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adogonstilts · 10 months ago

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In the Shadow of Forgiveness

So I've started a new series before finishing my old one, as per usual. This one is based of off Hogwarts Legacy, because the Sallows deserved better and the game just leaves way too many stones unturned. I don't expect all the chapters to be this long, but the first two are. I might restructure them later but for now, I need to get it out of the vacuum in my head and into the world. If you prefer, you can check it out here on AO3!

Also, as this is Harry Potter related, I want to state that while I like the HP series and I really enjoyed the game, I am extremely disillusioned with J.K.R. as an individual. Her books gave her an enormous platform that she repeatedly uses to spread hate and transphobia, while also trying to gain brownie points by throwing in her character's sexual orientation as an afterthought. Her actions have hurt many people who may want nothing to do with the HP series for that reason. I completely understand this. Please do not engage with this fic if you do not feel comfortable. I simply wanted to write about a piece of media that I enjoyed, and I truly believe that the series has evolved and outgrown the bigoted views of it's creator.

With that, please enjoy the first chapter.

Chapter 1 - Harlow's Last Stand

Max has just stepped out from Olivander’s when Natty’s letter arrives.

Meet me near Manor Cape after nightfall. I received an interesting owl from Johanna Bickle about Harlow.

- Natty

Max frowns, Natty’s owl perched on her arm. Manor Cape is a fair distance away – whatever lead Natty has must be big. Though, she wouldn't be surprised if someone had managed to catch Harlow with his trousers down; they'd been disrupting Ashwinder operations left and right, and Rookwood and Harlow had yet to deal a solid blow in return. She would've expected the two of them to be tearing up the countryside, looking for leads or people to extort, but they'd been oddly scarce.

The owl flies off with a flap of mottled brown wings. Max tucks the letter into her pocket and starts down the street, heading for the nearest floo flame. She'll meet Natty at the cape tonight – something tells her Rookwood doesn't plan to stay quiet for much longer.

•°•°•

“Lil’ Natsai Onai, isn’t it?” he rumbles, voice rougher than gravel. His eyes slide to Max, and his nose wrinkles like she's something on the bottom of his shoe. “And her excruciatingly loyal mutt, Maxine Masters.”

The letter didn't come from Mrs. Bickle. Obviously. Max and Natty figure that much out before they go walking into a trap. In typical Gryffindor fashion, they decide the best course of action is to rush headfirst into it anyways– though Natty has the good sense to send an owl to Officer Singer first.

A light rain has started, warm with spring but still wet, soaking into the ground and dampening their clothes as Max follows Natty up the muddy trek to the manor. While undoubtedly quite lavish in its time, it's clear that no one has lived here in years. Large sections of the walls and roof have caved in, and the front grounds, enclosed by tall ramparts, are overgrown with weeds and wildflowers. Despite the rain – or more likely, due to some enchantment – the braziers lining the walkways are all lit, and the manor's dilapidated windows glow with soft yellow light.

Unsurprisingly, Harlow is the one waiting for them, perched on the landing leading up to the manor entrance. He regards them idly as they approach, rain dripping off the brim of his atrocious green bowler.

Max flicks him the fingers, heartbeat quickening in her chest. The fact that it's just Harlow is somehow worse than if the place had been crawling with Ashwinders. Her hand moves to the wand at her hip.

Natty glares up at him, chin raised. “I was beginning to think we had scared you off,” she snaps back. “How brave of you to finally show your face.”

“Pleasure’s all mine,” Harlow says, mouth curling smugly. “After all, you two have done quite a bit of damage to my business interests. What was once a mere annoyance has become… remarkably problematic.” He chuckles, casually holding up his wand – a gnarled, bone-white thing. “Fortunately, I pride myself on my… problem solving skills.”

Max takes note of the debris scattered about the yard – some crates, a few barrels. A solid-looking anvil, poking out of the weeds. More than enough to throw around with ancient magic. “I’m curious, Harlow,” she begins conversationally, “what ‘damaged your business interests’ more? When we freed those hippogriffs? Or was it when you lost your hideout in Hogsmeade?”

The humor slides off Harlow's face. He snarls, showing the gaps in his too-small teeth. “I've not forgotten your escapades, Maxine. Mark my words, you'll regret crossing us – ”

Natty takes a fiery step forward, drawing her wand. “You are going to regret what you did to Mr. Bickle.”

“And what you tried to do to Archie!” Max bristles.

“Oh, for the love of – ” Harlow groans, pinching the bridge of his crooked nose. “This is why I can't stand children. Always banging on with your altruistic grandstanding. D’ya have any idea what it takes to run an empire?”

Max scoffs. “Run it into the ground, maybe.” From what she's seen, Harlow’s about as much of a businessman as Headmaster Black is an educator. Three nifflers in a trenchcoat would be more efficient at their jobs.

Harlow leans over the railing so he can better sneer at her. “I suppose this is all just a bit of fun to you, isn't it?” he asks snidely. “Wonder if you'll still be laughing when the whole fuckin’ world is run by goblins – ”

“Enough.” Natty cuts him off. She brandishes her wand. “I have been waiting a long time for this, Mr. Harlow. Let us settle things now.”

Max braces herself, hand on her own wand. A tense moment of silence passes, during which Harlow glares at them like he wants nothing more than to eviscerate them for sport. But he doesn't attack.

“Oh, come now, Natsai,” a new, gratingly familiar voice says. “Surely there's no need for such theatrics.”

A stone drops in Max's stomach as Victor Rookwood steps to the front of the landing, silhouetted by his ridiculous top-hat and embroidered mauve coat. Natty makes a disgusted sound, and Max couldn't agree more – just looking at the pompous little slimeball is enough to make her nauseous.

“We’re all wizards here, after all.” Rookwood gives them what he clearly thinks to be a charming smile as he saunters down the landing staircase, Harlow trailing behind him like a large, lumbering shadow. “In light of what Ranrok now knows, you must agree that our interests are… aligned.”

Max blinks at him, baffled. There's no way he's doing this. She saw how quickly he turned on Ranrok in the mines. She pulls her wand from its sheath and points it at him. “Our interests will never be aligned.”

Rookwood’s brow creases. “You would let goblins take what is rightfully ours? The repository belongs to wizardkind.” He stops at the bottom of the stairs, smile turning strained. “We would be fools not to work together.”

Natty shoots her a questioning look, probably wondering what the hell he's on about. That's a conversation to be had later. If this was Rookwood's genius plan, then she and Natty will have no choice but to fight.

“We didn't come here to listen to your sales pitch,” – Max jabs the point of her wand at him, glaring – “We’re here to put an end to you.”

“Sales pitch?” Rookwood seethes, composure suddenly withering. “That repository is my birthright!”

“Charles Rookwood wouldn't have wanted you near it!”

Rookwood stares at her, nostrils flaring. He taps his wand against his palm, clearly trying to reign his temper in. “I should've known better than to try to reason with a child,” he spits, venom dripping from every word. “It's like I've always said; children should be seen and not heard.”

Max pauses, wand lowering. She's heard that before. Where –

Her heart stops in her throat. Anne. Anne had heard those words, right before she was cursed. The Sallows had always assumed it was Ranrok’s Loyalists, but…

Max looks at Rookwood, and she knows.

It was you.

Her rage mounts, swelling like an angry tide. All this time, he was right here. Anne has been suffering pointlessly. Sebastian has been watching his sister die, chasing after goblins and useless relics, and Rookwood was right here –

“Bombarda!” She fires straight for Rookwood’s head. A look of surprise flash across his face before he throws up a shield charm, but it shatters under the force of her spell, knocking him back against the stairs. With a burst of ancient magic, Max rips the anvil from the ground, swinging it behind her head in a deadly arc.

In the edge of her vision, she sees Harlow, wand pointed at her. Max grits her teeth. She’ll take it, she doesn't care –

“Depulso!” Natty’s shout comes from beside her, and Harlow goes rocketing backwards into one of the ramparts. The anvil slams down just as Rookwood vanishes, smashing into the stairs hard enough to crack stone. Max curses. Damn apparition.

“Thanks for the save,” Max says. Natty moves to stand behind her.

“I have your back.” She bumps her elbow against Max’s ribs, almost playfully. “You handle Rookwood, and I will handle Harlow.”

Max feels a surge of gratitude – and grim determination. She owes Natty a long explanation of everything, after this is over.

The Ashwinders are upon them then, emerging from around the sides of the manor. A dozen, at least, clad in dark robes, their faces covered by an assortment of animalistic masks. Max spots Rookwood on the other side of the grounds, safely out of basting range. If she had to guess, Harlow is probably up by now, too.

She presses against Natty’s back, blood rushing in her ears. It doesn't matter. Rookwood can hide behind as many bodies as he likes – sooner or later, every last one of them will fall.

•°•°•

For what feels like the millionth time since this awful fight started, Max raises her wand arm, voice raw in her throat. “Confringo!”

The Ashwinder doesn't react fast enough; a fiery bolt from the blasting curse throws him back against the gateside wall. He slumps to the ground and doesn't get back up.

Max drops her arm to her side, chest heaving. Wet strands of hair hang in her face. Her robes are slick and heavy with mud. This is ridiculous. Where does Rookwood find these people? He can't possibly be paying them enough for this. She turns to see who's left, how many more they have to go, but she doesn't spot any more Ashwinders.

What she does see is Natty, going blow for blow with Harlow in front of the manor, and her heart jumps to her throat.

Natty’s face is hard as she casts spell after spell, sparks flying in the air between them. “Why so quiet, Mr. Harlow?” she goads, nastier than Max has ever heard her. “You had so much to say when you had your men to hide behind!”

One of her casts strikes Harlow on the shoulder, and the look he gives her in return is positively murderous. “Tenacious, aren't we?” he snarls. “It'll be a shame to see all that potential go to waste.”

Oh, absolutely not. Max levels her wand at him. “Confrin – ”

The hair on the back of her neck stands up, and some primal instinct has her rolling out of the way before she fully knows what's happening. There's a flash of light as something hits the ground where she'd been, splattering chunks of mud into the air. Max springs to her feet, looking for where the blast had come from –

“Ah-ah,” Rookwood tuts from a few paces away. The tip of his wand glows hot with magic. “It's rude to interrupt. Didn’t your mother teach you manners?”

“Didn’t yours ever tell you she loved you?” Max hisses back – at least he's saved her the trouble of finding him. She steps into her dueling stance. “Fine, then. I'll deal with you first.”

They both strike at the same time, their spells glancing off each other in mid-air. Max gives a frustrated yell and slashes at him with the severing charm, but Rookwood diverts it with a swipe of his wand. She tries again, casting several times in rapid succession. All of them bounce harmlessly off of Protego, and she only barely manages to sidestep the stunning spell he counters with.

Anger roils in her stomach. The rapid beating of her heart is so loud that she almost can’t hear anything else. “Confringo!” she shouts, wand etching frenzied patterns in the air. “Depulso! Bombarda! Descendo!”

Rookwood, slippery eel that he is, slides out of the way of each attack. “You know,” he drawls in his slimy, disgusting voice, “for such a major thorn in my side, I thought you’d be more trouble.”

Max glares at him, breathing heavily. Every muscle in her body is taut as a bowstring. “Don’t worry,” she says, lifting a nearby crate with a flick of her wand. “I’m just getting started.”

She raises her arm to throw, but Rookwood is quicker. A streak of light hurtles towards her, and Max can’t get herself to move in time. It hits her in the chest, knocking the air from her lungs. She lands hard on her shoulder – the left one, thankfully – her head smacking against the ground. Stars burst across her vision, and Max sucks in a breath. Merlin's bloody balls –

Cold, wet mud seeps into her hair. Max sits up, wincing at the sharp ache in her shoulder. Her temple throbs. Distantly, she hears Rookwood laugh.

“I had no idea you were so pathetic,” he says, sounding vaguely amused. “I was a fool to think we could work together.”

Max digs her fingers into the mud, wand gripped tightly in her hand. “At least we can agree on that,” she spits, getting to her feet.

You’re no help to anyone if you die being an idiot, she reminds herself. Fight smarter. For Anne.

Rookwood casts again. Max steadies herself, blocking with Protego. They go back and forth, spells flying in the air between them. Max weaves around Rookwoods attacks as she looks for openings, managing to slip a few spells past his defenses before retreating backwards. She can feel herself tiring, her movements becoming sluggish as she blocks and dodges around spells. The earlier fight with the Ashwinders had taken more out of her than she’d thought.

At some point, she becomes aware of Natty close behind her, vigorously shouting incantations as she battles with Harlow. Max backs up until they're almost touching. “Natty,” she pants in between attacks, breath scraping harshly down her throat. “How are you faring?”

“Tired,” Natty says, and she sounds as much. Max hears the crackle of something hitting her shield. “But I am not done yet. We must finish what we started.”

“We will,” Max promises. They don't have much of a choice.

A spark of light races towards them, and Max barely gets a shield up in time. Rookwood glowers at her, face twisted up in anger.

“What are you scheming over there? Have time to chat and fight, do we?” His voice grates against her ears, and Max can feel herself getting more irritated with every word. Rookwood raises his wand again. “You arrogant little – ”

“Piss off!” Max launches a barrel at him. It must catch him off guard, because he doesn’t even try to block it – it knocks him off his feet with a hollow-sounding thunk and sends him skidding backwards across the mud.

“Arresto Momentum!” Natty shouts behind her, and Max can only trust that it stops Harlow. She winds up for another strike at Rookwood when Natty’s arm suddenly bars her shoulders. Max looks back at her, startled.

“What are you – ”

“We are both letting our emotions get the best of us,” Natty says. She pushes Max towards Harlow, who is currently moving with all the terrifying speed of a glacier. “Time for a change.”

She’s gone before Max can get a word in, diving after Rookwood like a hawk swooping in for the kill. Max leaves her to it, turning to face Harlow just as the slowing charm wears off.

“Seems we're switching partners,” Max informs him politely. “Lucky for you, isn't it? Natty was giving you a proper arse-kicking.”

Harlow looks past her, where Natty had run off to. Then his eyes settle back on her, and he scowls. “I'll show you an arse-kickin’.”

Max winces, and it's only partly for show. “Oof. May want to stick to your business interests, Harlow.”

He goes after her with a shout, but with her head back on her shoulders, she has no problem blocking and dodging around his spells. Which is good, because what Harlow lacks in finesse, he makes up for in sheer strength – she can feel the weight of his attacks as they crash against her shield, pushing her heels further into the mud.

Harlow laughs in between slinging spells like a madman. “You fight like a Muggle,” he jeers.

Max breathes a snort as she deflects again, and the impact reverberates up her entire arm. “Then why are you having so much trouble?”

“I'm not having trouble, you little – ” Harlow cuts himself off with an aggravated sound, sending a bolt of fire streaking towards her – and though he'd cast nonverbally, Max would recognize Confringo anywhere. She darts out of the way, biting back a smile. So easy.

“Are you sure?” she asks. “Because it seems like you're having trouble. I can't tell if you're trying to kill me or if you just want to dance.” Max punctuates the last word by casting at him, mostly just to be irritating. Harlow deflects it with a little too much force.

“I can get serious if you want,” he says, “but I don't want to hear no whinin’.”

Harlow flicks his wand in a jagged motion, followed by a shout of “Crucio!” A shock of red lightning arcs towards her, like deadly, grasping fingers. Max skirts to the side, using a burst of ancient magic to speed up her movement. Crucio. How crass. The memory of the Scriptorium has faded some, but that pain is something she'll never forget. Getting hit by that would mean the end of the fight for sure.

Another crackle of red light reaches towards her. She dodges, this time in the opposite direction. Harlow doesn't bother to hide his irritation. “Are you just gonna flash around the whole time?”

Nope. Their fight has driven them back towards the staircase, where they first started. Max points her wand. “Accio!”

Harlow’s shield comes up, but the summoning charm whizzes right past him. A look of surprise flashes across his face, quickly replaced by amusement. He turns to her with a triumphant guffaw, shield evaporating. “You missed, you fuckin’ – ”

His mouth is forcibly shut when the anvil she'd thrown at Rookwood earlier collides with the back of his head. Harlow staggers, but he doesn't fall. In one fluid motion, Max swings the anvil around her head, finishing its orbit by slamming it into his side, sending him crashing against the columns beneath the landing.

Max regards him coldly as he rolls into his hands and knees, heaving. “Missed, did I?”

Harlow glares up at her, looking royally pissed. “Don't get so full of yourself, you daft bint. You think you're the first to try and bring me to Azkaban?” He clambers to his feet, swaying slightly. A slow trail of blood runs from his forehead down the side of his face. “Prissy lil’ Hogwarts snobs… always stickin’ your noses where they don't belong. But you're in over your head with this one. Should’ve stayed in school.”

Above them, thunder rolls in the darkened clouds.

Max raises her wand to the sky, magic buzzing beneath her skin. “You forget, Harlow,” she says, “on top of being a Hogwarts snob, I’m also an excruciatingly loyal mutt.”

She brings her arm down like a gavel. A bolt of lighting descends from the sky, tearing through Harlow’s body. The sound is explosive, like a cannon firing. Harlow’s back bows, mouth open in a silent scream as it arcs through him. The lightning fizzles out, and Harlow crumples to the ground, wand rolling out of his hand.

Max slumps forward, all the energy rushing out of her. That had definitely been too much. She steps towards him, intending to finish the fight, when Rookwood staggers into her peripheral.

A jolt of panic shoots through her. She goes to raise a shield, but he seems to be preoccupied with surviving Natty, who's onslaught of attacks has pushed him back against the manor. He's so covered in mud that his coat has completely changed color, and he's also – notably – hattless, which feels a bit like seeing someone without glasses for the first time.

“I see now why you wear that ugly thing,” Natty says, cutting. She halts her attack and moves closer to Max, though her wand never leaves Rookwood. Max turns her wand on him as well, the sound of her breath harsh against her ears. Natty catches her eye, and Max nods. All good.

Natty gives her a small smile before her attention returns to Rookwood. “It's over,” she tells him. “You cannot win against us both.”

Rookwood's eyes flick between them, then down to Harlow, clearly weighing his options. “Unfortunately, I suspect you're right. This has turned out to be far more trouble than it's worth.”

“Do not get any ideas,” Natty says. “The two of you are going away to Azkaban for a long time.”

Azkaban. That's right; Natty had sent for Officer Singer. She could arrive any second now. Rookwood has answers, and if Max doesn't get them now, she may not have another chance. No time like the present, then.

“Natty, wait,” Max interjects, and they both look at her – Natty with surprise and Rookwood with blatant disdain. Max returns his glare. “A year or two ago, you were part of a raid on Feldcroft with Ranrok's loyalists. But someone saw you, so you cursed her. Is that right?”

An unsettling expression crosses Rookwood's face. He hums blithely. “I'm afraid I don't recall. There were many raids on Feldcroft.”

“Then you'd better think!” Max shouts, louder than she'd meant to. “You can't have cursed that many people, it happened by the estate – ”

“Oh.” Rookwood draws out the word like he's had an epiphany. “That girl.” He looks her up and down, a slight smile curling his lips. “Yes, she probably would be around your age, wouldn't she?”

Max's blood runs cold. She fighters her grip on her wand. “How do you break the curse?”

“Personally, I'm surprised she's still kicking. Usually they don't last a year. How is she?”

Max is going to kill him. She's going to rip him apart with her bare hands. She takes a breath. “Rookwood, tell me how – ”

“Is she still fighting?” he asks, and there's something manic in his tone. “Or has she given up?”

It's a trap, more obvious than the letter Harlow had sent. Max knows this – he's trying to rile her up. But the thing is, he's done an incredible job of it.

“Confringo!” A bolt of fire flies from her wand, but Rookwood has vanished before she's finished casting. He reappears a few yards away and looks at her with a grimace.

“I think you need to work on your aim.”

Max bares her teeth, taking a step towards him. “I'll kill you,” she snarls.

Rookwood huffs, amused. “That so? I suppose you'll have to catch me, first. But in the meantime, you might want to keep your wits about you.”

He's looking at something behind her, and that same chill ripples up Max's spine. She turns and is met with Harlow, on his knees, wand pointed straight at her. His eyes are dark and angry as he says, “Crucio.”

There's a flash of red light. Before Max can think to lift her wand, to dodge, to do anything, Natty is already moving. Her body shifts into something larger, different, and it's the graceful form of Natty’s gazelle animagus that leaps to shield Max.

“No!” Max shrieks. Natty, still in the form of a gazelle, drops to the ground, twitching. She makes an awful, guttural sound, and Max realizes with horror that she's screaming. She turns on Harlow. “Expelliarmus!”

Harlow's wand goes flying out of his hand, but it's too late. Natty’s body shifts back to human form, her eyes rolled back into her head. Max rushes over to her, ducking under a spell from Rookwood before firing back. She doesn't see if it hits before she drops to her knees, pulling Natty's head into her lap.

“Natty,” she hisses. Her pulse roars in her ears. “Natty.”

Natty's eyelids flicker, but they don't open. Max squeezes her shoulder and wishes, for the first time, that she’d taken Sebastian up on any of his offers to teach her the Unforgivables. She points her wand at Harlow. “Incarcerous!”

Golden chains lash around Harlow’s body, binding his arms to his side. He topples over into the mud, cursing. Max whips around, intent on doing the same to Rookwood, when her wand is suddenly knocked from her hand. It goes flying, landing somewhere she doesn't see.

“So close,” says Rookwood. The scowl on his face is harshly shadowed by the dim light of the braziers. “And yet, you seem to have an unfortunate habit of coming up just short.”

Max leans protectively over Natty, heart racing. This isn't good; she's no idea how to use wandless magic, and her apparitional ability is shaky at the best of times. “You'll never beat Ranrok to the repository,” she says, vying for some sort of leverage. “Not on your own.”

“Perhaps not.” Rookwood shrugs like it couldn't matter less. “But I very much doubt you'll tell me where it is, either.”

He raises his wand, green light sparking at the tip. Max's mind races for a way to save both herself and Natty, but she can't think fast enough, there's nothing she can –

“Natsai!”

The sudden wail makes Rookwood halt. Max turns to look, and standing at the gate to the estate is Professor Onai, closely tailed by Officer Singer. At the sight of Rookwood standing over them, both women draw their wands, and Professor Onai charges towards them with a vengeful roar.

Harlow’s head, the only part of him that's not restrained, snaps to Rookwood, eyes wide. “Victor – ”

Rookwood sighs heavily. “Apologies, Theopholis.” He flicks his wand. Max flinches, but he only summons his hat into his open hand, placing it back on his head with no sense of urgency. “It's nothing personal.”

The space he's occupying starts to fold in on itself. Panic rises in Max's chest. No. Can't let him get away. But she can't chase him – she's got no wand, and she can't leave Natty –

“Reducto!”

The shout comes from Professor Onai, who has all but closed the distance between them. Her spell flies into the apparitional swirl – disappearing along with Rookwood.

Then it's over. He's gone.

An odd haze settles over her – Max is distantly aware of Officer Singer moving to stand over Harlow, her face stricken. She's also aware of Professor Onai kneeling down beside her, gently prying Natty from her arms. I'm sorry, she wants to say, but her voice is stuck in her throat. She hadn't stopped him. She hadn't gotten answers for Anne, and Natty had been hurt. Capturing Harlow feels a small consolation in comparison – he’s only one head of an enormous hydra, after all.

“We are going back to the school,” Professor Onai says. Her voice is firm, only trembling at the edges, and Max feels another stab of guilt. Something is shoved into her hands, and Max realizes it's her wand.

Professor Onai takes hold of Max’s shoulder, her other arm still cradling her daughter. The world warps dizzyingly, the sound of the rain coalescing into incoherent noise. Even as the twist of apparition makes her stomach flip, Max finds she can't look away from Natty’s face.

The last thought she has before they disappear from the manor is that the next time she and Victor Rookwood meet, it will be the last.

#my writing #Hogwarts Legacy #In the Shadow of Forgiveness #SOL #harry potter

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