A Type of Revenge

Chapter 7 will be along when I have the beta’d copies of the next chapter.

 

I think that’s all I needed to say. So go read the nice story, everyone.

 

WARNING: Slash occurs. And triads. If you can’t handle this, don’t read it.

 

Chapter Six:

 

“Harry, why didn’t you tell me that they were a triad?”

 

Harry looked at his best friend, startled, “I didn’t think it mattered.”

 

“Well it does,” snapped Ron.

 

“Why?”

 

“It’s a triad. Three people in one relationship. It’s disgusting.”

 

“That’s rather narrow minded of you, Ron,” observed Hermione.

 

“It’s not just me,” said Ron defensively, “The whole wizarding world thinks that way.”

 

“Are you sure?” asked Harry, “I mean, what’s the problem with it?”

 

“Yes, I’m sure. They go insane, and kill each other, and destroy friendships, and all sorts of horrible things, and it’s three people in a relationship.”

 

“So? Some people would say that we’re a triad, Ron.”

 

Ron looked uncomfortably at Harry, “But that’s different.”

 

“Why?”

 

“We aren’t... We’re not...” he blushed as red as his hair.

 

“Having sex?” asked Harry, kindly helping him out. They heard some shocked gasps from behind where they were sitting.

 

“Keep your voice down,” hissed Ron, “Do you want all of the school thinking that we’re sleeping together?” His own voice rose steadily as he spoke.

 

More shocked exclamations from behind the couch.

 

Harry laughed, “It seems that you’ve already given that idea to them.”

 

“Well, at least they’ll think I have good taste,” said Hermione, blushing a little.

 

Ron went scarlet, “You shouldn’t... That’s not a... Why’d you say that anyways?”

 

Harry laughed, he couldn’t help it. Ron and Hermione were looking at each other cautiously, as if each had discovered the other to be something other than what they had thought them. And the look on Ron’s face when Hermione said that... It was priceless.

 

“Oh do stop laughing,” snapped Hermione, “It isn’t funny.”

 

“Maybe not,” agreed Harry, “But the look on Ron’s face was.”

 

Ron glared at him, but couldn’t help laughing too. And then Hermione poked her head over the back of the couch when they heard some more surprised sounds, and saw Seamus, Dean, Lavender and Parvati sitting on some cushions, with shocked looks. She was giggling when she sat down again.

 

“What is it?” asked Ron.

 

“Oh, Dean, Seamus, Lavender and Parvati are sitting behind us, and if you thought the look on Ron’s face was funny, Harry, you should see them.”

 

Ron and Harry started to stand up straight away. Hermione pulled them down. “Do you want them to know?” she hissed.

 

Ron shrugged, “They already know if they’re still listening.” Still, he sat down again.

 

Harry sighed, and turned reluctantly to copying out Hermione’s notes from that morning.

 

“That isn’t going to help you avoid my original question,” said Ron to him, “Why didn’t you tell me that they were a triad?”

 

Harry shrugged, “I thought you knew, to tell the truth. And it doesn’t really matter does it?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Is a triad like being gay amongst the muggles?” asked Hermione.

 

“No. A triad’s worse than being gay. Not that being gay is looked upon fondly by the wizarding community, ‘cause it’s not, but a triad is worse.”

 

“Triads aren’t popular amongst the muggles either,” observed Hermione neutrally.

 

“You don’t hear about any triads, Hermione. It’s as though they don’t exist in the muggle world.”

 

“A triad has to do something really important before they are accepted,” explained Ron, “And even then they aren’t looked upon with much favour.”

 

“But why?”

 

“Too many of them have broken, and destroyed things, and people when they break. And it’s a disgusting practice.”

 

“I don’t think that theirs will break,” said Harry thoughtfully, “I stayed with them for some weeks last summer, and they way they interact together when they think that no one is watching is embarrassingly soppy.”

 

“When we were in the infirmary,” said Hermione, “I saw how much they loved each other. It was almost scary to see.”

 

“Yeah,” agreed Harry, “Love that strong is scary. They never stopped loving each other, even when Sirius was in Azkaban, and the other two thought that he had betrayed them.”

 

“Never?” asked Ron sceptically.

 

“Never,” Harry paused, wondering if he should say anything about three sets of matching scars. He had to, he decided eventually. Ron was as much his family as the triad were, and he didn’t want his family to be at outs with each other.

 

“Are you sure, Harry?” Hermione asked.

 

“Yeah.” He remembered the desperate look on Sirius’ face when he’d entered the infirmary the previous night, “I’m sure. They’re... They’re balanced, Ron.”

 

“Balanced?”

 

Harry struggled to find words, “They love each other equally. Not one more than the other, and they’re equal in the relationship too. Sarai says that they work so well together because the triad is made up of a werewolf, a half-Sidhe, and an escaped convict. She’s joking of course, but there is an element of truth in what she says.” The others were quiet, so Harry continued speaking, “They couldn’t survive without each other I think. I asked Sarai once, what would happen if either Sirius or Remus died. She showed me her arms.”

 

Ron and Hermione looked blank. “What’s so important about her arms?” asked Ron.

 

“There’s a long white scar on both of them. When Sirius was in Azkaban, she and Remus couldn’t bear to stay together without him. So she ended up getting a knife and slitting her wrists. They run from just below her elbow, to her wrist, along the main vein. She said that the other two had identical ones.”

 

“That’s so romantic,” sighed Hermione.

 

“Romantic?” queried Ron, scornfully.

 

“That they can’t live without each other. It’s like Romeo and Juliet.”

 

“What? Who are they?”

 

“It’s in a muggle play by William Shakespeare. Romeo and Juliet are the two main characters. It’s a forbidden love, and he kills himself when he thinks that she is dead, and then she kills herself when she finds out that he is dead. It’s a very romantic play.”

 

“Sounds crazy.”

 

“It’s not that crazy. I’ll have my parents send my copy of the complete works to me, and you can read it.”

 

“No thanks, Hermione. I have enough to read as it is.”

 

“All right then. Go on, Harry.”

 

“As near as they can work out, it was done on the same day. And yet they all survived, and are together as a triad. They wouldn’t work as a pair, so it’s just as well.”

 

“Are you sure, Harry?”

 

“Yes. I’m not entirely comfortable with it myself,” said Harry, “But I would ask that you not judge them by it.”

 

“I’ll try not to,” said Ron, quietly.

 

“So will I,” added Hermione, “And now we better get some work done.”

 

Ron groaned, “We have that chart to do for Divination, Harry.”

 

“Great,” sighed Harry, “More death threats to make up.”

 

“You really shouldn’t do that,” said Hermione, with pursed lips.

 

They ignored her.

* * * * *

At breakfast the following day, Draco had been watching Potter and his friends with what had become a customary obsession, when he noticed the owl that was coming his way. He observed it winging its way towards him. Please let it be for someone else, he begged mentally, but as it got closer, he recognised it as being one of Lucius’ special courier owls, and that feeble hope was dashed completely as it landed beside his plate. Automatically, he offered it a slice of bacon off his plate, but it turned its beak away at the almost cold offering. Draco took the scroll off its leg, and looked around for some warmer bacon. There was some on Goyle’s plate, so he deftly snitched it, and replaced it with the cold piece from his own plate. He gave the warm bit to the owl, who condescendingly ate it. He turned his attention to the parchment by his plate. He broke the seal with fingers that trembled only slightly.

 

Draco,

 

It has come to the attention of our Master that in your year there are a number of potential Death Eaters. One of these is Pansy Parkinson. You are to make contact with her and train her in all the rites and rituals for the Death Eaters that I trained you in. She has been contacted by now, and will be expecting you.

 

I trust that you will do a good job and uphold the family name.

 

Your father,

 

Lucius

 

Draco almost lost the control that he was so proud of. He had to train Pansy? That overly ambitious young death-eater-in-training? The one who was getting a name that rivalled Heather Wiley’s as the slut of Slytherin, and the Death Eaters? Draco felt his lips turn up in a cold smile. This could be fun.

* * * * *

Harry sat on a couch in Sarainail’s living room. She had been released from the infirmary by Madam Pomfrey, on the condition that she took it easy. And that meant, said Sirius, that she wasn’t to do any teaching, or anything, but sit down, and relax. Sarai had protested of course, but they had insisted. Remus didn’t mind teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts for her, and Sirius enjoyed keeping her company. They had been updating how the spies and other operatives were organised, and other tasks to do with the running of the League of Light. He wasn’t entirely sure that a complete reorganisation of the intelligence section of the League could be counted as taking it easy, but that was the only way they could keep her occupied, since Remus was teaching her classes, and Sirius was doing the small amount of research that Sarai had been working on in her spare time.

 

“So that’s how it’s going to be organised, Harry. You understand why I haven’t mentioned any names of course, and the new system means that I need to know the name of your contact by the end of the school year.”

 

“I understand, Sarai, but why do I need to know all this?”

 

“You don’t,” said Remus harshly, coming into the room, “Sarai, I thought we agreed that you weren’t going to tell him.”

 

“No. That’s what you said, love. I never said any such thing.”

 

“Quite,” agreed Remus icily, “You just let me think you did.”

 

“Remus, I said it was my decision. I don’t interfere with your strategy and plans, or Sirius’ tactics and raids, and you two don’t interfere with my organisation of the intelligence section.”

 

“It’s not your organisation that I have a problem with, our Sarai. It’s who you’re using in your organisation that I have a problem with.”

 

“Remus, I’ll use anyone, and anything within reason to have defeat Voldemort. If that means using eighteen year old boys, then I will use them,” declared Sarainail passionately, “Also, all of my people know the risks, and have accepted them. Anyway, I don’t see what your problem is, beloved, you’re the one who uses the information I get.”

 

“It’s their ages I have a problem with, Sarai. Eighteen is too young to get involved in a war.”

 

“That’s the legal call up age for muggles,” Sarai pointed out, “Remus, what were we doing when we were eighteen, hmmm? The elders couldn’t stop us from fighting then, not even you, and we survived, didn’t we?”

 

“Our triad did, Sarai, but at what cost? And what of those that didn’t?” He was aware that he sounded bitter and angry, but couldn’t stop himself.

 

“Too high a cost,” she said bitterly, “And we lost too many also. But it was our choice to fight, and we decided that we couldn’t possibly not. Remus, you’ve taught them, as have I. Do you honestly think that any of them will be able to avoid being caught up in the war?”

 

He dropped his gaze, “Honestly, love, no, I don’t. But you are not the one who has to send them out to fight.”

 

“And neither are you.” calm, and direct. Sarainail would not compromise on this.

 

“But I am the one who makes the decisions about where they go, our Sarai. And to send out James’ son...”

 

“Can you honestly do anything less, our Remus?” asked Sirius, coming over to join them.

 

“No. Not if that is what he wants.”

 

“Do you think that it doesn’t worry me too, beloved? I have to decide whether the information is worth the price that my people will pay to get it. We will all take damage in this war, whether we like it or not. We have chosen to pay the price. So do we have the right to stop them from choosing?”

 

“No,” Remus sighed, “You’re right. I just wish that it didn’t have to be this way.”

 

Sirius looked very tired suddenly, his face lined prematurely and his hair slightly greying. Some of the lines were from the previous war, and many were from Azkaban, but there were new worry lines on his face from this war. They all looked older, Harry realised. There was grey in Lupin’s hair and lines on his face, as well as Sarai’s face. You couldn’t see any grey in her hair, but that was only because it was such a pale blond. “War is always like this, our Remus, beloved,” he leant his chin upon Remus’ shoulder, and Sarai came over and wrapped them both in a hug. They relaxed into each other with the ease of the long time beloved - long time lovers, which they were.

 

“Love you,” they all said at the same time, and laughed a little sheepishly. Sarai turned back to Harry, and his original question, the lines on her face smoothing out suddenly, until he wondered if he had imagined them.

 

“Why do you think that I’m telling you this?”

 

Harry met the steady gaze in the green cat eyes, unflinchingly, “Because you want me to take over if you die.”

 

“Yes,” agreed Sarai gently, “And to do that, you have to know my system.”

 

“I see,” Harry got up slowly, and left the room, “I’ll see you all later, okay?”

 

“Fine.”

 

“We have other things to do anyway,” murmured Sirius wickedly, dropping a kiss on Remus’ neck. He laughed, and wrapped his arms around Sarai’s waist. Harry left more quickly than he had intended, still not comfortable with their easy touching.

* * * * *

Draco had slept relatively well for the few nights that had passed since he had spoken to Potter. Speaking of Salem had eased the nightmares temporarily, but they had come back again, and Potter had been caught up in them too. Why would Potter be in my nightmares? wondered Draco angrily. He didn’t like the other boy, or even hate him any more, although there would always be some antagonism between them. Well, I am closer to hating him than liking him. But why my nightmares? What do I care about Potter?

 

This line of thinking was getting him nowhere. Quietly, so not to disturb his roommates, Draco got up, and left the Slytherin dungeons. He went to the music room. It was there that he had found temporary peace before, in the music that he’d played, and later, when Potter had asked about Salem; maybe he would find it there again. So, he played. He played all the pieces that he had been taught, both by Salem, and those he’d learned by himself, and all the ones that he had done as a duet with Salem, and when all of those did not help, he turned to the compositions that he had done in previous weeks when he couldn’t sleep.

 

But still peace did not come.

* * * * *

Draco watched Potter from across the classroom, considering his next move. Should he contact Potter? He didn’t really want to start crying all over him again, and get hysterical, but he wanted to talk about Salem to someone. Anyone. He could keep a journal, and write his memories of her in that, but there were a couple of problems with that. For one thing...

 

“Mr Malfoy, could you please explain to this class precisely why you do not put in the dragon’s blood before the fairy dust?” asked Professor Snape acidly.

 

Draco came back to earth with a thud. He looked at his cauldron in some amazement, “It’s frothing,” he said blankly.

 

“Precisely,” said Snape. “You are all seventh years. By now, you should know that the more effective wet ingredients go in after the dry ingredients. Please add the calcinth leaves before it erupts.”

 

Draco took a closer look at his potion. It was making decidedly threatening noises. He hastily added the calcinth leaves, and looked at Snape.

 

“Now you have prevented it from raining all over the class, you can wait until it settles down, and then start again.”

 

Draco nodded. The potion would take about five minutes to stop bubbling, so he had a few minutes to think some more. The problems with writing his memories about Salem in a journal. Well the most obvious problem is that it would be too accessible for other people. If he started writing, he would put things in that would be considered traitorous by Voldemort, and the Death Eaters, and if someone found it... He shuddered, and took the cauldron over to the sink in order to tip the potion down the drain.

 

While he was waiting for the Cream of Mylan to boil, along with the nightshade, the frog’s eggs, and armadillo bile, he thought some more about the problems with the journal. Other people could read it, that was obvious, and he didn’t have to skills yet to prevent them from doing so. Oh, he could stop someone like the Weasel from getting in to it, but someone like Pansy? He looked over to the person in question and mentally grimaced. She was infernally nosy, and she had the power and the ability to investigate anything that took her fancy. And everyone in Slytherin who was foolish enough to write a diary or a journal had had it read, and anything interesting or scandalous spread around the school. Privately, Draco thought that was a rather crude way of doing it. He would have tried blackmail first, just to keep his hand in.

 

What was next on the list? The expensive dry ingredients that you had to put in before the effective liquids. He chucked them in, as well as the slime, and the rabbit fur. When the rabbit fur caught fire, it was time to add the dragon’s blood. He turned his attention inward again. Burning fur wasn’t that easy to miss, although Longbottom appeared to have managed it. A journal didn’t ask questions, didn’t jog his memory, and want to know about the little things that Draco remembered about Salem. He could write to Weasley in South America, of course, but that was too easily traceable by spies at Hogwarts. Foreign mail was noticed. Time to add the dragon’s blood. He probably should contact Potter. They needed a more reliable way of establishing that one wanted to contact the other. Telling himself that that was the reason that he wanted to contact Potter, not that it was because of the way that Potter had held him the other night, because of the way that Potter’s hair was always in a mess, and he wanted to run his hands through it, and see if it felt as soft as it looked, and it definitely wasn’t because of how it had felt when Potter kissed him. His lips had been warm and gentle, and he had wanted to drown in their warmth, and stay there forever. Well not just kissing forever, Draco thought wickedly, it would be nice to do more than that... Wait - what am I thinking? I don’t want this. I have enough on in my life as it is. No, I am not contacting Potter for any of those reasons. I need to tell someone about Salem, and he is the best candidate, and we need to set up a regular set of times to speak with each other. That is why I need to speak to him. Not because of how his arm felt around me... My potion! Draco hastily, very hastily added the dried sunflowers that finished off this particular potion. Potter had finished before him, because of his distraction, and he was now leaving the dungeon with Granger and the Weasel in tow. They had to pass him on their way out.

 

“Potter,” said Draco coolly as they neared him.

 

“Malfoy,” Potter sounded tired, and weary. Draco wondered why he would feel that way for a minute, then realised that Potter was probably worried about Professor Grey. And then he wondered why he was even wondering about Potter. It wasn’t as if he cared when those emerald green eyes were dulled by weariness, and worry, when there were shadows under them because Potter hadn’t been sleeping because of nightmares or things that went bump in the night.

 

“Your mother was a good for nothing mudblood,” said Draco. He always felt so alive in these confrontations with Potter, which was one reason that he had started so many of them in the past few years.

 

“And yours,” snapped Potter without stopping, “Is a bigger slut that Heather Wiley was.”

 

Draco was furious. How dare Potter use information that he had given him? By the time he had controlled his rage enough to speak, Potter had gone. And by the time that sank in, he was wondering why he even cared what Potter said about Narcissa.

* * * * *

“Are you all right, Harry?”

 

“Do you want me to go and beat the git up?” demanded Ron.

 

“We should do something to him,” agreed Hermione.

 

Harry sat down in the Gryffindor common room. They really needed a different way of telling each other that they needed to speak to them. He wasn’t sure if Ron could handle any more of those insults without hitting Malfoy. Did Malfoy actually mean what he had said about his mother? If he did... Harry wasn’t precisely sure what he would do, but it wouldn’t be pleasant. He had tried to show Malfoy that he hadn’t meant what he said by using Heather Wiley as an example. He had looked up some of the names that Malfoy had mentioned when they spoke, and found that he had pretty much been told the truth. There were a few easily explained discrepancies, but on the whole, Malfoy had been honest. Harry wasn’t quite sure whether that worried him or not. A honest Malfoy? Could such a thing exist? Ron would say no, of course, but Harry wasn’t so sure.

 

“Harry, are you listening to us?” demanded Ron.

 

“No,” said Harry truthfully, “I was wondering whether he meant it or not.”

 

“Of course he meant it, Harry.”

 

“What do you mean, if he meant it?”

 

“It’s such a patently false accusation, that I wondered.”

 

“Yours wasn’t entirely accurate either,” observed Hermione dispassionately.

 

“No,” agreed Harry, “But it’s all that I could think of at the time. I’ve been doing a bit of reading about the last war against Voldemort...”

 

“Harry, call him You Know Who,” snapped Ron.

 

“That just gives him extra power over us,” retorted Harry. The argument was an old one, older than the one that Hermione and Ron always had about the importance of the N.E.W.Ts, and neither boy would agree to change their mind. Harry continued, but didn’t mention Voldemort by name out of courtesy for Ron, “So I’ve been reading about the last war, to get a sense for the tactics that were used last time, and Heather Wiley’s name was mentioned a number of times, always in association with a man, and usually different men too. An uncommon whore was what one book called her. So, I decided to use her as a comparison.”

 

“I wonder if the reason that Malfoy looked so mad is because it was more accurate than we might think,” said Ron thoughtfully, “Wouldn’t that be a laugh, Harry?”

 

“Yeah,” said Harry.

 

“We should either do some work now,” said Hermione, “Or get some rest, because the Lady Taranquil is visiting tonight, and we have to be awake late.”

 

Harry nodded, relieved that the conversation had been directed away from vengeance on Malfoy. He didn’t really want to think about why he was relieved, but listening to Ron and Hermione bicker about whether they should do homework or not with half an ear, he couldn’t help but think about it. Malfoy had felt good in his arms the other night. Fragile, but there was strength in his physique under that deceptive layer of pale skin. His hair was so pale and fine, that Harry had wondered if Malfoy ever needed to comb it, and how he managed to make it stay in place all the time? Malfoy always made him feel underdressed somehow. He was neat, and tidy without a hair out of place. Harry thought ruefully of his own messy hair, that he could never put in order, and sighed. Malfoy would never look at him. Wait. Why do I even want Malfoy to look at me? I’m a Gryffindor, and he’s well, he’s Malfoy. And a Slytherin. I am not going to think about this. He turned his attention back to Hermione and Ron, and discovered that they were going to do homework after all. That suited him just fine. Work should drive all thoughts of silver eyes and platinum hair out of his mind.

* * * * *

They had been told in Defence Against the Dark Arts, that the Lady Taranquil would be speaking in the Founder’s Hall. The Founder’s Hall was a smaller hall than the Great Hall, but there was enough room in it for the entire seventh year, and more besides. Hogwarts legend had it that this was where the founders had decided upon the names of their houses, and what characteristics their members would hold.

 

“It also says in Hogwarts: A History, that the Founder’s Hall was where they made the Sorting Hat,” Hermione informed them when they were eating that night.

 

“That’s nice,” said Ron absently, “Pass the potatoes please.”

 

“You’re not really listening are you?” she demanded, passing him the potatoes, “That’s very bad manners you realise, Ron?”

 

“Whatever,” said Ron vaguely.

 

“Harry, you were listening to me, weren’t you?”

 

“What? Of course I was listening, Hermione” said Harry, “I just love hearing about the habits of the Founders while I’m eating. The knowledge that that it was probably where Godric Gryffindor was killed by Salazar Slytherin is something that I always wanted to know while I was in the middle of eating some beetroot. The colours go together so perfectly don’t you think?”

 

“Huh?”

 

“Murder. Blood. Beetroot.”

 

“That leap of logic rather escapes me,” said Hermione primly.

 

Ron looked up from his meal, “I get what he means. Beetroot is kinda the colour of blood, and you were talking about something that involved a great quantities of blood lying around, and soaking into the carpet, weren’t you.”

 

“Are you saying that my telling you that made you feel sick, Harry?”

 

“No,” said Harry. He pointed at the half eaten slice of beetroot on his plate, “You will notice, however, that I didn’t finish eating that particular piece of beetroot though.”

 

“Oh Harry,” said Hermione, half exasperated, “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

 

He grinned, “I know. It’s just that after you said that stuff about Godric, I thought that it looked a bit too much like bloody flesh for my tastes, and so I didn’t finish it.”

 

“Will you two shut up?” asked Ron, “This is becoming a rather gruesome conversation you realise?”

 

Harry and Hermione looked rather sheepishly at each other, and burst out laughing.

* * * * *

Draco watched them laughing from across the room. He felt almost...envious? Envious? Why would he envy Potter’s friends? The answer flashed through his mind before he could stop it. [Because you want to be there too, sharing in their laughter, since there is none here, and be close enough to reach out, and touch him...] Shut up, snarled Draco mentally. I do not feel like that about him. He’s a Gryffindor, for crying out loud. And he’s Potter. I do not want him.

 

Pansy touched his arm flirtatiously, and drew his attention back to the Slytherin table.

 

“Draco?” the question was in a soft, husky voice, said low enough that Draco had to lean closer to hear the rest of what she was saying. Which was precisely what Pansy had intended of course.

 

“Yes, my dear?” he replied equally quietly, making a mockery of the endearment. Lucius had always said that he should be polite to the Slytherin girls, as he might have to marry one of them one day. Lucius hadn’t said anything about Salem then, but he wouldn’t have. Getting siblings to marry each other was a bit extreme even for Lucius. And Lucius would have known about their relationship. Draco was sure of it. Lucius had been well aware of all the dates associated with Salem’s birth, and her looks merely confirmed that she was a Malfoy by blood, as Potter had pointed out, when Draco had shown him the picture of her.

 

“Draco, I received a message from You Know Who, yesterday.”

 

“You did?” polite amazement, “I thought that you didn’t know him nearly well enough to be receiving mail from him?”

 

“I don’t,” admitted Pansy, reluctantly, “It was actually from your father, written on his behalf.”

 

“Oh,” Draco arched one delicately formed eyebrow, as he waited for her to continue.

 

“I was told that I am an appropriate person to join the Dark Lord in his fight against the muggle-lovers.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Yes, isn’t that exciting?” Pansy started gushing a little, almost forgetting to keep her voice down.

 

Board derision, “If you say so, my dear.”

 

“Yes, well he also said that there would be someone at Hogwarts who would train me in the initiation rites, and you act like you would know about that.”

 

“Indeed?” his eyebrow arched again, silver eyes mocking “And how many other people have you asked, Pansy?”

 

“Three,” admitted Pansy, “But I have thought about it some more, and upon reflection, you appear to be the most appropriate.”

 

“I am glad that you actually put some effort into deciding whether or not, I was the person you were to contact. It bodes well for the future.”

 

Pansy looked uncertainly at him, unsure whether or not he was being sarcastic.

 

Draco continued in the same light, mocking voice, “I am sure whoever it is that will train you will appreciate those qualities. No doubt you will be contacted when the time comes.”

 

“But...” Pansy looked up at him with wide eyes, automatically leaning closer to him.

 

“Yes?” Draco made no pretence at being interested in the conversation.

 

“I was so sure...”

 

“It never pays to be sure, Pansy. It is almost certain that you will be wrong.”

 

“You mean that you’re not my contact?”

 

“Amazing. You get the point.

“But if not you, then who?”

 

Cool grey eyes studied her assessingly. Pansy had the uncomfortable feeling that she was found wanting. “Do I care?”

 

“Draco....” she leaned in towards him, so her lips almost brushed his cheek.

 

Draco grabbed her wrist, and twisted it viciously, “Was there something else that you wanted to ask?”

 

Pansy drew back. She knew well enough when to leave things alone. “No.”

* * * * *

At ten to twelve that evening, the entirety of the seventh years assembled by the doors next to the Founder’s Hall. Hermione was still whispering interesting facts about the Hall, when McGonagall arrived, along with Snape.

 

“And this was where they wrote the charter that still governs the school. The Founder’s Hall is what they used until Hogwarts grew too big, and they had to build the Great Hall...”

 

“Shut up,” hissed Ron, “The teachers are coming.”

 

Hermione fell silent rather reluctantly. She wanted to keep telling them things that she’s learned, but she also knew that when Ron spoke to her like that, she’d better shut up.

 

“All right then, in you go,” said Professor McGonagall, unlocking the door, and lighting the lamps.

 

They filed in, and took seats. Harry and the other two managed to get ones at the front, and in the middle. The only drawback to them was that Malfoy and his two goons were sitting behind them.

 

At twelve o’ clock exactly, Professor Grey entered. She was not wearing her usual black robes over an old green dress tonight. Instead she was wearing a formal, almost medieval style dress in a rich green, several shades darker than her eyes. Known as a half-court dress amongst the Sidhe, it was very similar to the one that she had worn for the Potter’s wedding. It was moulded very closely to her figure. Most of the boys fell in lust with her again, as they had done when she had first arrived. Her hair was loose, as benefited her status as an unmarried lady, although she was wearing a band of tri-coloured gold on her ring finger. The Lady Taranquil followed her through the double doors.

 

The Lady Taranquil was pure Sidhe, from the tips of her pointed ears, to the bottom of her narrow soled feet, although the seventh years couldn’t actually see her feet. Her face was a lot narrower than Sarainail’s and the cheekbones more elongated. The cat’s eyes were more noticeable too. Fine blond hair was half up, and the remainder cascaded over the circlet on her head, to fall in a shining waterfall down her back. Taranquil was even more beautiful that Sarainail, but hers was of an unworldly beauty, not their teacher’s more human looks. They would have fallen in lust with her too, except that she was too intimidating for them to do so. Taranquil swept down the aisle grandly, looking neither left nor right, but straight at the back of her daughter.

 

“I thought that they were children, Sarainail,” the voice was as elegant and graceful as the rest of her. It was carefully modulated, although it did have a slight accent, and cool, as if she didn’t really care. Which, Taranquil would tell you without too much prompting was the truth.

 

“They are not yet legal adults, Mother. I did explain that they were in their last year of schooling.”

 

“So you did,” there was no change whatsoever in Taranquil’s expression, although the slightest hint of a frown crept into her voice.

 

“Indeed,” Sarainail was carefully formal. She wished that the rest of the triad were there with her. She could face anything with them, even her mother. The students were looking at her in some amazement. She was never this cool, and controlled with them, never so expressionless. It amazed them. When she had spoken of the Sidhe controlling their emotions, they had expected someone like her. But she never bothered being expressionless unless she was around other of the Sidhe. Dean Thomas had asked if they were like Vulcans. What were Vulcans anyways?

 

“And now I am to speak about the Seleighe to this group of no longer children.” There were no questions in Taranquil’s voice; it was a calm statement of fact.

 

“That is correct,” agreed Sarai, mildly, “Sanctuary may yet become involved in this war, and they will need to know about the Sidhe if that occurs.”

 

“Quite. Then what of the other children?”

 

Sarainail shrugged her shoulders, “They will learn all they need to know when the time comes, Mother. It is these ones that I am concerned with now. They will be the first to fight, and so they must be the first to learn.”

 

“Very well,” Taranquil stepped fully into the candlelight, so her face was illuminated by the thousands of flickering lights. “I am known as the Lady Taranquil, formerly of Rockholme in Faerie, that is a member of the High Council of Sanctuary. I have moved in the circles belonging to the nobility, both in Faerie, and on this earth. But the main reason that I have been chosen to speak to you on this topic, is because I am Seleighe Sidhe myself, and therefore have a more intimate way of knowing what it is I am to speak to you of. Lady Sarainail, for all that she is my daughter, is only half-Sidhe, and does not therefore have the ability that I do to describe the way of life for a Sidhe who has chosen to live among humans.”

 

Sarainail looked vaguely embarrassed at the mention of her title. She preferred to ignore it as much as possible.

 

“You will have been told, of course, of the lack of ability that my people have to handle sunlight. That is why Faerie has no sun. There were allowances to be made, of course. Heavy curtains over all the windows, and anywhere else that the light might get in. A change of sleeping habits was also required, from being awake during the day, to being awake at night. But that was not all of the adjustments that had to be made. Humans are much more direct than the Sidhe. We will circle around a topic for hours, until finally coming to the point that we are making. I have eschewed this method due to time restraints for tonight. We are more diplomatic, and will tend to avoid fighting, as much as possible. Even then, we prefer not to involve individual kingdoms in a dispute. It is preferable that an argument should be settled in single combat between the two antagonists. That is why all of the Sidhe - at least,” amended the lady, “All of the nobility amongst the Sidhe receives combat training from when they are very young. This is both with and without weapons. If you have a desire to see some of the lesser forms of combat, I would recommend asking Lady Sarainail to demonstrate them for you. She has been trained in them. I insisted on it.”

 

Gazes turned in Sarai’s direction, but she ignored them as best she was able, and focused on her mother with a wide unblinking stare. Cats eyes met cats eyes, and then Taranquil turned back to her audience.

 

“There are many forms of these combats, and I am told, that to humans, many look as though they are supposed to be part of a dance. This is not so. You may have to fight the Sidhe. If you can make the combat last past sunup, out in the open, you will automatically win, although,” she added dryly, “It is not recommended that you be standing very close to them when the sun hits their body. You may be caught up in the flames otherwise. Iron is another method of defeating the Sidhe. Some are more resistant than others to the effects - even more than some half-breeds are. You cannot count on iron, even Cold Iron defeating a Sidhe instantly. If you are clever, and are able to drive a hard bargain, it may be worth your while to make a deal with them. But that is not a highly recommended thing to do. Making a bargain with any of the Sidhe, be they Seleighe or Unseleighe, has been likened to bartering with demons. All Sidhe have been trained in methods of discourse, and finding holes in arguments. It is customary. Another way that you may defeat one of the Sidhe is by using a child as a hostage. I would suggest that if you choose to use this method, that you use someone who looks a lot younger than you do. The younger the better. I trust you all understand that the reason this will work, is because all Sidhe are protective of children. Mainly because we have so few. The previous King of Lithugha was counted as very fertile because he fathered two children, on different mothers.”

 

Taranquil spoke for the better part of three hours. By the time that she finished, Ron was wishing that he had had a nap before the class.

 

“I believe that is all of the information that I currently wish to volunteer,” Taranquil said eventually.

 

“I thank you for coming in to speak to these ones, who will soon be adult,” Sarainail was equally formal. She hadn’t fallen asleep, although, had she been on her own, she might have. But Sirius and Remus had asking to intensify their binding link enough for them to see through her eyes, and listen through her ears. Taranquil might accept triads in theory, but she didn’t appreciate her daughter being involved with two humans.

 

“It was all that I could do,” as always, the truth. Taranquil would not be able to train them, and nor did she have any inclination whatsoever to do so. Her abilities were better suited to the diplomatic battle ground, not the training ground for these young warriors, “I go to Sanctuary now, to be with your father.”

 

“I know,” said Sarai easily, relaxing now her mother was almost gone, “Will you give him my love please.”

 

“Of course.”

 

She left the students for Professor McGonagall and Professor Snape to dismiss, and escorted Taranquil to the main entrance.

 

“Your triad...” said Taranquil cautiously, although very little trace of her caution showed in her voice. She was showed more emotion around her immediate family - except when she was cautious.

 

Sarai tensed again, “Yes?” she kept her voice neutral by an effort of will.

 

“We have looked into all the circumstances again, your father and I.”

 

“Indeed?” polite curiosity.

 

“They are well, your others?”

 

Sarai thought of her beloveds, lying on their bed in her quarters, and smiled softly, “They are well.”

 

“That is good.”

 

“Indeed,” polite agreement this time. Finishing this discussion would take time, and she wasn’t quite sure if Taranquil actually had the time to spare.

 

“You see them often?”

 

She allowed herself what appeared to be an unguarded comment, “Never enough.”

 

“I was surprised when you wrote, and said that you were together again,” Taranquil would never admit to something as uncouth as shock, but if she did, that would be how she described her reaction to that letter.

 

“Indeed. Truly, Mother we were never apart.”

 

Taranquil remembered that awful day years ago, when she and John had apparated to the Tower, on her suspicion that something was terribly wrong with their daughter, “That may be so.”

 

“We can live all together, or all apart. But you know this.”

 

“Indeed, I do,” Sarainail, lying on the floor of her kitchen, so white and still, the blood that pooled around her body a terrible contrast to her pale skin.

 

“So why the surprise?” gentle curiosity.

 

“We had thought that your partner’s were dead.”

 

“And I was still living at the time?” Sarai raised one blond eyebrow in mocking amazement.

 

“We were concerned about that, yes.”

 

Concerned, thought Sarai bitterly, never worried. The Sidhe didn’t like extremes. “I am sure you were,” she was proud that only a hint of the bitterness crept into her voice.

 

“Indeed. So what would you do, my daughter, to keep these two men, whom you love more than anything on this earth, or even in Faerie safe?”

 

“What do you think that I would do?” counter a question with a question. What was almost a defensive technique, but that was how Taranquil made her feel.

 

“Anything,” her mother spoke flatly, and uncompromisingly.

 

“Almost,” said Sarai thoughtfully, “But not quite. I would not serve Voldemort to save them - they would reject such a gift. And I would not betray them, nor could I lie with another. That type of thing I could not do, but die for them, yes, live for them, yes, that I would do.”

 

“I thought you would feel along those lines.”

 

“I have never made a secret of feeling otherwise.”

 

“That is so.”

 

“Indeed,” Sarai glanced up at the sky, “Dawn is in a few hours. We had best reach the point of this conversation.”

 

“Truly. So, daughter,” said Taranquil abruptly, elegant face still expressionless, “Would your Sirius agree to be soultested?”

 

“Why do you offer this?”

 

“We examined all the evidence again, as I said previously. Your Sirius appears to be innocent, and his trial should have shown that.”

 

“Sirius never had a trial in the first place,” said Sarai bleakly, and she had been too ill, and Remus had been with her, for them to demand one in the beginning.

 

“That is a disgrace to your human justice system,” said her mother serenely, “Soul testing is not a thing to be done lightly, Sarainail, not when the three of you are bound together so closely.”

 

“I will ask him.”

 

“Good. If he accepts, I will of course arrange it for you.”

 

“Thank you,” polite, neither accepting nor declining. Then, “We still would like to get a Bard to try Sirius.”

 

“Bards are not so easy to find, daughter.”

 

“We know that, Mother. The nearest human one was killed several months ago.”

 

“Master Dharinel?”

 

“I do not know. We have not been able to contact him.”

 

“I will look into it, and we shall see.”

 

“I thank you.”

 

“Indeed. I had best go now, the sun will rise soon, and I have to get to the Portal.”

 

“Quite,” agreed Sarainail, “Go you safe, and keep you safe, and come safe home to me,” the ritual farewell was spoken easily, without embarrassment. It was a blessing to be used only within family, or those you loved dearly.

 

“And the Power’s keep you safe until my return,” Taranquil completed the blessing, and then turned to leave. She would apparate from outside Hogwarts to near the Portal in the Forbidden Forest, so she could then return to Sanctuary, where she and Lord John would enter into the negotiations about trade, and war. Sarai watched her go, a small smile on her face. That had gone better than she had expected.

* * * * *

Harry watched Sarai leave with her mother. The Lady Taranquil had seemed cold, and contained, and he wondered that such an ice queen could have given birth to Sarai. Professor McGonagall stood up at the front and started to speak.

 

“You can all leave now, and go to bed. I would recommend that you not get up early. Breakfast will be kept for you until about 2 pm.”

 

“And remember,” said Snape silkily, “Go straight to your common rooms. Anyone caught not doing so will get a detention, and twenty points taken from their house.”

 

“Miserable old fart,” muttered Ron as they were leaving, “I’m sure he knew we wanted to visit Professor Grey afterwards.”

 

“We did?” asked Harry.

 

“Yeah. How can that... that cold blooded Sidhe be Professor Grey’s mother?” demanded Hermione.

 

“Genetics?” asked Harry.

 

Ron looked at him blankly, “What’s that?”

 

“Doesn’t matter,” said Harry firmly when Hermione looked as though she was going to explain, “We can talk to the triad later tomorrow.”

 

“Right,” said Ron, “Lets go then. Harry, are you coming?”

 

Harry had bent down, ostensibly to tie his shoelace, “I need to talk to someone first. You go on without me. I’ll catch up later.”

 

“Are you sure, Harry? You know what Professor Snape said.”

 

“I’m sure, Hermione. I won’t be long.”

 

Malfoy hadn’t left yet, and Sarai was only just re-entering the hall, so Harry walked over towards her, passing Malfoy on the way.

 

Draco had sent Crabbe and Goyle on ahead of him, so they had time to get everything ready for bed by the time that he arrived.

 

“Monday night, music room,” hissed Potter, as they approached each other.

 

Draco signified that he understood by a curt nod of the head, and Potter went to talk to Professor Grey, and he went to bed, to dream of Salem, and Sidhe, and emerald green eyes caught up in pain, and there being nothing he could do to save them...

 

“Professor?”

 

“Yes, Mr Potter?” asked Sarai.

 

“Can we have our meeting somewhat earlier than usual this week?”

 

“Of course. Why?”

 

“Tell you later.”

 

“Right. Tomorrow night then?”

 

“Yes. Thank you.”

 

“Goodnight, Mr Potter.”

 

“Goodnight Professor.”

 

And Harry went to bed, to dream of little but silver eyes within a pale face caught up in pain and regret.

* * * * *

The triad lay sprawled together in an untidy mess of arms, legs, and long hair.

 

“Pfft, Sarai, when will you cut your hair?” demanded Sirius, spitting out a mouthful of hair.

 

“When you let me,” she laughed into Remus’ neck.

 

“What do you mean, let you? I haven’t objected when you cut your hair before.”

 

“Then who was it?” asked Remus, “I like Sarai’s hair whatever length she wears it. It wasn’t me who was protesting the last time she threatened to cut it.”

 

They all laughed. It was Sirius who really liked the length she wore it, but he was the one who complained about it the most, too. At length, Remus sighed and straightened.

 

“We had best get up. You’re not being paid to lie here and...”

 

“Make love?” inserted Sirius.

 

“Well, yes.”

 

“What’s the time?”

 

“Nearly two.”

 

“Bloody hell,” yelped Sarai, “The intrepid trio are coming here this afternoon. Wanted to farewell you lot before you leave on Monday.”

 

Sirius swore creatively.

 

“You must have picked up that language in Azkaban,” said Remus firmly, “I’m sure that I never used such language around you, and our Sarai is too much of a lady to say such things.”

 

The conversations were ritual, as old as their triad, and their content varied but little. It was comforting though, and all of them felt the need for continuity when the future was so uncertain. By the time Harry, Ron and Hermione arrived, they were all decent, and sitting within touching distance in the living room. Sarai was supposed to be grading some papers, and the other two were trying to distract her from the knowledge that they would be leaving soon, and trying to distract themselves from the same knowledge in the process. So they were talking quietly amongst themselves when the knock on the door came. Sirius hastily transfigured himself into his animagus form, and Sarai opened the door.

 

“Welcome,” was all she said, but held the door wide open, so they could enter.

 

“Thanks, Sarai,” Harry seemed the most comfortable with them, but that was hardly surprising. Sirius changed back, and they chattered about nothing in particular, and of nothing of importance. The triad made no attempt now to hide what they were. Sarai had always been fairly comfortable with it, although her lovers had not been. Time passed far too quickly, and soon it was time for them to leave. Harry reminded Sarai about that evening, and they left.

 

“You know,” said Remus thoughtfully when they had gone, “It might be an idea to train the other two as well as Harry.”

* * * * *

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