Hello, lovelies! I was sorely tempted to just make everyone's answers correct given the year of patience I've demanded. My competitive soul felt this would disappoint the competitive souls occupying this particular corner of the cyber void... So...

Congratulations to JoyfulSkye67 for the correct answer! Periodically, I found myself searching for your literary sustenance. Growing thirsty and pained in the absence of updates, I'd wonder to myself if this growing absence was abandonment. The sadness of this thought spurred on my insistence that you would return to us, hopefully laden with new content to appease us. Imagine my elation when the most joyous of notifications beckoned me back to you.

Honorable mention to SilencingShadow: Hope all is well and you find inspiration to finish this story one day. No pressure. You do you! Yes, I know this was technically a review for Chapter 5, but I don't care. It inspired me to keep writing, and therefore it is also correct. Fight me.

Also, DC is better than Marvel. I will cheerfully die on this hill and then you'll never know how this ends. Mua. Ha. Ha.

It's not a hostage situation. It's not... Moving on.

I'm with you, nagi92. I thought Vercingtorix (Ver-SING-geh-TORE-ix: a Gaulish king who nearly defeated Julius Ceaser) would have been an EPIC name for Fluffy. However... I must bend somewhat to the will of the masses. Fluffy's new name is Cadeyrn (Keh-DERN: 'Battle Ruler'... technically named after my former beta... Because my illiterate ass has been reading it as 'Caderyn' (I was pronouncing it KADE-rin in my head), and my favorite non-cyber person in this universe is named Ryn... awkward...).

HAHA REMEMBER HOW WE HAD THAT CRAZY PLAGUE AND EVERYONE WAS REQUIRED TO STAY HOME AND CERTAIN ARROGANT WRITERS WERE LIKE 'GREAT! I CAN FINALLY FINISH THIS STUPID CHAPTER!' AND THEN THOSE CERTAIN WRITERS GAVE UP AND DECIDED TO JUST PUBLISH WHAT THEY HAD?

...*awkward silence*...

Content: Dramatics, mild elf abuse, vague-ish sort of animal experimentation kind of? technically?, Catty elves, swearing, Skeeter 'journalism'

Disclaimer: I actually sort of do own (intellectually at least) most of the stuff happening during the Twins' birthday... I don't own the characters... but I've been working on the Mother's Glen since 2018, and if you must permanently borrow my worldbuilding or ideas, at least let me know so I can read what you've done.

Chapter 6 Results May Cause Permanent Damage

~*TNT*~

Accusations flew and wands were drawn yesterday morning outside Smeek's Apothecary writes Rita Skeeter, special correspondent. Xenophilius Lovegood, well-known editor of The Quibbler, barely escaped the scene with his life after accusing Lord Thoros Nott of colluding with Gringotts Goblins to profit off the recent rash of heirloom deposits and withdrawals.

This confrontation was the first time anyone has seen or heard from Lord Nott since the highly suspicious death of the late Hogwarts Defense professor, Quirinus Quirrell. Given the late professor has recently been post-humously convicted of the 1991 Gringott's Shadow Heist, Mr. Lovegood's accusations of fear profiteering ring oddly. Would the better accusation be collusion to commit murder? This and other questions still haunt us with every development: Was it revenge or retribution that drove the Notts to murder? Was it their idea or their Goblin co-conspirators'? Why hasn't the M.o.M.A.O. delivered raid notice? Answers and more on pages 6, 7, and 9!

~*TNT*~

Lucius Malfoy sank back in his armchair and steepled his fingers before his lips. He couldn't manage to rest his elbows on the armrests and his chin on his thumbs without his hair pulling awkwardly against his scalp. He huffed and sat forward, snatching up a quill and flipping to a random page in the desk's decorative ledger. All the pages were blank. It spoiled the aesthetic.

He pushed back from the desk and headed for the liquor cabinet by the massive windows. Once he poured the drink, his left hand fell useless and gawky to his side. He perched his left fist on his hip but immediately straightened with a shudder. He tried running the hand over his jacket and waistcoat before remembering that the elaborate, twisting embroidery did not allow for real pockets. At least, not ones that would fit his hands.

A knock derailed his conundrum, and the jolt nearly splashed whiskey on the cascade of lace from his sleeves.

"Comm'n." He had to swallow his coughing fit lest he choke on his own spit.

Thoros swept across the threshold in his usual black. "You called…?" The older man cast an unconcerned but thorough glance about the room before he stopped to lean against the mantle. "I have to leave on the hour," he drawled, toying with the trinkets arranged on the white marble. His right hand slipped casually, naturally, maddeningly into the pocket of his waistcoat.

Lucius bristled. "I trust you're enjoying the party, old friend?" he asked. His courtesies firmly in place despite the slightly bared teeth.

Thoros glanced up, gave a passing shadowy wisp of a polite smile, and replied, "Narcissa has put us all to shame as usual."

Lucius swallowed a glower with a sip of whiskey. Of course Narcissa had outdone herself. They'd had to outdo themselves with Weasley's little raid last week and the raid on Viscerine the week before that. The burn of alcohol eased his bland and patronizing smile. "Narcissa and her occasions. Politics, you know." He waved his free hand and allowed his smile to drift into a smirk.

The Notts didn't have the Malfoy political leverage.

Thoros gave his smile wisp again and straightened from the mantle. "Actually, I confess the political maneuvering here baffles me," he said, crossing to settle into an armchair near the desk. Lucius felt his face twitch as he was forced to straighten as well and turn to keep the older man in eyeline. "I'm rather surprised you were raided at all." He brushed imaginary lint from his trousers before crossing his legs and leaning back.

"Whiskey?" Lucius offered stiffly.

"I never indulge on sacred evenings."

Pretentious bastard.

"I'm sure you'll excuse my innocent vices," Lucius replied, lifting his glass and his eyebrow in sardonic condescension.

"Please." Thoros gestured broadly. "Won't you sit?"

Lucius figured the conversational disadvantage was his own damn fault for taking the moment to imply his scorn rather than taking a seat. It didn't improve his mood, however, and he replaced the crystal decanter's stopper with time-consuming care. He fought his hackles down as he finally settled behind his desk.

He took another sip and eyed Nott over the rim, trying to determine if the silence unnerved the man.

Inconclusive.

"Speaking of excusing vices, you've been notably unavailable the past month…" It came out more bitter than cutting, and Lucius applied himself to rolling the crystal between his indolent fingers and the arm of his chair. "Surely the likes of Arthur Weasley don't intimidate you too badly?"

Thoros's left hand flexed, and Lucius awarded himself a point. "You know me," Thoros replied. "I hardly even notice the petty squabbles at the Ministry." A bit of a chill swept the room.

Squabble. As if running the nation was for children. How gracious.

"He's gotten leave, somehow, to raid three of us." Lucius tried to remain relaxed. "I hardly think that qualifies as a mere petty squabble."

Thoros hummed and steepled his fingers perfectly before his lips. "A struggle between a Malfoy and a Weasley?" he murmured. "Not exactly a dragon laying waste..."

Lucius grit his teeth. A small part of his brain knew the old man was goading him. Knew he shouldn't play into this. "Viscerine under inquiry, Torbjorn Rowle's boy doing a month in Azkaban, that weasel pawing through my home…"

"There would have been nothing for him to find here," Thoros said, waving him off a second time. "Abraxas was never one to soil the nest as they say, and you certainly keep your nose and manicure clean."

He sat rigid and glared the glare known across the entire country to make opponents back down. Thoros shifted, brushing his knuckles over his greying beard.

"You know what I mean, old friend. It's hardly personal."

Lucius savored the concession for a moment longer.

"My gloves may be clean, but I'm not one to keep them on without reason," he replied with deadly calm.

Something in Thoros's eyes flashed. Interest or amusement? Lucius couldn't be sure, but it didn't matter either way. He'd had enough of this has-been's patronizing. "Dobby," he murmured, refusing to break eye contact with Thoros. A pop. "Bring me the case. You know the one. Abraxas's case." A whimper, but an obedient pop nonetheless.

He raised an eyebrow at Thoros.

"I appreciate flair as much as the next man, Lucius," Thoros said, shifting forward to stand. "But I'm afraid-"

Dobby popped back in.

"Petty squabbles can be quite taxing on the decrepit, but delay your nap," Lucius spat. "Open it, Dobby." Neither man looked at the elf as it sniveled and fumbled with the latch. Their eyes measured each other; both watched for wards or spellwork.

The tension snapped as Thoros drew a sharp breath and turned to the elf. Lucius permitted himself a grin and another point.

"Where did you get that?"

"You recognize it?" Lucius couldn't help but taunt.

Thoros shot him a look. "Where did you get it?"

"He entrusted it to the family," Lucius drawled. "Imagine that."

"He entrusted-"

"And after, what? Thirty years of loyal service? Forty?" Thoros's glance could have scratched diamond. "Perhaps your hands were too dirty to hold it," Lucius concluded, examining his glove tips.

Thoros took a threatening step forward, his hand slipping into his jacket. That's all Lucius needed. He jumped to his feet, slamming the case shut and causing the elf to yelp. The force and the sound of its closure reverberated from the velvet up through his palm and forearm. "This is what's on the line in these "petty" squabbles," he snarled. "It's time you fell into line, old man. They think ten years means they're safe. That they can dictate, raid us with impunity. It stops here. Now."

Thoros drew himself straight. He didn't look awed. He didn't even look interested.

Lucius pushed the prickles of his father's haunting disdain from his mind. He dug deeper. "I wonder how Weasley will feel when one of his sons is sent to Azkaban." He could feel his heartbeat throbbing in his face and hands. "I doubt he will take it with as much grace as Torbjorn."

The clock struck the hour. Thoros didn't even flinch. "I have business which requires my attention. I trust you won't do anything rash or irrevocable until the holiday is past?" Thoros stated rather than asked. Without giving Lucius a chance to reply, he continued, "I agree that steps must be taken, but I doubt they must be taken with our Lord's possessions." He gave a shallow bow: barely worthy of the name. "Your Grace."

Lucius waited until the door to the study shut behind Lord Nott. Every nerve and muscle tingled with repressed emotions.

"Dobby!" he snapped. "Make sure this is found by a Weasley child." He shoved the case at the elf and stomped toward the whiskey decanter. The elf popped away.

~*TNT*~

The crimson orange light undulated like freezing soap bubbles as he skittered through the tall grass. He could feel the dark, throbbing ooze of the bad book like bile in his throat or coals on his shoulders despite the fact that he'd tucked it into a keepsy spot for travel. His mind merely acknowledged the threat amidst all the screaming conflict inside him.

Master's words burned through the core of his very being while his distress and discomfort quivered along the edges. The threadbare tatters of his own will neither protected nor warmed him against the searing cold of his orders. The sharpness made him focus, but the timid flutters of his defective willpower allowed him to think.

Thinking hurt.

Make sure this is found by a Weasley child.

He desperately twisted his ear until the screaming pain drowned everything out and he could follow a train of thought.

Make sure this is found by a Weasley child.

Master had defined the 'this' by giving him the bad book. He couldn't misinterpret that, and ice seemed to puncture his insides in warning at the very idea. Dobby gave his ear another vicious twist.

...a Weasley child.

Only one family of the Weasley surname remained. They were of the direct line, so he couldn't choose a periphery, conveniently hermit-y blood relative, or theoretical relative of an alternate "Weasley" spelling. The family only had five children by the laws Master recognized… He shot a glance toward the house barely visible through the shifting wall of stubborn pride and fierce family loyalty.

Seven Weasley signatures. Patriarch in a small outbuilding. Adult on the lowest level with the five child signatures. Two of the five throbbed with nearly indistinguishable anticipation a little apart from the other four.

His fingers, the tips of his ears, and his nose began to burn with the stalling. He bit his fingers hard, tasting blood, with a hopeless whimper. His mind cataloged the easiest and most subtle points of entry anyway.

No signatures in the five bedrooms. No sworn elves to protect them from his entry. The shimmering internal boundaries complicated entering directly to all but one of the bedrooms given the malicious intent of the artifact he brought.

Make sure this is found…

Make sure…

Master's words overwhelmed his feeble prevarications, and his eyes closed. The cold intent flooded his being, sending him ghosting through the walls and safeguards. He could almost fumble for retreat when the Weasley family's magic bridled against his own family's intrusion. He felt something seem to rise and swell within him and he embraced it. Instead of Unsummoned's cool relief or even the damp, open air, righteous disdain born of centuries of blood feuds bowled him over and dragged him through the final layers.

Make sure…

He opened his eyes at the soft 'pop' of reality and space adjusting to accommodate him. The first thing he noticed was the patchwork of vibrant residual intents glaring from the myriad surfaces around him.

There was a bright, happy red, like a perfect apple or an autumn fox that seemed to fizz off everything with excitement and determination. It lingered thick and heavy on a shelf of bedraggled stuffed animals above the tiny twin bed. The pillow fairly shone with it, nearly obscuring the quidditch magazine peeking out from one corner.

There was a softer, more yellow-tinged red that flickered rather than fizzed from various half faded posters of dragons and quidditch players on the walls. A deep, royal red that bled fierce cunning haunted the battered desk beneath the single yellow-curtained window. Undiscovered but identical mischievous crimson burned like coals under the frayed quilt waterfalling from the foot of the bed into a puddle amidst the fizzy fox laundry.

His chest ached, but his head screamed. No amount of biting or twisting could buy him time to find an alternative. Any loophole.

Barely aware of his movements, he opened the keepsy spot and withdrew the bad book. The viscous black seemed to absorb all the fizzy motes dancing in the sunbeams through the curtains. Dobby flexed his fingers against his order.

Make sure this is found…

"YOU LOT ARE THE WORST! YOU'RE JUST THE MOST AWFUL, HORRIBLE… UGH!"

Dobby jumped. Pounding footsteps up the stairs behind him followed the feminine yell from beyond the door. He flipped his order onto the unmade bed and disappeared into the cool, quiet in-between of Unsummoned to make sure his order was found and his orders fulfilled.

~*TNT*~

"There's some scabbing, and it's gone clearish yellow on the edges, but there doesn't seem to be any inflammation," Hermione reported, setting the Cerberus's paw down.

"Clearish," Theo replied sardonically. "That sounds suitably authoritative and technical for our comprehensive reference work."

"You know what I mean," Hermione retorted. She stroked Caderyn's left muzzle as she tried to get a better look at the inside of that foreleg. "Just put translucent yellow and pretend you aren't an obnoxious git." Theo snickered and Hermione rolled her eyes to fight off her smirk. "The hair is already regrowing around his scratches. It must be because he refuses to sit or lay down when he isn't sleeping."

"We could have Puddle play for him for another couple days…?" Theo offered.

"Accio meat. No… I'm pretty sure Hissy told Papa once he got back… I haven't seen Puddle all day." She watched her dog rip into the chunks of dead sheep and gave him a couple affectionate pats to the flank.

"Urg."

Hermione laughed and skipped over to her brother's chair. "Rynny's gotta eat too, you know." Theo gave an exaggerated shudder, putting the finishing flourishes on "yellow- tinged". Hermione crossed her arms on his head and settled her chin on them, still admiring her dog.

"Mine."

"Mm?"

"Mine…"

She could feel his annoyance prickling into her mind and causing the air around them to practically spark with tension. Caderyn's heads bobbed up from the half mangled haunch.

" Oh alright fine." She sighed dramatically and flopped into the chair on his right. "I almost miss Hogwarts," she mumbled, pawing through his various notes and discarded drafts. "You're a lot more fun there."

"Oh, I'm so sorry that you can make us blow stuff up again," he said. She snickered as he tossed his quill on the cleaner.

"You don't sound sorry."

"That's because I happen to value our last month of compiled research." He had a point. She sniffed. He knew how much his smugness annoyed her. "Besides. We can't exactly get Caderyn attacked by bowtruckles a second time…"

Her eyes drifted to her perfect boy. All three heads were once again fully dedicated to their treat. "He might sit long enough for objective data if we kept him in here…"

"Hermione."

"What? He could handle it!"

"You know he hates it when he can't patrol. Besides. Father swore he'd send him to the Glen if he whines all night and day again." She sulked into her seat. Theo tugged on one of her curls. She batted at his hand. "At least it wouldn't be Greece," Theo pointed out.

"We still need to find a way to prove whether he's a species or special," she said, rolling her shoulders and sitting straighter.

It was Theo's turn to slump down and sigh. "Right."

"We haven't checked the archive for-"

There was a loud pop and both Notts spun toward the library's entryway. "Dirby?" Caderyn gave a perfunctory sort of growl.

"We apologizes for interrupting the future guardian, but we needs future guardian."

"Need him?" Hermione said. "What could you possibly need him for?"

"The sunroom is empty at the moment," Dirby said, not even twitching. His enormous eyes focused unerringly on Theo.

Hermione scowled.

"What is this regarding please, Dirby?" Theo asked, forcing a calm to balance his sister's ire.

Nine times out of ten, Dirby ignored Hermione's presence entirely. It was certainly not without massive effort from both the Head Elf and his baby sister.

"Best discussed in private, future guardian," Dirby said, his spine stiffening to the point where his ears trembled from the muscle strain.

"Private?" Hermione demanded.

Theo grabbed her without looking. It felt like her arm. "Whatever you have to say can be said here, I'm sure."

The elf's nostrils flared. "Future guardian comes of age in less than a month. Future guardian has much to learn and very little time to waste in squabbling."

Theo cast a guilty glance toward his sister. Her lips were not only pursed but practically white. "Father did say I have to learn about the heir ceremony," he said in an undertone.

Her hair sparked once as she met his gaze. Thankfully, it didn't catch any of the parchments on the table. "He didn't say it had to be private tutoring."

Theo made a face, pushing apologies into her mind and his hand into hers.

After a few moments, she huffed. "Don't trouble yourselves on my account," she declared, sweeping to her feet. She tossed her hair, even though it was pinned into a research bun. "Stay, Caderyn."

Dirby opened his mouth, but Theo pounced. "Good boy, Caderyn." Dirby closed his mouth.

Hermione marched out of the library, leaving the door ajar.

Theo smirked.

~*TNT*~

"Dobby! Where's the Prophet? Oh! And today's letters!" Lucius shouted as he stormed into his office and made a beeline for the liquor cabinet.

"You seem tense, Your Grace," said a cool voice on his left.

Lucius whirled then froze. Silver blue eyes in a perfectly serene face pinned him to the floor.

"Master's paper and-"

"Not now," Lucius hissed, tearing his eyes from hers to glower at the little elf.

It looked terrified but disappeared obediently enough.

"Narcissa, my love," he said into the sudden silence. She merely folded her hands and tilted her chin infinitesimally to the side in response. "Are-" He cleared his throat. "Are you well this…" He hazarded a glance out the windows. "...Evening?"

"Indeed I am, Your Grace."

He clasped his hands behind his back. "Is there…" His left cheek itched abominably. He rolled his weight to his left leg. "To what… ah... Do I owe this…"

"It's August, Your Grace."

Damn bloody woman. Did she expect him to read her mind?

"Of course, my love. August the third…"

He didn't have time for this! Thoros could have sold him out already! There could be aurors en route while they blathered on with ridiculous bullshit and-

She settled her shoulders against the wingback chair's upholstery and eyed him from under her lashes.

He tugged on his cuffs behind his back.

"I'm rather in the middle of something at the moment, Darling, so if-"

"Of course." She swept to her feet. "I imagine the Governors are having a terrible time finding both a suitable groundskeeper and caretaker. She glided forward, and he stretched his neck against his cravat. She wanted to talk about her bloody vengeance for Draco's bloody detention now!?

He smiled- discretion and valor and all- and bowed over her outstretched hand.

"When you find a moment," she said, pausing halfway to the door. "I would love to visit wherever you're keeping them."

"Of course, my love." his breath came more easily with every step she took. "Whatever you'd like." Surely Thoros wouldn't dare go to the Ministry, and surely Weasley would have been caught trying to dispose of-

"The polyjuiced decoys wandering freely as if nothing's happened were a lovely touch."

He nearly dropped the whiskey decanter. Whipping his head around, he caught her pale hem slipping past the door frame.

"Bloody buggering… DOBBY!"

~*TNT*~

He kept waiting for it to hurt. He expected every pair of socks and each worn T-shirt he placed amongst the school supplies to send shards of cold fury ripping through him. It shouldn't happen... He had technically fulfilled the will of his Master… but nonetheless, he was pretty sure it could. Master wanted his order found by a Weasley child. Dobby had made sure it was so. Master wanted his order discovered by the rest of his world. Dobby would ensure this as well. Master did not reveal his will for how the order must be discovered… Master merely wanted everyone to know his order was in the possession of a Weasley child. He was executing Master's will.

Dobby shivered and tucked more socks in the trunk. He couldn't tell if he was nervous, giddy, or about to faint. Master could summon him at any time. He knew, in some corner of his mind (not that he could tell which corner of course…) but Dobby knew that he knew that Master was entertaining a lady for the good of the family in the blue bedroom. Dobby had time. He could stop his order from hurting people and save the fizzy child and… and… He couldn't save anyone. He gave his hand a brisk smack against the heavy wooden desk.

He was an elf. Harry Potter though… Harry Potter was great and brave and good and… Harry Potter could do it. Harry Potter had triumphed twice already. Harry Potter could triumph again. He slammed the trunk's lid shut with a decisive nod.

The thunk of the lid nearly obscured the half-stifled yelp behind him. Dobby turned to see Harry Potter himself braced wide-eyed against the door. He noted that Harry Potter's eyes were indeed a bright and unnatural green. They were far more beautiful than anyone had said, though. Harry Potter deserved so much better than this place where people hated him.

He cut off those thoughts with as low a bow as he could manage without actually prostrating himself. He was still a Malfoy elf no matter how far he traveled.

"Er… Hello…"

"Harry Potter!" he said, straightening. "So long has Dobby wanted to meet you, sir… Such an honor it is!" He swept a second bow. It twinged a bit in his chest.

"Th-Thank you?"

Harry Potter was truly more good and kind than anyone credited. He straightened to his full height and puffed out his chest. "I is Dobby, sir. Dobby the house-elf." He swept another deep bow to be thorough. His nose and fingers stung this time. "Dobby is come to take you away, sir. Harry Potter has faced so many dangers already, but Harry Potter is needed. Dobby is wretched and terrible, but Harry Potter has already triumphed. He will triumph again!" Dobby reminded himself that he was technically executing Master's will.

"S- Sorry… Take me away? I can't… Take me where?"

"Dobby takes Harry Potter to save his friends! There is great evil…" His order was evil not his Master, he hurried to clarify to the chill that flashed through his stomach. "Terrible things will happen!" Carrying out Master's will is not terrible, a half-frozen mental voice said in a dull monotone. "Only Harry Potter can stop…" It was too much. He seized one of his ears and twisted hard. He was bad and wicked and bad, so bad, to even dare, but he must and… Hands wrenched his arm away.

"What are you doing?" Harry Potter hissed.

"Dobby is punishing hisself, sir," he replied, only half paying attention through the burning in his ears. He couldn't smell blood. "Dobby is wicked and selfish to ask this thing of the great and good Harry Potter, but Dobby must, sir. Only Harry Potter can do this, sir."

Harry Potter looked incredibly uncomfortable. "Er… I'm not… You seem… Do what, exactly?"

"There is a plot, Harry Potter." Master was very proud of his ability to plot. Calling Master's orders a plot would technically please Master… He tried not to think too deeply about that one. "Harry Potter's friends will be hurt." Master did want them hurt. These were not kept secrets or silents. "Harry Potter must not let them be hurt!" He fought to not whimper and curl in on himself at the pain of suggesting direct opposition.

"My friends?" Harry Potter's eyes widened. "Who? Are they alright? Is it Neville? Ron? I can't… I don't suppose you could… You said you'd take me away?"

"Yes, Harry Potter, sir! Dobby will takes Harry Potter there, sir, even though it is not safe! Harry Potter is too good and too great to lose, but Harry Potter is the only one who can stop it, sir!" Harry Potter would help his order be discovered. If Harry Potter found his order surely everyone would take notice. Dobby was executing Master's will. The pain eased. Dobby was a good elf.

"Well, let's go already!" Harry Potter had jumped up. "Where are they? How do we get there?" Harry Potter would help discover his order. Harry Potter would help.

"Dobby knows that Harry Potter is valiant and bold!" He paused, cocking his head for a moment. A tea kettle whistled somewhere below the room. "But… Dobby wonders if perhaps Harry Potter might wants to leaves a note for Harry Potter's Aunt and Uncle, so they does not worries…?"

"They won't mind," Harry Potter said hastily. The boy paused for a moment, his face considering. "Well… I should probably let them know I do need to come back at some point… So they don't… give Aunt Marge the room or something…" Dobby frowned in confusion, but Harry Potter had leaped to his desk before Dobby could ask. As he scrawled something on a scrap of paper with a quill type thing, Harry Potter asked, "You said you could take me… I don't suppose you could maybe bring Hedwig too?"

"Of course, Harry Potter!" he squeaked. "Dobby lives to serve!"

~*TNT*~

The skies refused to open with a dramatic, torrential downpour. No. Instead, a fog too enthralled by gravity to hang stationary, too pervasive to be a drifting mist, and too fine to be a drizzle licked away whatever wisps of heat Hermione sent him.

Theo shuffled a bit to dislodge the grass slowly fusing to the skin of his shins. The flash of damp chill distracted from the rough linen of his hand-woven, smock-like tunic rasping from the nape of his neck to the bony ridges of his shoulder blades. He hunched against the need to scratch, and his half-saturated, fully-poofed curls immediately fell into his eyes. Theo gripped his knees until his knuckles ached.

A wave of guilt suffused his mind. He cast a glance around (without daring to turn his head) for any audience to his less than reverent thoughts. No one had been out to "bear witness to his vigil" for what felt like years. It couldn't have been a full hour, but he had been "reflecting" on the "flights and fancies of youth" since dawn, and it wasn't like he'd had many youthful flights of fancy in the first place...

There'd been that time Hermione and he had painted themselves with blue "tattoos"... Once Hissy had scrubbed them both pink and dressed them for bed, he'd tentatively asked Father whether he'd ever get to have real ones. Theo winced as his father's words swept across his mind again:

"You will receive the marks for which you are worthy."

Theo tried to center himself despite the residual shame and embarrassment. His smock gaped a bit, giving him the barest glimpse of his chest and stomach. The pale lines cutting through the rolls of baby fat caught his attention. He forced himself to release his breath slowly. Everything was cold. Hermione must be miserable.

More fancies of youth. Fancies.

When he and Hermione were six or so, they decided the birthmark scar type things on their spines meant the two of them were Moon and Sun gods reborn. Once they'd agreed they had the same shapes (which was a battle in and of itself given neither could draw), there had been a massive controversy over who would be the personification of which deity. Hermione had sworn that since the sun and moon shapes had been twisted together they were both supposed to be both. He had thought that was supremely stupid (and said so) since one body couldn't possibly hold two deities. She, in turn, had reminded him that the Ogham rune scars on their chests said "One Flesh." His six-year-old self would have probably conceded the issue if she had not concluded her argument by comparing his intelligence to that of a particularly dense troll.

Instead, he had snatched her woven leaf crown and run for it.

A sudden gust of cold air had Theo shivering. His smile faded. Father had later told an irate Hermione that the birthmarks were from Mama's family. His tone had ensured that the deity issue was never addressed again.

Theo wanted to scrub his hands over his face and stretch. Somewhere behind him, Hermione's anticipation tripled as the last rays of sunlight slipped beyond the horizon. He squared his shoulders and straightened his spine.

~*TNT*~

She tried to quell the smug triumph fizzing through her as she trotted along after Papa. The feelings weren't echoed and compounded in Theo, though, so she didn't have to try particularly hard. Instead, she made an effort (of sorts) to bring her expression toward something more reserved than a blatant grin.

Ahead, on the cusp of the west garden, Theo's silhouette stiffened.

She lost her struggle with her grin.

"The hour draws near," Papa declared, stopping just to Theo's right and placing his left hand on her brother's shoulder. She felt Theo's stomach lurch. "Have you completed your reflection on the flights and fancies of youth?"

"I have learned all the light of childhood can teach me," he replied in perfect Gaelic. Her grin drifted into a proud smirk. A small army of pixies was having a rave in the boy's stomach, but his voice neither quavered nor hitched.

"Let your education be tested, then, so all may behold your worthiness as the Mother's foremost son and heir."

Theo's joints cracked and popped as he pushed himself to his feet to follow a step behind Papa. Hermione ghosted after them.

She noted the ethereal blue glow to the ring of dark purplish silver mushrooms on the little hillock at the edge of the West garden. It was faint enough that she could feasibly convince herself that it was some trick of the light, but… She tried to discern Theo's opinion as she slipped her hand into Papa's. Theo's gaze was empty, and his movements were wooden. She bit her lip before the world twisted and imploded.

The very instant they landed, even before her stomach settled to the atmospheric pressure, Hermione felt wrong. Everything was watching her, and it wasn't the comforting feeling in her face and neck whenever Theo tried to locate her. It wasn't so well defined. A part of her knew with every breath she took and every beat of her heart something was wishing her ill. Something suffocatingly close and somehow nebulously distant.

If she hadn't been so unapologetically adamant about coming along, Hermione would have asked then and there to apparate home.

She took a step closer to Papa; closer than she was, strictly speaking, supposed to.

All around, layers of vegetation choked each other for nutrients and space. Several meters ahead, a massive wall of twisted tree roots, moss, vines, and other unidentifiable plant matter rose and crumbled. Occasionally, creatures that seemed to be mutant blends of pixies and sprites would pop out of nowhere to chitter at them. Some sort of bioluminescent plant species edged what could have been a columned entryway, but the effect was more blurring and unsettling in the haze of glows from every other species of flora.

In fact, everything around her seemed off. Like someone with only the most basic grasp of what a forest and its creatures should look like had designed the place to entice or deceive tourists. Theo's blatant awe and fascination with it all wasn't helping.

The longer she stayed, the more convinced she became. She was not supposed to be here. This was not her place.

"We have guarded our Mother's heart as commanded by the Firstborn of the Mother since the birth of the night," boomed a voice Hermione had never heard before. She snapped her head up, only to see Dirby standing in the open arch in the wall of vegetation before them. "We care not against whom we defend her. Speak your intent or become the dirt which sustains her."

Hermione's eyes widened. She scuttled closer to Papa, nearly tripping on a root that seemed to arch up and snatch the toe of her boot.

"We do not begrudge you your duty. We come to continue the cycle of life and death in accordance with our Mother's line," said Papa.

"The Mother is endless and eternal. We will not be the reason she falters." Dirby lifted his chin and moved aside. Hermione stared at him, trying to comprehend the significance of this vainglorious pageantry. Who even benefitted from this? It took her a few moments to realize Theo and Papa had started forward, and she scrambled to catch up.

They crossed the threshold into some sort of massive hall. Or at least it had been a hall at one point. Vegetation obscured nearly every surface. The floor had been reduced to a thick mat of roots, decay, and competing colonies of moss and lichen. Here and there, cracked chunks of stone protruded like gasping swimmers in a storm-wracked ocean. The walls were hardly better. Bits of tattered fabric, standards, and armor poked up in defiance of the suffocating vines and ivy. Either a whole lot of something had been piled along the walls and allowed to become overgrown, or a pair of massive hedgehogs were crouching along the walls and doing a commendable job at camouflage.

Dirby continued his flatly delivered script in tones that were not his own, occasionally scuttling to a different position or affecting a different posture. She tuned him out.

Awareness of some presence prickled up her neck and across her scalp, filling every breath and crevice. All manner of insects skittered and hummed as they went about their insignificant lives. Here and there, patches of vegetation seemed to randomly lurch until Hermione could make out a pair of glinting eyes or some set of appendages. Yet through it all, some higher being stood sentinel: watching them invisibly. She was sure of it.

"Mine." She snapped her head up at the sound of Theo's voice in her ear. Papa and Dirby were a ways ahead, watching them with expectant impatience. She glanced down to where his hand rested on the bare skin of her arm, just below her twisted, heavy silver torc.

She couldn't feel him.

She could feel the warmth of his touch, of course, but his aura, their magic, was completely indistinguishable.

She met his eyes. His expression gave no indication that the feeling was mutual. He was practically ginning. She frowned.

He cocked his head to the side and scrunched his eyebrows together.

She looked away rather than respond. This was not the time or the place. Dirby would probably have a fit if they derailed the ceremony to discuss whatever was happening… Especially since Theo didn't even seem to be aware that anything was happening.

So instead, Hermione lifted her arisaid and took fastidious care on what could have once been the grand threshold steps to some inner chamber.

All she could see was roots and rot and refuse.

"You have come," boomed a new voice. Hermione glanced up from her treacherous footing. Dirby stood on a mound of roots across the room: regal as anything. At this point, she couldn't even muster surprise.

Father placed his hand to the scar on his chest and knelt. "The Mother's first child and protector brings the next beginning as seeds are brought to the soil." At this, Theo knelt as well. Hermione couldn't see to whom they knelt. Was she supposed to kneel too? "May the leavings of death be churned in the emergence of flourishing light and life." The only light in this chamber seemed to be the dull, pulsing purple-ish black and faint blue glows from various bioluminescent species of lichen or moss or bark or ivy or something. If Professor Sprout were here, she'd probably swoon.

"This beginning is but a sapling. How can we trust him to protect and serve?"

"He has the strength to grow in thin, poisoned soil far from the roots of safety; he's had the strength to reach this night. The Mother's strength will not drown him," Papa's voice replied. The faintest rays of moonlight filtered in from the destroyed remains of some kind of dome, but the leafy canopy obscured most of them.

"The strength to grow does not indicate a strength to endure." Hermione shot Dirby another frown.

"I am as the stone of the halls and mountains. I will stand firm without fear or doubt." Theo didn't look up as he spoke. Hermione felt he probably should have if he was professing his steadfastness or whatever it was. But obviously, no one sought her opinion.

"The beginning of understanding is doubt. There is no stone the root cannot break." Dirby's not-Dirby voice hit the "k" in a way that seemed to silence the various sounds permeating the chamber.

"And no day the night cannot endure," Theo replied calmly.

"Very well. Protectors. Identify yourselves to our Mother."

For a terrifying moment, Hermione was convinced that she should be prostrating herself or cowering before Dirby, lifting her wrists in supplication to spill her lifeblood as recompense for the audacity of her presence.

"We are the living record of history, written in our blood and our being," Papa answered in a voice like hot cocoa in a wintery library. His fist moved from his druid scar to the roots covering the base of Dirby's plinth. "We are the firstborn of the Mother and the last of the blessed. We are time; we are timeless; and we honour our Mother."

Dirby raised his chin and gave a derisive sniff. Hermione was very familiar with Dirby's sniffs. This was a Sniff. She suddenly decided that she should kneel. No prostrating quite yet… but just in case.

"You honour her with mere words?"

"We are vessels of words. Our being is in our memory, and our memory is in our words. We honour you with words, with our being, and with our blood." Hermione was too dazed and disoriented to notice the knife her father had pulled from his belt, but she certainly noticed the searing lines of pain spreading across her abdomen. As she stared down at herself in bewilderment; no blood bloomed across her tunic.

Raising her eyes, she saw Theo press his bloodied hand to the roots upon which Dirby stood. He held the highly polished and gleaming hardwood blade in his other hand.

The floor lurched. Dirt and debris fell like misting rain from the shrouded ceiling as a series of creaking cracks echoed through what little air was left to breathe.

Amidst her hacking coughs and streaming eyes, Hermione watched what she had assumed were walls shift and squirm. Untold masses of glittering and half-camouflaged creatures cascaded down the walls and up through the ceiling. Their indignant chittering, buzzing, and shrieking couldn't drown the ominous snaps reverberating up through her knees.

She huddled awkward and alone on the floor wishing for her wand with her hands clamped over her head. Dirby fell back from his root pedestal to stare with polite expectation at the wall. Father had a fistful of Theo's ritual smock; his off hand held his dagger poised defensively. Theo hadn't moved.

Hermione clawed against her terror-hazed mind. By rights, her fingernails should have been bloody. Theo hadn't moved, and she could hardly make out the spark of his presence. She hadn't been allowed a wand, but perhaps-

A massive CRACK split the air. "At last."

Hermione had never felt so cold in her entire life. Every hair on her body stood on end as she slowly lifted her eyes in the resounding, decisive silence. Up and up… what she'd assumed was a wall had split apart and open. What she had assumed was some sort of pillar suspended in its collapse by lichen, vines, and what she could now see was bark had morphed into a massive face and torso. Branches forming the trunk-body's arms had ripped away from the seams of wall and ceiling. The palest gray stone lay glaringly bare in their absence.

The tree face's high cheekbones, large eyes, and long neck seemed more feminine than androgynous … Though it was probably because this thing (assuming (however logically) that this was in fact The Thing) had been referred to as a "Mother" in the ritualistic pretentiousness… and mothers tended to be coded as female in her subconscious… It struck her as distressingly… literal?

"Dry has been the time of your coming, my son."

The face had no discernable mouth from what Hermione could see through her arms and curls. The massive head bobbed and the branch arms swayed, but nothing moved to coincide with the words that seemed to reverberate in every molecule and dust mote of the room. In the spaces between the very air itself.

"We are… Our… Uhm…" Father tried, his hand still white in its grip on Theo.

The voice ignored him entirely. "One flesh, my druid. We will conquer the insults of men and time."

"One flesh." She heard her brother echo. "I will prove myself worthy."

There was no change in the lighting of the chamber. A breeze didn't suddenly abate. No fire was lit that she could tell, but a strange heat seemed to trickle over the space. Hermione couldn't determine whether it came from the bond or the room, but she felt warm.

"You will. We will."

~*TNT*~

He couldn't be sure the next part actually happened. Which was ridiculous. Of course, the next part happened; he just couldn't be sure he was entirely there for it. He could hear his father working briskly through the rest of the script, and he delivered his lines with perfectly articulated Gaelic, but nothing could touch him. Nothing but warmth.

Soft moonlight suffused the Mother's Heart Room. It glinted here and there off the eyes or bodies of what residents had resettled. In the dream of the send off for his ascension, the hesitant glows from the slowly calming residents supplemented the soothing, pale yellow light until he was once again standing in a cathedral of stained glass windows at pink-skyed sunset.

"Go well into the good night," Dirby intoned, distracting him from the web of life around him.

"Be well throughout the darkening day," Father concluded, placing a heavy hand on his shoulder. His other hand, his left one, was wrapped around Hermione. It migrated with more anxiety than reassurance from her upper arm across her left shoulder to the base of her neck and back again.

Hermione was a glaring beacon of discomfort, displeasure, and flaming trepidation. How odd.

Father's hand gave him a prompting sort of push, and Theo turned away still pondering Hermione. Her… Her-ness… No. In that moment, she brought to mind the time they'd burned their initials into the bench beside Mama's pond. Not their impish giggles as they happily got away with their behavior… she felt like the little white dot of sunlight they'd focused into beaming with a magnifying glass… she felt like the whitish-yellow glow of the wood right when it started to burn.

Hahaha... what do you mean it's been a year... It's been 13 months... gosh, get it right...

You know what else you can get right- THE QUIZ!

*Celtic folk metal*

Having endured 13 months of abstinence, and a plague, I (the reader) will

A) Review to let Arrogance know I'm still alive

Awkward Silent Lecture Hall Cough) Review to let ASlytherin know I'm alive without actually saying anything

Vercingetorix) Review and/or PM ASlytherin to inquire about Beta-ing to help churn out chapters more quickly

*CORRECT ANSWER*) REVIEW NOT ABOUT THIS CHAPTER, BUT TO GIVE ALL THE FUCKING LOVE TO ASLYTHERIN'S FORMER BETA, LYNESSENCY, WHO HAS RETIRED HONORABLY TO PURSUE SANITY AND SELF IMPROVEMENT. WE LOVE AUNTIE LYN. DON'T EVEN READ THE NEXT ANSWER. THIS IS THE CORRECT ANSWER.

Rebellious) heh. Respect. No, but seriously. Lyn.

Fun Facts: you can read the full version of Rita's article in Outtakes

***As always, if you cannot review because you reviewed the first time I published a chapter 7, please please please use your username or any name and review as a guest. I like to try to keep up with our conversations***