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 2)
-three-
-one of these nights-
Harry was as surprised as anyone else when Ben up and left, flying along with long, impossibly fast strides at the heels of his cantering centaur guide like some kind of windblown seed. He took enough time to thank them all, of course, and explain his situation – he would return in a few days, and could he please leave Quinn here in the meantime, but could they stay out of his room? And something about Quinn's not needing food or water while he was gone – Harry didn't really get how that was supposed to work, and Ben, despite the rapidity with which he picked up English, didn't really have the vocabulary to explain it properly, but nevertheless somehow got Mr. and Mrs. Weasley's reluctant compliance with his request. Then went into his room with Mr. Quinn for a good half hour, presumably to do whatever it was he just described, while the rest of them shuffled around trying to pretend that there wasn't a pretty, topless centaur girl waiting on their porch and sending out definite don't-come-near-me-I-don't-like-you vibes.
That was New Year's Eve, and the holiday had since passed in another round of raucous, merry celebration. It was strange, but even without Ben there (and despite the hungover state of a certain few), Harry, like many of the others, found himself waking early the next day on force of habit – only to realize that, for the first time in a little over two weeks, there was no warm breakfast waiting below. But besides that – because sleeping in was something Harry could get spoiled by just as quickly as a delicious morning meal – with Ben gone, something felt...different, in a way he couldn't find the words to explain.
Soon after, Fred and George went back to their shop in Hogsmeade – permanently, this time, as they'd been Apparating back and forth all holiday to keep up with demand. Sirius and Remus, like Charlie, Bill, and Fleur, also parted ways after New Year's, off to do Order business – and no matter how much Harry wheedled, he couldn't get it out of them what they were up to. But then, they both seemed unusually worried and serious when he broached the topic, so he couldn't find it in him to wheedle very hard. It felt too childish. Especially since he rather thought that particular grim look they shared meant things weren't going very well.
So, although he wanted (and felt he had the right) to know, he let it go, and before he knew it, the winter vacation was at its end, and he found himself back at Hogwarts, visiting Hagrid with Ron and Hermione the afternoon before classes started and trading holiday stories. Which, as it turned out, included more than a few hints on Order business from Hagrid who, loyal and kind and steadfast as he was, couldn't hold his tongue to save his life.
Of course, it helped that, sometimes, he didn't actually try that hard to do so.
“-did she really, now?” Hagrid slapped his palms on the table with a large, guffawing laugh. Harry quickly grabbed his teacup before it could tip over. Hermione had a little more trouble with her own rescue attempt, as Fang's head was currently pillowed on her lap – along with a growing puddle of happy dog drool.
“Sure did,” Ron replied enthusiastically, waving his own empty teacup around for emphasis. “Fleur socked him one good. And when Bill tried to explain that they'd washed up on shore because of that meteorite thing, and that they jumped on him while he was trying to help, not the other way around – she started after the sirens!”
Hagrid laughed again, wiping the mirth from his eyes. “Coulda told Bill she'd be a fiery one,” he chortled, settling down.
“Yeah,” Ron agreed, tone suddenly dreamy. Sensing danger, Harry tried to elbow Ron, but he didn't notice. “I mean, just picture it – Fleur wrestling a couple of wet sirens on the shore-”
That Hermione took exception to. “Ron!” she cried, sounding disapproving and scandalized all at once in a McGonagall-ish way, but with something in there that was very much the equivalent of Fleur's displeasure over finding Bill in the sirens' embrace.
Ron snapped out of it, looking appropriately sheepish. “Er, I mean-”
“Oh, don't even bother,” she sniffed, rolling her eyes. “I know just what you meant.”
“I think you've lost this one – better just quit now,” Harry advised, laughing. Hagrid, looking a bit red around the ears and hiding his amusement in his mug, nonetheless clapped Ron consolingly on the back.
“A man's got teh be true to his woman,” he counseled wisely, and Ron flushed a blinding scarlet, Hermione not far behind.
“Speaking of women,” she recovered primly, ruining the effect somewhat by her rather hasty change of subject, “How are you and Madame Maxine?”
“Oh. Oh, we're, ah – good.” Hagrid's ears stayed red, and he rubbed the back of his neck somewhat bashfully, but he grinned a goofy little smile. “She's a wonderful woman. Real good ter me. Thoughtful, too – tucked away a picnic basket fer Christmas dinner, and we had it up there in th' mountains while we waited, under the snow and all. Real beautiful.”
While he gazed into the distance with a lovestruck expression, Harry shot Ron and Hermione a quick look.
“So you spent a lot of time in the mountains this holiday, Hagrid?” he asked casually.
“Wha- oh, yeah. Sure did, what with Grand Crug Orgic taking his good ol' time gettin' back ter us-” he broke off, looking abashed, coming out of his daze and looking at them ruefully. “Don' know how yeh do it, ev'ry time.”
Seeing he wasn't really angry, Harry grinned and raised his eyebrows, prompting. Hagrid sighed, as if put upon, but the corner his beard twitched.
“You do know we're really not down here just for that,” Hermione said and patted his hand solicitously.
“Oh, I know,” Hagrid replied easily, waving away her worries with a large hand. “And, well-” he shrugged, then leaned forward conspiratorially, licking some ale from his lips and setting the giant mug down. The three of them followed his lead, shifting closer as well.
“Now, don' go telling anybody I told yeh this. I don' think it'll hurt yeh ter know, an' if things go th' way they seem, yeh migh' know anyway, soon enough. But it's best to be careful, and keep mum, eh?” He regarded them all seriously, and they nodded, solemnly.
“You know we will, Hagrid,” Ron assured him.
“Right.” He looked down at the table, appearing more worried than Harry had ever seen him. He traded a glance with Hermione and Ron. If Hagrid, ever the optimist, was this anxious, how bad must his news be?
Truth is,” Hagrid began gruffly, frowning with a crease between his eyes, “things with the giants are over. Me and Olympe, I reckon we did our best with 'em, but the Death Eaters've been there fer months – almost a year, maybe. Nuthin' we could do ter change their minds – except for one'r two, and th' Grand Crug got rid of them pretty fast.” He shook his head grimly. “After th' rest saw what he did, they didn' want a thing ter do with us. An' then, well, it wasn' safe fer us ter stay anymore. You-Know-Who – he's got 'em, fer good, and he'll use 'em 'til it kills 'em.”
Hagrid took a long swig of ale, then, and sighed deeply.
So the few giants left were on Voldemort's side. That was bad, for obvious reasons – giants were really, well, big, and pretty strong too – but what else would that mean? He glanced at Hagrid's forlorn expression. He didn't have any particular love for giants, but neither did he wish for any species' extinction – which was exactly what Hagrid seemed to think probable. He tried to recall what exactly he knew about the species, other than the fact that they lived in clans, weren't too bright, resisted a lot of spells, and liked lots of meat with their meat.
“So what does that mean?” he asked when he found he couldn't remember much more than that. “They're on Voldemort's side now, but what's he planning to do with them? He can't just have them – what, attack places?”
“He could.” Hagrid shook his head, eyes downcast. “That's what's most troublin'. They're so gone, not physically, y'understand, but-” he waved a hand near his temple, “in the head, that they probably wouldn't care what he wanted 'em to do, long as it lets 'em kill summat. Even if they die doin' it – an' you know yer regular wizard won' give 'em a chance,” he added sadly – and Harry wanted to deny it, just for Hagrid's sake, to give him a little piece of mind – but couldn't. Because it was true.
“They're jus-” Hagrid shook his head again, looking frustrated and melancholy, “not right, not like they used ter be, an' I can't give yeh a better description than that.”
After that, Hagrid became freer with his information, opening up to three sets of sympathetic ears with barely concealed relief. Harry reckoned it must have been bothering him for a while, even with having talked to Dumbledore, for him to unload it all so readily. But whatever the reason, the emotional catharsis relaxed him visibly; after he said his main piece, he sank more comfortably in his chair, pouring himself another helping of alcohol and absently patting the creepers of a carnivorous plant that slunk, every so often, over his shoulders from its spot on the windowsill.
“No, no, I, ah, wouldn' worry about th' vampires,” he said lightly in response to Ron's rather uneasy question. “We, ah, got them.”
Hermione's brows raised. “Got them?”
“Yeah, er – yeah. Jus' don' worry about 'em.” Hagrid wouldn't meet their eyes as he fiddled with his mug. “Now don' ask me ter tell how or why, 'cause I won',” he added said firmly when he saw Hermione open her mouth. “I don' even know it all myself. An' don' go lookin', either, 'cause he's got enough to deal with without you lot pokin' 'round his business.” And he took an unyielding, satisfied drink, while Harry traded significant looks with his friends.
He, he mouthed, and they nodded. It was something to go on, should they need to.
“So, then, that's vampires and mermaids with us, goblins and dwarves neutral, house-elves on whichever side their masters are on,” Hermione's nose wrinkled in momentary disgust, “and dementors, giants, some hags and most werewolves with V-Voldemort,” she finished, summarizing neatly what they'd gleaned from Hagrid and surmised on their own. “Which leaves centaurs.” She turned back to Hagrid. “I know they've been traditionally neutral in the past, but Professor Dumbledore and you both get along with them fairly well, so do you think they might reconsider their stance this time?”
Hagrid looked up from where he was scratching under Fang's chin, the dog long since having abandoned Hermione for a more appreciative caretaker. His tail beat a rapid fwump against the floor.
“Eh, I don' think so,” Hagrid said, tugging his beard absently. “They let me and th' Headmaster in the Forest, an' they respect Dumbledore loads – but I wouldn' say they like us, not especially. I don' know.” He paused, then shrugged, frowning a little. “No, they'll prob'ly stay out've it. I talked to Firenze a couple months back, an' he said he'd try, but he's already on bad terms with the Elder Herdleader, so we,” he emphasized with a cleared throat – we, meaning the Order, in other words, “aren't expectin' too much.”
“Right. So centaurs are neutral, then,” Hermione said, nodding carefully as if filing that away in her mental checklist.
“Although, y'know that new bloke – if anyone could get 'em to change their minds, maybe it'd be him,” Hagrid commented thoughtfully.
“Which new bloke?” Ron asked, cautiously eying a furry brown ball in the corner, previously thought inanimate, when it started twitching and making little trilling noises, opening a mouth from under beady little eyes to bare disturbingly sharp teeth.
“Quiet, Chewy, yer not gettin' extra dinner 'til yer breakfast,” Hagrid called, but the creature didn't stop until Fang went and curled up by it, letting it burrow under his front paws. “Now, right, what was I-”
“The new guy?” Harry supplied.
“Oh, right. That one livin' in th' Forest. Met him jus' the other day, in fact, when I was takin' Chewy fer a walk an' he ran off. He's such a little thing, he would'a gotten eaten fer sure. Had me right worried, he did.” He cast Chewy an affectionate look; the fuzzball let out a little snore. Harry wondered how such a creature could run off – where were its legs?
“Then this strange feller comes up to me,” he continued, “and right there in his arms he has Chewy, cooin' like a newborn Wumple. So I got Chewy back, and we got ter talkin', and it turns out he's campin' out right in the Forest. Had a real strange accent, and was certainly polite for a lad his age, but still, seemed like a real nice guy. Had to be, I guess – the Herd doesn't let just anybody live in their Forest, you know,” he added emphatically. “That's why I think he's got ter be sumthin' special to 'em.”
“Hagrid,” Harry said slowly, “This new guy – was his name Ben, by any chance?”
“Well, yeah, it was!” Hagrid said in surprise. “You know him?”
The three traded a disbelieving, surprised look of their own. “How in Merlin did he get all the way up here?” Ron asked, a strained, calculating look on his face. “From Chudley to Aberdeen – that's – well, that's a long way!”
“He was with that girl,” Hermione reminded him. Looking very doubtful, she suggested, “Maybe she, er, gave him a ride? If the situation was bad enough?”
“No, centaurs don't do that,” Harry replied, shaking his head and remembering his own encounter with them. “Well, most of them. And I think she fit that category. She didn't seem to like us.”
“Understatement there, mate,” Ron added. Hermione pursed her lips, but didn't deny it.
“What's this, now?” Hagrid asked, looking at them with interest. Harry briefly explained Ben's stay at the Burrow. When he was finished, Hagrid made to help himself to more ale with a thoughtful look, then eyed the bottle's contents and set it down without pouring. He tipped a hearty portion of tea into the mug instead.
“Centaurs are a tricky lot. We respect each other, me and the Herd, but I don' understand 'em, and I don' pretend I do,” he cautioned in advance, “But I s'pose if he helped one'v'em out, they might let him stay in the Forest as thanks.” He didn't sound like he put much stock in the guess.
“But if it was only to repay a debt, why would he even accept the offer?” Hermione reasoned skeptically. “I mean, what's the point of staying in the Forest – and without Mr. Quinn? From what I've heard, Ben wouldn't leave St. Mungo's without him. Why would this be any different?”
“Maybe the bloke's gotten better?” Ron suggested.
Harry shook his head. “Then what about that boggart? If Quinn were doing well, Ben wouldn't be worrying about – that.” He tried not to picture the pyre too clearly.
“True, true,” Ron acknowledged, rubbing a hand over his chin stubble in a such a way that Harry had to restrain sudden amusement, “Maybe-”
“Now, jus' wait a minute,” Hagrid interjected, waving large hands between them and forcing Harry to duck abruptly. “I know you three like a mystery more'n niffler likes tinsel, but that's no reason to go suspecting the lad of things or pryin' into his affairs. Far as I can see, he's done nuthin' wrong, and until he does, I think you oughta respect a man's wishes and give him a little privacy.”
Technically, Harry thought, Ben had never really asked them to leave him alone....But he didn't say so aloud, because Hagrid did have a point. Quietly enigmatic though he was, Ben did seem rather unlikely to propagate misdeeds of any kind.
“That's very true,” Hermione said, sounding contrite. “You're quite right, Hagrid; he really hasn't hurt a fly since he came here, and nosing around is certainly no way to repay him.”
Ron and Harry rolled their eyes.
“Good.” Hagrid smiled, taking a last drink of his tea, emptying the mug and looking out the window. “Now, it looks about time fer you to head on up to the castle. Best be goin' before it's dark.”
And they were summarily bustled out the door, heavy tea cakes weighing down their pockets and a cheerful request to look forward to their first day of Care of Magical Creatures hanging ominously over their heads. Waving and groaning good-naturedly amongst themselves at the thought of what “surprise” might be in store, they trod back up to the castle through the snow.
When the topic strayed back to the division of the magical races into those supporting or against Voldemort, it was, unsurprisingly, Hermione who remarked first on the most disturbing feature of it all.
“You know,” she commented with a heavy frown, “What gets me is that it's only the witches and wizards who aren't taking his return seriously.”
Harry thought of the Ministry, of the newspapers, of his classmates and their parents, and had to agree.
~*~
“...sir...?...sir wizard...?”
A quiet voice, tentative and high-pitched in a child's cadence. His tiny front hoof worrying a stone into the soggy dirt, the little boy stares until he opens his eyes, then darts his gaze away and grinds the pebble into the ground.
“Yes?” he asks kindly, smiling a little. The colt is anxious. His flaxen bottlebrush tail flicks from side to side, and he doesn't answer right away. Obi-Wan lets him have his time, gathering the last wisps of his mind from the sleeping centaur beside him – an older woman, her dappled gray coat in the process of going white. Her chin tips forward onto her chest, her fever gone and her breathing clear with the absence of the virus from her respiratory tract. He touches her forehead, once more, and suggests the deeper sleep her age demands.
Intent yet distracted, the boy watches this last act with something like yearning. Especially his fingers; he focuses on Obi-Wan's fingers like holy relic to the devoted. To the colt's uncomplicated, young mind, that is the part of the body from which those magical gestures come from, so that where the healing comes from, and that is what he needs to solve the problem that sent him to Obi-Wan in the first place.
The boy's understanding isn't wholly off. Touch is an essential healing conduit for the Force – the touch of two bodies, the touch of two minds. More rarely, the touch of both.
He shifts from cross-legged to kneeling and lets his palms rest on his thighs. “You know someone who is sick?”
“...my mother,” the boy whispers, curling and uncurling his own fingers and looking at his feet. “She's yelling things, and talking funny, like Herdleader Tanos did.” Then, even quieter, “My father doesn't want you to come, but, I....”
Obi-Wan touches the colt's shoulder. The boy darts a look to those fingers. “It will be all right,” he says, and the boy's eyes lift to meet his and widen. And he nods a little, smiling when Obi-Wan does, waiting while Obi-Wan stands, but following that hand's withdrawal from his shoulder to Obi-Wan's sleeves like a hungry stray.
Patchworked in earth tones among the thick emerald and white of the evergreen grove are small clusters of centaurs – who know, keenly, his presence. Very few turn to him openly, whether in disapproval or approval; even those whom he's cured and their families are reluctant to acknowledge his passing more than they must. Their combined worry, disfavor, and gratitude give way only slightly to the tranquility he leaves in his wake.
He tries to spread that calm further into himself, but it's difficult. He's very tired. Sleep is...not easy, these days, and the Living Force is exhausting in a way he can't quite deal with.
But he does, as much as he's able, because he has to. What seemed like an quick-acting, painful, but easily controllable flu transmitting from a daughter to a father – hardly unusual, within a family – had become, by the time of his arrival among the Herd, a three-person case. And as he'd cleared it from Henna's father and the two others, another case sprang up in early symptoms. And then, three more.
The sickness is spreading.
Moving into sight of the Herd, the colt's nerves quicken, and he picks an edge-skirting path through the surrounding thicket. Though he walks between the boy and the Herd, blocking a direct line of sight to any who might watch, the boy's skittishness comes out in nervous, sideways glances he flits around the protective barrier Obi-Wan's body creates.
Obi-Wan blinks, slowly. Casts his hearing out in a wide net, and hears a woman's shrill yells – casts out his sight, and can see her shaking and clawing at the man holding her – and has to release a brief burst of leaf-blackening frustration. Psychosis. Delirium, hallucinations. Had the father let his son seek him out earlier – had the father asked for aid himself – then the virus wouldn't be eating this woman's mind alive –
Obi-Wan closes his eyes, and lets this, too, go. A Jedi does not condemn. A Jedi accepts, and works in the now.
He lets his Force-enhanced senses fade. He reaches out to the leaves he burnt in his release of anger – pulls them from the prickly, wintergreen bush, feels a deep shame, and regret, and crumbles them gently in his fist. Were he able to regrow them....When he opens his hand, resentment vents to the Force and ashes flutter from his palm – in flakes, like sooty snow.
A Jedi accepts.
The colt casts one last look over his shoulder at Obi-Wan as they dip behind a hill, hidden from the Herd's sight and sound and shadowed by several of the same large, red-berried bushes,. At the slushy, pine-needled base, the boy's mother rants wildly and struggles in the arms of the large male centaur, deep red-brown and bronze-skinned against her lighter palomino. His back is to their approach.
The colt leaves Obi-Wan's side, carefully, and picks his way quickly, cautiously to his parents, sideways and skittering like a tumbleweed. The man doesn't turn from the crying woman in his arms, but a deep, furious rumble cuts clearly across the space.
“Wizard, you are not welcome here. Leave. You, Vita,” the colt winces and looks at the ground, “you left your mother after I asked you to stay – to bring back him. Not even one of our Healers – I'm very disappointed.”
The boy darts a shameful, frightened glance at his mother, who catches his gaze with wide, crazed eyes, and shrieks even more loudly, “Vita! Vita, Vita my son your face, where is your face!” She twists in her husband's arms, pleading, “He's bleeding, Danick, he's bleeding, you're red, Vita, Danick, your son is red, mine isn't, he's your son, Vita! Danick! Where are you, Danick-”
“Shh, Kaylah, shh, I'm right here-”
Terrified, the colt freezes in place, watches the whites of his mother's eyes roll, whispers, “Father, I didn't know what to do-”
“You shouldn't have left her!”
“Vita, come here, please,” Obi-Wan says quietly and with a hint of suggestion, crouching down on the grass. The man shoots him an angry look over his shoulder; his wife bites his neck, and he throws his head back in surprise, gripping her arms tighter to her sides when she wails and scratches.
“Kaylah, please – Vita, stay – Kaylah! Vita, we don't need his help, stay here!”
“Danick! Danick!” The stallion clamps a hand over her mouth, muffling her desperate cries. They degenerate into sad, wordless screams.
“Vita, come,” Obi-Wan repeats softly, enveloping the hollow in a cocoon of Force silence, tendrils of it still stroking the boy's mind; and, shaking and scared, he comes.
The man roars, “Vita! Wizard!” But his wife tries to kick him, and he's too busy keeping her from hurting either of them to stop Obi-Wan. The colt sidles up to him; with a touch to his forehead, the boy drops into sleep, his spindly stick-legs buckling into Obi-Wan's ready arms. One more brief touch between the eyes sends the boy into pleasanter dreams than those awaiting.
He picks up the child, sets him aside, and turns back to the pair of grappling centaurs.
“Please, let me help,” he says quietly, spreading calm with every soft step closer.
“No! Stay back, wizard, we don't need you – Kaylah, please, stop, please – stay away!”
“Shh,” he soothes.
“No wizard's going to touch her – no, I won't let you-”
“Shh,” he croons softly, and places a hand on the woman's back – but it's the man that recoils, grits his teeth, and raises a hand to strike.
“You don't need to do that,” Obi-Wan murmurs, bending his eyes to the mare. Under his fingers, the Force flows in rivers of healing calm to the angry red places of the woman's body and mind, too weakened from struggle and illness to resist his steady urges to peace. Her husband blinks, frowns, grinds his teeth, shakes his head.
And says, “I don't need to hit you.”
Obi-Wan nods, runs his other hand up the woman's neck, pressing inward to her strained vocal cords, loosening the delirium's crazed hold on them and quieting her voice to thready, uncertain whispers. He opens another corner of his mind to the Living Force; shivers, when it courses up and down his back like a thousand creeping vines.
“What are you doing to her?” Shoulders slumping, tail hanging limply, the stallion watches, confused and worried, disheartened and guilty, as if halting that one violent act struck all the anger right out of him. One arm still stretches around his wife's chest. The other hangs uncurled, empty.
Obi-Wan raises a hand; the woman's scared eyes follow its path to the center of her forehead. “I calm her.” He presses his palm to the place between her eyes. She whimpers. A second later, her features soften, her limbs relax, and-
“Please hold her.”
“Wha-” The woman collapses; the man catches her on reflex, lowering her the rest of the way to the ground and cradling her soft torso against his own. He runs a hand over her hair, protectively, tenderly, but frowns at Obi-Wan.
“She sleeps,” he says, meeting the stallion's eyes, tucking his hands into his sleeves. “Your son, he sleeps also. I did not hurt them.”
For a long moment, the man watches him closely, uncertainty and mistrust warring with worry for his wife and an uneasy, reluctant suspicion of his own helplessness. Obi-Wan waits. He feels the pulsing thrum of the Force in his veins; like blood, like water, and more essential than both. He feels the heat of the sun on scattered snowflakes, trickling down and melting before even capping the forest's canopy. He feels the pull, the draw, the near-craving of the Living Force to heal the wretched, ailing woman just paces away from him – and with it in his body, swimming through his mind, that craving becomes his own.
But he does. Not. Move. The decision to heal her shouldn't be forced – not if he doesn't have to. Which he will, gently, if he must – because the Living Force will have it no other way.
How can his Master stand this?
“If you allow, I heal her.”
The man says nothing.
“Please.” Inside his sleeves, his fingertips press tightly to his arms.
The centaur's hand pauses at his wife's temple, caressing. He looks down at her and sighs, closing his eyes.
“You'll not hurt her.”
“No.”
“And I'm staying here. You know that. I'm not leaving her alone with you.”
Obi-Wan waits. “I know.”
For a long moment, the centaur is very still – then he nods, once, shortly –
– and in a billow of robes, Obi-Wan is on the ground next to them, at the woman's side, his palms on either side of her face, the Living Force rushing wildly from his body to hers, passing through him in a strong, terrible current, and –
– like a drowning man, he sinks under without a sound.
~*~
A day later.
Eyes glittering like coals, the black-haired centaur kneels, guardlike and wary as a watchdog at the side of a sick, solemn-eyed chestnut mare, hands resting on her throat but sight focused arrow-straight on Obi-Wan. Waves of strong resentment, distrust, and frustration press outwards from the young man in all directions and follow his progress across the clearing. As he nears, Obi-Wan nods in his direction.
“Good evening, Healer Bane.”
The centaur bares his teeth, glaring. Beneath lowered lids, Obi-Wan watches the flow of the Force from the centaur to his patient, then lets his sight drift forward again, passing by the pair, towards the circle of pines in which the Elder Herdleader lives. The Healer's bitterness pushes against his mind like acid.
Patterned by hoofprints and pine-needles, Obi-Wan follows the short path until he rounds a corner and stands at the juncture of the Elder's space. Coat a simple brown and skin darkened by sun, the man stands quietly and unstrained despite thinning muscles and knees gone knobby – and arthritic, the Living Force whispers – with age.
“Elder Herdleader Magorian.” Obi-Wan bows, and waits.
The stallion turns an unwelcoming eye his direction, studying him. Obi-Wan meets his gaze calmly, hands resting in his sleeves, faint sunlight trickling in through gaps in the pines and onto his face – giving it a healthy warmth he knows isn't entirely there, not as it used to be. The man's mouth thins into a firm line. In a moment, he nods, minimally.
Obi-Wan steps forward. “Herdleader. The virus is spreading. I can kill it, and I continue to kill it. I can't find the cause, but I am looking.”
Looking off into the distance, the centaur raises one hoof, slightly, slowly, and stamps it into the ground, crushing needles and spreading threat and the scent of pine. “And our Healers? Are they of no use to you?”
“They are quite useful without me, I think,” he responds mildly.
Turning, the man faces him with narrowed eyes. “But they can't kill the virus, as you can.”
He inclines his head fractionally. “No, they can't.”
“I find that very...curious, wizard.”
He meets the stallion's eyes tranquilly. “I do not have-” a moment, to search for the word, “-ill-will to you.”
The centaur snorts, crossing his arms and looking away.
“I have a request, Elder Herdleader.”
“So do I, wizard. Tell me why I should listen.” Uncrossing his arms, he strides towards Obi-Wan, intent and mistrusting and protective. “Tell me why I should listen,” and he halts close enough to loom warningly, “when I'm not entirely sure the virus is the real culprit here.”
Obi-Wan looks up serenely in the shadow of the centaur's greater height. “I am not your enemy, Herdleader. I request-”
“Not good enough, wizard,” the stallion interrupts, shaking his head and tilting his chin down dangerously.
“Magorian?”
Neither he nor the stallion faces the woman standing between the pines at the entrance; the Herdleader out of the desire to intimidate Obi-Wan, and Obi-Wan with the intent not to belittle the Herdleader's attempt.
“Callidora.” Shortly.
“Magorian, what are you doing to our guest?” Stepping forward, the centaur comes to stand by them, disapproval etched on her features.
Still frowning thunderously at Obi-Wan, Magorian shakes his head tightly. “Herdleader Callidora, should you not be tending to your husband?”
“My husband is fine, and does not need my constant attention,” she retorts sharply, “thanks to this young wizard you're threatening.”
“If a threat is what's needed, then I will give it,” the stallion booms, a steely glint in his eye. “For this Herd, I do what's best, and this young wizard-”
“-is what's best,” the woman cuts him off, stepping into the man's personal space and narrowing her eyes. Amiably, Obi-Wan glides back a pace.
“You would see it that way, as he...healed Tanos. I respect your point of view, Callidora, but I must cast doubt where others refuse to see it.”
The woman frowns, glancing at Obi-Wan and crossing her arms over her chest. “And upon what grounds is the doubt cast?”
“On the grounds of evidence!” Finally, the centaur breaks from Obi-Wan and faces the woman. “The wizard claims to heal us, yet more cases spread. He claims that he does not know why this is, yet he alone remains unaffected by the disease and is the only one capable of destroying it.”
“And you hold this as evidence?” the woman asks disbelievingly. “Because one wizard alone cannot stop an outbreak?”
“You know the wizards and their petty wars,” the man says darkly, “and you know they have always been just as adamant about involving the centaurs against our will. Perhaps this time they've simply chosen to eliminate us.”
The woman's lips thin. “I don't believe that. Not only would our own means serve us in alerting us to such an attack, but we would have received word from Albus Dumbledore, had that been the case.”
“So you again turn to him, another wizard, instead of to your own Herd,” the man condemns angrily.
“It is you who first opened relations with the wizard!” the woman cries, throwing up her arms – then visibly taking a few long breaths, lowering her arms and calming herself. “An action I have always admired as a sign of open-mindedness few among us have,” she acknowledges, closing her eyes briefly before opening them, determination in her voice. “It is past time to use that wisdom once more, Magorian, and notify Albus Dumbledore of the virus so he can take the proper measures to safeguard his school. Wizards or not, they are still living beings, Magorian, and should Hagrid bring the foals into the forest they may be at risk–”
“Do not lecture to the knowing, Callidora,” the man snaps. “And be careful where your accusations tread. I do not engage in willful ignorance, nor do I harm foals.”
“I was not-” the woman's scowl fades abruptly, replaced with red. “I was not insinuating such a thing, Elder. My apologies.”
“Taken.” The centaur nods, and he, too, makes an effort to restrain himself.
Patiently, knowing neither has truly forgotten his presence, Obi-Wan waits while they continue to argue, less heatedly, for another few minutes. He keeps his peace until the conversation works its way back around to the topic of sending a centaur to notify the castle.
“I ask that you don't.”
Halted mid-flow in disagreement, both are taken aback at the interruption.
“And why is this, wizard?” the man demands, rounding on him, irritation surging anew as he perceives the suggestion as an attack on his authority – from a young, green, human upstart, no less. The woman, too, faces him, but more quizzically and less severely.
“The virus spreads too easily. I have a request.”
“Oh?” the man rolls his shoulders back imposingly, but the woman raises a hand to halt him, watching Obi-Wan carefully.
“And just what is this request, young wizard?” she asks. He looks to one, then the other, expression mild and voice firm. This word, he'd had to look up especially; the correct meaning is imperative.
“Quarantine.”
~*~
Pale moonlight shimmered into the dark crevices of the antechamber, illuminating patches of gold and pale blue molding and patterning the smooth, curved backs of the dark cherry chairs with pinpricks of reflected light. Old opulence lingered in the air as a tangible scent: stale, clean, lacking human flavor. Standing in the center of the room, still and silent, a dark-robed figure waited – not an unusual sight in this particular chamber since its recent return to use. Yet for those who knew what – or rather, who – lay on the other side of the door, they might question the wisdom of such visible calm. It could only mean the visitor didn't know what he was getting into; and thus, was a fool.
A nervous, twitching man, short and unkempt, creaked open the large door and stuck his head through, beady eyes darting into the faint light, nose quavering unconsciously. When he finally picked out the dark form of the waiting figure, he started jerkily; his first attempt at speech came out as something of a tremor. Clearing his throat, he tried again, his voice thin and reedy in the echoing empty space.
“Our Lord requests your presence.”
Quietly, the man inclined his head, the motion encasing his entire face under the shadow of his hood. Simple dark brown robes skimmed dust from the intricately winding parquet as he brushed past the little man, who, with one last glance at the figure's back, stepped fully into the antechamber and closed the door behind him with a dull, booming click – a very imposing sound to a man who was already frightfully anxious and unsettled, more so than usual...and without knowing exactly why.
Inside the dining room, a long, polished table stretched the distance of the rectangular space, adorned on either side with chairs similar to those of the antechamber. Thinly ribbed columns rose from floor to ceiling, upon which a painting loomed in deep browns and golds – a half-dozen fearful-looking peasants, cowering under a horned, devilish apparition grinning menacingly from within the roiling, cloudy sky. And sitting at the head of the table, underneath the low light of a candle chandelier, a chalk-white man caressed the head of a sleek, pale snake and watched with gleaming red eyes.
The robed man bowed slightly. “Lord Voldemort.” His hands remained tucked in wide sleeves across his chest. He didn't pull down his hood.
With easy condescension, the wizard gave the snake one last lazy pat and slowly focused his attention on the newcomer.
“...Sir Knight,” he drawled sibilantly. “How...timely of you, to join me.”
A small shrug, nearly lost in the amorphous dark mass of shadow and robe. “I confess to a regrettably busy schedule. Surely, you of all people must understand that.”
The snake hissed, low and constant – and for the flash of a second, it appeared as though her master did as well. Then the candlelight shifted, and the wizard flicked one finger in his snake's direction; gradually, the serpent's hiss died out. Without even the hint of a last venomous spit, she coiled at his feet, becoming once more mere slender decoration, scales shining and white.
“Of course, I do.” The wizard spoke each word with deliberate attention, curling around each syllable as if it was a chess piece, to be picked up and its worth analyzed before the final placement – slowly, methodically, dangerously, but with underlying madness. “Consumed as you are with the delights of space–” and suddenly he held a red oval device in his fingers, which he twined about in pointed disregard, “one can only imagine what toys you bring down to our little planet with which to engage yourself.”
The corner of the man's lips quirked up ever so slightly, watching the Force-shield detonator twirl idly in long, pale digits. So the Lord sought more...gifts.
“What I do not understand is a certain lack of progress on your part,” the wizard continued, leaning back on his chair as if unconcerned. “Or rather, the part of this clever disease of yours. Perhaps you can explain to me why I have yet to hear of a single report of unexplained illness from my contact?”
An eyebrow raised, lightly, but carefully. He toyed with this wizard, yes, but the wizard was one of the most feared beings on the planet for a reason...and he had another, more important task to complete on this planet, for a far-off Lord he would never dream of playing with like this. He could not fail his Lord.
“You have told your contact about me?”
“I have not,” the man waved a long-fingered hand negligently, elegantly, “nor have I mentioned the virus, as I am a man of my word. But I flatter myself that Severus is one of my more well-chosen followers. Intelligent. Prone to obedience. Well-versed in lying.” He shrugged just as nonchalantly as the other had. “Prompt. He knows what I expect to have reported to me, and would have done so, had a situation such as an unknown disease appeared in the castle. Yet it is two weeks into the new year, and I find myself sadly lacking a report of any such kind.” Now the wizard leaned forward, giving physical weight to the threatening glint in his blood-red eyes, slitted in displeasure.
“Remind me, Sir Knight – this virus was introduced to those disgusting mules,” his lips twisted in revulsion, “when? The beginning of December, was it not? And I was promised not only the infection of the entire castle, but the twin demises in particular of Albus Dumbledore and Harry Potter...” he smiled mockingly, but bared teeth in true anger, “as a Christmas gift.”
“Oh?” The man feigned surprise, irritated at being addressed as a common servant. “I suppose, it is a possibility that those mules found a cure-”
“Do not mock me so,” the wizard hissed, rising from his chair with whip-like speed, and the man tensed, carefully. “There is no one on this planet with such a cure. Unless,” he withdrew a wand from his pocket slowly, caressingly, “you choose to go back on your words?”
“I do not,” the man replied smoothly, regarding the wizard from an even height. This wizard was an interesting diversion, but he grew increasingly obsessive. His mind jumped from one focus to the next with creative, chaotic intensity – the centaurs, the boy, the old man, the Mudbloods, the old man, the Muggles, the boy, the old man, the boy – and over it all for the Purebloods, for revenge, for me and because they must die, kill them kill them KILL THEM-
“Then show me results,” the wizard snapped, little of the underlying rage seeping through. As Cerberus at the gates of Hades, so tightly was it held in check until needed. “Go to the castle,” the wizard continued, “find your mistake, and fix it.”
“...I shall,” he responded offhandedly, inciting the wizard to rage – who pulled out his wand, no flourishes now, and raised it to cast, “Cru-”
“You'd like to see this?”
Seething, the wizard was nonetheless forced to stop mid-spell so as not to hit the small black device held between his wand's path to the man. Curved and smoothed, its surface broken into a series of controls, the man rested one finger on a single button.
“Show it to me,” the wizard spat venomously, “now.”
The man bowed. “As you wish.” He pressed the button, straightening and saying, “You'll forgive the minute it will take it to arrive, but I assure you, it will be worth it.”
The wizard's eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. “If you desire such forgiveness, you will tell me upon what I am patiently waiting.”
A hint of viciousness twisted the man's face. “A droideka, Lord Voldemort. A killer of a kind you don't have on this planet.”
The wizard's eyes narrowed and his lip curled. “Another filthy Muggle machine.”
“But much more reliable than any human servant could ever be,” he countered swiftly, a hint of Force-suggestion in his words. The wizard still resisted technology....“Droids always do as you command, for they have no fear. They do not tire, they do not age, they have no friends or families, they do not love. I believe I'll take it with me to this castle of yours, to, as you asked, correct my errors....but once I'm done there – on loan, of course – I shall give it to you.” A cold glint entered his eyes. “Not that there will be much left once it's done-”
A crash into the stillness of the night; a burst of rubble, the screech of an old house ripped apart; and when the debris cleared, a sleek, shining, deadly creature unfurled in a delicate clicking of metal limbs. With a serpentine sway, the machine tapped its way from the wreckage of the wall to the man watching him, red sensor eyes gleaming, blasters bared and waiting for further command.
Absently, clearly focused on the droid, the wizard waved his wand with a murmured word, the nighttime view once again blocked when the wall repaired itself. Silently, his eyes flickered over the droideka, coldly analyzing.
The wizard's hate for its very presence was palpable; but the temptation of righteous violence laid a heavy counterweight. If nothing else, this wizard was intelligent, adaptable, and ruthless. Already the man could see visions of revenge filling the wizard's mind in a haze of anger and bloodlust; a mind given to bouts of ingeniousness and carefully devastating destruction – the initial draw of seeking out such a mind as entertainment – but with that intriguing ability to turn savagely gleeful, almost manic, at the thought of having great power under his control.
The man bowed in a courtly fashion. “You may, of course, think on the matter,” he assured. “It will come with me to the castle, for now.”
The wizard hissed, threateningly, wordlessly, and unbidden, the slender white snake rose from its coils beside its master.
“Do not fail me.”
The man bowed. The corner of his lips quirked upward to reveal a canine.
“A Jedi is always glad to serve.”