcome," said Dr. Elliot curtly

*********

It felt like freedom. True, she was a bit unsteady on her feet, and she couldn't walk far without her ankles beginning to ache, but she could finally go anywhere she liked.

Her adamantine cuff was still in place. The dean had refused to take it off until she showed herself to be responsible about her Magid powers. She had pointed out that she couldn't do that until the cuff was off, but the door had been shut in her face.

It hampered her studies. She sent a petition to Valerian, to Dumbledore, and then to the Ministry. Valerian flatly refused, Dumbledore did not deign to answer, and the Ministry gave a polite and official equivalent of 'Huh? What are you talking about?' She had replied in kind, with a frosty rave about Civil Rights. In America, this would have worked better. They worshipped Civil Rights there.

Brushing thoughts of the United States aside, Hesper made her way to the lecture hall with a hint of a smile on her lips. She could walk!

She had missed two lectures due to the stasis clapped on her by Dumbledore. The Hogwarts headmaster had returned to his beloved school two days ago, in time for the first day.

"Hey," said Deren Powell with a smirk. "Nice to see you up and around."

Hesper regarded the sophomore coolly, twisting the cuff on her wrist on purpose, as if to say, 'If this were off... you'd be headed to the cleaners, deeply embedded into the carpet...'

Deren's eyes darted to the cuff, translucent bluish-white, etched with runes for extra strength and removal with a special opening spell and bewitched key.

Her eyes became hooded, her lips parted in a malicious smile.

He gave her a half-hearted parting smirk, and said a bit uncertainly, "Later then."

The girl bared her teeth in a smile, and made her way down the aisle to an empty seat. Consequentially, she bumped into auburn-haired Professor Finn.

"Good afternoon, Ms. Malfoy," said Finn coolly. He was always cool. The Magical Theory teacher was one of those people that never turned a hair; the kind that called the ambulance in a clear, precise voice; the kind that dealt with 'situations' with a very chill word. He was very icy towards Hesper. Probably because she was a Malfoy, and one whose affiliations were unknown.

She smiled her 'vampire' smile, the one she reserved for people like Finn. It unnerved the majority of people, but she never got a reaction out of him. "Good afternoon, Professor," she said, matching cool gaze for cool gaze. As a matter of fact, she respected Finn. But that didn't mean she liked him.

If Hesper had to start to like people, Finn could wait at the end line. Before Draco, however, that despicable turncoat.

Finn strode up to the front of the lecture hall as she took her seat and pulled out a notebook. "Today, we will be studying the Druids and the Theory of Magic applied to their culture." He waved his wand (a stab of jealousy resonating through her as he did). The clean white wall flickered into the notes for today. She began to jot them down into her notebook.

"As you know from previous lectures..." here he looked pointedly at Hesper, "...many cultures believed in mana, a field of magic or magical influences. This is actually true, although the scientific term for it would be the Net. The Net is often uneven in places, and sometimes it is not above the ground, but below it, permeating the earth so that magic must be drawn from there. These places are called nodes." Finn waved his wand, and the image on the wall changed to a diagram of the power structure of a node. An almost sadistic smile gently blossomed on Finn's face as he noted the engulfing panic on the faces of his students. Power structure? Node frequencies? Magical resonance factor? Occult matrix? He watched them as their eyes nervously flicked to one another, avoiding each others' gazes, wondering--just when did we study this?

Hesper Malfoy observed him with a trace of faint dislike. The look on her face definitely said, You sicko.

Finn waited a few moments (of complete terror for the students) before saying, "We didn't go over this yet, but I still want you to take a look at it."

The relief gushed out, flooding the hall with its pathetic happiness. Hesper winced.

Finn continued, "The British Isles have an astonishing number of nodes. The Romans often built their strongholds and camps on them. This is one of the reasons why they were able to conquer Britain completely.

"Druid Groves were placed not on nodes but in places of power. These are different from nodes in that the Net manifests in a sort of bowl, collecting in that place. It is easier for witches and wizards to use certain spells in both than in a more mundane place, and easier to use these spells in a place of power than on a node. Although nodes have more magic than places of power, they tend to be difficult to tap into without more complicated spells that might jeopardize the wizard and the spells." Professor Finn's amber eyes (almost yellow) took in some of the students trying to make a diagram of his words.

Poor sods, thought Hesper. They're just inviting trouble.

But to her surprise, Finn did not go out of his way to elaborate his sentences into a vast web of doom for the class. Instead, he took a detour into Magical Theory. Still deadly--but not as amusing as a run-on sentence.

"But why only certain spells? That is because most spells are designed to take the inherent magic of the witch or wizard who uses it. You all know that. Wands are used to channel that energy, and enhance it. Magids..." here he looked specifically at Hesper again, "... can do wandless magic. But at the expense of their energy resources. Most spells are designed to use those resources. Others also tap into the Net. There is no known spell that takes energy entirely from the Net. There is no spell that is without a price. Remember that.

"Going back to Magids--in some people, their magic is stronger than others. Why? Some of this is genetics. Some of this is simply fluke. The Net manifests in a pattern that is entirely random.

"Contrary to the teachings of the Dark Lord," he gazed briefly at Hesper again, "Muggle blood does not dilute magic. In fact, it helps genes to filter out inbred defects. Statistically, there are more Magids with Muggle blood than pureblooded Magids. Sometimes, a Magid is even born to two Muggle parents.

"Magic is a chaotic pattern. For example. Our own Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter. Mr. Potter's mother was Muggle-born, yet he is a Magid. Mr. Malfoy is of the purest lines, and he is also a Magid. Magic does not discriminate."

Hesper jotted this down and gazed at her professor with something in the lines of her sardonic smile that said, What? Is this supposed to be an insult?

Cold yellow eyes only laughed at her. Finn spoke with soft malice. "This is why the Death Eaters failed. Because they would not open their eyes to the truth. They hid behind their cause--which meant nothing--and after the Dark Lord's first fall, they hid behind pretenses."

He glanced at Hesper again, and then gave a very satisfied smile. She was livid with fury, her muscles tensed and her lips curled in an angry snarl.

She was about to say something, but she checked herself and dug her nails into her palms instead. Her self-control was truly admirable. But then again, she ceased to take notes on this lecture.

******************

Not far from Green Mountain Druid College, there was another college gathering together. And in the center of the darkening maelstrom was a hooded man that called himself Lord Orion.

And by his side was one greater than he, the Lady Eoduin. A Botticelli angel, a cherub that smiled, then stabbed you.

But it would be artistically done.

She cared not for the power that was so heady for Lord Orion, or to his trusted Bloodstorm. Her motives were hidden, like the thoughts of the smiling winged child.

"Bless this college, bless this place. Like a forum of old, it shall be. Like the forums of Rome, like the forums of Faerie. Bell, book, and candle, I bless thee. Curses shall slide off, Hexes be destroyed. May the light of Ankhmet the Magid be with thee. May the light of the First Spellweavers be with thee. With mead this pact is sealed, that all demons that come here, come for the Final Exorcising. I name thee Silver Rose. May this college be the eye of the Storm. May we bring to heel a straying world.

"So mote it be."

"So mote it be," murmured the company gathered. And a strange company it was. The children of the Death Eaters, the second generation of the disciples of the Dark Lord. Believers of the Balance, and those who would follow Darkness for the sake of Darkness. And idealists, those who saw Eoduin as their leader. The leader that would change the world.

Blaise pushed back her hood. She entertained no such lofty thoughts. Her red hair blazed in the candlelight, her green eyes glinted. She coldly passed her eyes over the Bloodstorm.

And Eoduin's black eyes met them.

And they were black. Not a dark, dark brown, but the true dark of night, the black of the Mother Night, the pupils rimmed with a circle of silver fire.

Eoduin dimpled coldly, those black eyes expressionless. And Blaise looked away.

"A strange blessing, my lady," rasped Lord Orion from beneath his hood.

"It is a fitting blessing," she replied, still smiling. "A fitting blessing." She poured mead into a wooden cup from the high table in the center of the circle. She lifted it to the candlelight, and drank from it. "With mead this pact is sealed." She spilled the rest on the ground. The sweet scent of fermented honey permeated the air. Eoduin poured some more from a red clay jar, and handed it to Lord Orion. He took a sip, and passed it to Araselle Pulsifer beside him. She drank from it and handed it to Adam Kemp. The mead passed around the circle.

The magic left over from former deeds such as this trembled in the air. This place was saturated with Dark Magic, like a soaked sponge full of vinegar, lifted up to the parched lips of a dying Christ.

She would drink of the cup soon. Her fair fingers clutched the wooden cup, worn smooth with how many rituals? How many bloodbaths? She drank of the cup. The mead tasted terrible. Blaise passed it on to the Bloodstormer beside her.

It came back to Eoduin, who placed the cup gently on the solid stone table that held a heavy grimoire bound in musty black leather and blackened silver, a black candle in an only slightly tarnished silver candlestick engraved with writing dragons and thorns, and a round silver bell. It was still somewhat shiny, etched with runes and symbols and twisting roses.

"Silver Rose Druid College," said Lord Orion ruminatively. "A strange name."

"Not so strange that you have not heard of it, Carys," she said sweetly.

Lord Orion grunted.

The Bloodstorm shifted nervously. They were by no means used to Eoduin riling Lord Orion, and even less used to someone riling him and getting away unscathed.

But they were getting there.

******************

If someone had told her 10 minutes ago, that she would be reading a Star Wars book, Ginny would have said, "Star Wars? You mean those crappy sci-fi movies I had to watch when I was babysitting with Hermione? Why the hell would I be reading a Star Wars BOOK? Are there even books?" But then again, 10 minutes ago, her date with Seamus was still on.

"Um, Ginny?"

"Seamus? Is that you?"

"Yeah--"

"I was wondering, should we go to Licornes, or to the Ki-Lin?"

"Uh. Ginny."

"Or should--yes, Seamus?"

"Coach just announced Quidditch practice today. We'll have to move our date over to next week."

"That's fine, Seamus."

That was the part when she hung up, and threw the telephone across the room.

If someone had told her 8 minutes ago that she would be reading a Star Wars book, Ginny would have said, "Shut-up-shut-up-shut-up."

If someone had told her 5 minutes ago that she would be reading a Star Wars book, she would have said, "Look, I'm not that miserable. Really."

If someone had told her 3 minutes ago, Ginny would have whirled around rather guiltily, slammed the book shut, and snapped, "You really don't need to rub it in!"

And to her surprise, it was actually good. But then again, she could be going mad from being deprived of time with her boyfriend.

In the old days--at the height of the Empire's power--it would have been inconceivable for a man as young as Tschel to serve as a bridge officer aboard a ship like the Chimaera. Now--

He looked down at the equally young man at the engineering monitor. Now, in contrast, the Chimaera had virtually no one aboard except young men and women.

Slowly, Pellaeon let his eyes sweep across the bridge, feeling the echoes of old anger and hatred twist through his stomach.

******************

Anger. Hatred. She had dealt with it all her life, and yet Blaise still shuddered inwardly when she was in the Grand Chamber.

It had taken six months for the Bloodstorm to organize undetectable Portkeys to the old stronghold. The Aurors had furiously scrubbed all over the castle, looking for any mischief that the Death Eaters had left in their gathering place.

They had not missed much. But there were still remnants of their predecessors. The anger. The hate. The darkness of their hearts and the determination of their intent had soaked into the very foundations of the place.

In the old days, they would not have lived in fear of the Ministry. In the old days, the Ministry lived in fear of the Dark Lord and his own.

Her green eyes flickered over the assembled Bloodstorm, talking nervously with each other as they planned the next strike.

Strike. Petty little acts. How paltry it was compared to the old glory.

Lord Orion sat on his throne, in gloomy contemplation. Eoduin spoke softly with serious-faced Carl Rozier. They were in power now. Lucius Malfoy had finally been given the Dementor's Kiss, Wormtail also. They had all been sentenced to living death, every single one of them.

The Ministry could not let him come back. They made sure Voldemort's remains were thoroughly destroyed, then dispersed throughout the world--some were even sent to the vacuum of space.

The Dark Lord was now gone. And even his ideals were dying.

"Thinking about the lost days?" asked an amused voice by her ear. Blaise's head whipped around to face a smiling Eoduin. "I know. I often think of them myself."

"Did you read my thoughts?" asked Blaise before she could stop herself.

"No. But I can tell by that look of reminiscence on your face... the regret..." she gave a heavy sigh. "I also remember those days."

"They're gone," said Blaise steadily. "They were all killed. I should have died also, even though I did not assist the Dark Lord. I should have." She did not say whether she should have died or whether she should have helped He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Master.

"Regrets, regrets," said Eoduin serenely. "Nothing more bitter than regrets." Her eyes grew dreamy. "Soon there will terror again. We will not wait long."

"He's dead," she said bitterly. "None can take his place."

"Oh, I don't know about that. We'll find someone." Her manner suddenly became brisk. "Now, think some cheerful thoughts. I'll be off on an errand now."

And she was gone. She had not used a Portkey--evidently she had used Apparition, although the Aurors had set up wards so that no one could Apparate or Disapparate around the perimeter.

Chills went up her back.

...but despite his best efforts, they had never regained the initiative against the Rebels. Instead, they had been steadily pushed back... until they were here.

The glory days were gone.

******************

Not far from there, in the port city of Cardiff, a smiling woman with black hair and dark green eyes sat in Starbucks, sipping a cappuccino.

This was a natural occurrence. The woman in a dark green silk blouse, black pants (of a satiny texture and of a blend of 1% this and 3% that and 5% spandex), and a black coat liked coffee very much. Her hair was in a bun, with two silvery chopsticks studded with glittering stones. Unknown to the residents of Cardiff, the chopsticks were of mithril, the hardest metal in this world. Or, that is, that was ever in this world. What little mithril that was left on this plane had long been taken away by the Fair Folk, who had retreated into Faerie a long time ago.

And the stones that adorned them were not rhinestones, or even diamonds, but adamantine, the infamous deterrent to magic.

But they did not know, and Ms. Vertieux intended to keep it that way.

She fed the pigeons with pieces of her pastry. Catherine was not feeling hungry just then.

In fact, she was remarkably bad tempered this morning, but showed it by smiling at everyone and not paying attention to the pigeons.

She was a very patient woman.

"Catherine," said a familiar voice.

Her dark green eyes slowly moved upwards. She already knew who was standing there. A sweet, dimpling woman with silver roses stamped on her raven hair.

"Eoduin," she said respectfully. She didn't have to like her to respect her. And respect she had to.

"Catherine, Catherine," said Eoduin in a faintly chiding voice. "Sitting in Cardiff, feeding a very nice pastry to the pigeons. The Gift is not something to be thrown away."

"Throwing it away? I do as I please," she said in a softer voice, loaded with menace.

The other woman laughed. "You're wasting your time with that girl. What's her name. I doubt she'll ever be your tool." Her black eyes glittered. Eoduin was dressed in a long dark red velvet dress and artfully torn fishnet. She wore boots with a great many buckles. She looked like just another Goth girl. The silver roses on her hair were hidden by a garnet red scarf. "I have made sure of it."

"Don't get involved with those petty struggles, Eoduin. They're not worth it." Catherine maliciously hit an especially fat pigeon on the head with a chunk of her Danish. The pigeon tried to flap, jiggled a bit, and ended up in a daze on the pavement.

"Petty? It's rather fun, having a cause."

"A cause, a cause. It's always a high and lofty cause, isn't it?"

"So you say. Aren't you fabricating your own little conflicts? Trying to play the High Goddess?"

"You are such a hypocrite."

All of a sudden, her manner changed. "Don't call me that," she purred threateningly. "Wasting your time in Wales, watching the Death Eaters and the Bloodstorm clash, then both run away from the Ministry. It strikes you as funny, doesn't it? Unworthy of Voldemort's name."

"He was a rare individual," said Catherine wistfully. "I do wish I knew him."

"Like Blanche Malfoy?"

"She knew what she was doing," said Catherine sharply. "And what was done was done."

Eoduin chuckled softly. "Do you not wish to be part of it all? A great storm is coming. A great storm."

"I need no great storm to amuse myself." Catherine waved her hand, and sipped her cappuccino.

"If you wish." She rose, and then was gone. No one seemed to notice, except for the pigeons (who flapped away).

"Pah," said Catherine to herself, and sipped her cappuccino. "Hypocrite."

******************

Across the sea, in the city of New York, a British Auror was looking up some old records. This Auror was Alexander Blair, and he was twenty-four years old. He had also been schooled at the knee of Mad-eye Moody, and also shared his paranoia.

Moody had been forced into retirement because of his age. However, he still unofficially helped out with the Department of Law Enforcement. Moody had also been strictly forbidden by Dumbledore to investigate of Hesper Malfoy. Moody had growled, then had secretly dispatched Blair to check out the New York archives.

It was nine in the morning. Blair had been searching since six. And there was still nothing on Malfoy, Hesper. Only a birth certificate that stated she was born May 1^st, 1982, in Boston.

With an exasperated growl, he grabbed all the files on the more recent Malfoys. Blair flipped through the first pages. He then swore.

******************

"Seems unlikely," Karrde said, watching her closely. The emotion in her voice when she'd said Luke Skywalker's name... "The Emperor supposedly made a clean sweep of them in the early days of the New Order. Unless," he added as another thought occurred to him, "they've perhaps found Darth Vader."

"Vader died on the Death Star," Mara said. "Along with the Emperor."

"That's the story, certainly--"

"He died there," Mara cut him off, her voice suddenly sharp.

"Of course," Karrde nodded. It had taken him five months of close observation, but he'd finally pinned down the handful of subjects guaranteed to trigger strong responses from the woman...

...Someday, he promised himself silently, he was going to find a way to dig the details of her past out from under the cloak of secrecy she'd so carefully shrouded it with. To find out where she'd come from, and who and what she was.

And to learn exactly what it was Luke Skywalker had done to make her so desperately hate him.

Ginny sighed and looked up from the book to the clock, something she had not done in an hour. She then yelped in surprise, cursed, grabbed her backpack, and fled down the stairs.

She was late for Arithmancy.

******************

About ten minutes after Ginny left the building, there was a knock on the door of Room No. 13, on the third floor of Lindskold Hall. The door then opened, and Charlie Weasley dropped off a package on Hesper Malfoy's bed.

He looked around, then reluctantly stepped out and closed the door.

******************

Meanwhile, somewhere above the British Isles, a pretty woman whose passport said she was Mary Tatensworth, flew First Class. She had dimples, an ivory light cotton dress with a sandy colored belt, and a bucket hat of the same color. Miss Tatensworth was exceedingly kind and polite. Angelically so. She drank red wine, and although she dimpled very prettily, the sight of her reddened lips sent an inexplicable shudder up the flight attendant's back.

Mary Tatensworth smiled at her, and drank more wine.

She was headed toward New York.

******************

Hesper scowled as she made her way (a little unsteadily) up the stairs. Finn's lecture had dampened her mood considerably.

She viciously kicked the stair. Her ankle exploded in pain. Hesper swore and sat down abruptly.

When the pain slowly throbbed away, she assessed her ankle. Nothing wrong with it. It was just that kicking a solid step wasn't a very good idea just then.

Hesper walked gingerly up another flight, then began the long trek to the end of the hall.

After what seemed forever, she finally got to room 13. Hesper would have kicked the door open, but she had already learned her lesson.

The door swung open on an empty room. Her copy of Heir to the Empire lay on Ginny's bed.

"Just what I need," she muttered. "Another person criticizing my taste in books."

Then she noticed the package on her bed. Dumping her backpack and books on the floor, she sat on the bed and picked it up. A parchment was Spellotaped to the brown paper. In a barely readable scrawl, it said, 'For Hesper. Art class. Sculpture. Lyons's directions enclosed. Good luck. -Charlie.'

She had forgotten about the class she had missed yesterday. And she had forgotten her request to Charlie. It had been quite logical. Intercampus owling was banned, because the air traffic tended to get too clogged up with owls. Especially since many people traveled to and from the University on brooms. Therefore, junior staff members, aides, and those in detention ended up playing courier for others and themselves.

For some strange reason, the sight of that scrawl made her feel much better.

With a smile, she began to tear the brown paper.

******************

Mary Tatensworth got off at John F. Kennedy Airport at 8:27 PM. Exact.

She was still serene, although her mouth tasted like shit and she had downed enough wine to knock out the crew of that particular plane, including all the flight attendants with their fake smiles.

For some odd reason, they had not noticed she obviously had supernatural powers, or was dead drunk and still gliding along quite gracefully.

It could have been be normal Muggle skepticism, the kind that makes your brain heal over when you see angels and demons. It could also have been the wad of hundred dollar bills (now slightly diminished) that was in her purse.

The woman whose passport said Mary Tatensworth now pulled out an Apparating license that stated she was Eoduin Fairchild.

Take this into consideration: neither and both were true.