Master Apprentice
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Title: Sound of Snow Falling
Author: TheWrongImpressionist
Beta: MerryAmelie
Archive: MasterApprentice, Fanfiction.net
Category: Qui/Obi, Crossover, Alternate Reality, Romance, Action/Adventure
Rating: PG-13, possible eventual R
Summary: in which Obi-Wan gets an education in the Living Force (whether he wants it or not), Qui-Gon further embraces his not-so-inner maverick, and Voldemort engages in a little biological warfare.
Feedback: Would be greatly appreciated at tukitaka@gmail.com, as writing fiction is very hard for me, and I take great pains to produce quality work.
(back to Chapter 1)
-two-
-faraway-
“Sirius Black.”
Sirius face was a portrait of open disbelief. “Lower your wand already, for God's sake,” Lupin hissed; slowly, Sirius did.
“Sirius Black,” Ben repeated again into the sudden quiet. “You....” he frowned, his brow furrowing slightly. A brief expression of frustration crossed his face and was gone. “No,” he finally said, pointing at the wand still clasped loosely in Sirius's hand, then towards his own head.
“No.”
“No, of course he won't do it again, Ben,” Mrs. Weasley hastened to assure him, casting a withering look in Sirius's direction.
Ben briefly glanced at her, expression unchanged.
“Apologize,” Mrs. Weasley ordered. Sirius couldn't seem to make up his mind on who he wanted to talk to; his gaze flickered back and forth between Ben and Mrs. Weasley. He didn't look too apologetic.
“Er, yes, but-” and Sirius broke off. Because for no reason any of them could see, Ben's expression slowly, inexplicably, cleared.
“Um...Ben?”
Unbelievably, the young wizard met Harry's gaze as calmly as if it was just another day at the breakfast table, then turned to Sirius.
“You, Mr. Black, are the mouse.”
Whatever any of them were expecting, that wasn't it. Sirius gaped; once he had recovered from the sheer absurdity of the statement, he managed to give Ben a look of pure consternation.
“What?”
Fred and George murmured something in the background, then snickered; Charlie leaned over to smack them each on the shoulder. Mr. Weasley and Lupin exchanged a perplexed look, and Fleur whispered something in Bill's ear. Ben gave no indication of having noticed any of it.
“You are the mouse,” he repeated, watching Sirius expectantly.
“What? What're you trying to say? I don't even know if I should be insulted or not-” He turned to Lupin, whining beseechingly, “Moony.” Lupin just shrugged, raising his brows and shaking his head.
“Maybe you should just agree,” Harry whispered.
“Right. Yes,” Sirius whispered back heatedly. “Nobody told me he was a nutter.” Then, louder, “Okay, Ben. I'm a mouse.”
Ben nodded in acceptance, then prompted, “And I am the cat?”
Sirius sighed. “Sure, why not. You're a cat-”
“No.” Ben replied meaningfully. “Not the cat.” Sirius traded an utterly lost look with Harry. He ran a hand through his hair. “Look, what more do you want-”
“You are the mouse. I am the cat? No. I am not.” He waited expectantly. When Sirius just stared at him, finally shrugging and shaking his head, Ben didn't appear to mind. He gestured towards Sirius.
“You, Mr. Black, are the cat. Am I the dog?”
Sirius threw up his hands. “I thought I was the mouse-”
“Wait,” Hermione interrupted. “Wait.” She stood and pushed her way between Mrs. Weasley and Ben, watching the wizard intently.
“Hermione?” Ron asked in a whisper. She just shook her head and faced Ben squarely. He gave her his attention calmly.
“Sirius is the cat. You are not the dog.”
Ben nodded marginally, a prompting gesture.
“Sirius is the mouse. You are not the cat,” Hermione continued, watching carefully for signs of approval. When Ben nodded once more, Hermione seemed to gain courage.
“Sirius is the rabbit. You are not the dog. Sirius is the bird. You are not the cat.”
“Yes.” Ben inclined his head, a small smile on his lips. Hermione beamed.
“I thought so!”
“Well? Care to enlighten the rest of us?” Sirius asked mildly, an eyebrow twitching.
“Oh, it's really just a simple metaphor,” Hermione grinned, turning around to face the gathered clan of Weasleys and company. “He's trying to tell us – well, mostly you, Sirius – that he's not a threat. That you don't need to Obliviate him-” Mrs. Weasley leveled a stern look Sirius's direction, “-because he means you no harm. You see? If you're a bird, he's not the cat that's going to jump out and eat you, and if you're a cat, he's not the dog that'll chase you up a tree.”
“So he calls me all the wimpy animals,” Sirius muttered quietly, prompting a snort of laughter from Harry, but Hermione picked up on their exchange and shook her head seriously. “No, it's not like that at all. He may have been naming you mostly as traditional prey animals, but I think the emphasis was more on him not being the predator.” She paused to look over her shoulder.
“Right, Ben?”
The young wizard seemed faintly amused. Harry doubted he'd understood the majority of her explanation, but he inclined his head to her obvious query nonetheless.
“Still the brightest witch of her age,” Remus remarked. Hermione tried not to look too pleased.
“Of course,” Hermione added modestly, “It still begs the question of whether or not he actually knows who Sirius is.”
“I doubt he does,” Harry surmised thoughtfully. “If Ben really thought he was Sirius Black, Azkaban escapee, what reason would he have to be so forgiving? It's not like the public knows the whole story.”
“And don't I know it,” Sirius muttered. Lupin frowned, and Harry shot his godfather a look; catching his eye, Sirius just shrugged and smiled brightly.
“Well,” he said, pocketing his wand and rubbing his hands together. “Now that that's all figured out, no hard feelings, eh, Ben? What d'you say? Oh, wait, you can't understand that, can you....”
“Try 'I apologize,' Sirius,” Lupin instructed blandly.
“Oh. Right. Ben.” Sirius faced the wizard. “It's true I was worried, and I think I have some cause to be cautious – but a real man admits it when he's been an ass. I apologize.”
Ben shook his head, the hint of a smile still on his lips. Sirius frowned. “No, really, Ben. I do apologize.”
Ben started to shake his head again, then let out a small sigh and inclined his head in acceptance. In his quiet voice and accent, he murmured, “Apology accepted.” Then, straightening, he remarked, “I have need of the language.” A frown rested on his lips.
“Do not worry, Monsieur Ben,” Fleur called encouragingly. “Eet will come.”
Ben glanced at her, and in the face of her confidence, his frown receded. He backed a few steps, bowed slightly, and looked up, meeting their eyes, that thin little braid dangling lightly over his shoulder. He gestured to the entryway.
“Heading out?” Mr. Weasley supplied with a wave towards Ben's cloak, which had gained a peg of its own among the others. Ben followed the gesture with his eyes and nodded.
Mrs. Weasley smiled kindly. “Have a good time, dear, and don't catch frostbite.” Ben acknowledged her and the others' calls of goodbye with another small bow, then slung his robe around his shoulders, drew it together in the front, lifted the hood, opened the door and tucked his hands in his sleeves. A rush of cold air and snowflakes flickered through the cheery red and green candles.
A second later, Sirius's duffel bag skimmed neatly down the stairs. “Well, about time!” Sirius exclaimed.
“You mean, it was hidden-”
“-upstairs, all this time?” Fred and George asked, incredulous. Sirius smirked.
“Up in the attic, hidden under quite a few things – but yes. Here.” The twins pouted.
“If it was only upstairs, though,” Hermione commented with a thoughtful frown, “should it really have taken all this time to get down here?” Sirius shrugged.
Lupin, however, was looking at Ben's retreating form, as was Hermione. Harry turned in time to see the sliver of gray night between the doorframe and wall nearly disappear when Hermione suddenly called out.
“Ben, wait!”
The door's progress halted, then regressed. Ben inserted his body halfway in and halfway out, his hand on the doorknob, all but a section of his chin and lips obscured in the shadows of the robe. It was a little eerie.
“Did you do this?”
Ben's shoulders raised and fell minutely. The others in the room watched the exchange curiously.
Ron looked at her like she was crazy. “Hermione, what-?” She glanced at him quickly and whispered, “If he could stop Obliviate, you don't think he could stop Accio, too?”
“Yeah, but why does it matter-”
“I'm curious.” She waved him off impatiently.
“You are not the cat,” she called instead. “You are not the dog. You are...?”
The lips curved into a smile. Small – polite.
And the door closed.
~*~
When its feels all the wizardhands sleeping – really asleep, safe asleep – the creature stirs cautiously inside its hidey-hole. Cackles a little to itself; such a good hidey-hole. Nice and warm and dark for so long. And hidden. Hidden is good.
Was good! Because the nest had moved. Bump! Out of its warm little dark place, and the creature had stayed, cowering, inside its nest while it spun, then stopped. Then slid, and stopped. That's when the wizardhands came, and it had to creep back into the very recesses of its dark spot while the wizardhands got closer and closer. Very close. The creature had had to squeeze into such a small form, and the light hurt, and that made it very very tired. But it survived. And now it's hungry.
A gray, boneless, formless tentacle wiggles and flexes in the cold air.
It smells...a meal. A meal! Close. Another meal! Many, many possible meals are all around it...the creature shudders. It already tastes those meals. And coming closer!...there's a wizardhands that could be a very very very very big meal indeed.
The creature blindly wriggles out of its nest and settles in to the hunt.
~*~
The world is very still at this time of day. He suits it.
Rays of early dawn seep warmly into the darkness of his robe, so he allows that much more of the natural winter chill to affect his body. Hands tucked into wide sleeves, he paces quietly past the chicken coop, quietly past the storage shed and its deeply sleeping occupants, pausing at the threshold of the back door of the main house to stand once more and face the sun, pulling his hood back with a faint skssh of fabric. He closes his eyes and lets its fire touch his skin, the backs of his eyelids reddening under the light.
The Living Force is a faint hum in the background of his mind. It always is, now.
At his Master's side, Obi-Wan lowers himself to his knees. His bare feet press against the soft comfort of the bed, while his legs rest parallel against the side of Qui-Gon's chest, his body oriented towards his Master's face, as if, were he to suddenly awake, Obi-Wan could meet his eyes during those first moments of awareness.
His Master isn't awake, not yet. But each day brings that moment closer, the Force stabilizing inside Qui-Gon psyche like the last ripples fading from a pond. Obi-Wan can wait until the pond is smooth again. He places a palm against the light coffee-colored tunics Qui-Gon favors, on the right side, where his heart is. The hospital gown is long gone. His other palm follows the twisting path of scar tissue, from the lightsabre wound on his left to the puncture marks on his stomach given by the broken bacta tank. Then back again, back up Qui-Gon's abdomen to his heart. Mapping the paths, with his hands, with his mind, and the world fades.
He beckons. Like an eager child, the Living Force instantly answers his call – too strongly, too much, and he lets the connection fade and dim before it can do harm to his Master's just as eagerly accepting spirit. Soothingly, he spreads his mind over his Master's, releasing patience where he finds the sparks of passion ignited by even that barest touch of the Living Force.
Then reaches again, but with a quiet crook of his finger and no more. This time, the Force is gentler. Gradually, he falls deeper into the trance, feeling serene and unworried, afloat on currents greater than those of his own limited existence.
And his Master's life with quiet joy welcomes all he has to offer....
~*~
...surface...the surface, and beyond it....Obi-Wan breaks the surface of the trance, afloat in a pool of the most deepness, vibrancy, stillness....The Force recedes to the back of his mind once again. Adrift but not lost, Obi-Wan unfolds, stretches, and unquestioningly follows gentle urges to lay down against his Master's side, forearm to forearm and hands clasped, chest to belly, until his spirit, too, feels exquisitely placed in the soft meld of their bodies. His fingers find his Master's palm and stroke it, slowly, with just the tips, across the fortune-teller's lifeline. His head rests on his Master's heart.
Qui-Gon's spirit asks for his warmth, and he gives, and he gives, and he gives.
~*~
The vision comes-
He wakes.
~*~
Cooking is soothing. Mundane tasks are good for the Padawan, the Masters say. A way to keep the blooming Jedi aware of their own humility. To teach respect. To teach restraint. To remind. A Padawan serves the Master; the Master serves the Padawan; and the Jedi serve the Force.
Obi-Wan likes cooking. It is and has always been his task for his Master. Once, when he was feeling unusually indulgent of his own silliness, he tried to picture a young Qui-Gon, a Padawan Qui-Gon, fussing about an antique kitchen for his own Master. The kind of kitchen with an actual stove, and an oven, and a sink and cupboards – the kind at this house, and the kind his Master keeps in their quarters to satisfy this particular quirk of Obi-Wan's. Qui-Gon wouldn't fuss so as he went from task to task, he would glide – but maybe that graceful tallness of his would have been gangly and awkward at that age, or perhaps an ingredient might distract him – some plant or another, calling to him with the Living Force –
As always, the young, faceless, indistinct Qui-Gon in his thoughts doesn't last long, not with the real, alive, unmistakable force that is his Master always present in his mind, even when unconscious in recovery. Instead of vague possibilities, he remembers quiet evenings in their quarters on Coruscant, the sharing of warm tea in the cool sterility of a transport, the discovery of a rare flower on a remote wetlands planet. The brush of Qui-Gon's fingertips on the nape of his neck when he introduces him to one foreign dignitary or another:
This is my Padawan.
Obi-Wan smiles.
He lets the warm thoughts drift away naturally, at their own languid pace. Absently, he sets aside a time later in the day in which to meditate to clear away some of this recent self-indulgence. First that nestling behavior on the bed, now this overly fond reminiscing; it shouldn't be allowed to linger. Too close to love, and love has no place in a Jedi.
When the cowering, hungry creature flitting around behind him in frantic indecision finally comes out to face him, Obi-Wan puts down his cooking knife and unhurriedly turns around to deal with it.
Then steps back against the counter, into the handle of the skillet, knocking it to the floor.
He knows those flames.
~*~
It was really amazing, Harry's sleep-softened mind mused, how many different flavors there were to wake up to. Luxuriously, he squirmed, stretched. Warm covers....Christmas, he realized with a feeling of vast comfort, it was Christmas at the Burrow and he was at the Burrow. And down in the kitchen, there was breakfast cooking because Ben always cooked breakfast...he wasn't like Harry who always hated cooking, ever since the Dursleys made him do it for them, no, he really didn't like it...maybe that's why he always did poorly in Potions....Ben would...probably do better....
Harry jolted awake. That was no food smell.
That was smoke. That was-
“Fire!”
Throwing himself out of the bed, he ignored Ron's sleepy, alarmed, “What?” and grabbed his wand from under his pillow, running to the door, out it, down the stairs. He heard footsteps pattering behind him, heard Ron's call of, “Harry, wait!” and didn't bother yelling back. He hit the base of the stairs at a run and fairly flew into the kitchen.
The heat struck him first; the sheer size of the flames, second; then, finally, the realization that it was confined to one, single, blazing spot -
- that of a body, lit on fire.
“What in bloody hell-!” Socks slipping on the kitchen tile, Ron careened to a stop beside him, mouth open and staring.
Stretching from the stacked kindling all the way to the ceiling, the flames writhed and twisted in great red waves atop a chest-height altar of some dark material. The fire roared and snapped and crackled, casting writhing shadows across the ordinary kitchen landscape, turning it foreign and hellish. Harry could feel drops of sweat trickling down the back of his neck and under his pajamas; but while the suffocating heat was bad, the smell of burning flesh was worse.
“I think I'm gonna be sick,” Ron said weakly beside him. He drew his shirt collar over his mouth and nose with a moan. “That's – that's a body, Harry! What the hell is going on? A body! On fire! In our kitchen!”
Harry couldn't reply; he was too busy stifling his own gag reflex of his own. But when his initial shock cleared, he realized there was something strange about the fire, something that he couldn't quite put his finger on....
His eyes trailed upwards to where the flames licked the ceiling. There was plenty of smoke from the flames, and sparks snapped frequently from the burning wood – but for all its malice, the fire left no damage...on anything but the slowly burning body.
“I don't think it's real,” Harry said suddenly.
“I think you're right,” said a voice behind him. Harry glanced over his shoulder – though only Bill, Charlie, and Hermione stood at the entrance to the kitchen next to him and Ron, he could hear voices and enough footsteps drifting from upstairs to indicate that nearly, if not all, of the household had woken by this point. Bill was the one who had spoken.
He glanced down at Harry, then back at the flames. “Still – Aguamenti!”
The rush of water jetted from his wand and hit the flames with a hiss of steam, dampening them for only a second. But a second was enough to catch a glimpse of the body underneath the surging flames – a longish figure with charred, blackened robes that, even crisped, were somehow awfully familiar–
“Say,” Harry said abruptly, his voice muffled through his shirt, “is that Mr. Quinn?”
As if the words were a trigger, a swift, odd uneasiness fell over the watchers. No one answered.
Quinn, after all, had been very hurt, very recently.
And that Ben had never volunteered anything substantial concerning his condition – before assumed to be a simple matter of privacy – now seemed darkly portentous.
“...I don't like this,” Charlie finally murmured. “Ron, Ben usually cooks here in the morning, doesn't he.”
“Yeah,” Ron answered, swallowing thickly against the smell. Charlie nodded, looking a little green himself. “Alright,” he said quietly, “Hermione, Harry, keep everyone else upstairs for now and see if Ben's up there, though I doubt....Ron, go tell Mum and Dad that we think this is-” he broke off. “Did you see that?” Then, louder, “Bill?”
Bill had crept to the side, a little farther away. He nodded at his brother. “Yeah, I saw it.”
“Saw what?” Harry asked, having glanced up the stairs to where Ginny, Fred, and George crouched, clearly listening to everything going on.
“The altar – for a second, it morphed or something,” Charlie replied distractedly. “When Bill got close....” And his eyes widened in sudden understanding.
But Hermione beat him to the punch. “Then that's not a pyre, that's a-”
“Boggart,” Harry finished grimly, catching on. He raised his wand. “Riddi-”
“Let me, Harry,” Charlie interrupted, stopping him with a raised palm.
“Wh-”
“Underage,” he reminded. “Riddikulus!”
As Charlie's voice rang out, a jet of yellow light left his wand and struck the boggart with a jolt and flash of sparks. A second later, Bill launched a Riddikulus of his own. The boggart fought back – but the flames abruptly gave out with one last large whoosh, leaving, for a horrible moment, only the gruesome half-burned corpse, clearly visible atop the altar.
“Oh my-” Hermione whispered, sounding sick, then altar and body both twisted like a rag being wrung – and flashed out of existence with a final, loud pop!
A steaming gray pile of ash lay on the floor, and Ben stood on the other side.
“Hey Ben!” Bill called out, and, being closest, strode over to touch his shoulder. “Ben. You alright?”
Ben didn't respond. He faced the empty spot where the boggart had been, a strange, fey look upon his face and something unearthly in his eyes. His hands hung limply by his sides; there was no sign he even felt Bill's touch upon his arm or noticed when the others came closer.
“Ben,” Bill tried again. “It was just a boggart, Ben. It wasn't real. They hide in closets and attics all the time, I'm sure you've seen one before....” He paused, frowning uncomfortably, concerned and somewhat doubtful. “Can you hear me? Snap out of it.” He waved a hand in his face, but Ben didn't even blink.
“What if he doesn't know what a boggart is?” Fred asked sharply. He and the rest of the Weasleys had emerged from upstairs, treading quietly and speaking softly like a gathering of strangers entering a morgue. Fleur quietly took care of the boggart mess; Percy cast one disquieted look Ben's way and went to help her.
“He's got to know. It's basic third year subject matter, and he's certainly old enough to have graduated,” Hermione said uncertainly.
“Does that look like someone who knows what he saw wasn't real?” George raised his brows pointedly.
“Anyone can be surprised by a boggart,” Ginny said in Ben's defense, but she, too, kept darting glances the wizard's way in mixed sympathy and repressed curiosity.
“Here, now, back away. Don't crowd him so.” Mr. Weasley made shooing motions, and reluctantly, they all shuffled backwards – except Bill, who remained at Ben's side, and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, who approached the wizard carefully, as if he were a frightened, feral animal.
And it was like a switch had been flipped; between one moment and the next, all traces of that otherworldly quality faded from Ben's expression; with customary self-possession, he tucked his hands into the sleeves of his tunic, simultaneously nodding in polite thanks to Bill while deftly stepping out of the hand upon his shoulder.
“I apologize,” he enunciated clearly into the silence and bowed once each to Bill and Charlie.
“Thank you for your assistance. It was appreciated.”
Then, incredibly, he turned away from all of them, picked up a skillet from the floor, set it in the sink, turned a knob on the stove to an 'off' setting, and, without further ado, began to methodically pluck half-raw strips of bacon from the tiling without even the slightest hint that, only moments before, he'd been faced with what had to be his greatest fear.
~*~
Ben didn't stick around after the boggart fiasco.
Shortly after whisking the dirtied bacon away from his questing fingertips, Mrs. Weasley had proceeded to insert herself between Ben and the refrigerator when it appeared he intended to carry on making breakfast, “Like a house-elf!” she'd finally exclaimed, sounding scandalized and hustling him away from the appliance mostly, Harry decided, because he allowed himself to be hustled. It seemed that task was the only thing keeping him in the house; while Mrs. Weasley and Hermione got into a bit of a tiff over her use of the infamous S.P.E.W. buzzword, Ben politely rebuffed anyone else's attempts at keeping him inside, and left.
~*~
He stands outside and watches the snow fall.
His shame is deeply rooted and multi-faceted, and his mind peels back each layer with the steady acceptance that unflinching self-examination is the first step to cleansing – and yet, the more he draws back the blinds from his center, the tighter the shame clings.
His Master, after all, is only a single humanoid, one instance of mortal flesh among so very, very many. Should a funeral pyre one day be his, Obi-Wan would ensure his sending was peaceful, and, as Jedi, go on. But as a man – the vision tells him that as a man, he will not go on. His crippling will be for life, and his passing through humanity marked with a pervasive sense of finality and profound sadness from which, softly, life and the Living Force curl away.
Even now, tendrils of this gentle devastation cleave to his presence like the veins of a second skin. That his strength of mind was fractured enough for a simple-minded creature, even one evolved and streamlined to the pursuit of fear, to draw forth images of his vision, to distort and warp them into something graphically violent in which to flaunt his gnawing anxiety like a grotesque banner – that, leaves him shaken. Rarely has his control over his own mind been so wavering, not since before his willing acquiescence as a young boy to a life devoted to the Force.
And his arrogance! Ah, his arrogance, that he waited for the creature to attack on its own time, and he, untroubled by its seething hunger, certain he could deal with it –
He could blame his faltering on any number of things – the vision, recent events, his feelings generated by either of them – but the true genesis of it lies within this: that on his own, he cannot strip the away the muted, shattering desperation extracted, mutated, and left behind by the dual phantoms of vision and creature; but when he relents and seeks out the place in his mind where Qui-Gon alone can touch, is touching, will always touch, the unbinding of vision and present is possible, and doable, and it melts the snowflakes around him when he lets it go.
He stands outside and can't entirely break free from that which gestates inside.
~*~
This thing he does before he returns; under the cover of some pines, he pulls back a sleeve, forms an image in his mind and touches his fingertips to his forearm, touches the Force, destroys a few layers of skin, then builds them back up, quickly, leaving the initial wound buried below. And on the surface, spirals and edges, a stylized image of fire burned into his skin, threaded into the other designs like a weaver at the loom.
This way he won't forget. This way, as he's done ever since torture in a sensory deprivation cell – this way, he keeps himself sane. Qui-Gon has his way, too, because Qui-Gon was there, and Qui-Gon understands.
But this way, this way is his.
~*~
There was some debate about whether or not anyone should go looking for Ben. Sirius not-quite-jokingly offered to sniff him out – it was clear he felt some responsibility for inadvertently housing the boggart in his duffel bag – but after some mutual shifting and glance exchanging (and a quick guilty peek in Ben's room to make sure Mr. Quinn was, in fact, still alive), the subject was dropped, and they carried on with their Christmas, tacitly acknowledging among themselves that gift-giving and holiday dinner could wait until his return.
Harry and the rest spent the hours happily, eating and talking and occasionally roughhousing out in the snow, thoughts of Ben's whereabouts pushed aside easily since, as they all admitted, Ben habitually disappeared but just as reliably, eventually, turned back up.
They came across his tracks, once, long-strided and treading evenly out into the distance. Harry wondered where he went, those times he left.
Warming by the fire with hot cocoa and eggnog spread liberally to all, it was evening when Ben returned, his silent presence only noted by the chill of the back door's opening. He joined them for a scrumptious Christmas dinner that left Harry bursting at the seams; then, they all gathered 'round the tree, handing out gifts and thank-yous and general good feeling.
The only hitch came when Hermione, who'd ended up sitting closest to Ben, tried to give him his first gift: a soft, amorphously shaped package from Mrs. Weasley that Harry could easily guess the contents of – Ron's embarrassed groan only confirmed it.
“I thank you, but I can't,” Ben said, smiling, perhaps to take the sting out of the refusal. “I apologize,” he added, and courteously placed the package back in Hermione's hands.
“Why not?” she asked with a puzzled frown and a glance in Mrs. Weasley's direction, who, luckily, hadn't cottoned on to the conversation yet.
“I-” his face took on an inward-searching look. “My...group do not take gifts.”
“Does not,” Hermione corrected automatically, then winced a little. “Oh, I didn't mean to nitpick.”
Ben, Harry reckoned, probably didn't know what nitpick meant, but gracefully chose not to point that out. Instead, he smiled, without reprimand, and repeated, “My group does not take gifts. Thank you, Hermione, to help my English.”
Hermione took him to heart. “For helping my English.”
“For helping my English,” he repeated graciously.
“That's it,” she beamed, then returned attention to the problem at hand. “So what group are you in that can't accept gifts? I only ask,” she hastened to add, obviously thinking she might have come across as rude, “because Mrs. Weasley made this gift by hand. She'll be disappointed – that means sad – that you can't take it, is all.”
Contemplatively, Ben looked at her, then at Mrs. Weasley, then at the small stack of presents under the tree also with his name on them. Turning back to Hermione, he held out his hands for the gift; surprised and hesitant about offending his culture, Hermione nonetheless gave it to him when he insisted. For the rest of the evening, Ben unwrapped it, then, without a fuss, all the others – except those intended for Quinn, which he set aside, unopened – making sure to thank the giver after each gift. For a little while, he even wore the sweater, flashing for a moment forearms wrapped in artful, vine-like tattoos before the cozy green knit was tugged into place.
And Hermione's earlier question went unanswered, unnoticed, and forgotten.
~*~
The moon crests the stark, cold landscape in brilliant white splashes of light, patches of ground reaching illumination when the thick crescent tops first that hill, then the next, then spills over the next, until the rays touch upon a solitary figure cradled in the dip between hills. In lotus, like a flower he, too, opens to the twilight, flourishes in it, rises as it rises.
When he stands, it is to tuck his hands away and tip his head back to the moon, gently releasing it as the focus of his meditation. His mental wanderings of this evening led him down the same path as those of the day before, and the day before, and the day before; yet he can find no satisfactory answers.
His frustrations have always been his own matter. As a child, he rarely sought the crèche-mothers for soothing. As an adult, he finds resolution most often through solitude. But on the occasion that he cannot come to a solution on his own, his traditional mode of recourse is, in this case, almost as troubling as the problem itself.
For how can he speak to his Master about...this?
That he might ask another only peripherally crosses his mind. None of the people here, welcoming though they may be, count among those with whom he could trust such a delicate, personal difficulty – barring practical matters such as the language barrier and maintaining discretion. Even had they known of worlds beyond their own, the thought of divulging his private affairs to a virtual stranger makes him feel physical revulsion. It is aberrant to his very nature.
Were he on Coruscant, bathed in the ethereal atmosphere particular to a gathering of Jedi, free of the inhibitions of secrecy – his situation would nonetheless remain largely the same. He has few friends among those of the Order. Circumstances are partly accountable, as he and his Master are rarely at the Temple – but mostly it's his own quiet, reticent nature that precludes the seeking out or forming of lasting connections. Those few days spent on Coruscant each year most often pass in undemanding solitude, his presence noted but infrequently hailed upon his passage down sleek Temple hallways and smooth marble steps, one Padawan among many, one Jedi among more. And that is enough; the simple presence of other Jedi is enough. Rather than in faces, Obi-Wan's Temple is painted in the dusky blues and purples of a smoky skyline at twilight, the rainwater and citrus smell of the bonsai garden Qui-Gon keeps, the even flowing curves of a small olive-brown stone left safe upon his mantle to welcome him at each visit. He doesn't feel wanting.
His footsteps take him to the back door of the house, and he lets his troubled meditations slip away from the forefront of his concentration. Four of the wizards sit at the kitchen table, playing cards. He walks to the sink for a glass of water; midway to his destination, the tugging starts. He slows. His path diverts. His fingertips brush against the back of the boy's skull, then touch his forehead, gentling the rawness inside the skin.
He pulls away. The Living Force fades to the back of his mind, and he realizes he was healing.
The boy looks at him with wide green eyes, rubs his scar. He's twisted in his chair, his hand of cards laid face-down upon the table.
“Thank you,” he says, relief and wonder in his voice and projecting from his feelings.
Obi-Wan inclines his head. “You're welcome.”
While he retrieves the glass of water, while he carries it down the hallway, while he sets it on the nightstand of his Master's bed and props him up to drink – their curiosity, tinged with surprise and respect and awe, follows his progress even when their eyes do not.
~*~
Later that night, Hermione joined Harry and Ron in the boys' room, the house gone quiet as even the night-owls among them (Fred and George, and, perhaps not so strangely, Lupin) settled in to sleep.
Or compare notes, in their case.
“-telling you, Hermione, there's something a bit queer about the bloke. You agree with me, don't you, Harry,” Ron said, turning to Harry for support, “there's something odd about Ben. I really think he's a little nutty, deep down. Like for real, straitjacket nutty, except it only comes out at certain times. The way he just went all polite like that after the boggart, that's not natural, I'm telling you.”
“It is strange,” Harry conceded, petting Hedwig as she enjoyed some time out of her cage.
“It's unhealthy, is what it is,” Hermione sniffed, half-mindedly arranging scraps of yarn into different color configurations. “And don't forget, Harry,” she added, “he stopped your scar from hurting just this evening, and he wore your mum's sweater, Ron, to keep her from feeling bad. So whatever kind of unusual he is – because yes, I do certainly agree there's something about him that's odd – I don't think he's the violent kind.”
Ron hummed noncommittally, frowning.
“What seems odder to me, though,” Harry said quietly, “is that I still haven't seen him use a wand, and the only spell I've seen him use is that wordless, wandless one he uses to levitate Quinn. He's not a Muggle, we know that, but he doesn't act very much like a wizard, does he?”
Hermione looked thoughtful. Hedwig left her perch on Harry's arm to settle delicately on a closet knob, preening.
“Maybe he's from some tiny little country in the middle of nowhere that has a no-wand policy,” Ron suggested, only half-serious and shrugging, leaning back into the pillow he'd pulled down to sandwich between his back and the wall.
Hermione snorted, but her mind was still clearly musing over possibilities. “He's obviously from another country, that much I agree with....” Her eyes lit up. “You know, Ron, you might be right. Perhaps he's some kind of monk?”
“A monk, Hermione?” Harry asked, trading a look with Ron and picturing old, balding men walking in slow processions waving candles and praying.
“Well, yes, there are a few wizarding monasteries left in the world, you know,” she explained, absently tapping her finger against her thigh. The yarn bits lay still now, left haphazardly in a rather garish orange, purple, and green herringbone combination. “The Confucian temples in rural China, for one, are notoriously secretive. And according to legend, Buddhist wizard-monks in East Asia tamed the first phoenix. Though I don't know how many Buddhist-wizards are left that practice the Theravada style, it's mostly Mahayana now....Europe's got a handful of Judeo-Christian-Islamic monasteries, of course. Not to mention, there's at least sixty known Hindu sects that practiced elementary wizardry, all of them quite quirky –”
“Er – Hermione?”
“Yes. Right,” Slightly pink, she composed herself while Ron shot Harry a grateful look. “My point is,” she continued, “whenever spirituality and magic get mixed up, you can't assume anything because they've all got their own rules and rituals. I've read some sects consider wands a crutch, and don't use them at all – they'll kick you out if they catch you using one.” Then she nodded to herself. “Ben could definitely be a monk of some sort.”
“So why would he be here, instead of over at his monastery doing...monk things?” Harry asked skeptically.
“Well,” Hermione looked less certain now. “I'm not that familiar on magical-spiritual conduct, so I won't know for sure until I gather more information.”
“We could just go up and ask him,” Ron joked.
Harry doubted that would work. “I get the feeling he's not ready to rhapsodize his life story.”
Visibly surprised, Hermione peered at Harry. He looked back at her quizzically. Then, with a slightly manic enthusiasm surfacing, she beamed. “Rhapsodize, Harry? I applaud your expanding vocabulary.”
Ron groaned.
~*~
He feels himself in her thoughts – all abstract images and concepts formed from remembrances of conversations with her family, then overlain with expectations: hope and worry and disdain and the distinct call to succor, unmistakable to Jedi.
He answers the call.
“Ben, you have a guest – oh, well, there you are, aren't you.” Red hair tucked back in a scarf, the woman radiates surprise at finding him already on his way out of his room, and uncertainty about the guest – with overtones of embarrassment centered on the young woman's physicality – and determination to be courteous regardless.
“She's, well, at the door. You can ask her to come in, if you like. And if she does, of course. Whatever you think is best.”
Obi-Wan nods. “Thank you, Mrs. Weasley.”
The minutiae of their language is, as yet, lost to him. He understands more than they realize, but much of his successful communication with them still derives from his openness and receptibility to their broadcasting – not just emotions, but complex strings of intertwined impressions, words, memories, sensations, and reactions. He passes through the kitchen and living room on his way to the front door; most of his host family is spread between either of these two rooms, as they tend to gather in the evenings. As a newcomer and specimen of discussion, they, like their matron, are not unexpectedly interested in his dealings. But while the woman seeking him, too, garners their curiosity, she also elicits an undercurrent of...sexual unease among the males, and faint tension from all centers on her identity as a foreign species.
The boy is relieved when he can leave his place as greeter by the door; he returns to sit next to his two age-mates, his red hair contrasting brightly against their brown and black when he leans in close to whisper.
Obi-Wan slides his hands in his sleeves and bows. “Good evening, miss. How may I be of service?”
She cocks her head to the side a little, clearly studying him, her arms crossed over her bare chest. She's young; a late teenager, nude and pleasantly featured, clearly the point of discomfiture for those assembled. Like the wizards, she bears tension towards those of the other species, but her feelings on Obi-Wan are mixed.
“You're Ben?”
“Yes.”
She pauses a little. “I'd like to thank you for healing Morgwen.” Still said with caution.
He shakes his head. “I do not need thanks. She is well?”
“Yes. She's doing much better.” Her relief and gratitude flow where her words do not: in a series of images centered on a young girl cantering through a forest, curled up beside their mother, braiding flowers through her tail, he learns Morgwen is her younger sister.
Obi-Wan smiles. “I am glad.”
She smiles little in return, and her focus keeps darting back to the wizards behind her. “And your companion?” she asks politely, the stiffness in her speech belying her discomfort. “I'm told he was in great difficulty.”
“He does heal.”
She peers at him more closely, but his expression is unchanged. She opens her mouth, but stops before speaking, and shifts a back hoof instead, her black tail switching a little to one side. He can feel her conflict over how to act with him – a human and, to all appearances, a wizard; yet, the man who saved her sister's life.
“You would like to walk outside?”
She unfolds her arms. “Alright.”
Walking through the snow, they don't speak immediately, but her controlled demeanor relaxes considerably. The lights from the house cast long shadows across their backs as they move farther away. Sun-warmed, the thin crust of snow splits and crumbles beneath his feet and every delicate placement of her hooves, revealing the softer layer beneath. The hem of his cloak collects ice crystal fragments like little burs.
“...I'm called Henna,” she says, looking ahead. “My mother sent me to find you.”
“Galla gave me much help. I thank her, and you, Henna, very much.”
She faces forward, but her eyes watch him sidelong. In a moment that betrays her youth, her rebellion towards her mother leaks past courtesy, and she tilts her chin up with an equine snort. “She just helped you to the hospital. I wouldn't have done it.”
A faint breeze sweeps across the landscape. Obi-Wan watches it thread its way through the distant tree limbs clicking like insect legs.
“I am sorry.”
She glances at him sharply. “What for? Do you think I'm lying? I'm not. I would have left you both to die.”
“I know.”
She stops, and so he does, too. He meets her angry eyes calmly, hands tucked into his sleeves. She stamps the snow once or twice with an elegant foreleg, her black and white coat sleek and dark and thick in the coming winter night. Slowly, her defiance melts to confusion.
“I don't understand you,” she says finally. “You're not like the other wizards. You're not arrogant. Why not?”
He smiles a little. “All humans are not...arrogant? This is the word? Talk to wizards, live with wizards, you see this.”
At that, she snorts dismissively, flicking some hair out of her eyes with a toss of her head and moving forward. Tranquilly, he walks at her side, projecting gentle encouragement. Her body language reads challenge, but every so often, she casts a quick glance his direction, consideringly.
They pass several minutes in this manner before she speaks the question he has been waiting for since her arrival. She looks at some point farther in the distance. “My father is sick. It's the same thing that Morgwen had. If you could come and heal him, we would be very grateful.”
He looks up at the sky. He thinks of silver streaks like shooting stars through his Master's hair, curled like moon contours when unbound and splayed, in sleep, on a pillow, or a blanket, or his Padawan the brown earth of a temperate world. The blue night is the clear cobalt of his Master's eyes.
He feels the Force's silence, because he needs no guidance towards this answer.
“Of course.”
And, demurely, he sidles up to his Master's presence, touches his Master's dreams in silent farewell, and realizes he must have been projecting his maudlin, borderline amatory thoughts along their connection all this time, to have influenced his Master so; because there is nothing else to explain what he finds.
Qui-Gon dreams of Obi-Wan.