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 5)
-six-
-eclipse-
He clips Qui-Gon's sabre to his belt, leaves the split halves of the droid resting at the bottom of the lake, and kicks to the surface, mind clear of thought and a faint buzzing in his ears. The surface glimmers with the warmth and whites of reflected sunshine and snow, but the deep, icy chill of the water remains, threatening to freeze the breath in his lungs should he lapse in his touch of Force-given warmth for even a moment. As the darkness lifts all around him, he becomes aware of the approach of many lifeforms; fish returning to normalcy, yes, but also....
He pauses in his ascent to bow to the three figures hovering at the edge of darkness and visibility. Fish-tailed and wild-haired, their skin glistens like scales; the closest one, a man with fierce eyes, raises a palm outward and nods, a gesture Obi-Wan returns before continuing on his way. The aquatic people don't follow, but neither do they leave, watching the kick of his boots all the way up until he can see the sky through the water, and breaks its surface.
The first thing he undoes is the semi-stasis; he takes several long, gasping breaths as his body remembers how to function at a normal rate. Still staving off the cold and the creeping pain of his wrist, Obi-Wan twists towards the shoreline and begins swimming, injured arm tucked against his body and tendrils of the Force adding extra strength to his motions. The buzzing hasn't left his ears, and he has to blink, blearily, several times against the blurring in his vision. With the droideka gone, so, too, is his adrenaline seeping away, leaving an all-encompassing exhaustion worse than before the attack ever began.
Theoretically, the Force could sustain his body forever; but in reality, no living body can indefinitely handle the direct touch of the Force. Organic forms weren't made to handle it without end, and his body knows it. He can't continue this way much longer – it's not a question of weeks anymore, or even days, but hours.
But then all thoughts of his own health are gone beneath a body-wide flash of mixed dread and memory: a force field, expansive and dome-shaped, spans the majority of the field, with the very wizards and witches he was protecting trapped within.
A spike of remembered horror shoots anew through his heart. He's seen this kind of force field before. It's just like the one used to separate him and his Master, forcing Obi-Wan to prowling helplessness while his Master was stabbed through the chest....
“Padawan!”
Startled and surprised both at the term and at hearing Common spoken anywhere on this planet, Obi-Wan tears his gaze from the writhing redness to a far-off figure, approaching at a pace only sustainable with Force-speed, voice reaching his ears only through wind directed and enhanced by the Force.
It's a Jedi. A Jedi's Force presence is unmistakable. How hadn't he sensed him earlier?
A Jedi!
“Knight!” he calls, stretching his words on the wind until they, too, reach the Jedi's ears, “Help the wizards!” On the heels of his entreaty, he attaches a series of images to the word 'wizards,' enough to demonstrate what wizards are, should the Jedi not know, as well as who they are, in flashes of names and faces – a technique taught as early as the crèche for the immediate transfer of information from one Jedi to the next.
But the Knight or Master, whichever he may be, doesn't turn from his path. In fact, Obi-Wan catches a definite shake of the head.
No?
Having reached the shore's edge, Obi-Wan drags himself from the water under the burdensome weight of sodden robes. Angling his back, he reaches with his uninjured arm to unfasten the robe and slough it from his shoulders, letting it fall to the ground in a heavy, wet heap of cloth and bits of seaweed. Despite its coldness, Obi-Wan feels the lack of the robe in the faint wind's chill, and has to heat his body further from within.
His hands won't stop trembling....
He looks up; the Knight approaches.
“Padawan, are you injured?” He's a short man, humanoid, stocky, pale-faced, and red-haired with a long, thin mustache and age lines etched into the corners of his mouth. Light green eyes watch him carefully, calm expression tightened with hints of tension. They light upon Obi-Wan's wrist, resting safely in the folds across his waist between his outer and inner tunic.
“Blaster burns,” Obi-Wan explains briefly, not untucking his wrist. “We need to free the wizards,” he begins to turn towards the force field, saying, “Have you located the field generators?”
“Hold, Padawan.”
Obi-Wan pauses, facing the Jedi once more who stands, face still largely untroubled, with hands now tucked in his sleeves. Obi-Wan shifts, brows coming together slightly.
“What is your name, Padawan?”
“Obi-Wan Kenobi, Knight...?”
“Master Pavrell,” the Master corrects, to which Obi-Wan bows in acknowledgment. “Padawan Kenobi, I require your assistance. Do not worry about the force shield; my partner and I are responsible for it, and it protects the wizards, not contains them. You destroyed the droideka, but can't you feel the Force stirring? There is still danger present.”
Obi-Wan's brow furrows slowly and he casts out his senses to the currents of the Unifying Force, feeling them smooth and warm against his mind, but agitated. It's true, he realizes; there's something off in the Force that speaks of an underlying danger as yet unaddressed. But it's nebulous and shifting, and he can't pinpoint from where this unease springs....
“I do feel something,” Obi-Wan agrees gradually, keeping a thread of his touch to the Unifying Force active. “Something...elusive.” He watches the Master sharply to keep the encroaching fogginess of his mind at bay. His body aches in protest, but he can't rest yet....
He opens his channel to the Force wider, drawing upon its essence and shivering.
“Exactly,” the Master nods, gaze calmly traveling the landscape. “We cannot discern its source any more than you can, Padawan, and it is for this reason that we keep the wizards safe. They aren't equipped to deal with another droideka.”
“No,” Obi-Wan agrees quietly, taking in the large chunks of rock broken off from the walls of the castle – not enough to break a hole through its sides, but plenty sufficient to send that rock tumbling down on the students who'd been too near it. Seen through the force shield, the castle and wizards alike are tinted with red, and the smell of smoke and debris drifts over the landscape.
“As you can see, my partner is already explaining the situation.”
As the Master's voice drifts through his ears, so too do Obi-Wan's eyes drift to the back of the Jedi woman, standing calmly on the outside of the barrier and speaking to the school's Headmaster, whose expression of composure was belied by the emotion swirling about him in active eddies.
“He won't be satisfied by it,” Obi-Wan says, eyes on the old wizard, watching the subtle shift of facial expressions.
“No,” the Master agrees, “But he will accept it. The safety of his school depends on it.”
Obi-Wan watches them talk a moment more before looking sidelong at the other Jedi. “Master Pavrell. Do you have a way off this planet?”
“Off the planet?” The Master glances at him. “Of course. But you cannot leave now, Padawan. Come, we'll meet with Master Kor Vollei first before we leave to search out the source of the disturbance; your willing presence will serve to allay their fears, I think.”
Obi-Wan hesitates for just a moment of unobserved scrutiny of the Master; calm-eyed, unemotional, the very picture of a composed Jedi Master, unmoved by the turmoil around him. What he feels must be said; the warning thrum of the Force will have it no other way, nor would he, even without its insistence...and therein lies the cause of his subtle wash of shame. “...of course. But I will not leave the castle, Master Pavrell.”
The Master turns to him sharply. “Padawan, you must. My partner and I cannot do this alone; what would keep you here?”
Obi-Wan shakes his head slightly, though in denial of what, he isn't sure. “I cannot leave,” the Force rises to a warning crescendo, “because my Master needs me here.”
“Your Master?” the Jedi's eyes narrow; he faces Obi-Wan fully now. “Your Master is alive?”
Obi-Wan doesn't immediately reply, taking in the sudden spike in tension in the Master, the way he subconsciously straightens himself as if to loom from his lesser height.
“...yes,” he answers finally. Something of his blooming caution must have crept through his weakened control onto the Force, for the Master lets out a breath, expression clearing instantly.
“Forgive my outburst, Padawan Kenobi. I was under the impression he had not survived your vessel's crash; in all truthfulness, we were certain neither of you had survived, or we should have contacted you sooner.”
Obi-Wan nods silently, pressing his fingertips to his arms inside his sleeves.
“But that doesn't change what I've said. If your Master is injured, he must be left to his own devices. You serve the greater good, not your Master; you must understand this, do you not?”
“I understand,” Obi-Wan replies, nodding in a semi-bow, “but I cannot leave. My instincts tell me to stay, and I must heed-” my Master's teachings “-them.”
“Padawan,” the Master's arms unfold from their resting position across his torso, and a frown deepens his age-lines. “Your instincts, too, must bow to the greater good. You will come with me, and we will eliminate this threat.”
“I cannot, Master Pavrell.”
For a moment, the Master simply stares at him, green eyes unblinking and brows raised at his disobedience. Obi-Wan meets his gaze without flinching. He grows more certain by the moment that his path is the right one the more he examines the feelings generating it. Is this how Qui-Gon feels facing down the Council?
Then the Master draws himself up to his full height, looking at Obi-Wan with a mix of stern, unpitying authority and compassion.
“Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi, the Order Calls you to service!”
...!
A leaf shakes – then sweeps off in a sudden screaming wind; Obi-Wan feels lightheaded, swaying backwards a pace in shock. The Master's words shriek through his mind.
The Order Calls you to service!
His eyes widen, and he stares in disbelief at the Master, unyielding and upright, even as his shoulders slowly bow, processing faster than his mind what the ritual words entail. In all his years as Jedi, he's heard the ancient Call to obedience invoked only once – for a recently Masterless Padawan three years his junior, attacking several of the crèchelings in a fit of madness and nearer to the Dark Side than any he'd ever seen and be as yet unturned. In the end, the Padawan had pulled back from the Dark Side only long enough to kill herself, torn between too many pulling emotions and unable to bear the horrible guilt of knowing she was turning into the very thing her deceased Master had protected her against.
And this – he needs this, too?
Stunned, he feels the cold creeping into his skin and the black, grating burn of his wrist as his touch to the Force falters. Like one asleep, he sluggishly reasserts the connections, though he barely feels their warmth. His body curves. His eyes drop. As a marionette, he feels pulled on strings beyond his control as his joints and limbs articulate in concert to lower him first to one knee, then the other. His breath steams the crisp air like smoke clouds; his hands haven't lost their shake when he places them, palms-down and unfeeling, to the snow.
Obi-Wan bows to the force of ritual millennia-ancient, thick with tradition, and weighed by the nearly palpable presence of hundreds of thousands of Jedi, as if every one is a living shadow over his back, pressing him forward to obedience and the Light.
When his forehead touches the earth, Obi-Wan speaks.
“I answer the Call.”
~*~
Ben! Harry cast a meaningful glance at Hermione and Ron. He didn't doubt Ben completely, not yet, because he had led that robot away, no matter what this woman said....But suddenly all his earlier suspicions came back to him. The brown-cloaked figure talking with Voldemort. Ben's uncanny ability to know more than he should and be too many places in too short a timespan. The centaurs getting sick after meeting with Ben. Part of him didn't want to believe it, but another part of him thought that maybe he was right all along....
“I do not believe Ben to be any kind of threat,” Dumbledore responded firmly, drawing himself up tall and unyielding. The woman shook her head, voice serious and grave.
“What you believe is irrelevant; what matters is the truth. Obi-Wan Kenobi is Dark Side-touched, and until he returns to the Order to cleanse himself of it, he is very much a threat. I am sorry if this causes you dismay, but this is how it must be.”
Dumbledore frowned thunderously. “Not only did he just destroy that machine nearly single-handedly, but Ben has been nothing but an asset to the centaurs of the Forest for weeks. I won't see him taken away in return without due cause or explanation and his own willing assent.”
“You wish assent?” The woman gestured gracefully with her hand. “Look behind me. He gives it.”
She alone stayed unmoving; all others turned, eyes immediately moving to the far-off figures at the lake's edge.
“Harry? What's going on?” Neville whispered beside him, voice barely audible; silently, Harry shook his head. He didn't know what to believe anymore. Because at the water's edge, looking just as compliant as the woman implied, was a folded-over figure, knees against the snow, back curved until his forehead and palms pressed against ground, one pale-clothed figure against a backdrop of whiteness. The brown-robed man stood, looking down upon the wizard – not just mere genuflection, Ben's pose spoke of complete obeisance. Set against the woman's words, such an action spoke volumes for the truth of her assertion.
But a part of Harry just felt sick, replacing Ben with a groveling Death Eater and the quiet, brown-robed man, who even now set a hand on Ben's shoulder to usher him up, with a black-robed Voldemort, slit-eyed with satisfaction, and raising his wand with cruel coldness to keep the groveler down.
“Observe,” the woman stated, drawing attention away from where Ben and the other man, both standing again, were gradually moving in their direction. “His obedience is a good sign; Padawan Kenobi can yet turn back to the Light.”
Harry looked once more at the figures approaching them – none of the superhuman speed in their movements now, just a solemn older man leading an acquiescent younger one, a few steps behind and to his right. Ben's gaze was directed at the ground; his movements, ungainly and stiff; and while one hand swung limply at his side, the other was tucked away, hidden from view in cream-colored tunics.
“He looks pretty guilty, doesn't he,” Ron said quietly. Harry glanced his way, then looked at Hermione, whose expression was one of mixed denial, reluctance, sympathy, and uncertainty.
“I don't want to believe it, but,” she shrugged helplessly. “I don't know what to think. I don't know what a Jedi is, or what being a Padawan means, but....He didn't seem like the type, did he?”
“No,” Harry agreed, voice just as low. “He didn't.”
“You guys know him?” Neville interjected in a whisper, looking at each of them in turn.
“He stayed at my house over winter hols,” Ron replied distantly, watching the pair get ever closer.
“You think he's really a Dark wizard?”
“Dunno, mate,” Ron answered grimly. “I think we're about to find out, though.”
But Dumbledore, apparently, wasn't so content to wait, not even the few minutes it would have taken for the pair to come to the dome's edge. “If you are so intent on proving his guilt, then tell me: what he has done?” he stated, a hard edge to his voice.
“Let me answer your question with a question, Headmaster,” the old woman returned, a curious tone entering her own rich voice. “Has he told you what the Jedi are? Or even that he is a Jedi? A Padawan, perhaps?” She shook her head and didn't wait for an answer. “He did not even tell you his true name. His duplicity alone damns him.”
“And have you done any better?” Dumbledore parried just as smoothly. “You give as little explanation as he, but where he has only helped, you have left us trapped.”
“I will say it again; you are not trapped, you are protected, and you will be set free.” Her mouth turned downwards. “You question our intentions; this is understandable, but unnecessary. The Order will help him regain himself; as he is now, he falters. Already he has done you nearly irreparable damage.”
“Oh?” Dumbledore questioned with raised brows.
“Yes. The centaurs of whom you speak – though it would appear as if he gives aid, the opposite is the case. He's been spreading the disease. Have you not wondered why he alone remains unaffected by the illness, nor why he has allowed none but himself to enter the Forest? This is why: Because he would have you believe his words, where his actions would have shown truth.”
“And you have proof of this?” Dumbledore asked, a dangerous edge to his voice.
“Of course. My partner is a true Jedi Healer; he has already seen to the centaurs. The signs of the Dark Side in their bodies are unmistakable.”
“I find your explanation lacking,” Dumbledore replied coolly, “But for now, I shall let it pass, because I am most interested to hear what your explanation is for the...I believe you called it a droideka.”
“The droideka....” the woman shook her head regretfully, black braids brushing her lined face. “For this, I am deeply, truly sorry, and know that we will repair all the damages – and the offer of aid still stands, should any of you need it. But know that the droideka, too, was necessary to subdue Padawan Kenobi.”
Harry could practically feel the power winding around Dumbledore.
“If I understand you correctly,” and Harry couldn't understand why the woman wasn't shrinking back in fear at the disbelieving anger growing in the Headmaster, whose voice rose steadily in volume to where even those first years clustered farthest away from the dome's edge had to have heard clearly, “You are telling me that you two...Jedi are responsible for its attack?”
The woman bowed deeply. “Yes.”
Harry could only wonder what Dumbledore's kindly old face must look like as he replied, voice quiet once more but, if anything, only more powerful for it, “I will hear why.”
“You already saw why, Headmaster.” The woman indicated the lake and the two approaching figures, nearly within earshot by this point. “Padawan Kenobi is formidable in battle. To subdue him on our own would have been beyond our means.”
“So you let a machine loose upon a castle full of students, who had nothing whatsoever to do with any of this.”
The woman didn't give an inch. “We are old, Headmaster,” she explained, an almost gentle tone to her voice. “He is young, and the Dark Side gives him an edge not easily matched. In order to see reason, he had to be weakened first. Had he replied to our summons and met us outside to begin with, the droid would not have attacked the castle, and you would never have known we were here.”
“Whether or not that is the case,” Dumbledore replied without a hint of matching gentleness, “I cannot condone your actions, Jedi Master Kor Vollei, not in the least.”
“And I cannot undo them, no matter how much I regret the harming of your students.”
And with that, neither spoke again, having reached a verbal impasse. Snape and McGonagall approached the Headmaster, speaking in low murmurs unable to be heard by any beyond the three; meanwhile, Sprout and a few other teachers were busy shepherding back from the dome's edge anyone who would listen – which didn't, of course, include Hermione, Ron, Harry, or, somewhat surprisingly, Neville.
So it was that, into this hushed flurry of activity, Ben and the other Jedi arrived – and nearly immediately, everyone went still, and quiet, and silent, so that the hushed murmur of their voices carried off and on over the landscape to those nearest as they spoke in a language no one could understand.
~*~
Maybe he does deserve this.
Maybe they know all he's done, all he's felt since crashing here and they condemn him for it. Maybe the whole Order knows. Maybe what he feels is worse than a Padawan gone corrupted, desperate, and angry from the Dark Side – worse, because he chooses it? Because compassion must be bound before it turns into...this? Because what he feels for his Master has been morphing beyond his control for years until here, shaken by the Call, exhausted, hungry, anxious, and cold, he can finally find the word that encompasses all that he feels for his Master, and yet doesn't even begin to dip into the thick, flowing, wonderful, strangling truth of it –
– LOVE –
– he cringes away. How is he even supposed to...what should he...how....
How is he supposed to deal with this?
Get rid of it, but it won't be gotten rid of.
Sublimate it, but there's nothing to shift it to.
Accept it, but he can't! Jedi do not love!
The first touch of misery seeps into his mind, black as oil. If the Master had never Called him, he would never have looked inward with the desperation necessary to find what he was doing wrong – feeling wrong. If he hadn't been so shocked, he wouldn't have looked so hard, and he might have passed over it completely....
What will Qui-Gon think when he wakes up?
He closes his eyes, fingers curling like dying spiders. The sense of rightness he'd felt only – moments? minutes? – before, is gone, completely obliterated in the face of this is not right. He can barely touch the Force anymore, and he needs it. His heart wrist aches; he tries to reclaim at least a part of his connection, to still the dull throbbing, but the Force slips through his fingers like shadow. He can't touch it, not with a mind like his. The Force doesn't answer to turmoil....
....unless....
....unless accessed through the Dark Side.
~*~
Dumbledore tried talking to the Jedi – each of them, both of them, twice, but they only said, “We need a moment to discuss the transportation of Padawan Kenobi, please, and then we assure you, your questions will be addressed.”
And Ben – well, Ben didn't answer at all.
So Harry was surprised when Dumbledore abandoned his place by the Jedi and leaned down towards him, Ron, and Hermione, expression determined but without that thrumming sense of contained power from before.
Harry was glad. He didn't think he ever wanted that unleashed in his direction.
“Harry, Mr. Weasley, Miss Granger.” Dumbledore spoke quietly, peering over his spectacles at each of them in turn. Behind him some distance away, McGonagall watched with a speculative frown; Snape's eyes, however, stayed narrowed at the Jedi. “Could you please try calling Ben for me?”
Harry traded a quick glance with Ron and Hermione, while Neville glanced back and forth between them and Dumbledore with the air of someone paying very close attention while trying not to be noticed.
“We're not all that close to him, sir,” Harry admitted. “I don't think we'll be able to do much good – but we can try,” he added, hating to disappoint Dumbledore but truthfully not putting much stock in the idea.
Dumbledore's smile, then, was as kind as if they weren't standing out in the cold trapped inside a magical dome after an attack on the castle. As if he'd just gotten a pair of particularly gaudy socks, or was handing out lemon drops to people who actually liked them as much as he did.
“That's all I ever ask for, Harry.”
Harry nodded. “All right, sir, we'll give it a go, then-”
However, standing at the edge of the dome, peering through the wavy red haze and with Ron and Hermione waiting expectantly beside him, he nonetheless felt decidedly stupid as he tried to think of what to say. Ben stood with eyes downcast, looking thin and pale without the bulk of his brown robe, his clothes and boots soaked through and his braid frozen stiff over his shoulder. He looked like he needed consoling, not badgering.
So: how to approach this. Like coaxing a stray? Not that he was ever any good with Crookshanks, but....
“Er, hi, Ben. It's, um, Harry. You remember, from Ron's house, right? The Weasleys? Um....” he trailed off awkwardly when Ben didn't move. Harry reached out to touch the dome; a cleared throat stopped him.
“I would suggest not touching it, Harry,” Dumbledore offered delicately.
“Er. Right.” He stepped back and tried again. “Well, listen, Ben. If you can hear me, we need to talk to you. Me, Hermione, Ron, and Professor Dumbledore. Ben? Hey, come on – can you just wave your hand or something if you can hear me-”
“Hold on a minute, Harry.” Hermione placed a hand on his arm briefly to stop him. “Let me try something.”
Stepping up to the dome's edge (but not within touching distance), she called out clearly, “Obi-Wan?”
Slowly, Ben's eyes closed. His fingers curved into a knucklebone-white grip. But his facial expression remained blank and closed; his posture, tense; and his voice, silent.
The other two Jedi continued talking, voices low and speech exotic.
“Well, not exactly what I was going for, but it's a sign,” Hermione said hopefully. Then, louder to Ben again, “Obi-Wan Kenobi? Padawan Kenobi? Can you hear me? We'd like to hear from you what's going on, if you could tell us. Obi-Wan?”
Ben didn't reply, and this time, he didn't move, either. Hermione's brows came together. Dumbledore, Harry noticed, kept his eyes on Ben, speculatively.
While Hermione attempted to catch his attention again, Harry heard Neville clear his throat a little nervously. “Professor Dumbledore?”
“Yes, Mr. Longbottom?”
“Er, I probably shouldn't say this too loud, just in case,” he whispered, to which Dumbledore nodded encouragingly. “But can't we just tunnel out, under the dome?”
“Ah.” With approval, Dumbledore responded just as quietly, “we certainly could, if the dome didn't in fact extend beneath our feet.”
“Oh.” Momentarily crestfallen, Neville came back with, “Then couldn't someone out there-” he pointed to the far side of the dome, on the other side of which the several professor stood, attempting in various ways to get in, “-just broom over the top of the dome to get to the Jedi?”
“You are quite right, Mr. Longbottom,” Dumbledore murmured back, the commendation clearer now, to which Neville ducked his head a bit, “However, at this point we're waiting on a few arrivals before we proceed further.”
“Oh. Okay, sir.” Neville waited expectantly, but Dumbledore merely peered through the dome at Ben, seemingly oblivious. Neville soon gave up, retuning to stand next to Harry.
“Want me to try?” Ron was asking Hermione doubtfully, scratching the back of his head when, as one, the two Jedi turned towards Ben.
“Padawan Kenobi.”
....Gradually, Ben shifted their direction; first the eyes, then the head as if pulled by the eyes; then the body, but only slightly, so that he faced them twisted and sidelong.
“Steshe?”
For a moment, Harry thought Ben had just mangled the pronunciation of “yes” – until he heard more of that same rapid, consonant-heavy language coming from the male Jedi's mouth, clearly addressing Ben.
“A morien vaïchdi skrivitzki udna....” The man strung together a few sentences worth of words, tone authoritative, but otherwise inflection-less. Ben gave no indication that he was comprehending any of it; his gaze remained strange and unfocused.
It was a familiar facial expression. Ben had that same haunted, fey look he'd worn after seeing Quinn's funeral pyre through the boggart...which didn't bode well for whatever he was being told.
When the man finished, Ben blinked slowly, then, like a man half-asleep, and turned all the way to face the Jedi, giving those in the dome a profile-view of his slightly crooked nose and naturally arched brow.
“Ehtudri Master Kor Vollei stino na kudna seiki Master vasten?”
His voice had a bit of a rasp to it, like the crackle of dried leaves, and he spoke so softly as to be nearly inaudible. For a second, it wasn't the discrepancy between this quietly downtrodden young man and the serenely unruffled wizard he'd been all that time at the Weasleys' that was the hardest to reconcile about Ben; it was that, for the first time, Harry heard him speak a sentence, not in simple diction and uncomplicated phrasing, but with each of the words in the quick piano-scale succession that comes from speaking one's native tongue. And for that second, Harry was struck anew with the fact that he really didn't know anything about Ben; not what kind of wizard he was, not where he was from, not what language that was he spoke with ease, and whether or not he was more intelligent than his lack of English had made him seem.
What if Ben had known all along that not knowing English made him appear stupider – and had used it to his advantage?
The two Jedi traded glances; the man sighed faintly in what could have been disappointment.
“Padawan, seisaïskra da straso li dohpa.”
“There's that word again,” Hermione said in an undertone, alert and sharply trained on the conversation.
“Which word?” he whispered back.
“Padawan,” she murmured. “It's a title of his, obviously, and somewhat diminutive, and I'm quite certain he used the word Master....”
Something curled unpleasantly through Harry's stomach. “Master?”
Hermione glanced at him. “Yes. It makes sense – the woman introduced herself as a 'Jedi Master,' remember?”
“Sometimes Voldemort has his followers call him Master, Hermione.”
“....Yes,” she repeated carefully, and looked about to say more, but Harry's expression must have changed her mind; she didn't offer anything else, and returned her attention to the conversation, just in time to see the woman take a sudden step closer to Ben, looking very intent and leaning forward.
“....slaku na nepet'ohda diverni ri vo?”
Whatever it was, Ben didn't seem to want to answer.
“Navaga, Padawan,” the man snapped. “Diverni vo giseiki Master?”
Shade-like, Ben recoiled.
“Viku dzei vodi,” he murmured, voice barely audible and eyes downcast. The man nodded; the woman stepped back, said a few more words to Ben, to which he merely dipped his chin in silent acquiescence; then, turning to the man, she placed in the male Jedi's extended palm a red, oval object, about half the size of his palm.
“This device controls the force field,” he explained in English, surprising many of the wizards, Harry included, by addressing them directly once more. He held it up between forefinger and thumb so they could see it more clearly. “Padawan Kenobi has agreed to leave with Master Kor Vollei; I'll remain to disable the shield, and you'll be free to return to your castle.”
“Might we speak to Ben directly on this matter?” Dumbledore asked smoothly.
“Certainly. Padawan?”
Ben and the woman had already begun walking away; at being addressed, Ben paused and faced them once more from his position on the woman's right. His eyes seemed distant, and he shifted his focus from the man to Dumbledore with lethargic slowness.
“Headmaster Dumbledore?”
“Ben,” Dumbledore began, tone completely changed – kind, coaxing, inviting Ben to help him understand. “We'd like to hear from you what's happened this afternoon. Could you tell us?”
Arms tucked his sleeves, Ben closed his eyes once, slowly, then opened them, looking vaguely at a point somewhat above Dumbledore. It would have been insulting, Harry thought, if something wasn't so clearly wrong.
Dumbledore tried again. “Are you leaving of your own free will, Ben?”
As if hearing something no one else could, Ben cocked his head to the side, doing another of those eerily slow blinks. Neville shifted uncomfortably beside him; Harry was reminded of where Neville's parents were, and how they'd got there, and the kinds of behavior that he must see at that place....
Gradually, Ben folded over at the waist in a bow, eyes closed.
“I am called Obi-Wan Kenobi, Headmaster.”
And with those last words, Ben turned around, docilely following in the female Jedi's wake, not responding to Dumbledore's attempts to call him back.
The Headmaster rounded on the other Jedi. “What have you done to him?”
The man responded calmly, “Padawan Kenobi is fine. His English is, as you know, limited; he hasn't the vocabulary to describe the events of this afternoon. We're going to help him, Headmaster,” he added, the first hint of earnestness creeping into his voice. “You've only seen him as he is, now; when he returns to what he once was, he will be a credit to the Order once more.”
Dumbledore shook his head firmly. “There is something wrong with that young man,” he said softly, “and you are fools if you cannot see it.”
The man copied Dumbledore's motions. “Headmaster, believe me in this: we do see it, more clearly than you know. Now; I'm going to let you out. You must give me your word you won't go after them.”
Dumbledore drew himself up, meeting the Jedi's eyes resolutely and not speaking.
“I must have your word, Headmaster, or I cannot let your students free,” the male Jedi said pointedly.
Dumbledore held out a few moments longer; then, still tall and firm, he nodded.
“Thank you.” The Jedi bowed. Rising, he withdrew the small red device –
– a blue eye slid sleekly to the side as Ben looked over his shoulder, a sudden flash of teeth gleaming white in a washed-out landscape –
~*~
He's going to do it. He's going to do it and Obi-Wan won't let him-
~*~
– the man jerked backwards unnaturally, yanked like a puppet, eyes wide and white and empty; the green light shone with a beautiful glow, hummed softly and stuck out from the man's chest.
Unmistakably dead, the man's body draped limply off the object on which he was skewered, pig-like, mouth slack and lolling. Then, with another jerking, unnatural yank, the sword slid out of his chest, leaving a gaping, even, cauterized hole where it'd been, as if a giant earthworm had tunneled through the man rather than a sword made of light.
The sword flew back through the air, a hawk to the waiting hand of its master, whose other hand was tensed in a claw-like rictus over a blackened wrist. The hand unclenched abruptly; without any support, the man's body slumped to the ground. Dead.
Harry saw the red device trail limply from the dead man's fingers, resting on its side in the snow.
Lip curled, movements whiplike fierce, Ben –
No.
Obi-Wan attacked the remaining Jedi.