TG - Harry Potter and the Descendent Covenant 21

Hallowe’en came and passed, and though Lily was able to compete in the eating competition, winning a sterling third place, there was always the overhanging feeling of dread she’d been experiencing for a while. She’d not spoken to Malfoy since the incident in the library, which was probably for the best. Crabbe and Goyle remained in the hospital wing, petrified and unmoving, but definitely still alive. Despite the best efforts of the teachers, they weren’t in any position to speak about what had happened, and as such, rumour was abound about the school, a situation Ron was keen to encourage.

With November evenings turning into bitter December nights, it was getting harder and harder to see an end to Lily’s predicament, aside from Snape’s efforts. They’d been meeting once a week to prepare the polyjuice, and were actually managing to have somewhat of a rapport. Snape would grunt in appreciation if she performed some facet of potion making with excellence, and she wouldn’t speak about anything, not wanting to disturb the tense agreement between the two. There was little more than a month left before the brew would be completely ready, and so she was a little excited to return to her original form.

She’d been getting used to being a girl, but living alone in the plague dormitory, and still not knowing exactly how to stand or act properly was wearing on her slightly. Being Harry again would mean she could relax somewhat, and agree that there wasn’t some kind of killer plot after her. Though the actions of Crabbe and Goyle seemed to confirm the alternative, that something was amiss.

Concentrating on her studies was taking her mind off whatever was going on behind the scenes, and this was bolstered by Hermione, Ron and sometimes an apologetic Luna, taking even more interest in her life than she was used to. She could barely escape them, and it was only when she expressly mentioned she’d appreciate some alone time that they’d let her alone. She knew what it was though, this constant interloping in her life, and she did love them for it. They were clearly worried about how she was adapting to the changes, and were trying to lessen the blow. It might only be working slightly, but she knew who she could rely on.

In that so desired alone time, she thought about her predicament, thought about the world, the curse, and most prominently, Draco Malfoy. She could barely contain what she was feeling inside, but she had little to no clue what it actually was she was harbouring for him. While it felt like a crush, she actually wasn’t sure. He’d supported her when everyone else was struggling to comprehend the transformation, and he’d spoken to her as if she was a person, instead of the centre of attention like she usually was. He was a mystery, and she was trying her utmost to unravel him. Solving the enigma that was Draco Malfoy was part of it, but the unravelling was occupying her mind too. Whatever was going to happen in that potions laboratory before Snape had intruded was certainly something to be considered time and again. Were they going to kiss?

She didn’t know.

Would she have kissed him back?

She didn’t know either.

The plague dormitory was terribly cold in winter, but there were two things aside from the roaring hearth that were keeping the frost at bay. One was the impending polyjuice potion, and the next was the Winter Ball.

Ron’s reception as a freshly transformed girl had sent the male Gryffindor population into a sprawling fight over who would take the lovely new Weasley to the ball, but Lily hadn’t had the pleasure of having much attention. Ron had made a big show in front of everyone of asking Hermione to be his date, both to kerb anyone else thinking they could accompany the delightful Miss Grainger, as well as proving himself to be just as manly even after his transformation. There’d been a few moments where he’d still exhibit the odd female stance or sit on himself on one of the school’s antediluvian benches, but for all intents and purposes, despite what his neuroses might say, Ron was distinctly male.

Lily on the other hand, was being treat with a mild distance by the other Gryffindor boys, and girls for that matter. It was almost as if there was a stigma against her. There’d been a moment in the common room, where she’d almost plucked up the courage to ask Ginny to go with her, but that was ultimately rejected before the thought could bloom into action. There was no chance Ginny Weasley would say yes while she was still a girl. And there wasn’t much interest in anyone else taking her, though to be asked would have been nice. She’d almost succumbed to agreeing to a red faced fifth year named Barnie Grant, who struggled to get the words out, leading her to initially think he was choking.

But no, she’d managed to tear herself away, knowing that her self esteem hadn’t receded that far yet. What she hadn’t been thinking about, surprisingly, was the fact that it didn’t seem to matter to her what gender the person accompanying her was, it only mattered that someone asked. Which meant that while the pool of applicants was definitely wider, the rejection would be all that more potent should it come.

She thought about Sirius.

She thought about what had supposed to happen in previous summers, where he’d had the invitation permanently extended for her to join him, but the Dursleys had never agreed to her moving out, even if it would have benefited them greatly. They were more concerned with foiling her attempts to rid herself of them than they were with their own happiness. Clearly the Potter and Dursley clans could not be reconciled.

It was clear what they’d have thought if they’d known about the transformation, she could hear Petunia’s clawing, shrill, laughter, and Vernon grumbling under his breath about not bloody paying for petticoats or whatever she’d be requiring.

The skies may have darkened, and it might have seemed all the while that not only was she alone, but that she was being pursued, but Lily Potter couldn’t help but feel as if she’d done it all before. She was after all, The Girl Who Lives.

-

Sir Arthur Mandeville was the commander-in-chief of the British-European forces on Ogon Island, and had for the past few days seen many things that he did not believe were actually feasible in the real world. He was also a muggle, though to be fair to him, he didn’t know that, so he can hardly be blamed. His quarters had been hastily built in the snow on the southern tip of the island, and had been secured for what was supposed to be a relatively short military intervention into some militia fighting in the area, but that had sprawled out over several months into an extraordinary series of events.

His men were outside repairing the barracks and any outbuildings after the previous night’s raid, and were being quick about it, the men they were fighting knew the territory well, and were prepared to a degree that did not bear thinking about. Someone was arming them, and someone capable leading them, and that shouldn’t be.

He was combing his immaculately presented moustache in the mirror, when his assistant, Jenkins, stepped through the flap into the Commander’s tent.

“Gods Jenkins, shouldn’t you be knocking? I could have been doing anything in here!” Mandeville shouted, though still trying to keep his voice down.

“I didn’t imagine you’d be able to get up to much, seeing as it’s 31 below sir,” Jenkins corrected.

“Quite right! What’s the damage then? How many of us bought it in the night?”

Jenkins pulled a rather unpleasant face, thinking about what had transpired just a few hours before morning’s light. He held up a briefing document printed on rough, crinkled paper, and then slipped on his reading glasses. For a short chap Jenkins was about as useful as anyone could be, and he’d been assisting Commander Mandeville for about as long as he could remember. He was sporting a moustache, though one not nearly as impressive as that of his superior, his portly physique had never had much fighting potential, but the meals were always a lot nicer in the Commander’s tent.

“We’ve lost 31 sir, mostly from Captain Hedderton’s platoon, they came in from the north, from the mountains, with great plasma weapons. The poor sods…”

“Never stood a chance,” the Commander finished.

“And there’s something else sir…”

Mandeville had been repeatedly relating his intel back to home base in England, but had received little in the way of reinforcements. The fighting had become a public relations nightmare across the continent, and no one wanted to touch the expedition with a ten foot pole. He sat ruminating on the battles of the past few weeks, and as such ignored Jenkins’ comment.

It had initially began with local villagers going missing in the night, and strange hallucinations taking over the populace of the few nomadic settlements that had remained on the island for thousands of years. Myths and legends told of a great evil that had returned to claim what was once theirs, but Mandeville wasn’t much for superstition. The way he saw it, there was an independent organisation, possibly the Vengeful Fist out of Mongolia, or Zhuta Morghul, a left of centre terrorist group, that were responsible. It was a colonisation effort, plain and simple, but what wasn’t plain and simple, was their armaments.

Seemingly their conventional weapons served absolutely no purpose against the strength of the guerrilla fighters, who would typically only arrive under the cover of night, or of one of the island’s many blizzard storms. They would sometimes claim the assistance of some villagers, but often they acted alone, swooping from above, and shooting down bursts of green and red plasma, which would devastate any buildings or troops, and send the unmolested running for their lives. They’d already lost all forms of transportation, otherwise they would have left long ago, it was almost as if whatever was out there was just picking them off for sport.

Whatever expedition they’d sent to find the secrets of the island had never returned, and as such Mandeville had ceased all such exercises. He was just waiting for a miracle by that point, having lost over four hundred of the two thousand men and women that had arrived the previous August, when the snows weren’t so deep, and the weather not so horrifying.

It wasn’t looking good, but what Mandeville brought to the proceedings was the typical British military denial that had served them so well in the past. No matter what he was experiencing, he could easily brush it off as just another setback on the way to inevitable victory. This had often worked in scrapes Jenkins and himself had experienced, though not this dire. Come to think of it, not nearly that dire at all.

“Sir, I hope you’re considering Plan E?” Jenkins reminded, sitting down on his lesser camping stool next to the Commander’s far more impressive seat.

“Plan E? Remind me how that one goes again?” Mandeville raised a glass of brandy to his portrait of the queen, and then downed it in one, forgetting everything else that was going on around him.

“It’s the Escape Plan, sir, the one I’ve had you relay to home base on a few occasions.”

“Yes, they do seem slightly behind don’t they? Well, not to worry, we’ll be on the retreat in no time, unless of course, we win.”

That was said with a knowing wink, as in he knew he was going to be having some more brandy before the day was done. He might have been a mostly capable commander, but he was also prone to a tipple.

“There was something else sir…” Jenkins tried again.

“What’s that?” he replied, filling his glass.

“There’s actually some men to see you, one of them was rather large, seemed reasonable, and… English…”

“English? Send them right in!” Mandeville replied ecstatic, perhaps these were the reinforcements he’d been waiting for.

“That’s the only problem sir, he’s too big to actually fit, well, inside the tent.”

“Blimey!” Mandeville yelped, “these must be some bloody reinforcements.”

He climbed back up onto his feet, and followed Jenkins back out into the snow, holding his brandy slightly protectively. There were indeed some men out there, but not nearly as many as he’d have liked. There was two to be specific, strangely dressed and seemingly unaware of what was going on. One of them was an average sized man, with a neatly kept goatee and longer hair, which was kept pinned inside his parka hood. There was evidence of a tie under his collar, which while certainly kept to uniform, wasn’t exactly wise.

The other one was dressed a lot less conventionally, and he didn’t need to. For a nine feet tall bear of a man, he could definitely call the shots.

“The men, to see you sir,” Jenkins introduced.

“Rubeus Hagrid,” the giant introduced, holding out a hand the size of a dinner tray.

“And Sirius Black,” the smaller man joined in, they both held out their hands as if they were aware of custom, but weren’t sure how to correctly employ it.

“Let’s talk in the big tent,” Mandeville tried, his mind three steps behind the brandy.