Harry Potter and the Will to Live

Chapter Seven: The Counsel of Majestic

Harry Potter and the Will to Live

"Harry?"

The voice was calm, soothing, as a hand lightly grasped his shoulder. With tender caution, it pushed him so he was on his back. He kept his eyes closed because they burned like the deepest, most fiery level of Hell.

"Can you hear me?" Mack asked worriedly as she laid a hand against his forehead. An instant later she yelped, "Merlin, Dumbledore, his forehead burned my hand!"

He heard a distinct rustling of clothes and the light patter of shoes. Then he heard the Headmaster's voice.

"Severus, a cooling potion. A calming one, too, maybe? He might be in pain when he wakes up." Sincere worry laced each word.

Harry opened his dry, cracked lips. His parched throat caused his voice to lower to a deep, hoarse croak. "I'm awake," he managed, and had enough energy to crack a strained smile at Mack's yip of surprise and Snape's curse.

"Are you okay?" Dumbledore asked instantly. He gripped Harry's limp hand in a show of support, relief, and reassurance. "Are you in pain?"

"Hot," he said, and coughed weakly. "Everything's hot. Water."

"No water," Snape snapped. Harry assumed someone must have jumped up to do as he bid. "He mustn't consume any liquids."

"Go to hell, professor," Harry mumbled.

"Harry." Dumbledore's voice was curt and brisk. "I need to know. Are you generally okay now? No more pain, no more...power shows, correct?"

"I don't have the strength to lift my eyelids," Harry said in answer, and he didn't.

"Okay, then. We have to get you to St. Mungo's, Harry. We don't know what's happening. We think someone is trying to possess you."

Harry shook his head, but only managed to turn it an inch to the right. "No..." But already the darkness swarmed around to claim him in its merciful, velvety grip.

* * * * * *

He came to in a large, beige room. His head and body ached, but he managed to sit up in his bed. The effort itself made him breathless. He gripped the edge of the bed and blinked warily, his head overwhelmed with memories. He was just getting to his feet when he felt something invisible pull at his wrist. He yanked his hand, then yelped when whatever it was that was restraining him tightened painfully. His body was weak, but he didn't know why. Ridiculously, insurmountably, puzzlingly exhausted, he fell back on the stiff bed.

He closed his eyes for a minute to put up his mental guard. But when he opened them, a young man in midnight blue robes was beside his bed. Even in his weakened state, Harry sensed the man's fear.

And the strong protection charms placed on him and the room.

"What the hell is going on?" he said forcefully. He'd meant it to come out full of fury and demand, but it only came out meekly.

The man reached out to feel his forehead, but Harry, after accumulating every drop of strength he had left, gripped his hand as tightly as humanly possible. Considering the circumstances, he mused bitterly.

"Mr. Potter, calm down. My name is Healer Durham. I specialize in preternatural mental seizures."

Harry was surprised by the strength he felt when Durham gripped his wrist. "I'm here to help."

Nearly immobilized with the lack of energy, Harry stared at him. "Explain, then. First of all, tell me why in bloody hell can't I move?"

"There are wards," Durham said, only a little too smugly. "Your latest seizure somehow transferred enough magical power to you for you to unintentionally hurt yourself." He hurried to explain when Harry said nothing. "In the last two months, your magical count has unexplainably flew off the charts. We have reason to believe someone has done a ritual of possession on you, and may even be in your mind at this very instant. You're here for your own safety. You're safe here."

A well of despair seemed to replace his heart. "I'm not safe anywhere, and I'm not possessed."

Durham gave him a look of sympathy. "Rest, Mr. Potter. You'll need it."

He placed his wand over Harry's forehead and murmured a Sleeping Charm.

* * * * * *

For a few days, Harry was able to push them around. They'd never dealt with anything like this before. That much Durham had told him. They enervated him when they wanted him awake for testing or to eat, and put him under sleeping charms for the rest of the time. He had no strength, no anger, no control.

And he was usually always alone.

There were numerous Healers, Aurors, Unspeakables, specialists, and counselors, who all questioned him. Some of which spoke to him as if he was a criminal. Well, most of them did anyway. The occasional few brought him candy, but he rarely ate it, suspicious that even that little bit of kindness was some sort of manipulation.

One day, he didn't know what day or even month it was, he asked Healer Durham about what was put in the newspapers about his disappearance.

All he got was, "Don't stress yourself over it, Harry. Just relax."

How the hell he was supposed to relax when he was a prisoner to the Ministry? Vaguely, he wondered if they'd erased the memory of everyone's minds so that they didn't even recognize the name Harry Potter. From what he could tell, nobody from the outside world was trying to get him out or even communicate with him.

Until, that is, Mackenzie Snape appeared by his bedside in the typical fashion of an Auror or Healer, looking harsh and professional in her Unspeakable wardrobe. Her hair was tied to the back of her head, which he thought only added to the look of a woman who meant business.

She gave him a shaky smile, then threw her arms around his neck. When she pulled him into a seated position, she began to rub her hands up and down his chilled arms to warm them.

"Mack?" Was she another test? he wondered uneasily. They'd done this to him before, having someone appear to him. Once, they'd even let him think Sirius was alive and had come to save him. Just to see his reaction. Just to see how his magical count would be affected by certain emotions.

He pushed her arms off him slowly, then stared at her bleakly.

"You're not real," he said matter-of-factly.

Her eyes filled with angry tears. She nodded her head gently and placed a hand on his cheek. "I am, Harry. This isn't another test, I promise."

"Are you trying to tell me that they aren't recording if my magic count spikes or not?" He didn't even try to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

"They are, but it'll stop soon, Harry. I don't have long here, but Dumbledore has found out what's happened.

A spark of curiosity lit. "What?"

She grasped his shoulders again gently. He was in good shape, despite the fact that he hadn't moved in months. His caretakers had made sure his body didn't weaken. He'd gained weight and color. They'd kept his hair clean and had cared enough not to cut it much. His eyes, however, were dark and dull with defeat.

"There's an ancient group of wizards and witches, Harry. They go back to the years of the Ice Age, when all humans were able to do in way of communication was point and grunt. They kept magic balanced. The dark and light sides of magic, that is. They call themselves the Counsel of Majestic in English, but they're also known as Mages. One of these Mages told Albus that they know why you've been experiencing seizures."

A line formed between his eyebrows, but he obediently stayed silent.

"Voldemort matched up with a very powerful witch when he was young. When he was believed to be dead, the Counsel managed to kidnap the mother and child. They killed the girl, but raised the boy as a Mage, for that was what he was. He had all the powers of a full-blown Mage, which was why they never killed him. They named him Olean. Voldemort performed a ritual that reversed his beliefs. Everything he thought in, his understanding of good and evil, was switched."

"So he went bad, thinking that was right?"

Mack nodded quickly. "Exactly, except, now that he's severed from the Counsel and joined the world, he's left Voldemort's side and wants to rule the world himself. They said he was forcing himself into your mind, trying to convince you to commit suicide since you were as much of a threat to him as his father, Voldemort. They hadn't realized the connection until they'd heard it from Dumbledore, who'd gone to them for advice when you first started having seizures. They told him, in other words, that they were clueless, but," she laughed bitterly, "they lied. They started piecing it together, and gradually started giving you extra powers throughout the year. Olean found out and increased his attempts. The counsel said you were leaning towards obeying it -which, Harry Potter, we will discuss once you get back to Hogwarts in one piece!- and had to force the rest of the powers into you at once, causing you to nearly die in the process. Which also," she said furiously, "is why you are here. Dumbledore would have been able to send you away and prepare you if they'd warned him, but they didn't Understandably, he freaked out and sent you to St. Mungo's."

Gravely, Harry absorbed the information. It was much more reasonable than the possible explanations he'd concocted since he'd first been brought here.

"Dumbledore must have been infuriated with them."

She snorted. "He nearly committed homicide on the Head Counselman. Which just goes to show you how much he cares about you," she said meaningfully.

"I'm not mad at anyone, Mack," he reassured here. "In fact, I don't really feel anything anymore."

Any trace of amusement fled her pretty, pale face. She hugged him again. "I love you," she said honestly, and only squeezed tighter when he stiffened uneasily. "I love you," she repeated. "I've learned so much since I met you. You're my best friend, my little brother. I know you don't trust me, but you will. You'll see."

Harry swallowed past the lump in his throat. Then pinched his eyes shut when the tears disobeyed him and came anyways. "I trust you, Mack," he whispered. It was the best he could do. "When do I get out of here?"

She grinned, sniffling. "As soon as the Counselman sees Fudge. Probably in a few hours."

* * * * * *

He could tell the counselman had talked to Fudge when the Energy-Decreaser Charm placed on the room fell away and the silver cuff became visible and solid on his left hand.

Curiously, he put his right hand over it and muttered a breaking charm. He cursed when the metal disintegrated and had his wrist stinging. But it was wicked to feel free again, to know you had control over your captors. And it was liberating to feel hope again.

He had power. The scales were balanced now, equal. Or, actually, only where it concerned Voldemort. He wasn't certain what they wanted him to do with Olean, though.

For the first time in as long as he could remember, he grinned and didn't care.

He pointed at a goblet of water on the small bedside table and said, "Accio." And then he cursed again as he dove off the bed. The goblet smashed against the pale, dull wall over his head, sprinkling water and pieces of glass.

"You'll cut your head off that way."

Harry stood stiffly, unconsciously stepping into a defensive stance.

"And who the bloody hell are you to tell me what I'll do?" he demanded.

The man was tall, Harry mused, and definitely looked as if he could beat Harry's arse. Muggle-style just as easily as he could magically. His dark black hair was pulled back with a tie. He wore a pair of Muggle jeans and a simple black top. His eyes were an amazingly uncommon color of blue.

He looked like one of those Celtic soldiers Harry had seen in history books when he'd attended Muggle school, excluding, of coarse, the kilt and war make-up.

Unintimidated, Harry crossed his arms.

"My name," the Celtic soldier began in a heavily accented voice, "is Lycander. I am your Qaiul."

"Qaiul?" Harry repeated, considering even as he cocked his head. "Is that Greek or something?"

Lycander's grin was purely wolfish. "It is the language of the Mages." Then he roared with laughter when Harry gaped, surprised. "It is called Geyesh, but you'll learn that soon enough. We must leave, though. You are to, uh, take me to your Godfather's old home."

Harry stared at him. "Who are you?" he asked, almost in awe. "And what the hell is Qaiul?"

The man stepped closer to Harry, whose eyes flashed suspiciously.

"I am Lycander," he repeated. "Qaiul means 'leader' or 'guide' in English. And you, Harry Potter, are my charge. Now, we must go before your foolish Minister can figure out what to do."

"And how, exactly, do you suppose we get there?" Harry asked as if Lycander was stupid. Well, he reasoned with himself, the guy looked at him as if he could suddenly appear in Sirius' old home.

Lycander blinked. "How else? We'll dequer."

This was going to get old really, really quick.

"What does dequer mean, Lycander?" Harry asked slowly with impatience. Bloody hell, did he look like he could speak Gayish or whatever it was called?

"Oh," Lycander said sheepishly. "It is just another word for Apparate," he said simply. "All you have to do is imagine this place, and I'll get us there. Understood?"

"Absolutely."

The feeling was like being doused with warm water, or flames that didn't burn, just resonated a sweet, soothing warmth. It burned his skin for a brief moment, however, ruining the effect, right before he appeared in the kitchen of #12 Grimmauld Place. Harry, unused to the force inertia since he'd stopped playing Quidditch, fell and collided with Ron and Ginny on impact.

Ginny yelped. "You git!" She slapped Harry's shoulder. "You scared me near death!" Then she burst into tears and wrapped her arms around his neck, not unlike Mack had in that examination room in the Ministry. Harry simply hugged her back. He could do that with her, he realized, surprised, and like it.

He hoped that meant he trusted her.

"Yeah, well, my arm hurts," he said lightly and pulled back to help her and Ron up. "I'd say we're even."

"You kissed Cho."

He winced. "So we're not even, then."

"She's just teasing," Mrs. Weasley said, looking extremely flushed from the heat of the stove. "How are you, Harry?"

"Honestly?" he asked, then hesitated when she nodded. "Actually, I'm pretty happy. It's great to be around people who aren't checking your magical count every other second."

"Magical count?" Ron wondered aloud.

Harry sat, his eyes straying to Lycander who stood awkwardly in the doorway, and prepared to start explaining.

* * * * * *

Curiosity killed the cat. That was, summarized, what Lycander kept telling him every time he saw Harry using wand-less magic without instruction.

Harry just ignored him, like he did his other professors back at Hogwarts.

Even now, as he droned on about patience and responsibility, Harry kept his eyes on his newly re-acquired wand, which spun in a crazy, unruly spherical form that whistled with its speed. Awe was a new emotion to him, one that he treasured. Harry was surprised to realize that he enjoyed the innocent joy of learning.

Transfixed, he wiggled a finger from underneath it. Then jumped when Lycander snarled and gave a simple and jerky gesture that had the wand flying to clatter on the floor across the room.

"I do not appreciate being ignored," his Qaiul hissed.

Harry shifted uneasily and did something he rarely ever did sincerely. "Sorry," he mumbled, crossing his legs beneath him the way Lycander had taught him before Harry had gotten sidetracked.

"You are going to have to listen to me, young Romane." Lycander took Harry's hand between his own so their emotions meshed. The Qaiul was surprised at the wave of darkness and underlying anger, the frustration and awe, just as he knew by Harry's stiffened posture that his own impatience and distrust had also been transferred by physical contact.

"You will not," Lycander said slowly, "be able to handle your magic solely by yourself."

Harry was silent a moment. Then he wet his lips and asked, "Literally or...figuratively?"

His fear was palpable now, both through the meditation and naturally. The emotion, transferred to Lycander and belonged to him now just as much as it did to Harry. He could feel it as deeply as Harry could. Harry's face, however, stayed cool and masked, even distant.

Already Lycander had decided to completely skip the practice of keeping your face and thoughts blank, your mind guarded. Harry was already a practiced professional at Occlumency, although the boy probably wasn't aware of it.

"Literally. The magic that is your blood runs hot as fire, as ice, as wind, as earth. You are nothing more than Earth's tool now, an element. Metaphorically, you have died, been reborn into another, higher way of living. The power must be tapped, controlled; or else you will lose."

"Lose?" Harry didn't like the sound of this.

"You won't be able to keep it from taking over you, possessing you. This is magic and energy in her purest form. It can, if it goes untapped, drink of your deepest emotions and set them against you. It is lack of caution that cause a Mage to turn bad, such as Olean has. If that happens, Harry -which it often does- they will steal it back and you will lose your mind completely, utterly, in every meaning of the word."

Puzzled, Harry frowned at their entwined hands. "Steal what? The Counsel?"

"They will take everything from you; your power, your essence, your very being and personality. Your very senses. They will never kill one of their own, not unless the circumstances under which we operate are dire. They will take everything and leave only a shell, much as your Cruciatus curse can cause, if I remember correctly."

Harry sighed. All of this was all just so confusing, learning about a different power, a different language, and even a different world -literally. Lycander called it the Gray Dimension, this foreign world he came from, but in Geyesh they call it Souriom de Solfiace.

The Dome of Fire. Fire was the majority of the Mages' main element. Every Mage had a small amount of special powers that were classified by the four universal elements; Fire, Water, Earth, Air. There were some Mages, mainly females Harry was told, who had a special affinity for Water, Earth, or Air, but most were tainted Fire. That was why he'd felt such painful heat during his transformation from wizard to Mage. It all came from the energy of Mother Nature. He could, if he wanted to or was tempted, step into fire and would feel the greatest ecstasy of human kind, or so he was told. In the Gray Dimension it was a festivity that was deeply treasured.

To Harry, it was the weirdest thing, the most unrealistic notion, he had ever heard of.

"How did I get my powers, Lycander?

This meditation felt, Harry mused, as if Lycander could see into his soul. Harry could feel his Qaiul's reluctance, his uncertainty, as much as he could his own confusion.

"You, Romane, are a product of the Aidez, an experiment the Mages have never before performed. You are the first, the only, to be reborn into Majestic. They have kept the powers of Mages gone and transferred them into you in a ritual. You are our brother, however you were cast, whish is why you have Qaiul. I am your provider, Your Seer into your power. You belong to me."

"I belong to no one," Harry said abruptly. He leaned closer to Lycander, eyes flashing with fury. "No one will ever own me."

Lycander's eyes, his face, his voice, never wavered. "You will understand, young Romane. You will understand soon enough."

Harry had a feeling he would never, never understand.

* * * * * *

Since he'd returned to #12 Grimmauld Place, he'd shared a room with his Qaiul. The man was deep and depressing on one-on-one, but around the other guests, mainly including the Weasleys and Hermione, the younger three of which were out of school for Christmas break, he seemed happy and carefree.

Harry knew he was hiding something. He could feel it in Quesh, the one form of Geyesh meditation Harry had already learned. A well of something he couldn't understand. He wasn't sure if he wanted to. Life, lately, seemed to be an ongoing Muggle sitcom. Whenever he seemed to start getting a handle on his life, something or, more specifically someone, came along to knock him off his feet again. This time, it came in the form of the Geyesh Counsel of Majestic, a group of seemingly otherworldly warlocks who passed knowledge of its past down orally. The Qaiul, Lycander eventually told him, was assigned before birth. Since only certain women were allowed to birth children, a very select few, they were betrothed to the highest, wealthiest, most educated men of the culture: the Qaiul. The birthing women, known as Shecian Ovarium in Geyesh, kept giving birth to as many as three children, none of which they actually kept. On the contrary, the pair was given a child from a different Shecian Ovarium to decrease any special maternal or paternal attachment.

Qaiuls passed down the history and were in complete control of their charges.

Harry was royally pissed by the latter, but he could sense that Lycander wasn't exaggerating. Sometimes he wondered if Lycander thought he was going to be like that, bending to his will, doing whatever he was told. Didn't he understand? Harry would never let anyone take over his life ever again. Never again would he be powerless. He'd had enough of that when he was with the Dursleys and even with Dumbledore.

He was so puzzled by the slightly heightened senses and the power surges. Occasionally, during breakfast, Harry would laugh at something and an apple splattered all over the room.

He felt as if he was lost at sea at times, drowning, with black thunderstorms brewing over his head. And he desperately wished for Dumbledore to appear and wake him up.

But he didn't. Day after day, he dragged himself out of bed, meditated -with Lycander or without him- and listened to his Qaiul, which he was pretty much forced to do. Lessons with Hermione, supervised by Lycander, lasted a few hours and were eventually successful in catching him up with schoolwork, but by the time that finished, Lycander started up on his own knowledge quest.

"Fix your balance," Lycander snapped.

Harry hastened to comply. He kept his body tense to the point of trembling, even though he was dripping sweat from the four hour long effect.

"One," Lycander commanded, then snarled when Harry's movements were quick but clumsy. "And fix your stance!" He slapped Harry's shoulder lightly, but it sent shockwaves of pure energy through his body as punishment. Harry shut his eyes and breathed deeply, wishing for a shower and a day of oblivious unconsciousness. Merlin, even a goblet of gritty, warm water would be a Godsend. Anything that could parch the fire burning in his throat.

"Four."

Harry repositioned his body -mainly his hands and shoulder blades- into the mold of position four. His muscles screamed in pain, but he refused to quit. Refused to meet anything else but Lycander's impossible standards.

"Take a break, Harry."

For a moment, he stayed as he was. Until Dumbledore's voice registered. His arms collapsed to his sides and his knees threatened to buckle.

"What are you doing?" Lycander shouted at him angrily. He glowered at Harry, as if angry with him because he'd disobeyed. Harry wiped a sweaty hand through his slick, wetted down hair. His mouth was filled with the salty flavor of sweat.

This was his first session of Mage training.

Dumbledore closed the door behind him with a sharp 'click'. "I am interfering before your charge falls face first in a faint of overexertion."

Mortified, Harry sneered. "I wasn't going to feint." What he was going to do, he decided that instant, was sit down right there on the cold, carpeted floor before his legs buckled under his weight.

"You have been warned not to interfere, Dumbledore," Lycander said in a quiet, dangerous voice. "This is no longer of your concern."

Dumbledore's face flushed with color. Harry thought he looked ready to have a heart attack.

"No longer my concern?" the Headmaster whispered. Then his voice became a thunder of noise. "How dare you act as if I'm doing something wrong! You appear out of nowhere, you and your bloody Counsel, destroying everything he knew without even giving him the choice-"

"He doesn't have a choice!" Lycander blundered. "He is a tool to fight Olean and keep the balance between good and evil!"

"He is a person, a young boy! Not a bloody tool that belongs to you. You've done enough damage to him; the least you could do is let him adapt."

"Stop it," Harry said, but it was so quiet neither of them noticed. I'm not a tool, he told himself. I am not a tool!

"He was ready to fall down. You're putting too much pressure on him, too soon, expecting too much from him when he owes you nothing but an equal amount of the grief you've caused him!"

"Stop it," Harry repeated, his shaking voice slightly louder.

"He has been given-"

Harry used a hand to pull himself to his feet as he tuned the entire conversation out. He used the wall for support and made it outside of his room without either wizard knowing it.

"Harry!"
He looked up and saw the twins sitting at the top of the stairs, listening in. They caught him -or one of them did- before he hit the floor.

"Take me to you room," he pleaded with them.

They did. Harry collapsed on Fred's bed, panting, near tears. With the flick of his wrist, two dressers began to rock, then slammed in sync against the door to form a barricade.

"Keep them out," Harry told them, his voice a pathetic plea. They were both pale, looking shaken and confused and helpless. "Just keep everyone the hell out. Please."

Fred bobbed his head and sank onto the empty corner of the bed Harry occupied.

"We'll keep them out," he promised.

"Sleep some," George advised.

Harry was already taking the suggestion to heart.

* * * * * *

When he woke up five hours later, Fred was conked out on the other bed, his wand fisted in his hand. George sat at a desk, scribbling onto a piece of parchment. Harry levered himself into a sitting position and flexed his fingers. His body ached, but Harry was already too accustomed to it to complain.

"Did Dumbledore leave?" he asked.

George jumped, hand going to his wand, then relaxing.

"You're awake," he stated, giving a sigh of relief.

He threw his legs over the bedside and gave a brisk nod.

"Yeah," George continued uneasily. "Dumbledore didn't want to, but Mum kicked him and Lycander out."

"She kicked Dumbledore and my Qiaul out?"

George nodded, grinning. "It was wicked. She got pissed when Fred and I told her you wanted to be alone, so she kicked them both out because they 'tried to kill her dear Harry'."

Harry flushed. "Guess I owe her for that one."

The haired twin stood and crossed the room. "I know you're probably tired of hearing it, but...Are you okay? Everyone is so worried, waiting for you to shatter. They think being turned into a Mage is going to turn you evil or something."

He had heard the words too many times, but Harry decided it was mainly because he was giving them reasons to doubt it. He wasn't sure if he was okay. If he was handling things at all.

"I don't know," he finally said, then laughed bitterly. "I feel...glad that I'm a Mage now. I feel as if I finally have a chance at beating Voldemort, but I don't know what they want me to do. I have school, friends, and a life I'm completely messing up. Do they want me to battle Olean, a trained Mage? I'm sorry because I don't think I'm going to be the type of Mage they're used to. They keep the dark and light sides of magic balanced, but I just want to eliminate the Dark Arts. I have no clue what I'm doing."

"I guess you'll just have to fumble through, then. Be yourself," George said with a shrug. "Nothing much else you can do, is there?"

"No," Harry answered thoughtfully, "I guess there isn't."

"What do you say we go downstairs and start fumbling by asking Mum what you should do?"

Harry stretched on the bed, taking a deep, cleansing breath.

"Yeah, let's do that."

A moment later, out of the reigning silence, George cleared his throat and turned back to Harry.

"Uh...Harry, you want to flick your wrist or twitch your nose or something and move those desks?"

* * * * * *

Christmas morning dawned bright and early. For Harry, it was a huge mark on the road. He had a small piece of time away from Lycander, a few days of doing nothing more that catching up with his friends and relaxing.

He was alive.

That was both here and there, encouraging and sort of...intimidating.

So much had happened in less than a year. He'd completely changed from the repercussions of losing Sirius. Hell, even his magic had changed. For a moment, he wondered if Sirius would be ashamed of him, how he had and still was acting.

"Well, there goes the Christmas mood."

Ron made a noise and shifted. Harry chuckled. He was so relieved to be sharing a room with someone who moved. Lycander had slept on his back, with his hands folded across his abdomen, and seemed not to breath for the entire night.

"Ron," Harry called out.

His friend rolled onto his stomach.

"Ron!"

With a loud 'thump,' and a roll, Ron tumbled off the bed in a pile of quilts and red hair.

"Wha'?"

"Happy Christmas, mate."

Harry leaned back against the headboard and grinned at Ron's long suffering groan.

"You woke me up for- What time iz it?" Nearly blinded, Ron pulled himself up to his bed. "Urghh! Too much eggnog."

Harry pulled his shirt off, then yanked on a clean one.

"Why don't you sleep in pajamas anymore?" Ron asked curiously, as he scrubbed his hands over each of his eyes in his own personal ritual to wake up.

He shrugged. "I dunno. I guess I keep expecting to be woken up in the middle of the night. And my clothes are more comfy anyway. Do you think the girls are up?"

"Probably," his best friend groaned in ready disgust. "I heard Ginny saying something about helping Mum and Tonks make strawberry pancakes."

"Strawberry pancakes?"

Ron made a gesture. "You put the strawberries on the pancakes. It's good."

While Harry waited for Ron, he fed Hedwig, who was perched next to an annoyingly chipper Pig, a few Owl treats and some meal.

They found Mrs. Weasley, Hermione, and Ginny all in the kitchen preparing breakfast. Harry figured it would be good, just as Ron said, just by taking a whiff of the air.

"That smells wicked," Ron said reverently.

Mrs. Weasley swiveled. "Ron, Harry! You're awake. Happy Christmas!" She kissed their cheeks as she said it. Hermione and Ginny, wearing Muggle clothes, repeated the sentiment.

"Are Charlie and Bill coming?" Ron asked as they both sat down to pour themselves pumpkin juice.

"Around noon. Kingsley and the bunch should be here around dinnertime."

"What about Lupin?" This from Ginny.

"He should be here, but it's chancy. He's busy at the moment."

"Is he working for the Order?" Hermione said vaguely.

Harry saw Mrs. Weasley tense and knew that he was.

"No," she said quickly, "he's on personal business. Now, Harry, I want you to eat this entire plate, hear me? You're skin and bones nowadays."

Ginny snorted and put a plate in front of Ron. "He's always been skin and bones. Or so you've always said." She plopped down and reached for the giant wooden bowl filled to the rim with freshly sliced strawberries.

Eventually, the twins woke up and staggered downstairs. Tonks and Kingsley came later, near noon as Mrs. Weasley had said, followed by Mr. Weasley and a few friends from the Ministry.

"Children!" Mr. Weasley announced over the din of roaring laughter and talk. "These are my friends Rory McKnight and Mickhail Lauder. They work with Kingsley in the Auror Department."

Harry studied them from across the room. He sat on a worn, rugged old couch in a corner. Ginny was curled up against his side, frowning.

"He hasn't brought people home from work in a long time, since Ron left for Hogwarts."

He twirled a strand of her hair around a finger.

"Do you recognize them?" he asked.

She shook her head no. "Think they'll be inducted into the Order?"

Harry sneered. "For all we know they may as well already be members. Your mum even has Fred and George scared to talk to us about Order information. I just don't understand why they won't let me-"

"You're still a student, Harry," she reminded him.

"I'm nearly seventeen, a Mage, and the Boy-Who-Lived. I'm the one who should be aware of what Voldemort is doing. He is sorta after my blood, if you recall."

She sat up, used her hand to turn his face towards hers, and kissed him quickly, passionately, on the lips.

"Happy Christmas, Harry."

She was pulling him back to reality, he mused. She was anchoring him.

"Happy Christmas," he murmured. He pulled up her right hand, spread each finger slightly, and matched the delicate fingers to his own. She gasped when the first spurt of blue energy left him and entered her. Blue energy shot between the pairs of their connected fingers and sparked. He felt the slight burn of passing it into a witch. Lycander had said the energy would only go into her, then back out. He knew, as he felt fire, she felt as if fresh air had blown through her veins. Or so Lycander had said.

"Harry?" she asked, grinning in confusion, staring in awe as it crackled and multiplied. "What is it?"

He tried to think of something cunning and cool to say. Something romantic, but he couldn't.

"I don't know," he whispered quietly. "But I wanted to share it with you. Lycander said its just energy. That's all magic is, really. When energy is heated up, it becomes electricity. What does it feel like?"

"Sort of like cold, pure water is swimming in my veins instead of blood. What do you feel when you do this?"

Harry considered. "That's a toss up, I guess. My hand is hot, like I'm touching fire, but I know its not fire but magic."

"Does it hurt?"

He shook his head slightly. "Not really. Fire doesn't hurt me, remember? It's your Christmas present." In his head, he imagined the necklace he'd conjured the night before, and felt it between their hands.

Ginny frowned. "You didn't have to give me anything, Harry. I couldn't-"

"Merlin," Harry said with a chuckle. "Ginny, you are my sanity. Lately, you are the one thing that keeps me from breaking. This is a gift, but it isn't necessary."

She pulled back her hand, and cupped the long silver chain. She speared her fingers through it and held it up to inspect. At the bottom was a small silver disk with a ruby shaped as a tear. Blinking away tears, she slipped it over her head then leaned forward to kiss him.

"It's the best."

"Harry." The name came out of Mack's mouth like poison. She took a deep breath and forced nausea and tears back.

He could tell something was wrong by the pale, pasty look of her skin. Casually, so as not to startle Gin, he stood.

"I'll be back," he promised her, then followed Mack out of the room. Silently, she shoved the pot of floo powder at him.

"Hogwarts," she managed.

With his heart pounding, Harry potter prepared himself for the worse.

* * * * * *

Agnes Cemetery overset a hill. At the edge of it was a long, jagged riff of cliffs and a giant willow. Rubeus Hagrid was buried there two days after Christmas, next to Sirius Black's tombstone, which itself was set to the left of James and Lily Potter. The air was cold and frigid and painful to breathe in. For Harry, the air could have been room temperature. It didn't matter. It hurt to breathe either way.

Hagrid had died from the Cruciatus Curse, from endless torture. Dumbledore had said he'd been insane, unconscious, when he'd finally died. It had done nothing to reassure Harry.

His eyes were gritty and swollen from lack of sleep and grief, but dry. He stood, wearing the elegant black dress robes Lycander had given him, beside the freshly overturned soil. And remembered.

Hagrid bursting into the cabin on the sea when Harry was eleven and wasn't aware of the fact that he was a wizard. Hagrid with his tea and stale cakes and vicious gifts. The photo album of his parents. The advice he'd given, and the laughter. Hagrid's face when he got the Care of Magical Creatures job. The way Harry had ignored his first best friend for nearly a year. Sure, they'd exchanged a few owls here and there, but Harry hadn't seen Hagrid one-on-one since the end of Fifth Year.

Beside him, Hermione wept with her head against Ron's shoulder. On more than one face were tears. Ginny's, the twins', Ron's, Hermione's, Dumbledore's, McGonagall's. Even Mack's, and she hadn't even known him more than a couple of months. Lycander stood at Harry's other side, his hand a magical anchor on his shoulder.

Eventually, the group thinned at Mrs. Weasley's urgings. Harry was too numb to notice, too cold and empty and helpless. All he could manage when Ginny kissed his cheek was a vague nod.

He wanted to be left alone.

Lycander, however, stayed rooted at his side, refusing to leave him.

"It isn't your fault, Harry."

Overcome with emotions, Harry lowered himself to the ground and leaned against the great willow so he could oversee the four lone graves. Someday, he realized, Remus would be buried beside his friends as he was meant to. Harry made a mental note to remind Dumbledore of that, and that if he himself died he wished to be placed beside his mother, the woman who'd saved his life.

"He died on Christmas," he said dully. "He rescued me from the Dursleys. He was always there for me. He helped me during the Tri-Wizard Tournament; told me it was dragons. He came to each of my Quidditch games. He was always so...there. Always. And I didn't even remember to write him on Christmas. On bloody Christmas. And it was my fault," he growled, finished it viciously. "The guy died for me and I was too busy necking with my girlfriend to even write to him on Christmas! I didn't think of him at all, Lycander." And that was what hurt the most. "I knew when I saw Mack that someone had died, but I thought of everyone but Hagrid. And he was my first friend."

Lycander didn't respond. He wanted to -Merlin, did he- but he knew nothing would erase the guilt. No words, promises, or soothing could ever diminish that. Harry would always have that blame, no matter what anyone said.

So they sat, and they watched. And when Harry left, when the stars winked and shot into the sky, he left a token of his gratitude on each of those graves, the ones he knew were there partly because of him. He left a circle with a teardrop in the middle on every gravestone.

It was a token of gratitude, yes, for giving their lives for him, but it was also a blood promise. One he vowed to keep no matter what.

* * * * * *

The last day of vacation was, as usually, a mass of confusion. There were socks to be found, wands misplaced, and possessions to pack and collect. Harry was grateful to Lycander, who had spent the last night at #12 Grimmauld Place, for packing his chest for him. While the inhabitants of his godfather's childhood home searched for their belongings, Harry sat in the middle of Sirius' old room.

It smelled of him. That dog-like, natural smell that clung to the few robes scattered around the room. The room was dusty, too, and unbearably dank. Harry wondered if Sirius had refused to let Mrs. Weasley clean it up for him.

He rolled onto his stomach and watched his parents and Sirius at the Potter wedding. He was brooding over it when Remus opened the door and found him.

"What are you doing?" he asked weakly, glancing uneasily around the room.

Instead of answering, Harry signaled to him in and bobbed his head at the picture. "Where were you when this was taken?"

Remus studied it. Harry regretted asking him when he saw the pain flash into Moony's eyes, but he didn't take it back. He wanted to know.

"I was..." He cleared his throat. "I was the one who took it. The camera only worked for me. Photography was my main hobby back then."

Photography. Harry chewed on the notion, nibbled, then spat it out. "I've never seen you with a camera in my life."
Remus shifted uncomfortably. "I gave up on it years ago."

Moodily, Harry rolled onto his back. "My dad would be disappointed in me," he stated flatly.

"Never," Remus said, surprised. "Why would you think that?"

Harry jerked a shoulder in answer.

"James wouldn't be disappointed. Harry, he'd be proud. You've done everything. You try hard in school, you're a great friend. You're a good person, and that's pretty impossible to be these days."

Harry cushioned his head on his hands.

"That's me," he said sarcastically, "the one who does the impossible."

"What do you want me to say, Harry?" he asked helplessly. "What do you want me to do? I'm not your parents; I'm not Sirius. I can't read your mind."

Thank Merlin, Harry mused. That would just be disastrous.

"I don't know. I just want it to stop. I'm tired of being the reason people keep dying. People who are close to me, the ones I care most about."

"It's war, Harry. People die in war."

They did, Harry knew. People did die in war...on both sides. But none of the Death Eaters were dying. It wasn't a war, but an attack, until Harry got to kill someone on the other side.

With plans of vengeance in mind, he sat up. "I'm sorry, Remus. I'm just having bad day and I guess I'm taking it out on you. Did you want something?"

Remus shook his head. "No, I was just worried about you, and Molly was wondering where you are."

Harry stood to leave, then turned when Remus called his name.

"If James was in your place, Harry, in these circumstances, he'd be just like you."

A ghost of a smile appeared around Harry's mouth.

* * * * * *