The Owls and the Phoenix

He stood on the brim edge of an uneven circle, almost three quarters of a mile in diameter, covered with pale grey ash. The ash was so thin that the drops of the rain which just started to fall made deep craters in its surface. Minute eruptions filled the air with the ash. It stuck to his face and felt greasy when he tried to wipe it off. He looked around, searching for any signs of life among the scorched bushes and burned heather which surrounded the circle. The only movements he spotted were just near him. Hermione crawled from behind the half-melted boulder that served as their shield, and got up, her legs still wobbly. The ash, rain, soot, remains of makeup, and possibly tears smeared on her face turned it into a caricature of a Chinese opera mask. Her hair, although tangled and dirty, still preserved some shape of the elegant coiffure, thanks to the liberal amounts of Sleakeasy Potion she had applied.

"It's over, then?" she asked, her wand still pointed towards the heart of the circle.

"So it seems." Ron stood on the other side of Harry, also dirty and stained, with deep circles under his eyes to show how very tired he was.

"Let's go, then." She plodded ahead into the dust, which had now already changed into sticky mud. Ron could not resist a smile seeing her bareback, silk dress now completely ruined. Her heavy boots were the only thing she had grabbed when summoned from the middle of the great ball yesterday evening.

They went after her. The ash-mud was like glue, sticking to their robes and shoes and emitting obscene smacking noises when they pulled out their legs to take another step. A faint, hardly perceivable, but still nauseating odour hung in the air. They plodded ahead for twenty minutes before reaching the centre of the circle. There had once been an ancient altar there, but now only charred and melted pieces of limestone marked the place. The space cleared of mud was maybe seven yards across; there was nothing but bare rock there. Everything that had once been a living thing, even a long time ago, such as the ground or dry twigs, had been erased by the power of a spell. With two exceptions.

They were lying together, still clutching each other. The woman, in a white, now stained robe. One of her hands was still flung above her head, as if she was drawing the power of an incantation; the other, its fingers curled and tense, thrust into the girl's face, stained with the eye jelly and blood. But the girl didn't let go, and both of her hands were still grappling the woman's throat with such strength that the skin broke and blood was drawn. The girl was no more than fifteen, tall and thin in that awkward age, where she was already too long-legged to be a child but too undeveloped to be an adult.

Hermione sat heavily on the boulder, waving her wand and murmuring detecting charms. Harry turned his back to the remains of the altar and was scanning their surroundings. The first stirs could be seen along the fringe. Ron was still staring at the dead bodies, as if mesmerized by the hideous sight.

"Let's get back." Harry was surprised how harsh his voice sounded. There was a shout, followed by sudden commotion on the on the verge of the circle. They ploughed towards it, but it took them a quarter of an hour to reach their destination. Three Aurors were kneeing on the ground picking something, two others were discussing, gesticulating wildly.

"What's happened?" inquired Ron. A young Auror turned to them.

"We Apparated a moment ago, with all the precautions, but then Jolly here thought of making a quick jump to the other end to see if the second team had arrived and got Splinched. The medics are working on him, already."

"What an idiot," murmured Hermione. "Too much magic residue. Couldn't he feel it?"

"What about the other teams?" asked Harry.

"Coming. There will be six to coming directly here and sorties of three plus medics all around, within the radius of two miles."

"Good. There are lots of people scattered there."

"And...?" The young man pointed to the circle.

"The Lady is dead."

"What about the first teams?" asked the Auror, his voice unsure enough that it was obvious he had already guessed the answer. Harry nodded towards the circle and made a vague gesture. There was not much to be told.

* * * * *

The Owl who raised the alarm was the first to go. But the signal was enough, and the twenty or so members of "the crowd" Apparated into a wide circle and proceeded, some on foot, most on broomsticks, towards the plain. In the meantime, the Hit Brigade, which had been alerted, assembled two squads, and the group from Department of Mysteries moved swiftly into positions.

The advance was not fast enough to save the first messenger. The only consolation, though certainly not for her, was that she was found outside the circle, so could be given a decent burial. They did not manage to save the people in the cage, too. The real fighting started just after midnight, when the Followers realized it was not a mere accident or skirmish with the overzealous Muggle law enforcers. During the first hour, six Owls were down and most of the others wounded. Followers were scattered, their first defences in ruins. They still managed to build an anti-apparition shield and set up the wards, but due to the fact that their most skilful charmers were targeted first, the wards were not of much use when the Auror squads charged in.

The Aurors cut into the defenders like a hot knife into butter. Not bothering themselves with the Followers, they pressed on to the altar. The Department of Mysteries team, famous Unspeakables, followed suit from the other direction. Harry, with Hermione sitting behind him, Ron, and a handful of the best Owls skimmed the grass as they flew on their brooms just behind. But it was too late already, so they jumped off their brooms and dropped onto their knees behind an outcrop of rocks, shouted a few commands to the other members of the order and started building the cupola. They were betting all their chances on Hermione and Gwen's inductions derived from scanty observations. The Charm they created would work - or not.

The air hissed when Hermione, Harry and Ron connected their wands. Hermione was chanting the incantation in a singsong voice, very unlike her usual sober tone. Harry felt his strength draining and would have collapsed if it weren't thanks to Ron's support, both physical and psychical. Then - suddenly - they felt relief, something had changed in the air (was it air?), and nothing was to be done but wait. In the burning-charcoal light of the sacrifice they saw the Aurors and Unspeakables advancing towards the altar in leaps and jumps - dark figures, except for the jets of light from their wands, while a handful of remaining Followers tried to defend their Lady. They saw more people running from the altar and towards it, among them a thin figure, clad in Muggle clothing. And they just sat calmly, not trying to stop anybody, no matter what direction he or she was going.

How long the final phase took, nobody knew. The power summoned to the altar bent reality. The Aurors ran quickly across the moor, yet it took them hours to cover the few hundred yards. People escaping from the altar turned and ran in circles, only a few of them making it through the invisible barrier of will. The Lady turned her back to her flock, focusing only on the final draw of the power, and feeling her lack of support they panicked like fishes out of water. Then it was suddenly over.

There was no fire, no smashing wave, no noise, save for the loud sigh. All within the circle disappeared, one after another, as if rubbed away by the hand of the Drawer. The power came over the trio, burning and charring every living thing, but the cupola withstood it and only a fraction of the energy went through. The rest was deflected into the sky, punching a hole in the low-lying clouds through which the sky could be seen for only a moment.

The single albatross on his way from the Atlantic to the North Sea disappeared, annihilated so fast, that he felt no pain and no fear.

* * * * *

They entered the bookstore dragging their feet, leaving traces of mud all over brick floors. They made their way to the kitchen and sat around the table in silence while Stiffy laid mugs of hot, sweet tea and plates of sandwiches before them. The Elf, usually animated and talkative, was calm and subdued. The door creaked and Gwen came inside. She was even thinner than before, and her skin had an unhealthy, grey tinge. Her eyes, always large, now seemed huge in her pale face, deeply set in the almost black eye sockets. She slumped onto the stool that Stiffy pushed towards her.

"It's over?"

Harry nodded and she started to weep, tears falling on her dusty robe. Ron patted her hand, but there was no spirit of consolation in it. It was just a movement, a gesture that should be done. She wept long, and the rest started to wake up from their stupor slowly, taking their mugs and sandwiches, munching the food, silently motioning the elf to refill their cups. The owl perch behind the window was vacant. No post was lying on the tray. There was stiffness in the air, as if the world could not yet decide whether to live on or to wait.

There was another person coming, and by the sound of his long strides they recognized him before he entered. Definitely not looking like his normal elegant and composed self, with robes which had not been changed for a week, unwashed hair and a face clearly showing that he had not slept for a couple of days. It was he who broke the silence first.

"So, you can leave your cellar at last," he said to Gwen.

Gwen started to cry even more.

"How can you be so insensitive, Malfoy?" asked Hermione, taking the pin out of her hair and letting it fall. It did, but less like a shiny wave than like a wet and dirty rag.

"It's true, nevertheless. For me, I'm just happy I'll be able to get rid of the scum from my robes ...and offices." He did not appear happy, but just as weary as all of them were. They were interrupted by the sound of a bell.

"Becky is coming in for work," said Harry.

"Tell her to sod off. Say that you are ill. She'll believe it when she sees you."

"I can't, there's a delivery coming later today," Harry said. "Oh damn it, she'll have to manage." He stumbled from the kitchen.

* * * * *

The day was as bleary and grey as they were. Nobody wanted to sleep, nobody was celebrating. They just sat in the garden, waiting for the news, or inquires, but there were none. Aurors were busily combing the place of battle and hunting the known Followers in the streets of the cities. The Ministry prepared the press conference. St. Mungo's mediwizards were fighting for the lives of the wounded. In the Department of Mysteries the Unspeakables occupied themselves with autopsy of the late Lady. The Owls had nothing to do.

A question hung in the air.

Nine years had passed since Gwen Guilleaume visited "The Phoenix and the Owl." More than eight had passed since the Ministry formed a special cell responsible for monitoring so-called Followers. No one knew how many years had passed since the Unspeakables joined the game. Seven years ago Gwen had descended into the old cellars under the bookstore building and started to arrange the intelligence centre there. Half a year later, she'd dropped her job in Westmoreland and became a full-time intelligence officer for the Order. How she cursed her abilities later! How many times she swore that she should never had taken the Arithmancy class! How many times she cried over her files! The secrecy imposed on the bookstore headquarters turned her into a hermit. Nobody was allowed into the cellars, save the trio and three others. And also, nobody was allowed out: six years had passed since Gwen had seen the daylight.

The question was still unanswered.

* * * * *

The Rite was most popular among Muggle-born wizards or their children, as Malfoy was quick to point out, and Gwen, with heavy heart, confirmed it.

"But why?"

"Having inadequate powers by birth, they're seeking some additional..."

"That's bloody crap, Malfoy, and you know it!" started Ron, but Harry interrupted him.

"It's as good theory as any other, for the moment," he said gravely. "Hermione?"

Hermione was tapping on the table, scanning her notes.

"It may not necessarily be true that the majority is Muggle-born, but for the known cases, there is a large group that is." She paused for a second, thinking. "There can also be a question of legitimisation."

All who were present looked at her.

"Care to elaborate?" asked Ron.

"The Lady claims, at least from what we know, that her Rite is very ancient and mysterious." Hermione was chewing the end of her quill. "The Muggle-born, often reminded of their ancestry..." She could not resist glancing at Malfoy, who was staring pointedly though the window. "...may want to search the ways of legitimising their position in the wizard world. Belonging to some Ancient Rite could be one such way."

"But, Hermione, most of their victims are Muggles!" Ron was clearly shocked.

"Could you stop being such a wimp, Weasley? Didn't all those years at the Ministry teach you the simplest facts of life? There's some sense in what Granger said. Hardly a better way to denounce your origin, than to put a couple of your Muggle-kin into a wicker cage and burn them alive."

"That's sick."

"Nobody says it's not. Kindly refrain from making such productive comments, Weasley. As for me, I am going to check it out." He marched out of the room without good-byes. Harry turned to Ron.

"As our liaison, can you try to check if the Aurors have similar ideas? But don't tell them ours. Just check."

* * * * *

The Owls had just one thing in common. "My retirement fund," as Hermione called it, was the communication talisman. It used an un-crackable coding method, based on the new numerological theory that she herself had developed. As well as publishing the book, which she had already drafted, she wanted to patent and sell the design. If it went to production, she would indeed have her future secured. But she'd dropped the idea the very moment Harry asked her for a way to provide the safe communication for "the crowd", and somebody else had patented something similar a couple of years later, collecting both the money and the glory. Only she knew which loss hurt her more.

There was no training for The Owls; secrecy was their only weapon. Every new member used to get the message clearly.

"We will not attempt any rescue operation. We will not tell you how to save your life. You will not know any of the other members. You will not be provided with any training. You are free to train on your own, learn on your own, but we will not direct you in any way. And we will not provide you with any money for expenditures. You are on your own. Is this clear?" Harry used to say, his voice grave and his eyes cold.

Most of the future members would waver and resign. Some because they were afraid, some because their faith in Harry's leadership was destroyed by his words. In such cases the man sitting behind Harry would stand up and take of his dark glasses. There was a flash and the person at the other side of the desk looked puzzled and the man in dark glasses was leaving the room in long strides.

"Memory charms can be broken," said Harry, when Ron introduced them for the first time.

"Not mine," answered the man and Harry believed him.

"And what's your name?"

"Call me Abbey," he said and smiled, as if the name was a private joke he didn't want to share.

* * * * *

"Draco Malfoy has changed," said some. "No, he hasn't," answered others. For long years, the lord of the Malfoys' Manor was calmly occupying himself with business, having renounced his father's Dark Lord connections. As always, Yule Balls at the Manor were great affairs, as were the birthday parties. Only a bit smaller were private Quidditch tournaments. Except for them, Draco Malfoy was hardly participating in the social life, and showed up mostly in the various offices. Slowly and grudgingly he cleared his enterprises of dark alliances. He was cold in his decisions, not disposed to charity, closed and withdrawn. He ruled his empire from his enormous study in the Manor, its windows overlooking the black rosary. He ruled with minute meticulosity; attentive to details, but not loosing the larger picture.

After many years, people started to acknowledge his honesty, his fairness in dealing with and caring for long term customers. They might not like him, for it was hard to do so; he was sarcastic and ironic, with little patience for the less bright and slower-witted, always prone to make some caustic comment. His tongue lashes were second only to those of the famous Potion Master of Hogwarts himself. But they would admit his good sense in business, the brilliance of his decisions, and his general unwillingness to enter into trade-wars. He preferred to expand his enterprises by opening new markets and employing new ideas.

When asked, Malfoy hadn't pointed out that it would mean undoing his last twenty-five years of work. He did not calculate possible losses; did not even make a comment about the fame of his family name. He just narrowed his grey eyes and looked at Harry for a good while.

"All right, I'll do it," he said, and got up. Only near the door, had he paused and shown some of his feeling, for the first and the last time. "You have grown much, Potter. You are a cruel and wise bastard now."

Soon afterwards, the gossip was that the Malfoys were once again playing with the darkness. People of not great reputation were showing up in some of his offices and cover dealings with Knockturn Alley entrepreneurs were discovered soon enough.

"What a pity," sighed one or another. "And he seemed so different from his father. Ah well, must be in the blood. But it's a pity indeed."

* * * * *

"Mr. Potter, there are rumours of some dark forces activity...."

It was typical Sunday in the middle of the summer slack season, so Harry had two journalists as guests for the lunch.

"Please, gentlemen," he screwed his face in disgust, "you know the rules. People have ask me this question year after year and I always refuse to answer. I had my role. I played it. But I am a bookstore owner, not an Auror."

"Isn't fighting dark forces a duty of every wizard?"

"You really want to finish this interview fast, don't you? Gentlemen, we may talk about books, my general opinions on life and on flowers - not on women, mind you - but if you want to ask about Dark Arts fighting, go to the Ministry."

The older of the two journalists rested his notebook on his knees and wiped his brow with a handkerchief. It was very hot day and he was both sweaty and annoyed. He had been sent here to get something for the front page. The Ministry was dormant - everybody was on holidays. At the paper, he was the only senior reporter left. And, of course, it had to be him to interview Harry Potter, because, of course, the chief editor couldn't think of a better plug for the hole. "There were some rumours," he told him in parting, "so let's let people know that our heroes are ready as ever."

"Please do not take offence, Mr. Potter, but you are not just a small bookstore owner. You are one of the more powerful wizards in this country - no, don't interrupt me - possibly even in the world. The people expect great things from you."

But, the heroes were turning out to be uncooperative.

"Then they will be disappointed, I'm sorry to say. Don't you think I've done enough?"

"You most certainly did," the older man was trying to placate him. "But you know, from he to whom much is given, much is expected. Yours is the last generation taught by Albus Dumbledore, and so far nobody has equalled him. You and your friends secured many years of peace for our community. It's only natural that when some gossip starts to circulate, people will look up to you."

Harry put his glass down and took out a jug. He poured some more juice into the journalist's glass than added some to his own. His hand shook and the cap slid off the jug. Attempting to catch it, he splashed sticky liquid all over the table. Murmuring choice words under his breath, he put the beaker down and performed a couple of desiccating charms to the tablecloth and refilled the jug.

"Sorry for the interruption; sometimes I'm really clumsy." He smiled to the reporters, who answered with understanding smiles.

"Well, back to the subject. So as I said, I am not an Auror. The Ministry has been doing a great job these last years. Remember the attempts to steal the Necromantic Bells? Or the Mag'Crack smugglers gang? These weren't simple criminals. All of them relied heavily on the Dark Arts to cover their tracks, and to press people into cooperation. Maybe they didn't have plans for world domination, but left to their devices, who knows what ideas they could get? But - you know better than I do, you covered the trials - they were rounded up nicely. So really, what I am saying is: want to protect yourself from the dark arts? Help the Aurors. Want your children safe? Teach them not to accept sweets from strangers. If you are worried, go to the Ministry, tell them what you know. You may quote me on the subject."

* * * * *

"HELP THE AURORS, HELP YOURSELF!" ran the "Daily Prophet" headline, a couple days later.

"It may seem banal and commonplace," says Harry Potter, "but that's the best way of protecting yourself. Acknowledging having heard the rumours about recent Dark Arts activity, the famous Boy-Who-Lived denied any involvement with fighting it. "Remember, I am just a bookstore owner. I've done my share."

People were talking.

"Yes, he is right, he did bloody well."

"Aurors are Aurors, for myself, I never trusted the bloody Ministry bureaucrats."

"Last time the Ministry screwed up the whole thing, and he got it bad too. Now his pals are running it, so he turns out to be a Ministry fan. Sickening."

"He can't just turn his back on us!"

"I'll protect myself then."

"But what if something really terrible happens? Who will help us?"

People were talking - as if they ever have done anything else.

"That's true, there's nobody like Dumbledore right now," says Harry Potter, "and nobody misses him more than I do. But we do have many great wizards, now. Me as Dumbledore? That's ridiculous!"

* * * * *

Finding victims was surprisingly easy. Many Muggles interested in the "ancient lore", "druid wisdom", "real knowledge", and the like, were easy to enlist into a new society. Sworn to secrecy among bizarre rites, which a normal wizard would find ridiculous, but which for them were entrancing (they had the same effect on many Followers as well). They participated in meetings, donated money and absorbed "the learning". Some of them, carefully selected, without many friends and relations, often single women of no great beauty, or men shunned by their colleagues for their lack of money or success, or simply their inability to hold their liquor, were invited for the "internal circle meeting".

What were their last thoughts? It is not known. From the sacrifice, strange power was derived and Ron, several times, observed the cage shining for a moment when the fires engulfed it all. And then there was a flash, leaving only a few square yards of fine, white ash. He knew others saw it, too. So there were witnesses, but there was no proof. Aurors who tried to interfere were repelled by the shield of an unknown force. And Ron was left to watch yet another cage go up in flames, and he could wail, cry, shout, bang his fists - yes, he could do whatever he pleased, even stand on his head - but his role was reduced to the witness. Harry's orders were clear on this point. He was to record and not show himself or interfere in any way, lest the Shield should learn of his existence and he would be never able to approach the site again.

* * * * *

In some ways this war - if it could be called a war - was much weirder than the earlier one. There was no fear among the Wizarding population, and most of them lived in complete peace. The society was blissfully unaware of the struggle. There were some hints and gossip, but most put them down to some gang fighting or post-Death Eater mafia. The press noticed some unrest, but everybody knew that "bad news make the news". So nobody really paid attention. The Aurors were on the move, but their actions were kept quiet; and rewards - if any - were unofficial. For their part, the Followers kept their profile very low, and guarded their secret well, but feared the investigators little. Their rites left hardly a trace. They were also confident in the ever-growing power of their Lady. Because the longer the Rite lasted, the greater the power was. Every offering seemed to multiply it, even with the huge expenses of building the shields and wards.

The Muggles tried to interfere in a more active way. The police, alerted by the many disappearances, were trying to investigate and to infiltrate the "druidic" societies, to hunt the sabbats. "Poor fools," commented Hermione as she read about one raid and subsequent lawsuits, filled by the angered participants, claiming the abuse of human rights. She did not make it clear whom she meant.

Surprisingly, the Muggle police were closer to success than the Aurors. The magic shield affected them less, or maybe, lacking inherent magic, they were harder to spot. Anyway, one time they managed to break into the circle of the Rite. The inspector attempted bravely to save the victims and didn't hesitate to have his men use arms. They gunned eight Followers, including three very important ones, which was better than the Aurors had scored for six years. But their only reward was the note in the paper: "during an unauthorized raid, lead by Insp. Cotman, for the reasons of bad visibility, two sorties of policemen opened fire on themselves, all four receiving mortal wounds." The case was hushed, the internal inquiry closed soon, and the families (only one of the policemen had children; a daughter and a son) left with meagre pensions.

* * * * *

The five of them went down into the basement, still carrying the mugs with already cold tea. The arched cellars were unusually calm. On the long table, dozens of quick-note quills were sitting motionless on their parchments, not relaying any information. In the large cabinets, full of papers and files, nothing stirred; no search-worms were digging their way through, looking for the answer to queries. Near the unused chimney, rows of bats were hanging quietly on their porches, none of them busy delivering letters.

They sat around the table, its oaken surface permanently covered with a map of the Isles, full of dots marking the Followers' activities, crosses for the places of Rites and moving sparks symbolizing Owls. They put their mugs down and sat again in oppressive silence.

"So now I know how Dumbledore felt about me," said Harry to nobody in particular. He sipped a bit of cold tea.

Ron took a pack of crumbled biscuits out of his pocket, tore off the paper and put them on Manchester. They started to pick at the crumbs and nibble them.

"I realized when this girl ran ahead." His tone of voice was normal, but he made long pauses, sipping from his mug.

"I mean, she was a Muggle. So there was no chance for her, huh? She'd run so close to us. I could have stopped her."

"But..." Hermione began. "Never mind." She took another piece of biscuit.

"Dumbledore had to feel the same, sending me as a child to fight," Harry continued, his long breaks more a pattern now, then the real stops.

"And she won the battle for us - through sheer determination."

"The war," said Gwen.

"Yes, the war."

"How does it come to be that so many of the mighty fall because of the little ones?" asked Ron. Harry and Gwen tensed, feeling the real question hanging behind.

"That's a myth, a false generalization, although very popular," said Hermione, her voice more vigorous now, "and endlessly repeated in the books. My guess would be it is popular second only to the lonely hero." Ron's and Gwen's heads automatically turned to Harry.

"That's a myth, too," he reminded them. "Besides I was never lonely. Not in my fights, at least."

Now it was Hermione's turn to look at him closely. "But you were lonely in this fight, weren't you?"

He sipped his tea again, only to realize, that his mug was empty. "I was."

"But we were around you!" protested Ron, "you just needed to say the word and...."

"And what?" Gwen's voice was as bitter as Harry's. "What would you have done? Tell him not send Crotchet to Hebrides? Tell him not to take Hermione's inventions from her, 'we can cope another way, dear, it's fine'? Tell him not to lock me in a cellar for six years, having only intelligence reports for company and Arithmancy charts for fun?"

Ron's shoulders slugged and he leant on his elbows. "Good, Gwen, go ahead, that's what we really need now, accusations and the like. I would gladly change places with you. Would you like to see if watching people burning is more fun than Arithmancy?"

"Now you're starting, Ron," said Hermione. She put a stretched jumper over her dress and looked the very opposite of her usual tidy self.

"I still wonder..." Harry was toying with his mug and looking into the empty fireplace, "if we did well, getting involved. After all, the Aurors bore the brunt of the fighting and the final success was thanks to a sixteen year old Muggle."

"Don't." Gwen struggled to compose herself a bit. "Think if there had been an Auror officer in your place. He would have stopped her. All the troopers would have died, and there would have been no success to sweeten it."

"The fact that I read Muggle papers and allow young girls to commit suicide does not make me a great leader."

"Did anybody ask you to be one?" Hermione got suddenly angry.

"You did yourself, in the room above...."

"I remember every word I said that night, Harry." Hermione's voice was dripping icicles. "I told you be a leader, to 'be Dumbledore to Gwen or to somebody else'. I didn't say anything about greatness."

"Dumbledore was great...."

"Yes, he was and so what? He gave you schooling. He watched you. Good for you. And you just saw a girl and let her go. You read the papers, so you knew who her father was and why she was going there. She went, and she did what she wanted. Be satisfied."

"Yep. Be satisfied, star-boy."

Ron opened his mouth to say something, but thought better of it. Draco leaned back in his chair and stretched his long legs.

"And you know what?" His eyes glittered with mean satisfaction. "I think you did pick the name for the new order well. The Owls are us, nocturnal and secretive animals. And as for the evil, I would say something about the ash, and the phoenix."