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 4)
-five-
-blood-
The early afternoon was bright, sunny, and downright cheerful; the pain throbbing dully through his scar was anything but, and it was this which brought Harry to the office of one Albus Dumbledore on a day begging to be enjoyed out-of-doors. Seated on one of the cushy chairs facing the Headmaster's desk – a chair becoming all too familiar of late – and plied with pumpkin juice and scones, he attempted, as best he could, to put into words the vague emotions transferred second-hand through his scar.
“It's similar to what he felt a few days ago,” Harry explained, frowning slightly and meeting the thoughtful, intent gaze of the Headmaster. “Really excited about something, but not as angry. Like maybe whatever it was that made him mad was fixed, or he, um, punished the ones who botched it, and now he's happy about it? I think,” he added apologetically, wishing he could be more precise.
Seeing this, Dumbledore waved off his concern. “On the contrary, Harry, a gut reaction seems to me to be the best instinct to follow on a matter such as this. And never discount the power of a warning,” he continued, tone kind despite the gravity of his countenance. “Any foreknowledge is still knowledge.”
And that was nice to hear and all, but he still wished he could do more. Nonetheless, he nodded, and was rewarded with an understanding smile – it couldn't be easy for Dumbledore, either, Harry reckoned, watching the wizened fingers steeple into a pyramid. That feeling that something's going to go wrong, but without knowing why or when or how.
“Is there anything else, Harry?”
He stopped picking at the lint on his robe. “Yes, sir, but I don't know how reliable it'll be, either. I forgot before – I must have slept it off or something – but the more I think about it, the more I feel like I could, well, see a bit of what Voldemort saw, that last time.” He looked up, cautiously, trying to gauge the old wizard's reaction. When he'd told Ron and Hermione, they'd looked more worried than was comfortable.
But while interested, Dumbledore didn't appear overly apprehensive, and that was more reassuring than anything his friends had tried to say after the fact. Harry let himself relax a little, and Dumbledore leaned forward slightly.
“And what could you see?”
“That's just it,” Harry admitted, “I couldn't really make out anything. It was more impressions – it was dark, and there was something – a cloak, brown, and long, that I think might have been important, or familiar, maybe. And something shiny? But that might have just been the moon – I'm pretty certain the moon was there at some point....” he trailed off, realizing how little he could really be certain of – hardly anything – and how feeble his 'impressions' sounded.
But still, Dumbledore had said anything could be important, and even now he was nodding to himself and looking out his window speculatively. As the moment continued, Harry helped himself to a scone, nibbling it and feeding a few crumbs to Fawkes to give himself something to do other than fidget. Maybe what he'd said was more important than he thought?
And so it was with some anticipation that Harry awaited Dumbledore's next words, when, as he turned from the window, he opened his mouth and said:
“I believe there's someone at the gargoyle.”
Harry blinked.
“Would you mind having guests for a few minutes? Hagrid appears rather worried.”
“Um, no, I mean, sure,” Harry recovered ungracefully. “I don't mind if Hagrid comes up. But doesn't he have a class pretty soon?”
“Indeed he does,” Dumbledore acknowledged, “and as Hagrid takes all his duties very seriously, I would believe this to be a matter of some importance. Thank you for understanding, Harry.”
A little embarrassed at the praise, but still pleased, Harry just nodded. Dumbledore smiled at him, then turned and gave a wave to the door, which opened obediently; on the staircase, Hagrid stood, one hand raised to knock, completely blocking the doorway with his considerable size.
“Hullo, sir,” the man greeted friendlily enough, lowering his arm without preamble. “Oh! And hullo ter yeh too, Harry.” But he wrung his hands anxiously as he spoke, not waiting for an invitation to come further into the office and simply squishing in. “Sorry ter burst in, but I got some bad news ter tell yeh-” he shook his head, glanced over his shoulder, and amended with a hasty introductory gesture, “er, rather, Ben here does-”
And sure enough, stepping quietly from behind the half-giant was Ben, looking somewhat tired but nonetheless sidestepping smoothly the waved hand that would have sent him tumbling back down the stairs. He looked at Harry, dipped his head with a small smile, then turned to Dumbledore and stood straight and still and serene, like some Grecian statue of patience.
Harry muttered a distracted “Hello” back, but he was too busy dealing with the odd déjà vu tickling at the back of his senses to give the greeting its due attention – something was niggling at him, insistently, and it wasn't just the odd fact that Ben seemed to pop up everywhere and all at once–
“Headmaster Dumbledore, sir, this is Ben, er-” Hagrid glanced at the younger wizard, floundering momentarily at the lack of last name, but the only help he received from that direction was a rather blank look; carrying on quickly, he finished, “Ben. And Ben, this is Headmaster Albus Dumbledore.”
“I am pleased to meet you,” Ben said courteously, bowing in his familiar way, hands in sleeves held across his torso and braid tipping to the slant of his back.
“The pleasure is mutual,” Dumbledore responded, standing behind his desk in a sudden flare of rainbow-colored robes and extending a hand. Ben stepped forward and shook it while Dumbledore continued, a welcoming smile on his face, “I've heard a bit about you, I admit, and all of it good.”
Releasing the hand, Ben took a pace back and inclined his head. “You as well, Headmaster.”
“All exaggerated, I'm sure,” Dumbledore chortled, seating himself once more. “You've met Harry, I gather?”
Again, Harry had to smile over his distraction when Ben turned his way, blue eyes meeting his. “I have.” The older wizard smiled a bit. “Mrs. Weasley was a good host to both of us, yes?”
That brought out a genuine reaction: Harry smiled warmly, openly, even as he shrugged a little. “She always is,” he admitted – with pride, despite feeling a little awkward at saying so aloud. Fawkes let out a happy coo – the phoenix really was in a beautiful stage right now, Harry thought, his trill nearly musical.
“And I believe Fawkes agrees.” Dumbledore pet the bird's crest fondly. “He has always been an excellent judge of character, of which the Weasleys possess in admirable quality. Now,” he seemed to shift gears, eyes coming to rest on the young wizard before him, “what brings you here today – and would you like a lemon drop?”
“Thank you.” The younger wizard accepted and placed the candy in his mouth with such gravity that, despite his preoccupation, Harry was hard-pressed to contain sudden amusement. “As I told Hagrid, it concerns the centaurs.”
Of course, Ben retained all his grace by speaking without the slightest hint of a lemon drop-induced slur.
“They are very ill,” the wizard continued, meeting Dumbledore's eyes – seriously, but calmly, too, in stark contrast to the agitated, shifting form of the large man beside him. “For several weeks, I helped them. I started a quarantine.”
An illness among the centaurs? A quarantine? Harry couldn't help but goggle a bit in blank surprise – how could this have been going on without anyone knowing? It was true, Hagrid hadn't taken any of his classes near the Forbidden Forest for a while, but....what about the rest of the professors? And did Dumbledore know? Harry glanced in the old wizard's direction – but his expression was difficult to read.
“But the illness spreads,” Ben went on evenly. “The quarantine did not stop it, and I can't stop it. I can only heal the symptoms.” He paused a moment in steady quiet. Then:
“I tell you officially for the centaurs of this illness, and I request to make the quarantine also to the castle. No wizards to enter the Forest.”
And after this pronouncement, Ben met the Headmaster's gaze with complete patience, as if he had all the time in the world to wait for him to absorb the entirety of the situation – when to Harry, it seemed this was rather a big problem to be going on with. One that deserved a little more – rush, or worry. Or at least a raised voice, or something. Something more than Ben's ever-present calm.
“Ah,” Dumbledore murmured – finally, after a long moment of stillness, wherein the only sounds in the office came from Hagrid's motions, Harry's slight shifting, and the airy tick of a silver septet of clocks lining the mantel. Harry and Hagrid watched the Headmaster; the Headmaster's eyes fixed attentively on Ben. Lines of care etched his visage like spiderwebs. “I am very sorry to hear that. Very sorry, indeed,” he said with true regret. “On behalf of Hogwarts' staff, let me extend an open offer of help. Is there anything the Herd requires?”
Ben shook his head. “Only that you enter not.”
The Headmaster tapped a long finger on the desk. Words delicate and immutable as the clocks, he asked, “This command comes directly from the Herd?”
Harry couldn't fathom the look of understanding that Ben directed Dumbledore's way, and that Dumbledore seemed to accept with an unsurprised nod of his own.
“The Elder, yes,” Ben said. “The younger Herdleaders change this, possibly-”
“That Magorian,” Hagrid grumped suddenly, surprising Harry. He turned to his friend in time to catch him shaking his head and crossing his arms in a display of disapproval. “It's time he loosened up a bit 'bout us wizards. I know he likes tradition, but I always thought he'd put the Herd 'bove that sorta mess. He needs to let us in there to help-”
Ben raised a brow mildly. “It is my command also.”
Ben's comment to the disgruntled man knocked the wind right out of his sails; Dumbledore's finger paused in its rhythm; and Harry, too, turned to the foreign wizard at the unexpected response, beginning to feel like a spectator at a ping-pong match. A very important, high-stakes ping-pong match.
Which he was a spectator to – why? Not that he minded, but....
“What?” Hagrid asked, bewildered. “But Ben, I though' yeh were helpin' 'em. How can yeh agree with th' Elder on this, when yeh're the one tellin' us about it in the first place – fer that matter,” he continued, a bit accusatory but with the tone of someone making a dawning realization, “what're yeh doin' breaking yeh're own quarantine?” And he backed away from Ben as if warding off sudden contamination.
Though he'd like to say he was braver than that, a brief scare went up Harry's spine at the thought of catching whatever this illness was, that Ben – who'd gained major points in Harry's book with the way he touched his scar and just vanished all the pain – couldn't heal, and that forced the centaurs, a reclusive race with animosity towards wizardkind – as an understatement – into alerting Albus Dumbledore, the most powerful wizard alive.
“Do not worry.” Ben held up a hand in a placating gesture, the long sleeve draping in a low swoop of brown cloth –
- a long and brown cloak -
“I am not sick. I have skill to stay healthy. But I am not certain that the wizards, here, or the children, will not be sick also-”
Harry heard Ben's explanation only vaguely over the sudden recognition pounding its way to frightful realization in his brain. How could he not have made the connection sooner? Frantically, he tried to catch Dumbledore's gaze.
“Harry? Is something the matter?”
Oh, no – not like that. He wasn't supposed to come out and ask, not with Hagrid looking at him funny and Ben standing right there, in long brown robes just like those he couldn't remember before – but now, with the living example standing right in front of him to jog his memory, he could. And he was trying very hard not to let the sudden accusation scream across his face – you were with Voldemort!
“Er, no, nothing,” Harry was forced to say lamely. But he couldn't say otherwise, not with three sets of eyes locked on him, one of which couldn't be trusted – and how easily Ben had worked his way into their midst -
“Yeh sure?” Hagrid asked, and the concern was nice and good and all, but right now Harry just wished he would shut up.
Until an idea came to him.
“Actually,” Harry said instead of the angry accusations held just on the edge of his tongue, “My head's still not that great.” He rubbed his scar and added a grimace for effect, and Hagrid seemed to believe him, which was good...but nonetheless made him feel guilty and undeserving of his friend's sudden look of sympathy. Well, it was true in a way, his scar did still hurt, just not as much as would merit a trip to the hospital wing – “Professor,” he turned to the Headmaster, “thanks for talking with me, but would it be all right if I came back later to finish up? I'd like to stop in at the hospital wing before Quidditch practice this afternoon.”
Dumbledore gave Harry a look a little too penetrative for comfort. But Harry didn't squirm, just hoped somehow that the Headmaster could sense his sudden revelation, could understand that he'd come tell him later, just as soon as Ben was gone -
“All right, Harry. Would eight o'clock be satisfactory?”
“Yeah, er, yes,” Harry tried not to sigh with relief, or look too eager to go while he stood and gathered his things. By eight o'clock, he'd have Ron and Hermione in on the case, and maybe with some concrete proof to show Dumbledore. Something to link Ben with Voldemort – Ben, who seemed like the very antithesis of violence, who Harry couldn't picture hurting a fly, but had somehow managed to pull the wool over their very eyes and without even really trying. They'd just welcomed him in, as if he was nothing more than a lost traveler taking care of his ailing father. Except now Harry knew that must have been a cover-up. He wondered if the old man was even sick. Maybe the reason Ben never let anyone into the room with Quinn was because he was really in there, fine as a fiddle, biding his time with Ben until they could strike. Laughing at how easy it was to fool the people who'd selflessly taken them in.
“I could help, if you wish,” Ben offered.
Harry cursed that understated, foreign voice for sounding so believable and genuine. Of all the times to speak up – worse, yet, was that there was no denying Ben was good at what he did.
But maybe he picked that up from Voldemort – maybe he'd made Harry's scar hurt, somehow, so he could fool him somehow, get him ready for the evil wizard –
“That's alright, Ben. Thanks, though.” He forced himself to glance at the wizard and smile, ignoring the unruffled expression he faced that suddenly seemed too unruffled, too serene – as if somebody knew too much. “I don't want to bother you. I'll just go see Madame Pomfrey.”
“As you wish.”
With that last remark, Harry made his quick exit, saying one more bye to all three before setting off down the stairs. The door to the office closed behind him, and for a second he wondered – should he really be leaving Dumbledore and Hagrid in there, with what he knew now?
Then he reconsidered, scoffing a bit at himself. Dumbledore...was Dumbledore, and Hagrid was no pushover, either. They'd be fine, even if Ben did make a move, which didn't seem to be his intent. At least, not at the moment, he amended darkly.
At the bottom of the staircase, Harry barely let the gargoyle slide open before he was out of it, dashing down the halls without it appearing obvious that he was dashing over anything more important than being late to a class.
First order of business: find Ron and Hermione.
~*~
They sat in an empty classroom, Ron dangling his legs off a desk, Hermione sitting firmly on a wooden chair and knitting (a hat for Ron this time, not an elf, though Harry was keeping her secret on this matter), and both of them watching Harry pace abrupt, halting circuits into the stone floor, as every so often he'd stop in place, frowning, before launching once more into motion.
“I just wish I could remember more,” he said in frustration, knowing he'd said it already but too genuinely – well, frustrated to care.
With a careful air, Hermione began, “You know vagueness is part and parcel of dreams-”
“It wasn't a dream!” Harry stopped, facing her with a scowl. Clearly denying the urge, she finally gave in and rolled her eyes at him.
“I know you think that, Harry, but-”
Letting out a wordless huff, Harry started pacing again. Hermione sighed. Clear shouts drifted into and out of their hearing, and every so often a spell-propelled snowball impacted the windows of the classroom with a loud thump; Seamus and Dean had started something of a Gryffindor-wide snowball fight on the wide stretch of flat land between the lake, Forest, and Hogwarts nearly an hour ago. It seemed like they'd finally enticed the giant squid to their side, if the sudden shrieking laughter and victorious battle cries were anything to go by.
“You believe me, don't you, Ron?” Harry suddenly rounded on his friend, who blinked, startled, with a deer-in-the-headlights look.
“Well, sure I do,” he said, somewhat hesitantly and casting an apologetic look towards Hermione before turning back to Harry. “Come on, mate, don't look at me like that – I said I do, and I do.”
“Right. Turn me into the bad guy,” Hermione sniffed, her needles resuming a furious clicking which she nonetheless talked over, eyes fixed firmly upon her work. “It's not that I don't believe in you, Harry, but I'm trying to point out some very real factors you should take into consideration. You say you remember his robe – but what about the rest of him? Can you be sure of his face?”
Harry frowned. “Well, no, but-”
“And what about the location? Or the day?” she continued relentlessly. “You said he's been helping the centaurs, which sounds like a pretty reliable alibi to me – there would be plenty of witnesses. Who's to say he wasn't really with them all this time?”
“Alright, I don't know!” Harry said crossly, “but that doesn't mean he can't have worked it out somehow.”
“He was always drifting in and out at home,” Ron put in helpfully. Hermione shot him a sour look, then met Harry's stubborn gaze with another sigh. She closed her eyes for a moment; when she opened them, she set down her needles, leaning forward earnestly.
“Just calm down a bit, Harry, alright?” she said kindly.
“I am calm-”
She raised an eyebrow. He pressed his lips together and looked to the side.
“I'll try,” he said finally. “I just – why would you think I'd lie about this?”
“Is that what you think?”
Harry turned partially to see that now she'd raised both eyebrows at him. When he didn't say anything, she frowned a bit, but it was more a gesture of thoughtfulness than anything.
“I don't think you're lying. I don't know why you'd think that so easily, though maybe you ought to give Ron and me a little more credit than that.”
Harry stopped his pacing and shifted guiltily. Ron was close enough to pat his shoulder gingerly, and did so, which earned him a small, somewhat guilty but grateful smile.
Meanwhile, Hermione continued, “I'm just trying to reason this out – be a bit of a devil's advocate, if you will. Frankly, I'm as curious as you are; if what you say is true, then it could explain a lot of Ben's strange behavior-”
~*~
The low sick swoop in his gut strikes on his descent.
Midway between stairs, Obi-Wan sucks in a breath and fixes his eyes to the wall, no longer seeing the couple of students eying him curiously on their way up the staircase, nor the figure in the portrait trying to reach out of its frame and prod him with his miniature lance. He reaches into that feeling-
Too late.
With the booming crunch and groan of rock screeching against rock, the impact doesn't reach its final echoes before he's flashing down the stairs to the nearest classroom, waving open the door, the Force quickening his dash past younglings who haven't time even to begin turning around before he flings a hand to the window, shattering the colorful stained glass in time to leap between falling shards, touching down on the sill, half in, half out, and illuminated in a thousand reflected colors for only a fraction of a moment –
– before he launches himself from the thirteenth-story tower window.
~*~
Deep and shaking as thunder, a sudden rumble crashed and rocked through the castle, reverberating up from below, shivers quaking underfoot.
“What the-”
They ran to the window, only to find it obscured by big, blossoming clouds of smoke, hot even through the glass. Harry pressed against it frantically, eyes darting into the fog – then he heard it, faint at first but growing in intensity like the crescendo of a siren: terrified – pained – shrieks rising out of the roiling clouds.
Ron cried, “But what the bloody hell happened?”and beside him with a hand to her mouth, Hermione gasped in horrified realization, “Most of Gryffindor was out there-”
A sudden streak of white-blue light cut through the smoke, a single flash like lightning – and was gone. But it was enough. Enough for all of them to see a familiar face illuminated in the glow.
Harry gripped his wand; gritted his teeth, felt anger surge through him, and growled,
“Ben.”
~*~
He rolls to his feet and into chaos.
Emotions rocket against his mind – he cuts his way through them with as much seamless efficiency as his sabre swathes the mist in his path. Most of the children are only startled –
Most. But not all.
A girl starts violently when he crouches beside her, brushing his hand over the bloody smears on her friend's forehead, who lays, groaning quietly, in a cushion of snow. A moment at the injured girl's side, then he's up again, skimming over the snow with Force speed, listening with Force hearing, to pinpoint the source of the disturbance. The smoke begins to rise, clearing his field of vision – to the right, witches and wizards are trickling from the castle in clusters of greater frequency – behind him, the younglings – and to the left –
His steps slow. To the left....
There!
His sabre hums a battle cry, its light an unmistakable beacon – and it draws the droideka like a moth.
But he's no flame – in his bones the Unifying Force sings a chilling dirge, and he knows this, this droideka that shouldn't be here, that a castle full of wizards is in no way equipped to deal with, that a single Jedi alone isn't equipped to deal with – this droideka is the very real result of the foreboding swelling inside him ever since he left to collect his Master.
This droideka should not be on this planet. This droideka is wrong.
A dark smudge against the snow, the droid recoils its blasters, coils itself roundly with the springy ease of smooth machinery and rolls towards him – rapidly, unerringly. Obi-Wan raises his sabre – slowly, deliberately. And waits. His eyes narrow. he sinks to his knees. He lets everything unnecessary fade – everything but the potent cocktail of Force and adrenaline filling his senses and the sight of that compact black ball nearing, nearing, closing in....He'll need this focus –
– live in the moment, Obi-Wan –
– he'll need this focus if he's to stave off a Jedi-killer a droideka.
So intent is he on the coming threat that the peripheral flash of purple light jetting towards him clips his sleeve as he dodges, knee-jerk and quick. He turns halfway, sees the three young wizards who were his hosts, and stares, unblinkingly, at the boy's outstretched wand from which the spell came – the boy who watches him angrily, and his friends, and all three of them are talking but he doesn't have time for this –
“GO!” he shouts, but they don't move. He glances with a barely there move of his head at the droideka -if it uncurls to shoot now, there's no way it'll miss these three at such close range. He looks back to the three – this time when he reiterates his command of “Go BACK!” there's a heavy dose of suggestion laced in the words – he realizes belatedly that neither time he spoke in their language – and it's suggestion enough to send all of them moving. But too slowly –
A wide wave of his arm pushes them to the ground in time to stop the first volley of blaster fire from striking them. Another push keeps them down while he vaults over them, forced to backtrack closer to the mass of wizards while the Force gives him just enough of an edge to outrace, for a split second, the blaster fire; he gets in front of it, whirls and deflects it, six rapid cuts of his sabre so quick the sound blurs into half as many.
The last two clip the fringe of his hair; involuntary shivers raise the hair of his neck and arms.
Then he's sprinting forward again, away from the witches and wizards, away from the three in the snow whom he releases from the press of the Force only once he's passed them by a good distance. And all the while, flashes of red blaster fire follow his progress like darts – some he deflects, and they sizzle and melt the snow where they touch. Some he avoids, varying his path in rabbit-like zig-zags, but always with an eye towards drawing the fire away from the castle.
And though he'd like to think he were truly drawing it away of his own design, he knows the truth of it is that it's the droideka bearing down upon him.
~*~
When he could get up again, Harry clambered quickly to his feet, distractedly wiping snow off his chilled face partially numbed lips, mind in a state of suspended disbelief. His wand was still in his grip; but he didn't raise it, instead helping Ron and Hermione stand hastily. They shared a glance, followed by an unspoken decision; whatever suspicions Harry had or didn't have could be dealt with later. Ben clearly just saved them from those – whatever they were. Lasers, and that robot, which was unreal, like something out of a science-fiction movie....
It was harder to doubt Ben, too, when he was obviously leading the robot away from the castle.
“Come on,” Harry urged, and they started to run towards where Ben was already pulling away in the distance, between the lake and Forest. Harry heard someone shout after them – Hagrid, he thought – but none of them stopped to look back. The wet of the snow seeped into his robes, cooling his skin in the wind and starting a faint shiver up and down his body, and he had the sense of mind to wonder where Dumbledore was during all this, and why hadn't he stopped it yet?
A loud crunch; in mid-air, Ben deflected a laser into the snow-covered canopy, landed, and sprang again when the robot ducked into a sudden roll, beelining towards him with alarming speed and whirring right through the space Ben had vacated only a moment before. Then Harry must have blinked or something, because for a second he lost track of Ben completely; when he saw him again, he was a good thirty feet closer to the water's edge, sword raised and backing away. The robot unrolled, smooth and quick, and sent a barrage of lasers at the wizard. Harry hadn't seen a gun fired except in movies, but he rather thought these lasers were faster. And he didn't see how anyone, let alone calm, tranquil Ben could be dodging them.
But the wizard moved like a whirlwind, sleek and hawk-like and airborne, twisting and leaping in acrobatic maneuvers the likes of which Harry'd never seen. The robot shot left, scuttled to the side to avoid deflected blasts, and shot right; Ben deflected, moved backwards, and slid neatly out of the way. The robot coiled and rolled like a pinball shot from the starting spring; Ben turned and ran towards the water. The robot unrolled and, before Ben had fully turned to face it, shot dozens of bolts from each metal arm, machine-gun style; Ben deflected some, dodged one or two then flattened himself to the ground while a smattering whizzed by just over the top of his head, following his progress – and just when it seemed like he'd be caught, he suddenly thrust himself backwards in an inhuman move, landing on his feet once more to redirect the unending onslaught in a shower of red sparks against his glowing white-blue blade. And all of this done in the space of mere heartbeats.
Frankly, all of this – the attack, the robot, Ben – had a certain unreal quality that Harry was vaguely sure would catch up to him later, when the adrenaline wore off and he had the time to question things like the utter alien-ness of the robot, the strange lasers it fired and the stranger glowing sword Ben used to deflect them, and –
– and when the bloody hell did Ben turn into this unrecognizable thing?
Because there was no way someone who could do that was an ordinary wizard. Not a wizard, and maybe not even –
– human.
~*~
Before the opening even exists, Obi-Wan takes three strong strides, leaps, and hurls his sabre like a superheated lance towards the droideka – which, turning, presents that very opening that Obi-Wan foresaw in a flash of Unifying Force.
The sabre severs electrical wiring like a firecracker set off inside the droideka, the sounds of popping and spitting cracking across the snow as the entire upper right half of the machine splits from the rest at Obi-Wan's precise twisting of the Force through his fingers. The droideka's red eyes narrow in an eerie resemblance of humanity even as it reacts to the loss of two arms with the coldness of the inorganic thing it is; reaching across with its left in a snakelike curve of shining black and silver bones, it snatches at the hilt of Obi-Wan's sabre before the slivered-off chunk of itself can hit the ground.
Turning his palm towards his body and curling his fingers inward in a clawlike gesture, Obi-Wan recalls his sabre, spinning it in long vertical loops to deflect the droideka's blaster fire – reduced, with fewer arms from which to fire, but still a threat. He feels the steady heat of his sabre on his brow as he catches the blasts and holds his blade close to his body, defensively backing towards the water, senses razor-sharp and body nearly trembling with repressed energy. The Force is a chorus in his mind, powerful and resonating.
But the droideka is superhuman as well, and its onslaught is unrelenting. Obi-Wan ducks another barrage of fire, then throws himself into a roll to the side when, nearly instantaneously, the droideka whizzes into a lightning-quick ball. Rising to his feet, Obi-Wan sprints with Force-fleetness towards the water, finally reaching its edge even as the droid hunts him down. It uncoils in halo-like flashes of sparks, resuming its attack.
But Obi-Wan's watching those sparks, and planning.
And that's when he feels the lake behind him rise, and rise, and tower behind him like a living curtain –
~*~
Midway across the field, Harry unceremoniously, unexpectedly, jerked to a halt.
“What the-”
He had a moment to feel the body-bind settle over him, a moment to turn and see McGonagall on the other end of that spell and for his face to contort into righteous indignation before he was caught in place, speechless and unable to move. But before he could fall, he felt the large, rough hands of Hagrid grabbing him quickly, holding him steady and pulling him back against another body with the unmistakably frizzy hair of Hermione; it was too much to hope for, he thought sourly, that they'd let Ron, at least, go help.
“Sorry, Harry, Hermione, Ron,” Hagrid was saying distractedly, picking them up and slinging them fireman-style over his shoulder, which he then looked over frequently as he ran back towards the castle. “Dumbledore don't want yeh close to that thing, yeh can't fight it –” Then, worriedly, “I hope Dumbledore can fight it, I've never seen summat like that in my life, not natural at all –”
Unable to reply or even move, Harry could only fume mutely and desperately take in the bouncy view his position on Hagrid's shoulder offered: that of Albus Dumbledore, nearly flying across the snow in a streak of gaudy rainbow robes towards the flashing red and steely, smooth black threat of the robot, McGonagall close on his heels, sprinting like a woman thirty years her junior. And behind them, Ben – twisting and turning like a contortionist, leaping and spinning like a martial arts master, and deflecting those beams of light with the deadly accuracy of a lifelong swordsman.
And – slowly, inevitably – being driven back to the water.
Hagrid stumbled suddenly on the snow, jostling Harry uncomfortably on what had to be Ron's belt digging into his ribs. So it was that by the time Hagrid righted himself, Harry could only gape – inwardly, as his mouth was still frozen – at the towering tidal wave that had appeared out of nowhere behind Ben, rising even as he watched, and connected by the thinnest trail of sparkling blue light to Dumbledore's wand. The robot was twitching and chittering like an angry animal, still firing on Ben but now swiveling, dart-like, to the pair of wizards joining the attack. As the water grew higher still, McGonagall adding a her spell to the Headmaster's, the robot finally gave in and sent the first volley of blasts towards the wizards.
And it was then that several things happened at once.
Dumbledore raised his non-wand hand, throwing up a far-off shield of sorts that made the air shimmer.
The blasts went through the shield.
Ben was on the other side of those blasts, between them and the wizards, throwing himself in front of them and shunting most of them off –
– Hagrid jumped over a pile of snow, so Harry missed the moment when McGonagall cried out, giving him the sinking feeling that Ben had finally missed some of the blasts –
– and, given a clear path to the robot with Ben out of the way, the tidal wave came crashing down, reaching out with a giantesque watery hand and pulling the robot under, still firing laser after laser, then digging in its spidery legs as it was forcibly dragged down the shore in a screech of protesting metal.
One last barrage of red light, and the machine was sucked under in a final crashing wave.
Heart pounding in his chest, Harry watched the surface of the lake bubble and thrash – the robot must have been fighting still, even fully submersed. Harry's eyes flickered frantically as he took in the scene from his unmoving body, wishing he hadn't been frozen in the first place, hoping whatever that wave of Dumbledore's was that it had worked, hoping that everyone outside during the robot's first attack was okay....
Dumbledore and McGonagall were sprinting to the water's edge, and as Hagrid got farther away it was harder and harder to tell what was going on, but it looked like they were shouting. In the midst of all the action, Harry's eyes followed their path, then further, to where their target, Ben, stood still and unmoving.
Before they reached him, he leapt into the air, his inhuman strength taking him over the water, hand thrown out and making a dip in its surface, sinking into the concavity, glowing sword in hand, sinking further as the water curved unnaturally to accept him –
– then, with a slick schlup and a pop, the lakewater whooshed in over Ben's head, covering him in a split second and obscuring him from sight.
~*~
As the wave crashes in liquid thunder over the droideka, he knows it won't be enough.
So while it claws and writhes against the water's pull, Obi-Wan prepares himself for the dive – taking a long, last breath of air, then taking away his need for air at all as he induces a hasty semi-stasis, all the while deflecting the last of the droid's attacks and rapidly, continuously shunting off the constant stream of pain from the blaster burn on his wrist.
And though he successfully completes each of these tasks, it's slapdash; he doesn't do them all well.
As he finds out ten minutes into his cold, dark, underwater dive, when the droid, targeting his wrist, manages to hit it again, jolting him from his concentration and his hold on his sabre and sending shivers of pain up and down his arm, through his spine, in his mind.
It's all he can do not to gasp aloud and drown himself, then to send a wild Force-push the droideka's way, stalling it long enough to propel himself behind a wall of lake-floor rock even as his sabre is flung away and lost in the near-perfect darkness.
Sinking to the ground, Obi-Wan cradles his wrist, eyes half-shut and watering, brows drawn together, and divests himself of the pain as best he can. The Force still sings through his every nerve, but here, at the chilled bottom of the lake, the part of it made up of the Living is stronger – too strong for him, when he can't handle its newness, its wildness in the midst of a life-or-death fight against the droideka. If Qui-Gon were here, he'd –
The Force pulses a warning seconds before the droideka appears in his line of vision, its underwater approach woefully sluggish compared to its land speed, but quick enough to trap him inside this shelter if he doesn't get out now –
Surging from the hole with Force-speed, Obi-Wan stretches his uninjured arm out for a nearby chunk of rock half his size and twice as wide, hurling it into the droideka's side. With its impaired mobility, the machine can't get out of the way quick enough, and its metal screeches gratingly as it's sandwiched forcibly between the boulder and the very crevice Obi-Wan just exited. Several of its limbs protrude from behind the boulder, twitching spasmodically like severed lizard tails as it tries to free itself. Arm extended straight and tensed, palm flat outward, Obi-Wan keeps it there with difficulty, buying himself time.
Underwater like this, Obi-Wan has the definite advantage in maneuverability; while he can draw upon the Force to speed him through the water, the droid, built primarily for land-combat, has no such fallback. And as long as they're under the lake, then the civilians above-ground aren't in any danger, so his attention is no longer divided. Though he wonders why the old wizard and his second-in-command haven't attempted to help further; the Headmaster's instincts for what Obi-Wan was trying to do – lead the droideka below-water – were as quick-witted as many Force-sensitives, and he would have thought they'd both continue their attack, having seen him dive below to further his own assault....
But the droideka isn't alive, and it doesn't feel the bone-deep fatigue Obi-Wan does.
Not even the echo of far-off movement shimmers through the murky gray-green darkness of the freezing water; any fish have long since fled the scene, and plant-life is scarce this far down; the only motion comes from the thrashings of the droid, which has succeeded in prying loose another limb from the rock. Knowing he's helping the droideka, Obi-Wan nonetheless loosens his hold on the rock, trying to channel some raw Living Force into his wrist-wound, which has blackened into wispy-edged circles at the two points of impact, then spread tendrils of the same blackness up his arm and down his hand, shaped like the shadowed crevices of cracked and too-dry earth. But the Living Force again surges through his mind in pulses he can't fully channel; curling inward convulsively over the wound, he has to let it go. Swallowing around the pain, he tucks his wrist, unhealed, in the obi of his waterlogged tunic, sending a violent wave of the Force back at the droid when it suddenly pushes outward, nearly breaking free of its temporary prison. Through the darkness, he catches the flash of an inhuman red eye before he slams the boulder back in place.
Tiny bubbles wash away from his trembling hand.
Slowly, he swims closer to the pinned droideka, lowering his hand to his side but maintaining his grip on the Force even as his fingers touch the sleek metal tube clipped to his belt. It's not his own, so he'll need more concentration than he can spare now to light it. But if he can use it, then....
Decided, Obi-Wan readies himself for an attack whose outcome hinges on his ability – or not – to use his Master's lightsabre. If it lights, then he should be able to destroy the droid in one slice, from this range, and have this done and finished before he weakens any further. And if not....
One-handed, Obi-Wan grips Qui-Gon's sabre, swims into range – releases the rock, from which the droideka instantly springs in a coiling mass of clicking black limbs – reaches for the Force, for his Master's presence –
– raises his arm, and presses the sabre's switch.
~*~
Lying on his back in the snow, Harry had the perfect view for when the sky turned red.
Having deposited them in the snow, Hagrid left them with a distracted, “Now you all stay put,” and hurried off, presumably to help either Dumbledore or those professors tending to the injured students and rounding up those who tried to get closer to the lake. Still trapped in McGonagall's full body-bind, Harry couldn't even tell Hagrid there was no reason to caution the three of them – it wasn't like they could go anywhere anyway.
So he was just beginning to stew in his irritation at being unable to do anything, either to help the other Gryffindors or Dumbledore, when something like static crackled in red streaks across the sky. Stuck still, he could only scream a warning in his mind and watch mutely as the red flashed once more, like an old television screen tuning into a particularly fuzzy channel, before solidifying with an electric snap into a glowing red dome.
That got everyone's attention.
By the time the frightened and confused cries reached a crescendo and Harry was nearly desperate with the desire to be free of the spell, a shadow loomed momentarily overhead: McGonagall, waving her wand briskly over his body and looking very grim.
“Up you go, Mr. Potter,” she said, obscured and red-haloed by the dome's light, voice a tad raspy as she obviously recovered her breath, before moving on to Hermione and Ron.
Sitting up stiffly and rubbing feeling back into his limbs, Harry nonetheless got to his feet quickly, following the path of McGonagall's progress as she strode off rapidly – and Harry saw what, or rather, who, was responsible for the quieting alarm: Dumbledore, walking calmly among them, helping students and teachers all around with skilled wandwork and comforting words.
But in the end, Harry realized with a low, sinking feeling, he looked just as trapped as the rest of them.
Whatever the dome was, a quick pivot on his feet showed it covered nearly the entire Hogwarts grounds from castle to Forest, Forest to lake, lake to castle. Only Hagrid's hut and the landmarks themselves – castle, Forest, and lake – had escaped it; all the clear field in between was covered in the red. Triangular in shape, at each of the three junctures the dome pinched downwards, as if anchored by something Harry couldn't quite see. From those points, it bubbled upwards and curved roundly, casting everything outside it into a translucent, pale red. Over everything emanated a distinct, constant hum that he could feel vibrate down to his bones, even as it made the hair on his arms stand on end.
Ron and Hermione came to stand beside him, looking as stunned as he felt.
“What is it?” Ron asked faintly. “Hermione?”
“It's not any spell I've ever seen or heard of,” she replied, just as unsure, eyes cast skyward.
“...Voldemort,” Harry murmured darkly, to which Ron and Hermione glanced at him with alarm. He, too, looked down from the dome, past the red glow it cast on his friends' – and his own – features. “He hasn't done anything since fourth year – maybe this is what he's been working on all this time.”
He could see when the surprise started leaving them and the logic kicked in. “That'd make sense,” Ron agreed, like Harry pulling out his wand and holding it tightly. All three of them began surveying the borders beyond the dome.
“It's certainly possible, at least in terms of the barrier,” Hermione murmured, then cast a quick spell that created a mirror-shaped circle. Peering over her shoulder, Harry saw it acted like a giant magnifying glass, which she moved about at will to zoom in on sections of the dome.
She glanced back at Harry. “Here,” she said, and cast the spell once for Harry and Ron, too, then returned to observing the dome. “What I don't understand,” she continued, “is – a robot, made by V-Voldemort? That's too Muggle for him, don't you think? And what's the point of it? If they're keeping us here for Voldemort, or if he's here himself, why wouldn't they have done something by now?”
Harry and Ron traded dark looks. “I don't know,” Harry said, holding his wand up and ready and feeling an ominous weight settle over them, “but we'll be ready, when he does.”
But as time wore on and ten minutes passed and there was still no sign of any activity outside the dome, they began to grow more worried and less inclined to be stationary.
“Come on,” Harry finally said, “Let's go see if Dumbledore knows anything –”
“Hey, you three!” Hagrid's loud voice chose that moment to boom across the field. Looking to the man, Harry saw that Dumbledore was indeed already gathering all the thirty-some students and teachers in clustered groups, setting them with wands in hand and circled like wagon trains, protectively guarding the injured but with wands pointed outward. Hagrid gestured hurriedly with both hands; still watchful, Harry, Hermione, and Ron obeyed his summons, even as several professors, McGonagall and Snape among them, broke away from the group and spread out to the corners of the dome, wands out and casting spells – Harry saw Snape shoot out a jet of blue light that made a terrific screech and burst into a hundred tiny flares upon contact with the dome, forcing the wizard to throw himself to the ground to avoid the sparks.
Caught between an ugly satisfaction and reluctant disappointment at the git's failed spell, Harry wasn't sure what to think. In the end, he just turned around and ignored the matter entirely.
Seeing that they'd heard him, Hagrid just gave them a last beckoning wave before crouching down in a massive bulk to talk to a little first-year, crying in the snow. But hurrying quickly towards them was Neville, silhouette rounded by the bulk of his snow-gear and red-faced from either cold or exhilaration.
“There you are,” he gasped, putting gloved hands to his knees only for a moment before turning back the way he came and calling over his shoulder, “Come on, Dean got hit-”
Alarmed at the worry they could hear in Neville's voice, the three lost no time following behind his scrambling path around other students and teachers, talking amongst themselves but every so often with the strong timbre of Dumbledore's counterpoint. When they found Dean, it wasn't a pretty sight – his entire left leg from the knee down was covered in blood, the skin torn and ragged in places. Dean himself was wide-eyed and breathing in rapid, shallow, pained breaths, staring frantically at the face of Seamus, who'd crouched over his torso where he lay to block his line of sight to the injury and was busy talking a random stream of desperate, determined nonsense to keep his friend's mind busy. Professor Sprout, dirt-stained and obviously fresh from the greenhouse, was conducting the healing process, Lavender busily following her snapped instructions with the air of someone partially in shock.
“Why hasn't Pomfrey-” Hermione began frantically.
“Can't get in,” Seamus cut her off without looking, then snapped his fingers to regain Dean's attention when his eyes drifted towards his leg.
“See, over there,” Neville pointed. Harry followed his finger and was surprised to see, now that he was closer to the castle, a cluster of professors, Pomfrey among them, attempting to break the barrier from the outside, and what looked like Filch and the Bloody Baron guarding the entrance to the castle – as well as keeping any other students inside. Every so often there was a flicker of silvery mist against the dome, and a fizz of sparks –
“The ghosts can't get in either,” Harry realized.
“Or house-elves,” Ron added grimly. “See Dobby?”
And indeed, the long bobbing blue ears of the house-elf himself could be seen flopping around the knees of the professors every so often, though it was difficult to see much in detail from this distance.
Dean let out a long groan, calling their attention back. Hermione began wringing her fingers together and saying, “I wish I knew an anesthetic spell-”
“Where's Severus?” Sprout snapped suddenly, the most agitated Harry'd ever seen her. She took a glance away from Dean's leg to search the area. “Or Albus. Somebody get me one of them now-”
“No need, Pomona.”
Like parting the sea, all those clustered around Dean save Seamus, Lavender, and Sprout stepped back for Dumbledore, who immediately crouched down beside the boy, casting spell after quiet spell – slowly, Dean's eyes began to droop, his tension draining from his body. Watching Dumbledore's face, Harry found it determined and calm, to the point of near-expressionless; his hands were steady, and he didn't even glance once away from his work on Dean's leg despite the relative chaos going on around him. It would almost be enough for Harry to think that Dumbledore wasn't truly worried, or furious, or readying for a fight....
...if he hadn't been palpable with power.
Before Harry's eyes, Dean's leg began knitting itself back up, and a discreet wave of Spout's wand cleared away most of the blood from the snow; Harry felt relief start to fill him, when a chance glance toward the Forest drew his attention.
“Hermione, make that magnifying spell again,” he urged her abruptly, grabbing her arm to alert her without looking and moving away from Dean.
Quick-witted, Hermione made the lens first and asked questions after. “What is it, Harry?” she asked, drawing up a quick lens for both Ron and her as well.
Swiveling the lens towards the Forest, Harry pinpointed what he saw after a few seconds of silence. “Here, come here,” he urged, eyes on the two magnified figures approaching Forest-side. “Look.”
Peering over either shoulder, Ron exclaimed, “Blimey, they're just like Ben-”
“Oh, Merlin, we forgot about Ben!” Hermione gasped suddenly, covering her mouth with a hand and spinning her own lens around to the lake. “No one can hold his breath that long-”
Harry glanced over once at Hermione's search of the lake, everything beyond it red-tinted by the dome, but didn't track his own lens away from the figures approaching them.
“Someone should tell Dumbledore-” Ron began, scrambling away through the snow, footsteps retreating in a rapid series of crunches.
Watching the two figures approach wasn't an easy task, Harry soon found – they ran with the same rapid speed Ben did, and every so often they seemed to flicker out of sight only to reappear large gaps of space ahead. Long robes fanning out behind them, the pair seemed to skim over the snow rather than touch it. Squinting, Harry was just deciding that the taller one was female, the smaller male when the man suddenly split off from the pair, veering off sharply towards the lake.
“Hermione-”
“Harry, look!” she interrupted, gesticulating urgently towards the lake. Torn, Harry hesitated only briefly before glancing away from his own lens and towards the water's edge, where he saw what had caught her attention.
“It's Ben!”
Magnified by the lens, sodden and restrained of movement, it was indeed the darkened hair of Ben bobbing above the surface of the lake, then emerging from its shallows, silhouette wraith-like in wetness-darkened robes strewn with bits of ropy, twisted seaweed, form hunched-over, washed, and darkened in the eerie red pall of the dome.
“He's all right!” Hermione cried in relief, the two new figures momentarily forgotten as they watched Ben pull slowly out of the water. There was no sign of his lighted sword, but there was also no sign of the robot that had chased him under. Which meant –
“He must have beaten it,” Harry said in awe. “That robot. He must have short-circuited it in the water or something.”
“Of course,” Hermione agreed somewhat breathlessly, eyes fixed ahead on Ben as, now fully free of the water, slanted his shoulder to pull his brown robe off one-handed and dump it on the snow. “That's why he was bringing it to the water – like a hairdryer in a bathtub. He must be Muggleborn,” she added smugly in an aside that would have been funny had the situation been less dire – but as it was, all he did was nod in complete agreement.
Then someone tapped his shoulder; startled, Harry jumped and turned in the direction of the guilty finger, which belonged to an excited-looking Ron.
“Sorry, Harry, but Dumbledore's about to talk with one of those people-” Ron gestured vaguely in the direction of the Forest to indicate the two figures, then pointed over his shoulder to where, true to his word, the Headmaster stood waiting at the edge of the dome closest to the lake, which the brown-robed woman was nearing rapidly. The other teachers, even McGonagall and Snape, still crouched among the students, ensuring their safety; but it was clear that, with the injuries mostly treated, both students and teachers alike were tuning in keenly to the coming conversation.
“Let's get a little closer,” Harry whispered, Hermione and Ron nodding, and they surreptitiously made their way to the cluster of people nearest Dumbledore. They passed a heavily sedated Dean with Seamus and Lavender still crouched near; Neville, who was with them as well, rose when they passed.
“I want to hear this, too,” he muttered, casting nervous glances to where Snape crouched, back to them, several yards away and hissing quiet orders at a pair of seventh years while he poured a potion down the throat of a third.
McGonagall gave them heavy frowns at their approach. “You will not interfere,” she whispered sternly, tone like steel, “and you will stay behind me. Now, Mr. Potter.”
Grumbling, Harry obeyed. Mostly.
In a quiet whipping of robes, the woman slowed, nearing the dome's boundary where Dumbledore waited. This close, Harry could see she was much older than he thought – sixties, maybe – with coils of black braids looping all around her slightly olive-toned face and dark eyes. Lines wrinkled a fine line down her forehead, in the middle of which a single red jewel rested. Underneath her robe, she wore dark brown pants, boots, and tunic very similar in cut if not color to Ben's. Attached to her belt was an unobtrusive gray tube.
The last several strides she took brought her to the edge of the dome where she stood, red-tinged and silent, with hands tucked in sleeves and composure an almost physical cloak. If there had been any doubt about her connection to Ben before, this cinched it – standing before an angered Dumbledore, the most powerful wizard alive, she looked as calm as an old matriarch at teatime.
The woman bowed at the waist, straightened, and spoke.
“Headmaster Dumbledore.” Her voice was a cultured alto and smooth as polished marble. “I am Jedi Master Kor Vollei. Do any among you require further assistance?”
Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Neville shared a glance – Jedi?
“No.” Even that one word was like restrained thunder – Harry was almost glad he couldn't see Dumbledore's face. Then, “Jedi Master Kor Vollei – if you know what this restraint is, I ask you to release us immediately.”
Her face was impassive. “I cannot.”
“You cannot.”
“Not until my partner and I have secured the area.” In the distance, the other wizard had nearly reached Ben.
“You will find,” Dumbledore said calmly, “that no threat remains, save for in pieces at the bottom of the lake.”
“You are correct,” she says gravely, “in your assertion of the droideka's destruction; however, the threat,” she shakes her head slightly, “has not passed.”
The man and Ben had begun talking.
“And what threat remains, save for a barrier which keeps our Mediwitch from her patients, our students and teachers from the safety of our school?” Harry, Ron, and Hermione traded glances; for all that the barb was delivered in a measured, even voice, it sounded more threatening than any bellow.
But the woman was unaffected; shaking her head slowly, then pausing to dip it once in an expression of regret, she lifted her head and opened her eyes.
“There is a rogue Jedi on your planet. Like his Master, he has been touched by the Dark Side; and as was his Master, so must he be brought to justice. He is named Obi-Wan Kenobi. But to you, he is known as...
“...Ben.”