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Author: hwimsey Story: The Coven of Echoes Rating: Teens Status: Completed Reviews: 51 Words: 163,077
It resembled something out of a fairy tale. Between the candlelight, the sultry swing of the ghosts, and the exquisite dress robes that seemed to float and flirt about the bodies of elegant men and woman, it was the singularly most glamorous event Kilgraith -- indeed Scotland – had seen in years. Harry had little stomach for it and could honestly care less. It was as if the euphoria of the end of the war had been let loose like the wail of a saxophone beckoning intimacies and whatever may follow. Wizards from all over Europe converged eagerly on the Galean Mansion, the last and greatest creation of John Wood the Younger. Its exquisite ballroom boasted long French windows and balconies that overlooked lush Elizabethan gardens. Dress robes and gowns of the richest velvets and silks trailed down the grand staircase, their owners pausing for photographs before descending to the expansive mother of pearl floor. While overhead, the wrought iron gallery allowed amorous rendezvous to take place in hidden alcoves away from prying eyes. Enchanted dulcimers waltzed about filling the grand room with a Celtic air. Exclamations of delight rose and fell from the gatherings as ornate masks fluttered like butterflies in the jeweled wrists of the upper crust of wizarding kind. Adorned faces of young witches beamed, trying to appear closer to the ages of the older witches who merely grinned back through clenched teeth, their bodies forced into corsets to produce provocative décolletages and heaving bosoms. Wizards wearing highly tailored dress robes seemed to blend into each other and formed accents across the spectrum of loveliness before them. Their arms guided smalls of backs as confidences were exchanged and embraces lasted a breath longer than necessary as though smiles drew couples together and held them. The lovelier of the witches had small audiences paying court. They laughed lightly at the besotted faces before them. Indeed, the ballroom resembled a swirling, sweeping explosion of gaiety and color rising to meet the ting of clinking champagne flutes that floated effortlessly about the room. Harry grabbed one and took a deep swallow. Ron smirked at him as they strolled toward the bar. "Don't know why in hell we have to be here either. You'd think the prat would give us a night off. Well, at least you look the part." He appeared to cast a critical eye at his own robes before turning his attention to Harry's classic black dress robes and flat pleated shirt. "Nice touch – no tie – I'd rip mine off, but I bet the collar would disintegrate." Harry had nearly eschewed the Gala, much less the tie. He had tossed it aside in a fit an hour earlier, leaving his collar open. He felt rebellious in doing so and in turn it made him appear staggeringly handsome, although he wasn't aware of the fact. Women, however, hovered in his orbit, whispering to each other and batting their eyes like moths to flame. The press had turned up and readily snapped his photo, intent to find out if Tamsyn Savage was his companion for the evening. He ignored them till they finally scurried over to the other side of the ballroom to snap a photo of the highly paid Chudley Cannon Chaser and his vacuous looking wife. Harry and Ron passed a wizard intent on impressing a plump bleach-blond witch who appeared much more interested in a waiter bearing a silver platter laden with hors d'oeuvres. "John Wood was a born romantic, you know. I studied him extensively – wrote several papers about him. I'm sure you've read them," he said pompously. "No? Well, he could not stand the idea of balls where one loathed one's partner. Imagine that? So in a fit of brilliance, he bewitched this opalescent floor to display the mood of whoever stands upon it." He gestured grandiosely. "The more passionate the feelings, the redder the footprints. What do you think of that?" Around them traces of pink, magenta and rose bespeckled the floor. The wizard cast a leer in her direction. The floor beneath the blonde's feet glowed black. Harry stared down at his own feet. They left no trace whatsoever. A plethora of jewel encrusted bottles greeted them at the bar. They bobbed happily behind a goblin who kept scowling toward a gathering of fruit to his right. The lemons were battling it out with a knife, refusing to be skinned while a line of limes had taken hold of a peeler and whipped it about their rinds in a cult-like suicidal fashion. A handful of olives kept tossing each other onto martini skewers. "What'll ya have?" the goblin asked brusquely as two stalks of celery merrily jumped into some tomato juice and began to rumba. "What've ya got?" Ron asked, completely taken with the fruit antics. "Well, we've got your Boiling Cauldron -- that's a glass of oak-matured mead with a shot of Ogden's. Amortentia Ale that's been fermenting since, well, since that Mary Muggle was carrying on in that castle over there. Forbidden Forest Punch -- I can't tell you exactly what's in there as I've been having issues with the fruit." The dancing cornucopia froze at the mention of the drink; the lemons brandishing the knives prepared for battle with the crazed limes. "And, oh yeah, Black Death." "What?" "Black Death – it's part vermouth and Fenlings. Good for Aurors," he remarked as he finished eyeing them up and down with a glint in his eye. Nothing got past a goblin. "Anybody puts anything in there, it turns black." Ron grimaced. "What the hell are the lemons doing?" "I'm about to make Lemon Drops. It's not going to be pretty," the goblin replied as he diced up a pineapple faster than Harry thought humanly possible. "The very mention of the word makes 'em nervous." "I don't doubt it," said Ron holding up his hands. "Two Firewhiskies, neat." The goblin grunted and poured the drinks without further comment. Ron and Harry turned and leaned against the bar, taking in the scene about them. "Well, here's to romance," said Ron before he raised his glass and took a swig. Harry shot him a look equal to that of the goblin. This didn't stop Ron from goading him on anyway. "You know, that Healer, what's his name, Peter something? He seems pretty keen on Ginny." Harry said nothing, but sipped his drink stiffly. Ron continued. "But then, of course, there's this Areids jerk. Walking her back and forth from work. I don't know what the hell my sister was thinking. But stranger things have happened, you never know," he finished, raising his eyebrows and shrugging. "Quit it," muttered Harry. Ron smiled inwardly as though glad he had hit a target. He tossed back the rest of the Firewhisky and returned the glass to the bar. Turning, he met Harry's stare with a Mona Lisa smile that didn't belie his intentions. His moment of having the upper hand over his best mate for a change was lost, however; his eyes traveled from Harry to the commotion at the grand staircase. Harry noticed the change in Ron and casually turned to follow his stare. He gently blew out his breath at the vision poised at the landing. "So that's the reason we're supposed to be here," said Ron through a wry smirk. "Wouldn't you know?" The room hushed about them as though all the air had been gasped at one moment. A blond haired wizard, tall and distinguished in navy robes, entered and stood on the landing. His hand confidently guided the elbow of a witch. At least, Harry thought it was a witch. But for all who looked upon her, he may as well have been holding onto a dream. The figure seemed to have stepped out of a portrait from long ago – from the mind of an artist who had adored his subject. The champagne satin of her gown was dusted by a gossamer layer of organza falling in sweeps about her legs. A strapless swath caressed her body, leaving her pale neck and shoulders bare. The organza darkened into gold with a shimmer of iridescence about her breasts. Her chinced bodice was so thin every man in the room seemed to lace his fingers behind his back and imagine what it would be like to encircle her waist with merely two hands. Her long cinnamon hair was swept up, tiny roses matching the warmth of pink hidden in her dress nestled amidst the curls. She wore no jewelry. There was no need. "Hey, the blowhard was right. The floor doesn't lie," Ron said with a smirk, his eyes fixed to Harry's feet. Harry stared down. Burgundy outlines appeared at the edges of his polished dress shoes. Ginny and Areids made their way down the stairway. The buzz of the room returned as though someone had turned up the knob of a wireless. The press, hot on the scent, fell over themselves to get a photo of the two. Harry felt an uncontrollable desire to shoot off the worst series of hexes imaginable at their cameras, yet he remained rooted to the spot. Ginny stood graciously, allowing the photographers to snap a rapid fire succession of photos before Areids advanced a step and glared menacingly, forcing them to retreat. Several moments later, the music ceased and all eyes made their way to a small stage at the opposite side of the grand room. The moon glowed full in the tall windows that flanked the dais and the candles flickered a moment in the overhead crystal chandeliers radiating prisms of light across the assembly. Healer Virden strode over to the microphone, a pleased smile across his face. "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, witches and wizards. Thank you all for attending St. Dymphna's three hundred and thirteenth All Hallow's Eve Gala." A polite round of applause greeted his remarks. "As you know, St. Dymphna's is in the midst of establishing a permanent research facility for Spell Reversal. Thanks to your generous support, we have nearly achieved our goal." Another flutter of applause erupted. "In recognition of this fact, let this evening serve as a time of celebration for all of the patients we have saved and for those who will be saved." He raised his glass and toasted the smiling faces before him. "So without further adieu, may I introduce this evening's entertainment – straight from Culloden – Angus Fraser and the Wailers." An eerie dull blue illumination swept over the stage as the outlines of several specters materialized. They all bore the fuzzy silhouettes of the ghosts of Hogwarts, nearly periwinkle in color except for a lone figure that glided to the microphone. A flurry of feminine "oos" and "ahs" erupted around Harry and Ron who shared a puzzled look. "Oh, it's Angus, Angus!" Harry heard one witch cry, nearly fainting into the arms of her companion. Her date muttered, dragging her away – a pink outline of her heels in her wake. "See, see his aura? It'll never change until he forgets her. Isn't that romantic?" cried another. Harry reasoned that the subtle green aura about the ghost spelled something of his jilted past. God knew what color his own aura would be. "Tis a pleasure, tis a pleasure," Angus whispered into the microphone in a throaty, smoker-raspy voice. His blue eyes seemed to burn in his vaporous face. He undid his bow tie then slid his hand through his black hair, gelled back with a wanton curl in the front. "The band, witchies and wizzies." He cupped the microphone as he spoke as if he was holding his love's cheek in his palm. A ghost bassist and pianist materialized in the purplish smoke. They bore the resemblance to characters from the old "Rat Pack" movies that Harry remembered Uncle Vernon watching endlessly on the television. They wore shark skin suits with thin ties and dark spectacles, one circular, one rectangular. Their bodies seemed to float around their ghostly instruments as though they were one and the same. In a puff of smoke, the drummer appeared and raised his sticks. Dressed in a kilt and a button down collarless shirt finished with a black vest, he donned short, bed-head hair and a pentacle earring. He had a keen ability to stretch his arms in order to strike any drum desired. Ron had returned to the bar, apparently nonplussed by the animal magnetism of the vapor set. "You know, Harry, I learned a long time ago not to get involved in my sister's love life. And I've kept my mouth shut about whatever's been going on between the two of you. But you'd have to be blind not to see that she still cares," he added with a snort. Harry blinked at him in disbelief. He hadn't mentioned to Ron what had transpired last night – he was too angry at himself and he didn't want Ron's wrath on top of Ginny's. "You want to keep living a half-life, be my guest. But we're getting right sick of it." "Hermione made you say that, didn't she?" "Yeah. Was it that obvious?" They both shared a look before laughing. They stood in companionable silence for a moment. After the attack in Vylde Alley, the familiar ease of their friendship had returned full force. Although neither would admit it, both men were grateful beyond words. Harry knew, no matter what, he would always have Ron at his side. "Seriously, mate, I can't stand watching her with him. You're going to have to do something about it." By now Areids had escorted Ginny to the dance floor, his arms holding her as they wove through a sea of dancers. Harry's blood boiled at the sight. The tang of lemons from the end of the bar invaded his senses. He closed his eyes hoping to block out the memories. He could picture her, braiding him a lemon drop wrapper crown, as he whispered to her at the lake. "Ginny, I've never felt this way before…with anyone." He could see her gazing up at him, eyes wide, lemon drop stuck in her mouth, when he finally found the courage. "Ginny, I think I'm falling in love with you…" He could taste the lemon on her lips, feel her fingers as they dug into his broad naked shoulders, his hips colliding with her own. "Oh God, Ginny, you don't know how long I've wanted this…" And finally, he could see her, the day he'd made the biggest mistake of his life: letting her go. "Ginny! Stop! I don't understand! Will you goddamn look at me?" An aching jaw brought him back to reality and he realized he must have been clenching his teeth. "Don't worry, mate," Ron quipped. "It'll only cause slight problems if he loves her half as much." With that, Harry abandoned his drink and stood straight, his shoulders back. The dance was over. *** "You're to stay here until I get back, you got that?" Areids spoke to her out of the corner of his mouth all the while smiling as though they were discussing the weather. "Most of the staff is here tonight, especially that watch-dog boss of yours. I'm going to slip out through the back gardens. I know where he's stashed the Moondew. I'll be back for you as soon as I can. I'm gonna need your help administering it properly. Your job is to make sure Virden doesn't go back to the hospital. And whatever you do, don't get into trouble." She nodded and smiled politely, biting the inside of her cheek as they spun about the room. "Make it quick. My shoes hurt." She scanned the ballroom, trying to locate where Virden was when her eyes fell on Susan. They hadn't spoken since the hospital -- the combination of conflicting shifts and emotions kept them at bay. Susan had greeted Areids at the door earlier that evening allowing Ginny time to finish dressing. Allay, her date, had arrived himself a few minutes earlier. Despite her newly dyed dress robes, she had begun to resemble a skeleton, dark circles hiding below her eyes. Ginny stood before her bedroom door listening to the strained conversation in the living room. She had thrown herself into preparation for the Gala in order to escape having to deal with the upheaval of her feelings. After her return from the Sword and the Rose the previous evening, she paced about the garden a long time. She knew she should feel enraged, furious even, but she only felt confused and strangely -- alive. She had battled the memory of Harry for so long she found she had little reserves for the real man. He would always conquer her by the oldest trick in the book: allowing your opponent to fight so voraciously they fall helpless at your feet. So when she dressed that evening, she dressed for him and him alone, using the only armor she had left – sheer beauty. She was silent as she took one last glance into the mirror. She may not have a wand, but she was far from unarmed. Areids was tapping his fingers along the counter by the time she entered, staring out at the garden, looking impatient and annoyed. He turned his head and froze, his fingers caught silent. A hint of a frown passed over his face as though he had entered the wrong house. She smiled slightly, feeling triumphant. If she could disconcert this American, she had nothing to fear. She took her chiffon wrap, so ethereal it seemed spun from air, and draped it over her shoulders. Areids had not moved and it was beginning to annoy her. "Jeez, Healer Weasley," Allay voiced from the kitchen, "you're . . .you're. . ." "Stunning," answered Areids, his eyes narrowing. Ginny flushed at the tone of his voice, her heart startled at his admission. She hastily grabbed her bag and nodded toward Susan who cast her eyes to Allay. "Let's all go, we're late." They spoke little on the way to the Galean Mansion, only Allay kept up a jolly banter. Susan stared straight ahead like an Inferi as did Areids. Only once did Ginny meet his gaze, but he quickly looked away. "There'll be other Aurors here tonight." His words startled her from her reverie and her cheeks reddened in surprise. He spun her under his wrist. "I know." Her voice broke and she cursed the wry smile he gave her knowing full well the cause of her anxiety. "I seriously doubt the Coven or Death Eaters would do something in such a public event, but still we can't take the chance – you're a much desired woman, after all." Ginny stumbled a second on her heels. "Don't get all flustered, Weasley, you're no Savage." He steadied her in his arms, his face unreadable in response to her glare. "I thought you'd take that as a compliment." "I didn't think you were capable of compliments. I thought you had them physically removed along with your sense of humor." He laughed and, in an exaggerated fashion, dipped her, his lips to her ear. In a business like whisper, he said, "I better get going. Don't leave this room. Stay in sight and keep Virden in yours." She nodded as they straightened up then watched him disappear through the crowded dance floor. She spun around and pushed through the couples, eager for escape herself. Whatever this American was up to, she wanted no part of it. She could deal with his arrogance, but not his approbation. It enraged her that he could see through her so easily. Only one other man had ever done that and he was nowhere to be seen. Well, thank God for that, she thought. Suddenly, she wanted more than anything to leave, but she knew she could not. Perhaps she could find an alcove, a quiet advantage point where she could keep an eye on Virden and at the same time not be forced to mingle. Her eyes scanned the overhead gallery. "Um, excuse me, Gin—I mean, Healer Weasley, fancy a dance?" Peter Webster stood before her, a pink carnation pinned to his dress robes. He looked like he was heading off to the Yule Ball and Ginny didn't have the heart to turn him down. "I'd love to." She smiled warmly as he awkwardly stepped toward her. "Ouch! Oh, don't worry, it's nothing, nothing." She grimaced inwardly as they began to half glide, half clop about the room. "Is Healer Rains feeling all right? She looks awful." "I think she's catching the flu," Ginny lied. "She's been coughing terribly." "But you're looking better. Glad my skin soothing charms did the trick." He scrunched up his face to inspect her neck and cheeks. "Good as new – you've got the most amazing – I mean your skin is like--" "Oh, my skin is terrible," Ginny said hurriedly hoping to steer the conversation off its current course. "These freckles – I might as well have a constellation map on my cheeks. But you know, I'm still a bit tired from everything that's gone on. I shouldn't be out here actually. I shouldn't be dancing." "Well that depends," said a deep voice from behind her so that only she could hear, "on whom you're dancing with. Try doing it with me." Harry stepped out from behind her and nodded toward Peter. "Excuse us, will you?" "Oh, yeah, but of course," Peter stuttered in almost an apology. "Harry, I--" He took her in his arms. His hand wound its way against her waist, his palm easily encircling her glimmering bodice and pulled her to him. His other hand enclosed hers and gathered it to his chest. Before she had a chance to protest, he spun her to the farther side of the ballroom near a secluded corner. They didn't say a word. She had forgotten how to breathe. She wanted to be angry, she wanted to pull away, she wanted to bash at him with her fists, but she had lost all control. He had captured her, finally. Whatever she had said last night held no sway over this man. Ginny couldn't help but allow her eyes to roam over his face. His jet-black strands had been slicked back and they shone beneath the dim lighting. She felt the almost overwhelming urge to comb her fingers through it, feel the velvetiness of its texture slip through her fingers once again. His collar lay open, his pulse beat steadily under the muscles of his throat. The rest of the ballroom disappeared around them. Only the green wisp of Angus remained. He cupped the microphone and began to croon, his mouth so close as to imbue it with the essence of his lost love and kiss her as he had in life. My soul is bewitched in many ways Harry slid their clasped hands down over his chest, slipping them between their bodies. Her palm was pressed directly over his heart and she lost herself in the feel of its rhythmic, quickened beat. He clenched her hand tighter and stared directly into her eyes. His breath was warm and smelled of Firewhisky. He leaned closer. Then, as if all the passion and longing of a year apart coursed through his body still, he clutched her to him, seizing her with such force she felt sure she would soon be crushed. Temptation's pull is there, "Harry, I can't." But I'm staying away Battling something uncertain, his arms reluctantly loosened their embrace and he drew back, searching her face. He paused, looking upon her as though afraid to touch her. His breath caught in his throat. What spell she hath o'er me "You need to tell me why, Ginny. You left without even saying goodbye. I'm not letting you go, not without a fight." The earnestness in his face staggered her. "Ginny." His forehead rested against hers now, his body demanded an answer, their hearts beating wildly one against the other. "Please, Harry. Don't. You've made your choice. You can't have it both ways." "I don't understand." He drew back a breath, his lips close to hers. "You've always been my choice. You know I've never been good with words, Gin. But you're killing me. I don't know whether to strangle you with my bare hands or kiss you till you can't breathe. But Christ, you don't throw away what we had. And you sure as hell don't run away without an explanation. You owe me that. You owe us that." His hands gripped her to him, demanding an answer. I thought our love held no bound This is it, she thought in dread fear. There is no escape. This is the end of us. She would tell him what she saw and be forced to watch him lie. Forced to watch the last of the Harry she loved disappear. "I saw you, Harry. That night, Harry, I saw--" But Harry had frozen. His eyes were sharp and focused on the other side of the room. "Stay here," he said intently, squeezing her shoulders as though to root her to the spot. With that he took out his wand and headed straight toward the far French windows, leaving her dumbstruck, her heart beating in her throat. It's maddening in a way, She watched in violent disbelief as he strode across the ballroom disappearing into the mass of bodies. Her bare chest and shoulders trembled as she inhaled and exhaled, her pulse thundering. Couples circled around her, oblivious to her presence. Her rationality murdered by rage, she smashed her foot to the floor with surprising strength. She was quickly brought back down to Earth as she gasped and stepped away, her heel shattered into fragments. "Great, oh just great!" she cried and released a half strangled sob. She stepped back and lifted her shoe then hesitated, perplexed at what she saw at her feet. Two pairs of footprints lay emblazoned on the floor. Crimson as fire. The singer grabbed the microphone and crooned his last. My deepest regret you see Excuse me while I disappear. *** Disappear. She needed to disappear. The overhead gallery offered her the sanctuary she needed. She swept off the dance floor and hurried up a wrought iron spiral staircase to the upper landing. A few lanterns cast the sequestered divans in a golden hue, the moon from the tall balcony windows offering the only other light. She tossed herself down on one and rested her forehead against the butt of her hand. The feel of his fingers still warm on her skin was nothing compared to the truthfulness in his voice, in his eyes. She sat there for a long time, going over the scene in her head until a stench caused her to raise her face toward an open window half hidden in the corner. She stood and walked over to it, her hands outstretched to pull the French doors shut. A small balcony lay beyond the window, the view of gardens below them. Had some Stinksap bloomed in the night? Whatever it was, it smelled repulsive. She stepped out onto the balcony and curled her fingers over the cool railing. The moon cast a glimmer of silver upon the gardens and a brushing of fairy lights twinkled in the trees. The wind fluttered the branches, the odor growing more powerful. She scrunched her face in disgust and turned back toward the gallery. Suddenly a skeletal hand clawed at her wrist; a body heaved itself onto the balcony. Ginny tried to scream, but a man flew at her, covering her mouth. He twisted her to him, his mouth near her ear. "I don't think that's a good idea." His voice was hoarse and strained. The stench about him polluted the air. He braced the railing with his free hand as though he were holding onto the rest of his life. "Against the wall, now!" Simon stood tattered and visibly injured as he shoved her against the corner of the balcony. He pulled out his wand. "I said against the wall!" he hissed. Ginny obeyed, her heart pounding in fear. "No more games, girl. I don't have much time. Tell me where Ian's code is or I'll kill you." "Please," Ginny pleaded, "you have to believe me. I don't know. They're after me, too. The Death Eaters and the Coven. You saw that. If you knew anything about me, about my family – we've been enemies of the Death Eaters all our lives. I don't know what your Coven wants --- I don't know why it's trying to kill you. Please let me help you. My brother, he's an Auror. He can give you protection. We can try to save you." He coughed onto her gown when she finished. Ginny could make out the spray of blood. "I don't have time to trust anyone. I need to destroy that code." "You can trust me. Please, you're hurt, you need help." Simon collapsed onto the railing and moaned a horrid, but eerily familiar sound to Ginny. It was the beginning of the death throes Ian had experienced in the hospital. The Taghairm, Ginny thought, he's going to utter the Taghairm and it will kill him. He struggled to pull something out of his pocket. "Here," he muttered. "Only this will prove it." He placed a turquoise colored pill into her hand. "What is it?" "It's a Veraxlectum. Hah, you know about it, don't you?" Ginny nodded numbly. It was Black magic: a lethal form of Veritaserum. It had been developed by Voldemort himself in the last days of the war. A potion that lasted until the caster released the spell or died. If the victim spoke the truth, a white aura would glow about him. If he lied, he would die from pain beyond measure – his heart would be crushed within his body. "Take it and I'll let you help me." He groaned loudly, fighting to stay upright. His eyes burned into hers with his words. Taking the capsule in trembling fingers, she nodded and swallowed before her courage left her. Seconds later, a strange buzzing feeling radiated throughout her body. "Are you working with the Coven?" "No." She glanced down at her arm and started. A white glow radiated about her. "Are you a Death Eater?" "No." Again, the same glow. "Do you know where Ian's code is?" "No." "Would you die to destroy evil?" The white aura flared about her. He collapsed into the burning rays. "Here, come closer." She crouched down to his body. He reached into his ratty cloak and pulled out two wands. One was hers, the other— "It's Ian's. You must find the remaining codes. Once you find them, they will lead you to the Letter. Aidan! You must find Aidan! You must promise me, you must swear that you will destroy the Letter. It can be done. Aidan will know how. If you don't, if you fail, they will kill you – you and everything you love, do you understand? We thought we could keep it hidden, but the Death Eaters know it exists. That's why we vowed to destroy it. It is evil. Evil beyond telling. It cannot be unleashed." Gurgling from his crushed trachea, blood bubbled from his lips. "There will be tests – enchantments. The codes, they will tell you, the codes will lead you . . ." He grabbed her one last time, the phoenix song swelling from him in rapture. Then his hand seized and he died in her arms. Ginny shook his lifeless body, begging him to speak. The corpse rolled off her lap, its eyes slack in its head. Gasping for breath, she struggled to her feet, eager to find help. "Ginny!" Harry stood in the entranceway, Ron by his side. "Are you all right?" She nodded numbly as they rushed out to join her. Suddenly Areids also appeared from the gallery, his face ashen. "What's happened?" Ginny simply retrieved the two wands from the folds of her dress and held them out to their astonished gazes. "He trusted me," she said, her voice brittle. "He trusted me." The men eyed her with concern as her gaze fell back on Simon's body. She knelt down and with the assured touch of a Healer, she gently shut his eyes then crossed his arms one over the other, pressing her palms to the back of his filthy hands in an act of benediction. "I'm going to escort Healer Weasley to – she needs to get home, she's covered in blood. The place is crawling with press and I don't want them to get wind of this," said Areids to Harry and Ron. Ginny knew they weren't heading to her flat. She also knew that if Virden saw the body he'd march straight back to the hospital with the Aurors in tow. So she merely nodded in agreement, careful not to meet Harry or Ron's eyes. "You two, deal with this. Get the body back to St. Dymphna's without any notice. Just deposit it in the morgue until later. We'll meet up at the Sword and the Rose. Notify the others of our plans." With that he grabbed hold of Ginny's hand and led her away. "Wait," Harry cried. Ginny stopped, but did not face him. "Here, take my cloak." She turned her face, puzzled yet grateful. "It'll cover the bloodstains." He handed it to her and their fingers brushed. She gave him a faint smile before Areids pulled her toward the stairs. "You go get Tonks and Tamsyn," Harry told Ron as he watched them descend the spiral staircase, fighting the desire to be by her side. "I'll take care of the body. Meet me near the steps in the gardens." He motioned with his wand toward a wide sweeping stone stairway that led from the terraced gardens to the street above them. Ron nodded and sped off into the gallery, leaving Harry alone. The body was lighter than he imagined and reeked horribly. He rummaged through the man's pockets and found nothing. He was nearly done wrapping the Invisibility Cloak around Simon when he noticed a small bulge in the cuff of his trousers. He unrolled the cuff and a scrolled parchment no bigger than a wand handle fell to the stone floor. Harry's long and sure fingers unrolled it. Words inked in a Celtic script shone indigo in the moonlight. The lonely island basalt laid, three noble tasks to face thee. He read the words several more times before he turned over the worn parchment. A Celtic cross – the Coven's cross – lay emblazoned on the other side. Pocketing the paper, he swiftly finished covering the body with the cloak and tore a branch from a nearby vine and stuffed it under the crook of Simon's arm so he could see the body. Taking one last glance to make sure the coast was clear, he levitated it down to the garden. Without his cloak, he easily shimmied out to the drainpipe and landed silently on the cobblestones. A sound startled him. In the moonlight he could see the outlines of Ginny and Areids rushing up the stone staircase at the far end of the garden, hand in hand, the hem of Ginny's gown radiant in the silvery light. He took a step forward then hesitated as the sounds of bells tolled the witching hour. Midnight. He stepped back and his foot stumbled on something. He knelt down. A fragile shoe with a broken heel lay forgotten on the cobblestones. He picked it up and tapped it to his chest. "Cinderella," he whispered. Deepest thanks also to the amazing fritz42 for not only inventing that nasty pill, Veraxlectum, bless her devious heart, but for performing some incredible research for me this last week as well as taking time to critique this chapter. Please raise a glass to swngblues for inventing some of the drinks and Myth for letting me borrow the Black Death. And as always, thanks to the gold standard of betas, Iviolinist, for making this process so much fun it should be deemed illegal. Harry's lemon drop memories are borrowed from an excellent FF author, genekelly. I just loved them too much not to cannibalize them. Finally, to the reviewers who faithfully make me feel like a million bucks each week -- even when you're threatening me with bodily harm -- I thank you from the bottom of my heart. You keep me going.
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