Thanks to the Dark Lord Potter Forums and especially addictedforlife for beta work. It's better for your help.

Part B: A Beautiful World

The Stake

The torches leading up to the wide, open space on the summit blazed to life, forming a lit path, through which they would enter the circle. While the former was narrow, the latter was wide, mayhap as much as a good hundred yards; a thousand wizards and witches from all over Europe gathered here atop the hill, standing along the edge of the circular place, hands locked together, awaiting the beginning of Walpurgis on this first of May.

All across the land, there would be similar gatherings now, smaller ones, for wizards and witches, or even for halfbloods, at least for those of them that cared about the old holidays; but this, this was the Walpurgis Night. The one night where wizards and witches came together from all over Europe and met; celebrating magic and life and remembering their ancestors.

The Minister was here, and the Cuffes, and the Parkinsons, who would later be hosting the ball down in their manor of Ravensholme, and a couple of dozen others, like the MacMillans and the Malfoys – although Lucius Malfoy was noticeably missing –, but the large, vast majority, were foreign – foreign, but certainly not unknown.

Cecilia had found her place at the western side, next to her uncle, her father's brother who had recently gained a prestigious spot on the Hogwarts' board of governors, and she recognised more wizards and witches than even she could name: that was Doña Mendoza, certainly, still with her black veil, since her husband had passed away just five months ago, and slightly to her left, Johan Rytter, the Norwegian aristocrat, looking outrageously good with his wavy blond hair and the blue eyes that flashed through the night, but that – that remarkably tall form nearly across from her – who should that be, perhaps the German chancellor with his wife, Von Eichengruen?

She strained her eyes to see more, and like that, it went on – from every community on the continent, there were a handful of families, faces she at last could not see any more in the ever-darkening night but names she knew would be there – the clan of the Borgias, the Transylvanian ruler Báthory, a few other Ministers of places where old names still meant influence, the de Lapins and the Zamojskis and so many more. They were the leading families in Europe, for naturally, the official Walpurgis was for the most important only, and she was bursting in pride to be a part of it. When she had perceived of her uncle's invitation, and that he was to bring someone, she had spent the entire month leading up to the event begging for his favour, and the elation upon having her wish granted was not to be put in words.

She smiled into the darkness. The sky was black and stormy above her, just the right weather; clouds had gathered during the afternoon, hiding the moon and the stars, pushed over the hill by the same unpleasant north wind that had swept through Diagon Alley this morning. It had taken no strong effort to cast the meteolojinxes that thickened the clouds to the desired size.

The lands below were dark as well, although the Muggle cities blinked like overgrown firebugs, and suddenly, on the hillside, lights appeared as well; a chain of glowing dots, like pearls on a string, slowly moving towards the top, winding its way along the sharply serpentine path like a long, living whole.

Soon, they were near enough to make out details. The flickering lights became torches and revealed thirteen robed figures that entered the lit path at the summit, the torched in the left hand, the wand in the other. Silver masks obscured their faces and gave them a daunting appearance, a well-calculated aura of forbidding lifelessness, intended to strike fear into the hearts of common people.

Cecilia shivered as one look from the empty silver holes brushed her, but it was excitement, not fear. Orange fire flickered, reflected on their masks, coating the burnished metal with a dull, angry sheen, just like their amour would have shone, once, in face of the fires of their enemies.

"The Knights of Walpurgis," she whispered, awed.

Of course she knew that it weren't the actual Knights – they were long gone, after all – and only a re-enactment of this band of wizards that had protected wizards and witches from Muggles more than three hundred years ago, but it did nothing to quell her tense anticipation, and her joyfully lifted heart, to be part of a tribute to such important a part of their collective history.

The silent cortege moved into the circle, their wands pointed skywards. A dark, lumpy shape was floating above their heads, spinning slowly in circles. Cecilia strained her eyes to make out further details, and a sudden, quivering, half-muffled cry escaped her. Her entire being was strung taut in excited approval, for they had, they would, they were going to …! For the first time after nearly a hundred years! A re-enactment of the entire history of the Knights! For the dark shape, it could be no different, was a Muggle.

Clearly she – for it was a woman – was silenced, had realised what was to happen with her; was straining against the spells, oh, how vainly! No match was a Muggle for a wizard, the superiority assured, proven by trial, never would she get the chance to express the maledictions that fell from her lips. Revenge, they same revenge the Knights had wrought on the Muggles, was near.

The ring of wizards and witches closed behind the Knights, accepting them into their midst, and they, in turn, occupied their intended places on either side of the stake around which everyone was gathered, seven to the left, six to the right, standing there unmoving in silent vigil.

The Minister stepped thereafter forward, at a measured step, slow and dignified. He waited for in instant. Then he began to speak.

"Wizards and witches! Tonight marks the three-hundred and ninth anniversary of the Statute of Secrecy, and just a three-hundred years has past, since the last of us left behind the world of the Muggles. A date which, in want for any other outstanding turning point in history, safe, perhaps, the founding of Hogwarts, as the first of all magical schools, or the defeat of the Goblins at Hogsmeade, might as well be called the founding date of this our world; and if one were to search for a place of similar importance, this bleak hilltop would surely rank among the first as well.

"It seems fitting, therefore – and I am very thankful to be the one to be given this opportunity – that tonight we convene here – here, were we suffered the greatest loss and experienced the highest triumph. This is the place that saw the tragedy of two feuding families burning by the hand of Muggles, and this is the place that saw the rise of those that would lead us out of the darkness.

"It was in great error of judgement that my predecessors held as unimportant this history, indeed, turned into one act of formal bureaucracy what once was the most important aspect our world: The annual breaking and re-signing of the Statute of Wizarding Secrecy on this date; the assurance that a measure was enacted of a wizard's own volition, that it could and would be broken at will, that everyone was to convene, and decide to sign it anew.

"And alongside it, as the other side of the same coin without which the Statute would be but an empty shell, a mere few lines on paper, we once remembered that it was in battle hard won: That brave wizards and witches gave their lives for ours, that we stood here only because of those who came before.

"Bear with me, therefore, for a short while and a walk along the winding paths that lead from the murky depths of the bygone years to the present, here, and today, where both endings are closer than usual, the veil of time thinned and mayhap ready to part for a blink of an eye."

Long since had Cecilia forgotten everything around her. She was part of a single whole, the words like gossamer to connect the pieces of them, finest thread to weave a spell to bind them all, conjure misty images of times long past … she saw shadows of brave silver knights, heard shouts and laughter, fading and resounding, around the bald hill, just beyond the edge of the circle, beyond the edge of her thoughts, as the tale went on.

"Three hundred years ago, when it was not at all certain that there even would be wizards and witches in future days to come – for we were weak and scattered! – many a wizard could nevertheless not bear the thought of hiding, grieved and appalled in his heart at the blemish of a cowardly retreat this act would surely carry, a flight from a foe that ought to have nought on wizards. And thus, every wizard and every witch fought on their own, fought each other, even, over what was to be the right path to choose, and divided, we fell before the Muggles.

"And might be it would have continued that way but for a band of wizards that rose, sworn to death to help each other and every wizard and witch that would call for them in need. Fighting when the Kings would not let us go, saving innocent witches all over the continent, all over the land, even in this parish, from the clutches of their henchmen when they hunted us, they protected us and helped us carve out what was to be a destiny of our own. Here at this very place they met, to swear their oath, and to this place they returned, whenever a battle had been fought.

"And to remind everyone of where the true power lay, they turned the very manner the Muggles sought to vanquish us with against them, and it were their own that burned. And years after, in their tradition and as a reminder of the past, wizards took it upon themselves to hold symbolic Muggle burnings in the place that had seen the first of the Knights of Walpurgis.

"It was expression of our superiority, of our victory, a symbolic – but oh, how strong and expressive! – assurance that we acted of our own will, to do what was the best for our own. It was no flight in fear. We took from the Muggles what was to be ours. And that makes all the difference in the world."

A well-measured, solemn pause held everyone to dwell on the words just heard, before coming to its conclusion: "This day, this celebration, is part of that assurance. It should not be scorned, it should not be forgotten, for it is part of our history, of who we are, and should therefore be remembered: the struggle, the sacrifice, the victory."

And as though with a rousing cheer, it gripped Cecilia and everyone, sounded like a triumphant call across lands wide and far, words unknown but in her heart of hearts, shaped silently by her lips and everyone's: "So tonight, times have changed once more. Tonight, we return to tradition and history, claim what was, what is and will be ours, meet again where past and present convene. Tonight, we honour the brave wizards that fought for our future, like our forefathers did before us. Tonight, we break the Statute and sign it , we remind the world that we still exist. Tonight is our night!"

As in a dream, she saw him step back into the circle and raise his wand. Like a wave spreading left and right, the gesture ran through the circle until it met at the opposing end, passing her before ever she had conceived having moved. A thousand wizards and witches stood, with their right arm, the wand arm, stretched out to the dark night sky; before they lowered it as one and engulfed the the circle, the wood, the pike and the Muggle in flames.

The Dream

Her first step into Ravensholme was hesitant. Not because Cecilia was intimidated by the old, expansive building; it was more a silent acknowledgement of what she was about to do. This step was so much more – a step into a new realm, a step up to the top, a step onwards, towards her goal, and she felt she ought to hesitate on the threshold and be conscious of her doings, reflect on the path that brought her here, and savour the moment that was the result of her constant hard work over the last year.

And so she placed her small foot into the golden glow streaming out of the manor's great centre portal, twice as high as herself, and paused, listening to the murmur and excited laughter of the wizards and witches passing her by, and allowed herself a quick, small smile. She was now one of them.

The Promise

Ravensholme was a special place. She felt it clearly; like a synonym for all she ever wanted, her dearest dream and the highest promise, it stood tall and proud, in grand, opulent splendour; with the light of a thousand candles reflected in the hall's gleaming gold ceiling, with precious marble, with many, many ornaments – a defiant baroque, when the rest of the world had long since moved on to other epochs, abandoning this wonderful show of triumphant power and control for more modest, less costlier styles.

Not this, though, and not wizards. Cecilia stared up towards dome in the centre, painted with scenes from Hogwarts' founding, couldn't look her fill of the wide, elegant staircase, wildly loved the marble columns with their stuccoed capital, flaring out broadly in dramatic arches.

This – this – had been her yearning, when she had not even known what it was she was looking for.

This was her place. This was where she belonged; – to places matching her beauty, reflecting it, transcending, perfecting it, in all that was around her: with imperious, arched browns and graciously swooping lines of features mirrored in columns and spires and vaultings –; at the side of tall, handsome wizards and witches in their finery, each assured of his own worth, populating the marble staircase, gliding through the golden hall; among the first people of the country, with all avenues open, hers only to lose.

The realisation spread through her, filling her from head to toe; warmly, like sitting in front of a cosy fire. She had finally arrived.

She moved through the wizards and witches, enjoying the way her gown swished this way and that. The garment had a low back, proudly displaying her Marking. It was chestnut leaf, about the size of her palm, resting between her shoulder blades and gleaming mysteriously inky-wet in the light of the chandeliers.

Her parents had told her how proud they had been, when the spell had been performed over her after her birth and her magic had formed the tattoo immediately, announcing her a witch to the world. Back then, only few had still done the old ways. Now, like so many other pureblood rites, it was in vogue again, the latest fashion. Some even went so far as to fake them! Luckily that became forbidden quickly, after a thoroughly disgusting squib-woman had tried to pass herself off as a witch that way.

Her Marking, however, was real. She liked it. Some were rather horrible, but she was lucky enough. Chestnut leaves symbolised luxury in the old lore, and that suited her just fine.

She smiled, in the middle of the wide hall, simply because she couldn't help it; brushed her short hair behind her ear, glad she had taken the time to visit the haircharmer. It was now slightly longer – just a bit, she still preferred it short – and arranged in a straight middle-parting. Brushing it back made the tiny, clear diamonds on the goblin-silver earrings Barnabas had given her sparkle prettily, which was another advantage of this haircut. She made sure they always were noticeable.

Idly, she scanned the hall for faces she knew, before she picked the direction of the sweeping staircases. She wanted to talk to the Minister, whom she had been introduced to only last week after a note of regard bearing her name had reached the Daily Prophet.

Marching straight through the milling people, however, soon became an end in itself. So many people recognised her and regarded her! She was handsome enough and well she knew it, delighting in the looks of admiration they could not help bestow on her and taking satisfaction even from glances of the lowest servant, thus gliding through the wizards and witches, shaking hands and greeting people she had never met, taken by the heady atmosphere, intoxicated by her own feelings, by the fame and praise.

And she let herself drift away; let the soft melodies of the strings and the high, brilliant notes of the harpsichord wash over her, joined in the laughter as bubbling as the clear champagne in her glass. This was the life.

She was returned to earth by a most courteous cough to her left.

With the hint of a frown, she turned her head, and considered the liveried butler standing on her side with a silver tray. It was hoovering a few inches above the upturned palm of his hand, just like the ones from which she had taken the champagne, however, this one lacked all glassware and instead carried a once-folded sheet.

Sparkling prettily, it rose towards her hand when she extended it towards the tray, leaving no doubt as to what she was to do, and with a bow, the waiter left her, when her fingers unfolded the note and she started to read.

In dismay, afterwards, she stared at the content. Your presence most willingly desired. Yours, Mathilda Parkinson.

Her eyes moved from the parchment to a certain place across the room after far too long a while. Near the staircase, grouped around a suite of furniture, stood a group of people she, for once, knew very well. Comprised out of the female half of England's oldest and most notable pureblood families, she found among them Elizabeth Rosier, Gladys Gladrags, Narcissa Malfoy, Dorea Fawley, and Dalmatia Cuffe.

Not that she disliked speaking to them – oh, not that, not ever that! – how could she? They were the most influential families, they were rich and successful and everything wonderful she aspired to be. But still, they were all that, and so how much depended on this meeting! This was her début; that she should be shown around was courteous, and that she should be introduced, indispensable; for one most certainly could not walk up to just anyone. Their first impressions would shape large parts of her future, and so the properties must be most diligently observed; and thus Mrs. Parkinson's request was perfectly right and proper, however, if she was to be completely sincere with herself, she had hoped to have a little more time to compose herself, and approach them on her terms.

Naturally, this was out of the question now. She must at once attend them. And mayhap it was just as well; for they had taken notice of her, which was better than any reference she could have mustered.

And so she pushed away the small amount of trepidation, squared her shoulders, and slowly walked over. She took care to measure her steps so as to avoid giving the impression of precipitance with too hasty an approach, which could be construed as excessive eagerness, and decided not to hide her self-assurance behind a false modesty in manners when dealing with them.

She was what she was; she knew what she had, what she was capable of, and she saw no need to appear less than any of that. Diffidence was certainly not a trait to describe her with; rather, over time, some had been prompted to go as far as to call her arrogant or even conceited. But she had never spared half a moment to listen to those voices, finding them to not be worth her time, indeed, to be quite obscene, for only a thoroughly corrupted wizard could think of hiding what was gifted to him by the grace of the eternal magic, instead of taking pride in it and rejoicing.–

Mathilda Parkinson beamed at her, as she her approached the group.

"The witch of the hour! Do come over, dear. Let me introduce you to my friends."

Cecilia admired her heavy, splendid robes, which must have cost a small fortune. Made to measure, surely, for how else would they assort so well with the grand salon? The style was not identical, but fitting; flower motifs embroidered on the dress' wonderful silk damask in precious gold brocade patterns, mirroring the décor; in little ways inferior, say, to the wonderful small sofa she was rising from.

A thousand and five hundred Galleons, thought Cecilia with a critical eye, observing the old-fashioned, wide skirt with its generous folds and pleats, demanding lots and lots of the fine cloth, and a clear Gladrags design, for one went to Gladrags precisely for those old, traditional dresses – so one thousand and five hundred, but only if that was not real Acromantula silk. She rather suspected the contrary. Twice the amount, then – and thus certainly nearing the value of the furniture beneath her. The gold finish on its delicately ornate wooden legs blinked in the light of the candlesticks; and she would not have been at all surprised had she been told that the pieces of furniture were indeed three hundred year old originals and virtually priceless. Never had she never seen any thing like it outside of pictures.

But, Cecilia thought again, her hostess were sure to be able to afford things like those with ease, because the Parkinsons must receive at least a hundred thousand a year. Ravensholme, when they had inherited, was said to contain property to the amount of over two million Galleons. She certainly should not be in want for many a thing. Beauty, as commonly understood, perhaps; for all that money and magic could purchase, it never truly had been that, and Mathilda Parkinson had never been graced by the naturally favourable appearance quite as the other witches had, unlike the Mudbloods; underneath the piled-up curls of black hair, she lacked the fine countenance and the delicate figure, but she did have a very pleasing address, which, when added to her wealth as the last scion of her family, had been more than enough to secure her such a prestigious marriage.

There were more desirable wizards than Gyles Parkinson, in terms of pure pecuniary considerations, of course – Lucius Malfoy was a man of large property already when he had been twenty, and, after the death of Abraxas, had inherited the rest of the profitable Wiltshire lands that granted him nearly half a million annually. The marriage with the youngest Black – Narcissa, indeed, she was sitting there, next to Mathilda! – before their woeful decline at the hands of their enemies, had been the perfect match, and one out of love at that. Yet money was not all, and above a certain amount, which she for herself always had decreed to be at just those one hundred thousand Galleons per year, it ceased to matter as much as did below the one. Mathilda had done very well for herself, at any event; an example surely worth following.

She had risen now, and even condescended to take a step towards Cecilia so as to meet her on the way, an honour bestowed that Cecilia certainly took notice of; and so she experienced the affability herself immediately that everyone acknowledged Mathilda Parkinson to possess, and was presented in the most warm manner imaginable: "My dear friends, this is Cecilia Selwyn. Possibly, you won't know her face, but her words all the more for that! She is the witch behind the pen of those delightful columns we enjoyed this year." And to the so introduced – "Cecilia, these are my dear friends."

She proceeded then to name her companions in diligent perseverance, following the rules as was to be expected in cases such as these – to which Cecilia knowing all of the names already, and, indeed, having met Gladys Gladrags, was of no matter, naturally – and concluded with a warm thank-you for her attendance.

Cecilia curtseyed and replied in kind.

"I thank you kindly for the invitation, Mrs. Parkinson."

"Oh, nonsense, my dear, you call me Mathilda. And of course we would have you. Did not Barnabas sponsor you? I seem to remember him begging most urgently for your attendance."

Politeness dictated more words of thanks, yet, in looking at Dalmatia Cuffe, she could not help thinking the opening too great to pass up, and it took her little effort to contrive of a remark that was both courteous enough and would inconvenience the older witch.

"Indeed, Mathilda," said she, "and I am ever so grateful, to you as well as to him – but of course, we have such a great relationship at the Daily Prophet, working together every day;– it was not wholly unexpected, if I may say so."

The deepest blush spread over Dalmatia Cuffe's cheeks, and the looks of vexation gave Cecilia cause to turn away and smile. Before Dalmatia could retort, however, Mathilda Parkinson spoke on.

"Which truly I do believe without question. Did you see how everyone wanted a piece of her? I'm as happy as anything you arrived as a whole, Cecilia."

"She would hardly allow them to deprive you of the entire her, such as it is," replied Mrs. Cuffe, her dark eyes like lances towards Cecilia. "Her vanity, if nothing else, should have found it unbearable." It was not certain Mathilda Parkinson had grasped quite yet the nature of their remarks, for she responded at face value.

"I should hope not!" cried she. "Tease me if you will, Dalmatia, but I have every reason to expect the best of her, and pride is the smallest of all flaws. Doubly so if there is legitimate cause for it. You should have seen her reply, Gladys – the script was just lovely, the most elegant writing charm you can imagine, simply exquisite."

Gladys Gladrags glanced at Cecilia and, rather cool, replied: "I shouldn't doubt that, given her line of … work. Though at any event there is more to being a witch than possessing a tidy writing charm."

"A sure part of it nonetheless! And I should think a rather large one at that. For what is any young witch without the elegance and distinction of charmwork befitting one such as herself?" And to Cecilia, she added warmly: "The hint of apricot is a wonderful touch, Cecilia. It reminded me of our orchard, I love to take the afternoon tea there, whenever the weather is fair. And the magic's all in the letters, is it not? It's your own writing charm. I'm sure you must be proud of it."

Cecilia inclined her head modestly.

"I'm flattered you should think so. Working on my style it is a favourite pastime of mine. I always charm my quills myself; it makes writing letters a great deal more personal, in my opinion."

"That is the way it should be. I highly disapprove of those awful pre-charmed quills. No soul, no life. Why, I just said Elizabeth the other day, I'd rather someone send me a letter lacking any magic whatever than one borrowed – yes, stolen, even – for is not writing letters with someone else's magic just that? Stealing magic is the greatest sin, and using borrowed magic to adorn oneself with borrowed plumes its slightly lesser cousin."

The ensuing pause after that concluding remark Cecilia used to sort her thoughts.

Mathilda was very courteous towards her, but as the hostess, she ought to be. Narcissa was reserved, the old Rosier appeared slightly bored, Dorea said nothing whatever, and Gladys and Dalmatia – well, she had just experienced their appreciation of her. A lot of work still ahead of her, then, but that was to be expected and could not be avoided.

Into her musings, another message was delivered, this time for Mathilda; and, with a look of deep regret and bale, reserved for whoever was unlucky enough to have caused her ire, she informed them of her need to excuse herself for a time to attend to a matter of dishes in the kitchens.

Cecilia watched her go with little joy, leaving them wondering as to the true reasons for her abrupt departure. Inconceivable, it seemed, that a witch of her standing – a witch who, in possession of the not insubstantial funds needed for kitchen aid, had gone to the lengths to employ the selfsame to spare her and her guests the need to deal with elves at all by way of servants – should venture into the kitchens that were just the one's expressive dominion, and upon such mundane, menial a problem as to clear up a confusion over two dishes too.

It fled her mind soon, however, in the apparent shift of mood the moment Mathilda had forsaken the group. From inconsequential pleasantness it changed to something more akin to a cage full of predators, tense and dangerous. No one seemed inclined to carry on the conversation either, and she well recognised the implied rejection of her presence.

It was hardly surprising with Mrs. Cuffe, and in truth, her approval was of little concern to Cecilia; but ever since she had met Gladys, she had desired the older witch's favour, who, in addition to being the most economically influential, also appeared to hold the most sway within the group. Given the cold looks as well as the reserved manner, that might prove to be a rather daunting task, but she had never shied from a challenge.

She held out until they seemed in danger of sinking into total silence and it became an absolute necessity to think of something; and, in the emergence recollection of where she had met Gladys before, she observed: "You seemed well content when we met in Paris. I hope your business went to your satisfaction after we parted?"

"Yes, indeed, thank you very much."

After a short pause, when she found she was to receive no other answer, she added: "I was fortunate enough to have occasion to meet Gideon Goshawk afterwards. He was there in preparation of the International Conference on Charms, and we had a most pleasant walk in the Parke d'Amelie. He truly is as charming and knowledgeable as everyone says."

Silence was her only response. Gladys regarded her with a look of cold disdain, but then she turned away.

Cecilia raised a brow by a fraction of a hair, more astonished then offended. Being taciturn in conversation might have been vexing, but not impolite; however, purposefully ignoring an introduced guest was more than she would have expected Gladys to be able to reconcile with her own pride. It cast a mark on her, as surely so as on Cecilia.

She gave up the pretences of ignoring Gladys' shameful behaviour, directly addressing her, so she had no manner of evading answer, demanding explanations. Ostentatious, as though she had entirely forgotten her presence and was surprised she was still there, the witch turned around.

"Tell me, girl, for how many generations have the Selwyns been pure-bloods?"

And so she understood the reason for Gladys' irascible manner.

"For at least three generations, Gladys," replied she, her tone now icy, "as you know very well, for you made sure to point out such in much detail when Uncle Geoffrey was appointed to the board. You also were rebuked. We have nothing at all to be ashamed of."

"Oh!, so I do. I am sorry, I forgot it momentarily – the Selwyns come up in talking so rarely. No one ever seems to care."

Dorea giggled appreciatively. Cecilia blushed in shame and vexation. The giggles and titters, Glady's smirk, expressions of scorn – for her – or faces with clear rejection, and to not even display the decency to lower one's voice as one was insulting her – was this truly everything she was to expect from now on? Was this what she had come for?

For but an instant, she considered leaving. Yet that was what this was, was it not, now and always: a wonderful, golden palace – full of predators. And whether Gladys bore with ill will the fact that her bid for the position at the board of governors of Hogwarts was rejected in favour of Cecilia's uncle, or the fact that the Selwyns lacked the prestige of the oldest families, whether she meant what she said or not, indeed, whether Gladys liked her or not, it was of no significance. To her were given the tools to assert herself, hers the means to exist, not merely among, but above them; and if she turned and left, it would be squandering this gift.

She demanded nothing but such that was hers by right of birth, and nothing anyone said could change that. It was the bedrock of her entire being, a fact so fundamentally true to her that she had never had questioned it, nor felt the need to; a conviction so certain that the reaction to the tide of the revolution carrying her far and putting her down gently on a drift line that was the very edge of the top had not been Why me? but Just in time, and a small secret smile, for it was what needed to happen, and so it did happen.

And like it had helped her then, so it would now, or so believed she; and did not even fault Gladys for her behaviour, in ways that implied mortifications of her pride, for it was assumed that it was inconsequential in the long run, and solely reflected badly on Gladys herself. And it did not matter that at this moment, the best she could hope for were the neutral looks, or the idle curiosity about how she was going to react, displayed at Narcissa's face, that no one here would come to her help – oh, she didn't want them to! She was going to make them care, every single one of them; she would show them, all of them, all on her own. That was what being here was all about.

And so she held her head high, drawn up proudly, with a gaze, direct and demanding as queens might have copied, showing to the world every ounce of her unshakable belief: that this was where she belonged, all differing opinions to spite, that she was born with a promise, and the world hers for the taking.

"I told you of her shocking amounts of pride," then remarked Dalmatia Cuffe. "Now look how she speaks to us, how she wears that marking. The sheer pretentiousness must astound anyone. Right as if she were a witch – and a shameless female of a much differing kind she would be rather, trying to get her claws into my husband. I advised Mathilda not to invite all that riff-raff, but unfortunately, it was out of her power."

And with her dark eyes sparking in anger, and no further need to clarify the motive behind it, she turned to Cecilia: "I cannot possibly imagine what he sees in a girl as common as you. I shall have words with him about his tastes."

And just like that, Cecilia's mood lightened instantly. There it was. This was easy. Those fights she had had since she was old enough to be interested in wizards. In her mind, Cecilia rejoiced while she regarded Dalmatia with the sweetest of smiles.

"I see. Jealousy, how unappealing. You really shouldn't wear it, Dalmatia. It's so unflattering. It makes you look old."

The smile slipped. Dalmatia's face put on a white colour. She opened her mouth as if to offer a scathing rebuttal, and then thought better of it.

"I need not stand here and listen to such impudence directed towards me, so I shall take my leave."

And with a nod to the other witches, she turned around and retreated with whatever was left of her dignity.

Laughter bubbled up in Cecilia, and she decided not to suppress it. It rang through the silence Dalmatia had left behind, bright and clear as a silver bell, and suddenly, she felt light-hearted again. The sheer ridiculousness of this encounter lifted her up and brightened her mood. Everyone was staring at her, and she could not care less. By Morgane, wasn't it good to be young and pretty? What was there not to be gay and hopeful every single day?

"The Minister is waiting for me," she said lightly and without even looking at Gladys, "he wanted to discuss something I wrote. I suppose I have to excuse myself as well."

She had probably just mortally offended the first witches of the country, and it did not matter, because they did not matter. They were there, but never in her way. For in the end, this, too, was just another version of her office at the Daily Prophet; and this the time of modern witches such as her, and she good enough to hold her own.

Her inner balance restored, she regarded the group with a certain amount of merriment, cognisant of the shift that yet again had turned the tide of her popularity, just by her reaction to it. From being regarded as unworthy of their time, she now had forced them to consider her, for her impudence, if nothing else! – but that it apparently had done more, even, then just to put herself into their reckoning.

Gladys look was now one of careful alertness, whereas Dorea looked quite lost in attempting to grasp what happened around her. Only Elizabeth Rosier still looked bored and had yet to utter a single word in Cecilia's presence; one wondered that she was even here, and perhaps so did she. On Narcissa's face, however, there now was an amused smile.

"You run along then, Cecilia, and give Pius and Barnabas all my best," said she. "You may tell the latter I see exactly what he means."

"I certainly hope he meant only good things," replied she, eyes sparkling, "but I must confess I was looking forward to meeting your husband as well."

"You won't find him here. He is currently up there."

"Oh!" gasped Cecilia, as her look followed Narcissa's finger pointing to the window and the dark hill yonder, and quickly desired the latter would tell her all about it. To be part of the Knights! What an honour! She quite forgot everything else in her exuberance, and Narcissa humoured her with indulgence, describing finery and masks in much detail, and finally pointing out the secondary purpose of the silent wardens on the hill, which was to ensure the Muggle was safe from harm.

"So they do not really burn?"

"It is as it used to be – a ritual, not an execution. We are above such things."

"Oh," said she with indifference, "well, at any event we shall so be able to employ her again next year. Do you suppose your family shall be granted such honour again?"

Here she was interrupted as the old Rosier finally uttered a laugh ill-disguised as a cough. Upon prompting her, she replied:

"One should never be surprised at the many ways to describe the same occurrence. An honour – yes, I do suppose you may call it that; though I'm by any means sure he would be quite happy down here as well, instead of standing guard over a Muggle with the likes of Crabbe and Goyle, would he not, Cissy?"

The looks exchanged between the two were not of a friendly kind, and Cecilia frowned at the smile that suddenly seemed strained. Was Narcissa not happy to be among the chosen few who could claim to have met him in person, and be among the earliest party members, part of those that would be hand-picked for glorious tasks such as those?

"Cecilia has the right of it," said finally Narcissa. "It's an honour to be chosen. The Malfoys are proud to serve, among the first and most privileged, as is our rightful place."

Prompted by an insisting tugging at her arm, and the declaration carried to her that Cuffe had asked for her, Cecilia finally made her farewells, diligent and with all the courtesy needed, and went with the other girl that had appeared next to her at some point.

"There you are!" Iris Parkinson dragged a by no means unwilling Cecilia away. "Mother told me she had introduced you and sent me to look for you, but I had not thought you would have stayed. Gladys was horrible, I'm sure I cannot think how you stood it."

Cecilia smiled at her old Hogwarts friend, and walked further down the hall. "It was fair. Though I confess I was going to leave when you arrived. Did Barnabas really ask after me?"

"Well, no. But I am certain he should be happy to see you, as opposed to Dalmatia, who was there in yonder corner doing her best not to appear as if she had used a listening charm!" Iris Parkinson clasped her hand in front of her mouth, desperately trying to hide her giggles. "Her face was priceless."

"Iris!"

"What a perfect retort, Cecy. Do you know, she was griping about her magic becoming less firm, and telling all about those new anti-aging potion she certainly was never using, before you came? I was forced to endure it when mother made her round with me. I must say no real witch would have use for anti-aging potions," she mimicked and giggled louder. "Those were her words! And then this! It makes you look old! Fantastic! That old bat won't show her face around you for a week." Then she pursed her lips. "But really, Cuffe?"

Iris Parkinson wrinkled her nose, hooking her arms under Cecilia's, pulling her over to a waiter to fetch something to drink. Cecilia shrugged.

"Why not?"

Iris pulled a face.

"Old, Cecy. Way old. Surely there must be other fine wizards around that might catch your fancy. Did you see that Norwegian fellow?" Her eyes adopted a dreamy look. "Rich, handsome, tall – and those eyes, my, the eyes! The most perfect shade of blue. He well ought to have witches throwing themselves at him after but a look."

Now Cecilia was giggling.

"Really, Iris, that ponce? He's got nothing on his brains but his looks, I'm sure! Cuffe is a perfectly reasonable choice. He's nice enough, rich, and most importantly, influential. What's there not to like? Besides," she went on, turning her head around to stare at the corner Iris had shown her with a smirk, "I love pushing that hag out of the picture."

Iris looked at her doubtfully.

"And he is in agreement?"

Cecilia snorted.

"Obviously not. But in cases like this it hardly is a matter of what he wants, what matters is what the witch wants. The first rule, don't tell me you've forgotten. I will get him, they way I need him, never doubt it."

The Victory

Through the many people, they made their way towards the opposite side of the large hall, a feat which took its time, for want of any urgency on their part. More than enough young wizards were there, waiting for a witch's critical eye and appraisal, and certainly they got their time's worth. Meandering slowly, they were halted by Gladys Gladrags appearing in their way. She made her reverences to the daughter of their host, and then, with formal stiffness, addressed Cecilia.

"If your friend is so disposed, I would ask for a minute of your time, Miss Selwyn."

Iris, though with an apprehensive look at her, asserted that she would not mind, and as Cecilia had an inclination about her intentions, and, indeed, had expected such a talk much sooner, she stepped aside with a certain amusement, waiting for Gladys to speak her mind.

It was clear as day that Gladys had been forced here, the moment they were alone. The brows tightly drawn together, her bearing erect and stiff; but still – or because of it? – addressing Cecilia in a manner of cold politeness, she finally spoke when it became clear that Cecilia would not.

"Miss Selwyn, let me be quite frank. You present a problem."

Cecilia raised an eyebrow.

"Such blunt words? No elegance, no eloquence? I am surprised, Gladys. Where has your fabled wit gone?"

"Wit without audience is meaningless, and elegance in expression is best kept for those with a breeding true enough to appreciate it."

"There you go. Is that not better? Imagine I have laughed heartily, and I promise I shall imagine I heard a reply witty enough for books and quotes instead of a kneasel market. That way, we both can pretend the other's excellence."

"There is a fine old saying you of course are familiar with: 'A cup of luck is too much of a good thing'; and I would not presume to be yours if you considered my excellence.– Likewise I would caution you against your own, so widely-admired words; all the beauty of your writing charm will not cover the ugliness of certain themes and do even less to shield you of the response."

"So I have to assume the problem you spoke of is my inability to hold you in high enough esteem," replied Cecilia, "for I could not be so strange as to presume you should do harm to a likely friend."

They stared at each other in silence after that exchange; each contesting the other's endurance as a means to assert the superiority of their hand. Gladys looked away first, with a flash of disgust to be caught by anyone watching closely, though her smile never wavered. Cecilia delighted in the sheer absurdity of it; for she was very aware that Gladys, who was very little disposed to approve her, now – though the feeling had been well-received and returned happily enough – in a very welcome twist was forced by necessity to treat her with cordiality; a favour she had desired all night, but that Gladys, on any account, had turned out to be very unwilling to bestow.

"Perhaps then," allowed Gladys, breaking the silence, "perhaps we ought to sit down and have a talk. We parted rather abruptly. I should like to hear more about your work."

It was still spoken of with the same disgust she could not and did not want to conceal, but she was certainly practical enough to have recognised the power it held. And that, Cecilia thought, was the crux of the matter.

They seated themselves on a bench at the nearby wall, aside from the people passing to and fro, and Gladys began to inquire after her columns. Cecilia smiled, and Gladys smiled back at her, a smile that was as false as hers, now, and as false as the intention behind it was true. The words of praise uttered by Gladys could not have sounded more strange – but to her and most anyone here! – lies the lot of it, but what matter? The pretence was the point, in this and all, just as Cecilia has said, and it was no effort to muster words of thanks that were equally false.

"Thank you kindly. It is always a joy to meet readers."

"It was Larina who told me about it," replied Gladys, "I had talk with her just now, she used to be mine. She was full of praise. You did well by her."

The seamstress, then, of today's column. No surprise, given their closely related professions, and naturally it would vex her. The competition was the competition. Surprising, only, that Gladys should not have reacted sooner. Had she underestimated her opponent? Cecilia allowed herself a more open smile, and was rewarded by an icy one from Gladys. Well, no matter, the harvest of her carefully nourished saplings was there now.

"Mr. Cuffe keeps the content of that paper of his strictly separated by its nature," observed Gladys idly.

"Naturally," said Cecilia in great dignity. "Mr. Cuffe is very particular about things like that. What would the readers say to a paper of no order? Why, it would be chaos! The Quidditch scores next to the Wizengamot trials, the Spellbound-serials within the advertisements – who would read it?"

"And yet, your column is yours."

"Within reason."

"Within reach of persons such as Larina?"

"Larina is a good friend who I love dearly. And with the nature of my columns being such as they are, you must agree that it would be quite impossible for me to write much of anything if I were to be expected not to be mentioning –"

"Yes." She was cut short by a sharp nod. "Say no more. I would not have you strain your pretty little mouth on my account."

Or, possibly, stain hers, Cecilia thought. The disgust was still there, but now there was something more in Gladys' look, something hard and calculating, and the smile was no longer falsely sweet, but cold. Two predators stalking around each other stealthily, each aware of the other's movements, ready to pounce, in play or in earnest, who could tell? Cecilia was relishing it. Glady's face was a mask of marble.

"So you do know how to play this game. I shall be expecting something then. Watch your steps."

She rose, and so did Cecilia, turned around and walked away, leaving the young witch standing where she did.

She felt very pleased. This was an important step! Friends like Gladys she needed. Cecilia reflected that Gladys' new-found appreciation of her probably wouldn't extend as far as to places she weren't at or had her back turned to, but really, friendly behaviour whenever they were in the same company was all she wanted. And there might be other perks.

Deep in thought, she returned to Iris. The witch regarded her questioningly. "What did you do, Cecy?"

"Got myself a new wardrobe, I think."Cecilia eyed the retreating back of Gladys speculatively. "Yes, I rather think she would do that. We've made friends." She clutched the arm of Iris excitedly. "The latest imports from Paris, Iris! Just think! I'm dying to try on that blouse I saw the other month on my trip there. The fashion for witches in Paris is so much more progressive than what we have here, those stuffy, closed-up robes!"

"Friends! But – I thought she despised you – did not she try to expose you in front of everyone? I heard her! She must think very little of you indeed, how did this come about?"

"Why, yes." Cecilia looked at her as if she had grown a second head. "She would like nothing better than to hex me to the moon, ever since Uncle Geoffrey beat her to the seat on the governor's board. But since when does that mean we can't be friends? I do not think much of her either. She's a conceited old jarvey. That's got nothing to do with anything."

She shook her head.

"Sometimes, I do wonder about you, Iris."

Her Hogwarts friend looked at her speculatively.

"So you really do want to play together with the rest of them, do you?"

"I want to reach the very top. And I'm going to get there." She attached herself to other witch's arm again. "Now you do play hostess for a while, Iris, and show me round. Cuffe and Gladys or no, I shall be none the worse for yet another person to help me get to know all those important robes and dresses. You do know everyone you invited, do you?"

Iris pulled a face.

"Mother made me learn all the names, you can be sure of that. Two entire weeks of memory potions." She sighed. "Your tour, then. Might as well put them to use."

Yet she had not taken two steps, before she noted: "This is your first time here, is it not? I think you never visited before. I will tell you something about the house too, it is just as well. Father made sure I learned all about that, but as opposed to the the names, it is actually interesting."

The Stone

The tour was then given, and Iris related the names and dates faithfully, if none too enthusiastically. She had done so too many times before for it to still carry the excitement of the new; and thus there were also rather vacuous remarks such as: "Baroque, the whole lot of it. It's all somewhat golden and embellished, I suppose."

But Cecilia smiled, looked at the splendidly decked out hall and the painted ceiling, and replied: "It is wonderful, Iris."

"Well, I suppose it is. Usually, the collection is in this room and the ballroom, of course. Father had the house-elves moving the paintings and sculptures to the dungeons the entire last week, to create enough space for the ball."

Cecilia pointed ahead.

"There he is, look."

Her friend regarded her with a smirk.

"My father or your beau?"

Cecilia blushed, but gathered her composure quickly enough to reply: "Both. I was not aware Mr. Cuffe was particularly friendly with your father."

"They are not." Iris' happy expression turned into a worried frown. "I really do not know what those two are up to. Cuffe has been over almost daily in recent days. I think mother knows it, but she's not saying anything. I do hope they know what they are doing. In this climate, one wrong word could cost you more than a little gold."

"Oh, nonsense, Iris. You always worried too much. What would you have got to fear? You are wizards and witches of reputable nature, your entire family. It is not as if the world was in a state of anyone needing a constant look over their shoulder to regard that which is behind their back. Quite the opposite – never was it safer for wizards and witches everywhere!"

She slung an arm around the other girl.

"Come, your father and Barnabas just broke up, and the Minister is just ahead. I needs must pay my respects to him."

Iris shook her head.

"You go on, Cecy. I do not think both quite as fascinating as you do."

The Ripple

The discussion to which Cecilia arrived centred around the place of the festivities and the change of circumstances that lead to it. As was traditional, the Walpurgis Night had been held at the Blocksberg in the Harz mountains on the continent for the last four hundred years, so today's activities presented a rather stark deviation thereof. The tall, dark-haired wizard she had seen on the hill's summit stood there, shaking his head, his manner resentful, as certain as Minister Thicknesse delighted in having managed to secure the event for his country. The ICW had been debating over it without pause for over a week.

"It should have been held at Blocksberg. Not once since the betrayal of Praetorius the Squib was uncovered in 1668 and the celebrations thus moved by a day ever since has it not been there."

Smilingly, Cecilia stepped up towards the wizards and said: "Well, I am sure they could not help it. No one could have known that the forest trolls would pick that place for their trollting so quickly. And certainly it is quite impossible to move a thousand trolls, so small blame to them! Though I hope you shall forgive me a little pride, sir, I am rather content we were able to have all of you this time." And towards Cuffe, she added. "There you are. I have been looking all over for you."

The foreign wizard regarded her as well as Cuffe with interest. "Would you be kind enough to introduce me to your pretty companion, Mr. Cuffe?"

"Certainly I shall – Cecilia Selwyn, Journalist, one of my own. And this, Cecilia, this is Chancellor Taurus Von Eichengruen, of Germany."

"Oh, the title of a journalist really does her a disservice," joined in Thicknesse animatedly. "She is one of our most progressive and influential thinkers. It has really grown to an academic circle this past year – Britain's Brightest, as I like to say. She wrote that treatise on the Wandless I told you about, Taurus. It was published in Magical Britain last month. You might have read the issue."

So it was he, after all, Cecilia thought, satisfied. He was a fine fellow, tall, with a strong, distinctive face, and a sharp look, surely used to giving orders, and even better used to having them followed. Certainly someone she would like to know better! And here she was, with his attention on her, doing just that. He gazed, at turns, at her and the Minister, a sharp frown creasing his forehead.

"Magical Britain? So the Ministry's voice, then? Is she one of your authors?"

"No, no – not at all. She is an independent – really, Taurus, do try and remember that we no longer censor the people here. That was an unfortunate by-product of stabilising the Ministry after the turbulences last year. It's no longer necessary now, and I am glad for it. No, Miss Selwyn writes whatever is her wish. She is far more progressive than I could ever be. She's scolding me in her famous Prophet columns at least twice a week."

Thicknesse let out a hearty laugh. Von Eichengruen smiled.

"Ah, I see. The conflict between the pure, clear space of ideals and the muddy realm of Realpolitik. But we need both, do we not – the latter is what makes life work, but we need the former to push us to keep reaching for the highest goals and prevent us from becoming complacent. Is it not so?"

He took a sip from his from his glass and considered the witch in front of him.

"I say, Miss Selwyn, Pius here invited me to do a spot of Muggle Hunting – tomorrow, before I return home. Curious thing, that, I have to say; certainly not well-received everywhere as you must know, but I want to get my own measure of it. Would you not like to join us? I should like to hear more of your ideas. Provided –" he glanced at the Minister "– this is all right with you, Pius."

The Minister shrugged.

"Certainly, Taurus. I shall enjoy fencing with Miss Selwyn over the Wandless-issue. Tomorrow at eleven, then – we will have lunch at the reserve."

Von Eichengruen bid the company farewell soon after, and when the Minister excused himself as well, leaving in the directions of the stairs – perhaps only too aware of the looks exchanged between the other two that made his presence here gratuitous –, for a moment, Cecilia and Barnabas were in solitude. He beheld her with a certain fondness that brought a rosy flush to her cheeks.

"Have you been up at Whisper Gallery? Gyles moved most of the art, but the paintings at the gallery remained."

She shook her head, not trusting herself to give any other response.

"Come, then, I'll show you."

They went up the grand staircase far behind the Minister, noticeable only due to his superior height, and turned right at the head of the stairs, into a long corridor that rested in deep silence, only filled by a mysterious whisper that to her ears appeared to sound from all around her. Fascinated, she turned towards her companion and enquired as to the source.

"You have truly never been here before? The whisper stems from charms, it mutes all sound. Even our very own voices; if you were to move a step back, you would hear me speak no longer. Only a whisper remains."

She did so, and found he was right, and, in moving back to Cuffe's side, asked him about the reason. He lead her closer to the wall, where a painting showed a grim-faced warlock in a dark cave. As soon as she had reached a certain distance, a desperate scream pierced the silence, prompting her to cover her ears, and stumble backwards into the blissfully silent corridor.

"Dear me, what is that?"

"A painting of Ignotus," replied Cuffe, amused. "As is quite evident, he is insane. Without the charms you would not want to roam this hallway."

"I would not, indeed." With a shudder, Cecilia stepped further back, and breached the silent space of a different painting. An augurey was sitting the branch of a lonely birch in a moor, and trilled his beautiful, yet bitterly sad song. Cecilia could listen but for a moment's time, before she felt the overflowing feelings begging to be released in a weeping for all the lost and gone beauty in the world. She quickly walked away from the wall and glanced at Cuffe in alarm.

"It would be madness in this gallery without the charms."

"Quite."

"Are all the paintings of such violent nature, then?"

"What you deem a 'violent nature' is the height of painting – to capture the highest and lowest feelings in a frame, to inspire the deepest movements within the observer. This is one of the finest private collections of magical art in Europe. However, there are as well painting more agreeable to you, I dare say. Come along."

They walked down the gallery, past famous wizards and witches, past merfolk from the the deepest oceans, past phoenixes nesting on the most remote mountaintops, past the entire world, condensed into a space measuring but a few steps, each offering a new glimpse into a different part of it, like thousands of windows in a wall round the earth.

"This is the most astonishing and most singularly valuable painting of the collection. They say it was the life's work of the great Artisia Armagade. If she did create other paintings, none of them are known today. We only know the one, and perhaps it is the most perfect painting ever created."

Barnabas stopped in front of a nave, exactly opposite the head of the stairs, halfway around the gallery. In the recess in the wall it hang – or stood? or was it part of the wall, even? – certainly ten paces wide, stretching from the floor to the ceiling, a painting so realistic she fancied she could step inside and walk over the grassy lawn to the great oak doors leading into the castle, for it depicted Hogwarts. Cuffe spoke in a soft voice, as though he would not wish to disturb the solemn silence by any means, if possible.

"Her work on it is said to have begun in 1027, just after the Founders had finished the castle. The tale goes that she challenged herself to craft a painting to capture the spirit of every living being in Hogwarts of her time, and perhaps she achieved it. She worked on it till her death. Magipictors of every century since have examined it until Ralfe Parkinson acquired it for Ravensholme when he build it in 1602, yet no one has ever managed to discover all persons, animals and other beings within. At least three hundred people occupy the castle, but it might be many more."

Cecilia listened in pleasure to him detailing the persons and their histories; how some of them came when called, while others, such as the centaurs in the Forbidden Forest on showed themselves on certain times as during a Great Conjunction, every twenty years.

Cecilia watched a bird flutter away from a branch in the background. She thought she heard a very faint chirping – slightly stony, but there it was; she stood, for how long she could not say, admiring the imagination that had thought, and the command of magic that had created the painting. When she could tear her gaze away, she found the Minister standing just behind her

"The Collège d'Art in Paris, the Palazzo Maggiore in Rome, everyone of the opinion to owe the visitors of their collections of art the pleasure of regarding the mural while at the same time attempting to elate their reputation beyond anything they could achieve on their own has tried to add it to their exhibitions, by making incredible offers of gold or other paintings to Parkinson, but he would not sell. Not until a month ago, when by the Minister's good fortune, the plans unveiled for our new National Museum of Magical Art prompted Parkinson to endow it to that institution."

Thicknesse, stepping up to her left, nodded his head gravely.

"The building is to become the biggest attraction in Diagon Alley, and the mural its greatest treasure," he said in his deep voice. "A place truly worthy of it, and it will be worthy of the place. Everyone will come to see it. It should open by next year."

Cecilia grabbed Barnabas' arm and squeezed it, deeply moved, all of a sudden.

"This is it, isn't it? This, right here. The painting. The museum. The new Diagon Alley and Magic Alley." She spun around, towards the parapet, looking at the large ballroom below, full of wizards and witches, of pureblooded, real wizards and witches, but that was not worth mentioning, for, finally, it was what the word meant. "All the people. This is what the Founders always dreamed about. A world for ourselves. We have achieved it."

And she stood, struck by the solemnity of the moment, as in the culmination of her dream, the golden dome above, the witches and wizards below, between Minister and lover; a singular instant in time, meeting her in regal beauty; to be forever remembered, a treasure stored within her for all times, fraught with meaning, shining in perfection.

So full of happiness felt she that she feared she might burst; so full of affection and pleasure that nothing could possibly disturb her now, and enough yet to compensate for any disappointment she had faced, and any that was still to come.

She hardly noticed the wizard arrive at her side, whispering something to the Minister's ear, and only turned her head when the latter placed his hand on the shoulder of Cuffe, and pulled him aside. Unable to hear anything by virtue of the charms, she watched their interaction with a small frown, which increased as both returned to her, tense and disquiet.

"My dear Cecilia, I fear we have to postpone our activities for tomorrow. Taurus received an urgent message and had to leave posthaste, and I shall have things to attend to as well."

She regarded the tall, austere man with his high, clever forehead in silence, the magic of the moment gone as sudden as the sounds of the paintings once outside their spell, and wondered what would be the disturbance of her peace.

"You would spare me the disappointment if in any way you could," finally replied she, "for I cannot pretend the nonexistence of such feelings, but it is well; the pressure of the circumstances gets to us all at times. Give my regards to the Chancellor before he leaves."

"I certainly shall, at that. We will make up for it, Cecilia, this I promise."

The Minister bowed and left; and she stood with Cuffe alone at the parapet, looking down into the ballroom, suddenly aware that, even though time was inching steadily towards the grand ball opening at midnight, not a few people seemed inclined to break up or had already left, not too many to make the hall appear empty by any means, but enough for her sharp eyes to notice. The foreign politicians seemed among them, but Narcissa was nowhere to be seen either, nor were important Ministry officials such as Yaxley nor, indeed, the silver-streaked head of the Minister.

And then Cuffe turned to leave as well, and she followed him to the broad staircase, down into the hall.

The Wave

The shadows of the Knights are missing.

Behind the windows, the hill looms in the darkness, black and silent, the bonfire a sole dot of light on the summit. The flames of the pyre start rising higher, dancing in the wind, no longer kept in check, broken free of the chains of magic, stronger, wilder, brighter, the manor below clearly visible – but no one is watching. And as in a mirror, in a dark castle a hundred miles away, a baleful orange glow lights up a hidden room, fire shaping furious beasts – spreading unrestrained and quickly, moving around like fiery demons, flaming serpents that are coiling themselves around the pillars of the cathedral-like hall, chimaeras and dragons, breathing fire and existing by fire –

"What can we do?" Hermione screamed over the deafening roars of the fire. "What can we do?"

Red burns the night; two places linked as though with fiery bond, here and there, a hill and a castle; full of noises and sounds, the roaring firestorm, the crackling of burning wood, shouts, and on the stake, a terrible scream –

What a terrible way to die … He had never wanted this …

But still, no one is listening.

"Harry, let's get out, let's get out!" bellowed Ron, though it was impossible to see –

And suddenly, the certainty: that no one will come, whatever those knights did to the fire is fading, instead of a tickle, it now burns hot, swallowing everything, consuming the night – the hall –

He sprinted, half believing he could outdistance death itself, ignoring the jets of light flying in the darkness all around him, and the sound of the lake crashing like the sea …

Twenty-four hours in a day, an hour with sixty minutes, and now all but a few of them left. There – now – four silver-strokes, bright and clear, and twelve dark, brassy ones, heralding the end of the world …

"The first dance? Truly, I shan't be able to bear it if she has it, Iris. Do something – her goblet, there, just knock it over –"

Jets of light flew in every direction and the man duelling Percy backed off, fast: His hood slipped, and they saw a high forehead and streaked hair –

Three …

Two …

One …

Relashio!

It was midnight. The battle had begun.

The goblet tips over, her mouth slowly forming an exclamation, the blood-red liquid spilling over the rim …

Harry saw bursts of light in the distance and heard a weird, keening scream.

"You! I know it was you, you little –"

"How could I, if I had gone forth freshening up myself? Something you should consider, with the state of that dress –"

The goblet on the ground.

The fire in the night.

The drops of red –

The burst of green –

The Dance

"Music!"

The first beats of the dance kept her in joyful suspense, the breathless anticipation of the almost-achieved, the not-quite-daring-to-believe of the imminent success after a bold move; a wonderful feeling she savoured until everything dissolved in bliss when they started to move, alongside the hundreds of other couples, all arrayed neatly throughout the ballroom in Ravensholme Manor.

She forgot everything around, aware only of his touch and his proximity, melting in his strong arms, to lead her wherever he wished, back – back – close, forth – forth – close …

Her personal dream, reality here in his embrace, in the dance, in the golden hall, in the world they had created for themselves; a beautiful world, the first and the last of it: red wine and raging fire, glinting gold and flashes of green … tonight was their night – their night … forever night.

No light, no moon – no stars, just the flickering spells, a thunderstorm raging across the castle, the magic its lightning and death cries its thunder. Words and gestures bringing vicious ends, cries and despairing shouts, magic and madness; the other side of a dream, a dream that must not fade.

Must not – must not! A shout into the night, shaking the foundations – of the hall, of the castle, of the world. Must not? Hurtling towards the end, decked out in silk, in silver and gold; gearing up for a final dance, directed by the beat of a waltz, one-two-three, turning, twirling, moving across the shiny marble, running across the bloody field, white masks there, blinding those that might see, and blindness here, masking that which might be seen.

And the screams of the dying and the music of the dancing seemed to mingle, as though within a symphony of perdition, miles apart but inseparably linked; the one the ignorant of the other, thus each the cause and the effect. Everything in motion, three steps forth and three steps back, and never breath, never time to linger … between the here and there, between the dancing, and the dying.

Leave a comment to tell me what you think :)

Until next time!