Walburga Black and her sons were in the meantime attempting to calculate the optimal quantity of enemy blood relative to the servant's biomass and the father's bone. Progress was difficult, particularly since they had decided against using Bellatrix's finger—just in case. No one wanted a raving Dark Lord. Walburga found herself increasingly eyeing the fingers of Augustus Rookwood, who had finally joined the calculations—his Mark was, if anything, even brighter than Regulus's. In the end both of them donated a finger each—it would grow back within a month, after all.
In the Grimmauld laboratory, meanwhile, attempts to carefully separate the skull bones without magic continued. Mostly without success—no one had managed to cleanly separate the sutures, and magical intervention was prohibited.
Severus Snape was being pulled in too many directions, so eventually Andrei sent him home to brew a mind-stabilising potion for the future Dark Lord. And for themselves as well, beloved ones that they were, because despite the balm, the moment they lay down to sleep, their hands and necks began itching furiously. Sirius and Remus stepped in as test subjects—they complained about the mosquitoes, naturally, but became better at dealing with bites quickly by shifting to their animal forms.
Remus, incidentally, resolved to consider himself in Hagrid's debt for the rest of his life for the lesson in shifting at will—and in Snape's debt for the Wolfsbane, though Snape honestly admitted that the potion wasn't his own work.
Sirius had to explain the situation to the Weasley family, who were puzzled by the absence of their "business partners": he said that family circumstances required him to spend some time away, and that only his dearest friend Remus was helping him through these trying days at Grimmauld. Even if Molly certainly wouldn't have given them away—would have obtained the Headmaster's blood herself, most likely—still, Andrei imagined her in the role of the most lethal mosquito and understood she'd probably bite something right off. And widening the circle of initiates was entirely inadvisable.
* * *
Before going up to the castle to collect Nymphadora, Andrei arranged a small arsenal on his forearm—enough was enough with waving that pink umbrella around. He now had five wands. One he'd bought on the quiet in Knockturn Alley, one he'd commissioned from Jimmy Kiddell, giving Ollivander's shop—which had cooperated with the Ministry and accepted Oversight Charms—a wide berth. The remaining three he'd found in the Black family vaults, and to the lady of the house's profound astonishment, all three had taken to him perfectly.
Each had its own temperament: the ebony and rosewood wands excelled at offensive magic, the commissioned one was universal, the Knockturn one worked exclusively as a cutting tool, while the lime-wood Black family wand with the Quintaped tentacle—oddly enough—was superb at healing everything from minor cuts to fairly serious injuries. This last property he'd discovered after one of the young people's sessions in the duelling hall: Snape and Sirius, Regulus and Remus occasionally let off steam with consequences. They all got told off, naturally, but the regular practice had considerably eased the tension between all four.
"Boys," Walburga hissed—but the exuberant youth had apparently stopped being particularly afraid of her, except on the occasions when the lady descended to the duelling hall herself to deliver a lesson. For a few days afterward everyone walked on eggshells, and then it all started again.
Hagrid had no business in the duelling hall, though he looked in a couple of times—spells didn't work on him, not even the now-legendary (in certain circles) Snape Sectumsempra, which caused him at most a mild itch. He could cast perfectly well, though. So he was removed from the hall promptly—what was the point of competing with advantages like those?
Andrei had once again appreciated how fortunate his situation was—wands of various lengths lay neatly along a half-giant's forearm, and activating them required only a thought. He could, like the Swan Maiden, flick his sleeve with results that no one present would forget. Of those who survived, naturally. He had, in fact, tried producing the illusion of actual swans a couple of times when no one was watching, but nothing came of it—too grounded and practical a person, evidently. And he clearly didn't have the Swan Maiden look.
* * *
On the day itself, everything went according to plan—right up until Nymphadora spotted the unicorn foal. The child squealed, and a couple of seconds later was cheerfully whinnying and stamping a hoof, inviting her new friend to play.
Ninochka, who had turned herself into yet another tree trunk for the occasion, quickly sprinkled Andrei with water from her spring—and he froze like a tree, invisible and imperceptible to anything living except the Senior Dryad herself. Who watched attentively as the branches of a fir tree behind which the Headmaster was standing swayed. She found this interesting—she had seen this wizard before, had even encountered his condescension, so she decided to play this one her own way.
Casting illusions, leading a wanderer astray, amplifying a person's own thoughts—these were trivial arts for an ancient forest being. And so the Headmaster began drifting slowly toward the unicorn mare.
The mare herself became very interested in a nearby bush that had spontaneously sprouted the most delectable leaves, a treat so wonderful she was practically closing her eyes in pleasure. She quite forgot that she'd been meaning to investigate that strange foal that had appeared.
Yes, very few living things in the forest could argue with a dryad's magic. And with the Senior's magic—even fewer.
What, do you suppose, does a wild mare do when she is savouring the most delicious treat imaginable—and a pair of cold, presumptuous human hands suddenly touches her udder (already nearly invisible and dry)?
The Headmaster flew low but covered considerable distance, and the impact left him quite dazed. Unfortunately it caught him on the forehead rather than the nose, leaving a distinctly shaped imprint that was slowly swelling into a bruise. The unicorn mare, whinnying furiously, galloped into the forest with both foals in tow. Ninochka moved Hagrid's arm to guide a small loose grey cluster of waking mosquitoes down the back of Dumbledore's collar, followed by several other equally tiny but no less voracious bloodsuckers, about which she decided to say nothing to anyone for now. Why would she? The blood was the point.
Albus came to himself fairly quickly—the mosquitoes helped with that. The dryad hadn't called them fast enough, so only a few in her little pouch had managed to take even a drop of the Headmaster's blood.
Dumbledore meanwhile was smacking himself on the neck and scratching vigorously, eventually shedding his cloak in the snow, collecting the remaining squashed and semi-intact insects himself, and personally incinerating them. Then he looked around grimly—still saw no one. Except, perhaps, that oak at the edge of the clearing, which looked rather like the gamekeeper. Albus squinted, cleaned his glasses. His favourite artefact had developed a small crack, but seemed to be functioning. He tested it on one of his defensive rings—the magical lines were visible—then looked back at the tree line. No, definitely an oak. Which meant Hagrid and Nymphadora were on some other clearing. He exhaled with relief, then swore. Because the track-covering charm was still active, but which direction he'd come from had completely slipped his mind. Knocked right out of it, perhaps.
Meanwhile, half the ticks that had been sent down his collar were already going about their bloodsucking business. The dryad wouldn't call them back until dark, and Hagrid would nearly weep over the mosquito remains and the pitiful few drops—that quantity wouldn't have resurrected the Dark Lord as even a micro-homunculus, and he remembered the Blacks' calculations well.
His surprise would be considerable, then, when the dryad, knitting her brows in concentration, would turn away, snatch something from the air, and extend to him several small dark grey "grapes." Only on closer inspection would Andrei understand what they were. And he would naturally offer the dear dryad the most heartfelt of praises, and in his enthusiasm promise her a medal and a certificate of distinction. Ninochka, having no idea what these were or why she'd want them, would agree out of curiosity.
* * *
The day had been an exhausting one, and Andrei had no desire to hurry anywhere—including Grimmauld. He sent word through the fireplace that all was in hand, and sank blissfully into the new armchair he'd recently Transfigured from an old stool, stretching his legs out. He'd done a great deal of running through the forest today, despite all of Ninochka's "quick paths."
The moment he'd confirmed the Headmaster had moved to a safe distance, he'd had to go after Nymphadora. Try catching frightened unicorns on your own two legs—even half-giant ones. He'd followed the tracks, but after a while they were crossed by more tracks, and then more, and Andrei was no tracker—he'd given up on snares after that business with his friend's traps.
Without Ninochka he might never have found his way out of the thicket. She'd also laughed at him: unicorns in the depths of the forest, honestly—they only frequent the edges, all ungulates prefer open spaces, except thestrals. Predators are comfortable among the trees. By the time he'd found his bearings and reached familiar territory, dusk was falling, and the dryad reminded him that the Headmaster was also still wandering the forest.
Weighing up who would answer to Nymphadora's furious mother for what, Andrei sighed and realised his only cover was the Headmaster. And so he went to rescue him. Only this time, oddly enough, Albus seemed genuinely grateful. Andrei couldn't entirely work out what for—the old man had been standing quite close to the main path, practically at the forest's edge. But he wasn't pretending. Andrei would have staked teeth on it. One or two.
All of this Hagrid related to Severus, who had been unable to bear the suspense and had come through the fireplace. And now they were drinking simple chamomile tea, contemplating what retributions would shortly descend upon Hagrid himself and upon the Headmaster. And naturally picking over the old man's bones, while they were at it.
"Wait—couldn't he have summoned Fawkes?" Snape frowned. "Or has the bird just recently been reborn?"
"No, I stopped in the other day," Andrei replied. "Perfectly good bird, not elderly at all."
"Senility setting in?"
"Maybe you overdid the tea a touch?"
"It shouldn't have. I tested it on myself, as always. And on a couple of volunteers."
"Was that when Lady Black decided to assist you with yet another renovation of the duelling hall?"
"Got it in one," Snape said, with a thin smile. "Memorable day."
"I can't make it out—we got quite enough blood, and yet you look less than pleased."
"I'm thinking about how to purify it," Snape said, going serious again. "There are still the insects' own substances in there."
"Are you absolutely certain magic won't do? When I saw the future, Pettigrew cut Harry's arm with an ordinary Sectumsempra at the graveyard. I told you about it!"
"And look how that turned out—crooked hands combined with crooked thinking! You have to study these recipes in full detail. And not from one book—gather all available information. Ah, the work of it. Give me what we have and I'll go and think it over. You rest."
Only after Snape had departed with the collected materials did Andrei go cold.
What if one of those ticks turned out to carry encephalitis?