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Chapter Text

Like a sleeping dog at its master’s approach, the little cottage seemed to wake up as he entered.

The candles started to burn in their cups as he walked through the door, the fine layer of dust on all the surfaces vanishing.

The vines that he had carefully trellised up an entire wall seemed to grow brighter with his presence, the small flowers amongst the creepers suddenly becoming vibrant and vivid.

He dropped heavily into the armchair in the centre of the room, his eyes wandering around his haven.

It was a simple place, nothing more than a sitting room, a bedroom, and a bathroom, located in a lovely meadow in the British countryside.

The only furniture in the sitting room besides for his armchair was a small table and a bookshelf and cupboard.

It was not home. Hogwarts was his home.

It was simply a place for him to go when he felt he needed the privacy, when his mind became too burdened by responsibility and he needed a change of scenery to clear it.

And now he had been banished there.

He stared at the vines without seeing them, feeling more enraged than he had in decades.

“They think to arrest me?” He muttered, one of the glass candleholders exploding and punctuating his words with a pop.

Once upon a time, cities would have been laid to waste if a wizard of his power had been offered such an insult.

He could not even blame Harry for his brash foolishness. That was who the boy was.

Had he been any different, Albus wouldn’t care for him quite as much as he did.

No, Harry had been foolish, but he was blameless.

Fudge and the Ministry, on the other hand…

The vines began to shrivel up under his gaze.

He took a deep breath, closing his eyes and thinking of nothing in particular.

When he opened them again, a few minutes later, the burning rage was still there.

The Elder Wand vibrated gently in his hand, begging to be used.

The chair creaked as he rocked, making an eerie and somehow fitting harmony to Fawkes’ song.

“I chose to lead by example,” he whispered, “I chose to use careful and logical discussions to make a difference. I did not force them to make the right choices.”

He breathed deeply, whispering as he often did in such times, the reasons for his decision.

“Greater intelligence does not make my moral compass unflawed. Power corrupts. If I force them to do good they will merely rebel, or abandon my orders once I am dead. They should not be making the right choice because Albus Dumbledore tells them to.”

‘Is it not better for them to at least be making the right choice, regardless of their motivations?’

He ignored the Wand’s siren song, brushing it aside as neatly as he had the dying leaves before him.

“I could have taken complete control. I chose not to. Corruption is human nature. I am as susceptible to it as Fudge is.”

His voice went cold at the mention of the Minister’s name, one of the silver candlesticks groaning and twisting itself into a circle.

“Have I not demonstrated, time and time again, that I have no interest in his position? What have I done other than assist him, other than answer his every letter begging for guidance? Who was it who the world turned to when Gellert threatened all?”

The Wand shook even harder, memories of that terrible, glorious day flooding his mind.

He could still hear the faint screams in the distance, could still smell the smoke.

He could still see Gellert’s smirk as he’d approached, so certain that the Elder Wand would defeat even a superior opponent.

And he could still see the mounds of corpses, the innocents whose lives his hesitation had claimed.

He shook his head, turning away from his memory before he could feel that moment when the Elder Wand had gained a new master.

He’d taken the Wand and fought off its bloodthirst, choosing to send Gellert to Nurmengard instead of simply ending him.

Since that fateful day, he’d shied away from the power he so easily could have taken. He’d turned down the post of Minister more times than he could count and had only accepted Supreme Mugwumpship after making it clear that it would be a mere ceremonial position. He’d never used his executive privilege as Chief Warlock, only accepting the position to keep it out of the hands of less trustworthy individuals.

He’d known since the end of his childhood that he could not be trusted with absolute power. The Wand’s whispers had only cemented his decision.

“It was I who kept their children safe,” he said, “I who made Hogwarts a place Voldemort never dared attack, I who prevented Voldemort from advancing beyond our borders. I who gave them the freedom to deride me. I who faced opposition in my every attempt at bringing equality to our world.”

He’d worked within the system, never once simply forcing the incompetent to bend to his will no matter how infuriating their stupidity had been. The closest he’d come had been his attempts at changing the werewolf laws, and even there he had eventually allowed the wheels of bureaucracy to turn, allowed it to go to a public vote where it had been shot down.

Another two candles went out, darkness beginning to spread within the little hut even though the sun still shone in the meadow.

“I tried to create rehabilitation programs for Death Eater,” he said, “I pushed to remove the Dementors from Azkaban. And still they despise me, still they mistake my kindness for weakness.”

The final two candles flickered, casting long shadows that crept across the dirt floor.

“Throughout the millennia,” he said, his voice shaking with barely-comprised fury, the vines on the wall now falling to the ground as dust, “a wizard of my stature would have simply forced them to obey. I have had countless opportunities to wrest control of this ungrateful nation, and never once have I even seriously contemplated doing so.

And what do I get in return?”

He jumped to his feet, the walls shaking with the power of his voice even though it was no louder than it had been.

“Cast out of my home,” he snarled, “derided and ignored even as I seek to save them. Hated and branded an insane criminal.”

His fingers tightened around his wand, golden sparks flickering from the tip.

“Vermin sent to my school, to torment the children under my protection, while the Death Eaters whose very lives I spared whisper poison in the Ministry.”

“They have forgotten who I am,” he whispered, raising the wand to eye-level, “they see my kindly actions, my attempts to make this world a better place, and they think me a fool. All I have ever wanted was to help them make the right decisions. All I have ever wanted was to brighten up all our lives.”

‘Your methods have failed. They will not listen to reason. They are like infants, like animals who understand nothing but force. It is time to try something different.’

He stared at the wand, remembering the piles of bodies in Gellert’s wake, the millions of deaths his opposition to seeking power had caused.

“Greater intelligence does not make my moral compass unflawed. Power corrupts. If I force them to do good they will merely rebel, or abandon my orders once I am dead. They should not be making the right choice because Albus Dumbledore tells them to.”

‘Comfortable excuses to keep from doing what is necessary. Comforting lies to sway your hand from action. You could do it. You could change the world. You could end the war, you could end the corruption and incompetence that so plagued this nation. You could usher in a new era of enlightenment.’

The wand seemed to fill up the world, the promises of power that would be his for the taking, the joyous possibilities of the change he could bring.

“It-it wouldn’t be right. That choice is not mine to make. It shouldn’t be.”

‘When no-one else is making it, the choice is yours. You are the only one who can do it. All your dreams can come true. You just have to make them happen.’

He closed his eyes, seeing Harry’s face in his mind. The loneliness and fear, the heartache and worry.

All inspired by the Ministry’s careful treatment of him, all done to destroy a child he cared for.

‘They chase you away from those who need you most, and you think of still acting peacefully? They have declared war on you while paving the way for Voldemort’s coup. They will destroy everything you have worked so hard to accomplish and set Wizarding Britain back hundreds of years. If you allow it.’

“No,” he said, as calmly as ever he’d spoken, “no. It will not be borne. I will stand for it no longer. No.”

He stared at the now barren wall, the path before him clearer than it had been for decades.

“But I cannot do it alone. The Ministry would be difficult enough at the best of times, as would Voldemort.”

He dropped back onto his armchair, possibilities flickering through his mind at lightning speed.

The Order were already near the end of their rope. They were few in number, and though they were brave and loyal, actually declaring war on the Ministry might prove beyond their capabilities.

Besides, most of them would surely prove far more useful if their connection to him remained unknown.

“And most of them would not manage combat, not against the Ministry’s forces.”

“Alastor, perhaps,” he mused, “he could certainly survive a fight. He also does not have the familial bonds so many of the others do. Yes, he could do well. But…”

Well, Alastor was certainly a powerful, talented wizard and a wonderful ally, but he was only one man. While Albus knew that Alastor could hold his own against perhaps three or four enemies, he was also certain that the forces ranged against them would be greater than that.

Of course, Hagrid would fight as well, and Sirius could probably be relied upon. But it was not enough.

“What I need,” he murmured, “is someone like me. Someone who can inspire terror in the enemy, someone who could face down a small army. I need someone like me.”

He shook his head slowly, restlessly tapping the Elder Wand against his knee.

“There isn’t. There-“

He looked down at the wand, his eyes widening.

That could work. If there was anyone who fit the bill, it was him.

“But dare I trust him? Dare I trust myself with him?”

He rocked on the chair, closing his eyes and thinking, analysing his idea from all directions.

For hours he sat like that, following the threads of possibility in his mind, picking apart his options and placing them back together.

By the time he opened his eyes again, the sun had set.

He nodded once and stood up, twirling the wand through his fingers.

“I cannot do this alone,” he said. “I need his help.”

He rose to his full height, the wand settling back into his grip, his cloak flying off of its hook and wrapping itself around him.

“If Fudge desires my enmity, he shall have his wish.”

The final candle was snuffed out as he opened the door, whistling for Fawkes.

It was time to pay an old friend a visit.

The ground around his prison shook again, making Gellert scowl as he dropped the paper.

He cursed the stupid building as he picked the newspaper up again, wiping the dust off of it and settling back to his reading.

The smiling picture of his old…friend greeted him, waving out of the page.

He just continued to scowl, re-reading the headline.  

Head case of a Headmaster on the run!

He snorted, staring at it for a moment and shaking his head.

As he let his eyes drop to the article itself, some sixth sense made him look up.

There was no warning, no sound or sight or smell to precede it.

His cell’s wall simply exploded, the flying stones and bits of cement coming within an inch of his face before veering away.

Albus Dumbledore walked into Gellert’s cell, stepping off of empty air as if there had been a solid platform.

Gellert’s knees went weak as he took in Dumbledore’s appearance.

Dumbledore radiated might, the lines on his face exuding power and skill.

Old though he was, his body showed no signs of the weakness that had begun to attack Gellert.

He looked like nothing if not a warrior of legend, the setting of his jaw promising pain to any who dared interfere with his mission.

His eyes were as piercing as Gellert remembered them, twin sapphires of the purest icy blue.

Gellert’s old wand rested comfortably in his hand.

The Phoenix perched on his shoulder seemed to bathe his face in ghostly flames.

And he had the exact same sense about him that had once led Gellert to abandon his plans, if only for a summer.

Being in his presence was as enthralling, as exhilarating as it had been all those years ago.

His heart began to beat faster, excitement filling him.

“Had I known you were coming,” Gellert said, finally recovering, “I’d have made tea.”

Albus said nothing, simply standing there with the wand in his hand.

“Are you here to kill me?” Gellert asked. “To prove to yourself that you can still handle a dark wizard?”

Albus just sat, flicking his wand and making an armchair appear below him an instant before he would have fallen onto his backside.

“Flashy,” Gellert said, shifting uneasily in his hard wooden seat, “flashy and gauche and exactly like you.”

Albus said not a word, the Phoenix moved not an inch.

“Why are you here?” Gellert demanded, suddenly feeling annoyed beyond reason, “have you come for a purpose or just to torment me with your eyes? Say something, damnit!”

He stared at Gellert for a long moment, before saying three words.

“You were right.”

Chapter Text

Gellert goggled at Albus, certain he had misheard. 

There was no way, no way at all that Albus had just said that. No chance. 

Albus smiled slightly at his confusion, nodding his head an inch. 

“You were right,” he repeated. 

Gellert shook his head, his unkempt hair flying every which way. 

“They tell me I wasn’t,” he said, his voice trembling with barely controlled rage, “you told me I wasn’t. Hundreds of times, in your letters. That was, in fact, the only real substance to your communication, telling me how wrong I was.”

“Gellert-“Albus started, raising a hand. 

He was on his feet in an instant, his hands curling into fists. 

“You come here after fifty years and tell me that I was right? You wait until I can barely sleep because of the visions of the dead, and then you waltz in here and tell me I was right? How dare you?”

“Gellert-“

“Fifty million dead, Albus. That is all my brilliance led to. Yes, Europe would have erupted without me. Yes, the Germans would have embarked on their madness without me. But without me, the scale would have been far less, without my genius, they would never-“

“Everything you did with the Muggle world was an atrocious abomination,” Albus agreed with a calm nod, “you should never have involved yourself in their affairs, not the way you did. But the Wizarding World…the Wizarding World has proven it is not ready for democracy.”

The wind quite taken out of his sails, Gellert sat heavily back onto his stool.

“Taking their treatment quite harshly, are you?” He asked with a wild laugh.

“Enough is enough,” Albus said, his voice ringing with quiet strength.

The Phoenix stretches its wings, leaping off of Albus’ shoulder and soaring through the hole in the wall. 

“Oh, Albus. You should see yourself now. All inflated with righteous anger, so willing to cast aside your morals. What was it you said…?”

Suddenly, Gellert was on his feet, jumping over to the haphazard piles of worn books lying near his bed. 

“Where is it,” he muttered, pawing through the tomes, “where did I-Aha!”

His back gave a click as he straightened up with a yellowing parchment clutched in his hand. He waved it triumphantly, baring his brown teeth in an ape-like grin. 

“December 1974,” he said, “before I started believing you about my mistakes. Your words, Albus.”

He began to read in an exaggerated mockery of Albus’ tone.

“Your mistake, my friend, and mine as well in our time together, was believing that we have the right to make decisions for our fellow residents of this world. We may be more powerful and more intelligent, but our choices can be just as incorrect as anyone else’s. We have no more right to choose for others than they do to choose for us. Democracy, Gellert, democracy is the answer. The people must speak for themselves, they must not become mere slaves to the whims of those gifted by chance.”

He looked up at Albus, his eyes narrowing. 

“So, Supreme Mugwump, Chief Warlock, Headmaster of Hogwarts and whatever else you claim as a title. The people have spoken. They have cast you aside, and you should have the good grace to accept their decision.”

“They are fools,” Albus said bluntly, “Corrupt fools who prefer lining their pockets to dealing with Voldemort while there still is time.”

Gellert waved a careless hand, pacing in front of his bed. 

“It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. You don’t get to decide now that I was right. You don’t get to do so.”

“If the Ministry continues ignoring Voldemort-“

“Forget about your miserable Voldemort!” Gellert shouted, his eyes bulging, “if you would have stood by me-“

“There would have been no one to stop us. The death toll would have been in the hundreds of millions.”

“Maybe you could have prevented my more inhumane decisions!”

“Or maybe I would have sunk to a level far beyond yours.”

“You could have stopped me! You could have stopped me earlier! Why didn’t you?”

Gellert dropped onto his bed with a thud, his hands rising to cover his face as he began to shake with pent-up sobs. 

“Millions...millions! I see them...I hear them, they weep in the night...you could have stopped it! You left me to ruin myself, to ruin Europe, and you left me to it!”

“I should have come earlier. But I was afraid.”

“Not like you to be afraid of death. I never was. But now, now I-I know, I know what is waiting for me, the dead are patient, I know that-“

“It wasn’t death I was afraid of. It was victory. Victory and knowledge.”

Gellert looked up sharply, his eyes focusing on the wand in Albus’ hand.

“Ah. That. You thought-you thought you would beat me, and that you would be propelled into rule. Knowledge…”

He trailed off, searching Albus’ face for a hint, any hint of what he meant. 

His eyes widened as he understood, and he began to laugh again. 

“You...you thought...Ariana, you thought I knew…”

“I take it you do not.”

“Albus,” He said, wiping his eyes, “Ariana was one girl. Even if I ever knew, the millions on my conscience have erased even her face. I can barely even recall any individual deaths…”

His eyes unfocused for a moment, turning misty in remembrance.

“So many, they all blur into each other...one after another after another…”

He shook his head, focusing on Dumbledore. 

“So, Voldemort has truly returned. You are not a senile, deluded madman set on destroying Britain.”

“I am not senile or deluded. Voldemort has regained a body. Flesh of his servant, bone of his father, blood of his enemy.”

“Interesting,” Gellert muttered, “Very interesting. That could...yes, I could see how that could work.” 

He looked up again, catching Albus’ eye. “And your little militia?”

“I have reformed the Order of the Phoenix. But with the Ministry denying Voldemort’s return and vilifying me, anyone seen to be supporting me is automatically suspect. And of course, I am now a wanted criminal.”

He tapped his finger against his lip thoughtfully. “Quite a few of us are, actually. It’s rather amusing, in a terrible way.”

“And what do you want with me?”

“With you?” Albus smiled, “why, I want your help, of course.”

“No.”

“Why not? Come now, Gellert. You get to help kill an immortal dark wizard and rehabilitate a dysfunctional society.”

Albus winked. “I’m quite certain you’ll even have opportunities for murder and torture. I would have thought you’d be jumping for joy.” 

“No. I-just leave me to my punishment. It’s what I deserve.”

“What you deserve,” Albus said, “is to help make amends. Help me destroy Voldemort, help me fix up Britain. And then you can return to your lonely cell.”

"Do you not understand?" He snarled, "I still want to do all of that. But I-I cannot. I cannot trust myself. I never planned, in the beginning, to do half the things I ended up doing. I never wanted to. But I did. I cannot trust myself. I cannot trust myself not to damn myself more than I already am."

"Do you remember the day by the lake?" Albus asked, "I don't think we'd met more than two weeks before then. Do you remember it?"

“Of course I do.”

“I said that we would be damning ourselves if we carried out your plans. Do you remember your reply?”

“Albus-“

“You said that better for two to destroy themselves than for an entire world to do so.”

“And I was a fool. A naive, arrogant fool. I did not know-“

“Come now, Gellert. Just join me. Together, we can save the world from itself.”

“One would think you’d walked in here through the front, the way you’re talking. Für das großere wohl, is that it Albus?”

Albus just inclined his head slightly.

“What makes you think I won’t turn on you the first chance I get? What makes you think I won’t claim the wand back from you?”

Albus smiled, his eyes twinkling. 

“Well, mostly because I know you. Knew you, I should say.”

“If you are talking in the biblical sense, you will find that it was mostly I who-“

“Betrayal in an underhanded fashion, that isn’t you,” Albus continued serenely, “oh, you might challenge me to a duel if our relationship would devolve, but you are not one to slit my throat while I sleep. As if you would even get the chance.”

“You know me many, many years ago,” Gellert whispered, “a lifetime ago.”

“I know you well enough to be certain of this: you would not betray me, not when I offer you a chance to make real, lasting change.”

“The last time I tried-“

“You were driven by pure intentions, but you were quickly twisted. I will not allow that to happen this time.”

Gellert shook his head, clasping his hands together to keep their excited shaking hidden. 

“It-we cannot be trusted with such power. What makes you think that you will not be twisted just as I was?”

Albus raised his wand in answer, holding it horizontally.

"I have carried this for fifty-one years," he said, "and still, I have ignored its every whisper. It is not the same, I know, but I am practised at rising above my baser desires."

A flash of crimson-gold disturbed the air and a fiery feather appeared, dropping neatly into Albus’ outstretched hand. 

“Ah,” He said, “it would seem the guards have noticed the gaping hole in their utterly secure prison. They must be making their way up the stairs now. What say you, Gellert?”

The old thrill of an approaching fight filled him, the joyous fire beginning to make his blood boil. 

He started stretching his hand out toward Albus’ and hesitated, the screams of the dying echoing momentarily in his ears. 

“I know you want to,” Albus said, “I know you long for it. And this time, Gellert, you truly will be in the right.”

Gellert took his hand. 

He felt the magic swirling around him as Albus waved his wand, slicing neatly through all the enchantments that bound him to this cell. 

And then he felt free, freer than he had been for decades. 

“Where’s the Phoenix?” He asked, “If it takes much longer to remove us from here, the guards will arrive.”

“Fawkes will be here in his own time,” Albus said, looking supremely unconcerned, his hand warm in Gellert’s. “And it will be good for the guards to arrive. You need a wand.”

“They will see you.”

Albus quirked an eyebrow. 

“I know.”

They stood like that for a few minutes, facing the door with hands clasped, Albus looking as relaxed and confident as he had just before they’d duelled, all those years ago. 

Slowly, the voices began to filter in from outside the cell door, out-of-breath shouts and curses as the guards drew near. 

“Stand back,” Albus said, releasing his hand. 

“I’m perfectly fine where I am,” Gellert snapped. 

“Of course you are. Oh, I believe I forgot to mention. When I said Voldemort is immortal, I wasn’t being glib. I’m not yet certain how many, but I know he has made Horcruxes. Several of them.”

Some of his distaste must have shown on his face because Albus laughed.

It sounded as joyous and full of life as it always had in his memories. 

“Fun, isn’t it?”

The door burst open. The guards had arrived. 

Harry scowled at his plate of eggs, cutting them into far smaller pieces than was strictly necessary. 

Umbridge, it seemed, was doing whatever she could to make Hogwarts a living hell for him. One by one, she was taking everything he cared about from him. 

No Quidditch, no DA, no communications with Sirius, no Dumbledore. 

He was half-convinced that she would try and split Ron and Hermione away from him, if only to increase his misery. 

At least Dumbledore had made it out all right, after promising to explain everything. When exactly that mysterious time for explanations would come, Harry didn’t know, but something about the way Dumbledore had promised made him feel sure that it wouldn’t be too much longer. 

Next to him, Hermione and Ron were angrily talking about Marietta. Ron was far more vocal, but he could still hear the rage lurking under Hermione’s voice. 

He didn’t join in, sure that if he even started thinking too much about the traitor he would be shouting. 

Further down the table, he could hear Seamus whispering to Lavender that Fudge had been taken to St Mungo’s after Dumbledore was through with him. 

He snorted around a mouthful of eggs, wishing that something as incredible as that had happened. 

He allowed his mind to wander for a few minutes, thinking about what Fudge would have looked like if he really had been left with a pumpkin for a head, as he’d heard someone claim. 

It was better than thinking about that feeling he’d had when Dumbledore had spoken to him, that snakelike urge to bite into the elderly wizard. 

‘If Voldemort isn’t possessing me,’ he thought, ‘then what is it?

He glanced up at the head table without thinking, so used to looking to Dumbledore when he had problems. 

Umbridge was sitting in Dumbledore’s seat. 

She caught Harry’s eye and smiled widely, her jowls shivering.

A burning fury shot through him, a sudden image filling his mind of him running up to that-that thing and just punching her, wiping the horrific frog-like grin from her face. 

His seething rage settled like acid in his belly, his hands curling into fists around his knife and fork. 

He couldn’t think of anyone, in that moment, who he hated more than Umbridge. Not Malfoy, not Snape, not even Wormtail or Voldemort. 

He stared back at her with a clenched jaw, not giving her the satisfaction of seeing how upset she’d made him. 

An enormous flurry of wings broke his gaze as dozens of owls bearing copies of the Daily Prophet came flooding through the hall. 

He looked back at his plate, forcing himself to eat even though the food seemed to have no taste. 

A loud murmur of excited conversation suddenly filled the hall. 

He heard Ron exclaim something that would have made Mrs Weasley wash his mouth out with soap. 

Ron was looking down at Hermione's copy of the Prophet with a look of horrified fascination. Hermione herself was just staring at it with wide eyes, not even bothering to chide Ron for his language.

All around the hall, everyone who had received a newspaper was staring at it in shock. 

Harry scooted closer and looked.

FUGITIVE HEADMASTER FREES INFAMOUS FOE! 

In the early hours of this morning, Nurmengard prison (see page 4) was broken into for the first time in history, resulting in its deadliest captive being released. 

Gellert Grindelwald, one of the most feared Dark Wizards of all time, escaped, leaving over a dozen guards and Aurors unconscious in his wake.

The Daily Prophet can confirm that Albus Dumbledore, former Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot and Headmaster of Hogwarts, was involved in this escape. 

The article continued for several pages, describing Grindelwald’s crimes and the duel in which Dumbledore had defeated him, and wondering at length why Dumbledore had released him. 

Harry got halfway through the article before he looked up, a grim smile trying to break out on his face. 

Everyone at the head table was engrossed in the article. McGonagall looked like she had swallowed a brick, Snape’s face was an odd shade of puce, Flitwick was staring at the paper without moving an inch, and Sprout looked like she was going to vomit. 

And Umbridge…Umbridge had gone white as snow, her eyes wide with fear, her hand shaking so badly that pumpkin juice sloshed over the side of her goblet. 

Harry laughed until he cried. 

Chapter Text

"Just tell us what's going on, Albus," the ghostlike lynx said, speaking in Kingsley Shacklebolt's cool, collected voice.

Its message completed, the lynx waited for a moment before dissipating into silvery mist.

Almost as soon as it had vanished, another Patronus walked through the wall.

The tabby cat examined Albus for a moment before opening its mouth.

"I want an explanation," it said, Minerva's voice clipped and furious, "I deserve an explanation. Tell me what in the world you think you're doing."

Albus sighed as the ethereal cat faded away.

"Rather insistent, aren't they?"

He nodded, leaning back in his chair, his eyes half-closed in thought.

Gellert walked in from the bedroom, twirling his new wand through his fingers like a baton.

The last three days of freedom had been good for him, Albus had to admit.

He looked human now, his hair cut short and his beard trimmed down to stubble.

He was still far too emaciated, but Albus was certain the nutritional potions would eventually do their work. After all, the man had been locked up for fifty years, and the Nurmengard wardens hadn't been too concerned about giving their prisoners healthy food.

Still, freedom itself had been good for him. After only three days, his face had already regained the shine that Albus remembered.

It would take far longer for the mental toll of imprisonment to fade. Gellert had spent half of the time since being released aimlessly wandering the meadow outside Albus' cottage, staring at the great expanse of sky.

And Albus had heard him weeping in the night.

Well, he had plenty to weep for.

'I will not fall into the same trap as him,' he told himself, 'I will not.'

"I am going to call a meeting of the Order for tonight," he said, "I will introduce you to them then."

"And how do you expect they will react to me?"

"Some of them worse than others," Albus said, an image of Alastor's magical eye appearing in his mind, "but none of them will attack you. Not physically, at least. Be prepared for insults."

"You sounds as if I'm used to anything else," he said, "ever since I stopped replying, my followers and idolizers gave up on pestering me with their mail."

Albus nodded, reaching out and stroking Fawkes' tail feathers.

The Phoenix awoke with a soft squawk, turning its head and focusing its beady eyes.

"I will return shortly," he said, "after that, I will send Fawkes out to call the meeting."

"You said you would take me with," Gellert said in an accusatory tone, "you said I would come with to meet your friend."

"Oh, you will. But before we visit Horace, I must revisit my office."

"And I-"

"It is not yet the time for us to march into Hogwarts. Now is the time for stealth, sneakiness, and secretive speed."

"You left out silence," Gellert said.

"So I did. I will be back, Gellert. Before you even know that I am gone."

There was a flash of golden fire, and Albus and the Phoenix were gone.

"All I want," Harry said, leaning back in the chair, "is to know what's going on."

"Join the club," muttered Ron, looking around the Common Room, "no one knows what's happening."

Hermione just continued to stare into space, biting her lip obviously deep in thought.

Harry has been sure, after reading the news about Grindelwald, that something was going to happen. Something big.

It was a feeling shared by pretty much everyone in the castle.

Most of the teachers had a sense to them like they were waiting for the other shoe to drop, giving their lessons perfunctorily with their minds clearly elsewhere.

Snape had even been almost civil to Harry in Potions the day before as if he was too occupied to act with his usual meanness.

Watching Umbridge, however, was the most entertaining of all.

She'd become extremely unnerved since the news, flinching and wincing at any sudden movement or loud noise.

Many students had, of course, taken advantage of it, leading to her assigning detentions to anyone who startled her.

Harry had tested it out earlier that day, and she'd raised her wand at him in panic after he knocked his knee against his desk.

In fact, Harry thought that she would have actually cursed him if Parvati hadn't chosen that moment to give a high-pitched scream, making Umbridge spin around with a squeak and drop her wand.

Even though Harry said it was an accident and Parvati claimed there'd been a spider on her hand, they'd each lost Gryffindor fifty points and earned detention.

Frankly, Harry couldn't care. A detention would just give him more opportunities to put her on edge.

As fun as messing with Umbridge was, Dumbledore's freeing of Grindelwald had one major bad side effect.

It seemed like everyone who hadn't been sure whether or not Harry and Dumbledore were lying about Voldemort had made up their minds.

If Dumbledore wasn't just trying to destabilize the Ministry, they said, why had he broken a genocidal dark wizard out of prison?

If Harry hadn't seen Voldemort return to his body, he might have thought just like them. If he hadn't witnessed Voldemort's rebirth or if he hadn't been given reason after reason over the years to trust Dumbledore, he might have thought the Ministry was right.

'Dumbledore hasn't been giving you much reason to trust him lately,' a little, sour voice whispered in his thoughts, 'he's barely even looked at you this year.'

'He's got his reasons,' he told himself stubbornly, 'maybe Voldemort's not possessing me, but there's something going on. And he said he'd tell me everything soon.'

"Maybe," Ron said conspiratorially, "maybe Grindelwald was actually innocent."

That idea cut through Hermione's trance.

She blinked a few times, focusing on Ron with a McGonagall-like expression.

"That has got to be the stupidest thing I've ever heard."

"No," Ron huffed, "Listen. Everyone thought Snuffles was guilty, right? We didn't know-"

"Grindelwald confessed to everything," Hermione interrupted, "proudly. His name was on hundreds of documents, he'd made many public appearances, and he gave speeches talking about his goals. Dumbledore himself captured him, and then left him in the prison he built for fifty years. He's not innocent, Ron. Not even nearly."

"So why'd Dumbledore break him out, then?"

"I have no idea," Hermione confessed,

"It doesn't make any sense. Grindelwald is a really powerful wizard. No one managed to beat him until Dumbledore, and even then it was supposedly a close call. I don't know why Dumbledore would give himself another enemy. You'd think Voldemort—for heaven's sake, Ron, it's just a name—you'd think Voldemort would be enough to deal with."

"Voldemort isn't all Dumbledore needs to deal with," Harry said suddenly, "he's got the Ministry on his back too."

"No way," Ron said in a hushed voice, "you don't think he freed Grindelwald just to hassle the Ministry?"

"Yeah," Harry said, "I do. You didn't see him in the office, he told McGonagall that the Ministry would regret kicking him out of Hogwarts. How bad could Grindelwald be anyway?"

From Ron and Hermione's disbelieving expressions, Grindelwald could be pretty bad.

Apparently, this was another one of those things that could only be fully understood by someone who'd been raised in a magical family or had tried to swallow the library whole. Not for the first time, Harry cursed the Dursleys for raising him with no connection to the Wizarding World, forcing him to miss out on so much general knowledge everyone else took for granted.

"Didn't you read the Prophet's article on him?" Hermione asked in a more high-pitched voice than usual.

"C'mon, Hermione, after what they've written about me, you can't think I'd believe anything they say."

"He was bad," Ron said, "everyone forgot about him because of You-Know-Who, but my uncle Bilius used to tell us stories. He'd have taken over all of Europe if Dumbledore hadn't stopped him."

"He wanted to take over the world," Hermione whispered, "and he was getting there. He was working with the Nazis, that's how they lasted so long. Harry, he killed and tortured tens of thousands. He wanted to tear down the Statute of Secrecy and-and rule over muggles, make them into slaves. And he would have managed it!"

"How come Dumbledore freed him then?" Harry asked, sitting up sharply, "if he was really that bad, why'd Dumbledore let him out? Why's Dumbledore working with him?"

"Maybe he's just lost his mind completely."

"Or maybe," Hermione said slowly, "he's got some way of keeping him on a leash. Maybe he thinks he can control him, use him against Voldemort and the Ministry. He is meant to be one of the most powerful wizards in the world…"

While Harry, Ron, and Hermione were discussing him, Gellert Grindelwald was standing on a street corner in a quaint Welsh village, spinning around on the balls of his feet with his arms outstretched.

"Gellert," Albus said sharply, not taking his eyes off of the house he was facing, "did I not say I wanted to avoid undue attention?"

"It's your own fault," Gellert replied, not pausing his whirling, "you took the binding spells off of me. You know, they made it so that the air around me was thicker."

"I do know. If you recall, I was consulted to help keep you contained."

"Then it's even more your fault. You can't blame me for enjoying my full range of motion."

"If I didn't know that you were always like this, I'd have assumed your imprisonment drove you mad. Enjoy your freedom later, Gellert. We have work to do."

Scowling, Gellert came to a stop, drawing his wand as he walked up the path to stand facing the door beside Albus.

"He is home," Albus said, "and he's the only one."

With no more warning than that, Albus flicked his wand toward the house and walked forward.

The door opened at his approach, and Gellert quickly followed Dumbledore through the entrance hall, pausing as he entered the living room with his lip curling.

It looked remarkably like a magpie's nest, full of shiny objects that glittered and tried to attract his attention.

A large grand piano stood as the centrepiece of the sitting room, covered in framed photographs and minuscule geegaws. The room itself was stuffed near to bursting with dozens of couches, armchairs, and small cushioned stools. Every available surface was dotted with photographs, framed newspaper clippings, and what appeared to be random snacks.

"Horace?" Albus called, taking a seat in the nearest armchair and gesturing for Gellert to do the same.

Gellert ignored Dumbledore's motion and continued to stand next to his chair, tapping his wand against his thigh and listening to the approaching footsteps.

"Albus?" A voice called, and a moment later its owner walked into the room.

An extremely fat man, he looked to be no taller than Gellert's chest, with a shiny pate and a thick, walrus moustache.

Gellert immediately mistrusted him. The man looked soft and harmless, but he held his wand like he knew to use it, and his eyes spoke of danger.

He stopped in his tracks as he entered, his face paling and his eyes flickering between Albus and Gellert, his wrist going white as his fingers tightened around his wand.

"Hello, Horace," Albus said politely, "take a seat, would you?"

He walked slowly to one of the couches, saying not a word, his Adam's apple rising and falling.

"Al-Albus," He said finally, "what a-a pleasant surprise."

"I'm sure. I assume you know Gellert?"

The man nodded, his chins shaking enough to make Gellert almost feel seasick.

"Albus, I don't know what-why-but I assure you, I would never join-would never join He Who Must Not Be Named."

"Oh, Horace," Albus said, shaking his head, "that's not what this is about at all. Please, relax. Have some of that crystallized pineapple you so enjoy."

"Fresh out," Horace said, his eyes still darting to Gellert.

"Horace, please. We're not here to hurt you. We just want to talk."

Colour began returning to Horace's face and he nodded again, looking slightly less nervous.

"Something to drink?" Horace said, pointing at a bottle of mead sitting next to several crystal glasses. "Also have brandy or a selection of juices."

"The mead sounds delightful," Albus said, "Thank you,"

"For me as well," Gellert added.

A moment later, two glasses full of mead were floating through the air toward them, with a third flying into Horace's hand.

"I was surprised not to find you at your manor," Albus said, "comfortable though your holiday home is. You only came a few days ago, did you not?"

"Been here three days," he said, "you noticed the shrivelfig?"

"Indeed, I was just going to remark on it. Quite impressive to have it doing so well in this climate."

"Thank you, the-"

"You fled your home because of me?" Gellert interjected, feeling rather gratified.

"More because of what your escape implied," Horace said, staring intently at the glass in his hands, "you are going to war with the Ministry, aren't you?"

"My war," Albus said, "is with Voldemort and his supporters."

"Oh? And your sudden escalation had nothing to do with the Ministry removing you from Hogwarts?"

"I merely realized that I might need extra assistance. The Ministry's decision certainly helped with making up my mind."

An awkward silence descended upon the room, only staying for a moment before Albus broke it.

"Let me cut right to it, Horace. I've come because of your last letter."

"My-"

"Your last letter," Gellert said, "I heard him clearly enough and I was barely paying attention."

"I had mentioned that I was collecting memories of Tom in his Hogwarts days," Albus said, shooting Gellert a hard glance, "I had specifically asked if you ever saw or heard anything that made you think of him being interested in immortality. You said that you did, Horace. You said that you have a memory to give me."

Horace went pale again, the hand holding his glass trembling slightly.

'Interesting.' Gellert thought.

"Albus-I would-it would be my honour to help, but if he-if he finds out that I shared this memory…"

Albus didn't move a muscle, but Gellert noticed the sudden change in him just as Horace must have. Albus was suddenly radiating power, his eyes blazing, his jaw set and immovable.

Right then, Albus was every inch the image of the man who'd defeated him.

"I promise you, Voldemort will have far greater worries on his mind. I will keep you safe, Horace. Just give me the memory."

"Albus, I-"

"He knows that you know, whatever it is. He will not forget that. Sooner or later, he will come for you. Give me the memory, Horace, and you will not have to face him."

"I don't have a Pensieve," Horace said.

"Not a problem. I brought my own."

Albus reached into his robes, pulling the Pensieve he'd fetched from his office out of a pocket far too small to contain it and placing it carefully on a small coffee table.

With a look of utter surrender, Horace touched his trembling wand tip to his temple, his eyes closed in deep concentration.

Gellert knew the instant Slughorn withdrew his wand that he was trying to trick them. The memory trailing from his wand was sludge like and grey, a far cry from their usual ethereal appearance.

He followed Albus' lead, however, and said nothing, watching as the memory was placed in the stone bowl.

"I will view it alone," Albus said, "Gellert, Horace, please be patient."

With that, Dumbledore stuck his head into the basin.

Gellert waited calmly, watching Slughorn carefully. A few times, the man opened his mouth as if to speak, seeming to think better of it and closing it.

After several minutes, Albus rose, shaking his head and looking disappointed.

"Horace, Horace, Horace," He said in a soft voice, "did you truly think that would fool me?"

"I don't know what you're talking about!" Slughorn exclaimed.

"Tampered?" Gellert asked.

"Very much so. Horace, I will ask again due to a long and warm friendship, but know that my patience wears thin. Please give me the complete memory."

"A-Albus, I-you-"

Albus' wand rose and pointed at the fool, Gellert mirroring his action.

"Horace. Please. I know you are an excellent Occlumens, but you are not good enough. I have no desire whatsoever to harm you, but I will tear your mind to shreds if I must. Do not force me to do so. Give me the memory."

"You don't know what I did," Horace whispered, "the shame-Albus-"

"YOU DARE TALK ABOUT SHAME?" Gellert roared, his blood suddenly boiling, "YOU KNOW NOTHING OF SHAME! YOU KNOW NOTHING OF REGRET!"

"Just do it, Horace," Albus said tiredly, his wand aiming steadily at Horace's forehead, "do it, or face the consequences."

Tears flooded down Horace's face as he raised his wand again.

This time, the memory looked normal.

"Gellert, please keep an eye on our friend."

When Albus rose again, his nostrils were flared, his eyes wide and furious.

Horace shrank below his gaze, raising his arms in an unconscious gesture of surrender.

Albus just stared at him for a moment before closing his eyes and breathing deeply, his fingers flexing around his wand.

"Thank you, Horace," he said, his words far more clipped than usual, "you have been a great assistance."

"I didn't know, I didn't know, Albus, I thought-I didn't-"

"You didn't think," Albus said, his eyes flashing open, "and you have been too cowardly to think since then. If you-"

He stopped, cutting himself off with a brisk shake of the head.

He stood up suddenly, his hand shooting out and scooping up the Pensieve with all its contents.

"Goodbye, Horace. Soon enough, Hogwarts will be back in my hands. When this is so, I would like you to join us there. For your safety, of course."

"I-thank you. Thank you, Albus. As soon as I hear that you're back there, I'll come."

Albus nodded, still resolutely not looking at the shaking man.

"You will come in utter secrecy. I won't have Voldemort wondering why I have decided to bring you in."

"Of course," Horace nodded, his cheeks losing some of their paleness.

"Thank you for the mead, and the information. As much as you did damage that day, you have helped me tremendously now."

Following Albus' lead, Gellert rose, beginning to walk toward the door with Horace's voice echoing after them.

"I didn't know, Albus. I didn't know."

"Well?" Fudge demanded, looking wildly around the men seated before him, "What do we have?"

"Absolutely nothing," Rufus Scrimgeour answered, "no progress with tracking them, not a single confirmed sighting, nothing. They may as well have dropped off the face of the earth."

Fudge kept his hands clasped together, biting his cheek to keep from yelling.

"The Germans have nothing either," Scrimgeour continued, "and all our attempts at scrying have failed."

"He's going to attack us," Fudge said with a tremor in his voice, "he's just biding his time until we're unprepared. He's going to come. We need to find him, we need to stop them."

"With all due respect, sir, there is nothing we can do, not until we have any real information about their whereabouts."

"He wants to take control," Fudge said, "they're going to come for the ministry."

Scrimgeour shook his head, turning to the wizard beside him.

"Robards, tell us about the new security."

"We have a dozen Aurors in the building at all times," Robards said, his voice rough and thick, "and three dozen members of law enforcement. Everyone is on high alert, and all leave has been cancelled. We've already added more variations of the anti-apparition and anti-portkey jinxes, and by tomorrow, Thief's Downfall will be installed at all entrances to the Ministry. The teams of security trolls will be in place, also by tomorrow. When the German, Austrian, and Polish reinforcements arrive, we will be diverting some of them to be posted here. They won't be able to get in without being seen, and as soon as they are, they'll be facing a small army. They might be good, sir, but superior numbers will overwhelm them."

"Dumbledore's too smart to attack here," Scrimgeour said, "he'll know that we've raised every possible defence against him."

"He wants to kill me," Fudge said.

"And so we've given you quarters in the ministry itself, and we'll have extra guards posted on your door."

Fudge opened his mouth again, but Scrimgeour quickly continued.

"Your wife and son are in the Ministry's most well-protected safe house. If an Unplottable extremely well-warded house under the Fidelius isn't enough, the Chinese government have promised to add every defence they can to it and to keep forces stationed in the general area. They're as secure as possible, sir."

"I want them caught!" Fudge said, punctuating his words with a slammed fist on the table.

"We'll catch them, sir," Scrimgeour said, "they'll make a mistake, and we'll be on their tails before they even know it. We'll catch them."

Privately, however, Scrimgeour suspected that Albus Dumbledore and Gellert Grindelwald would be far more difficult to apprehend than he was making it sound.

Sirius lounged lazily on a kitchen chair with his arm draped over the back, watching the Order of the Phoenix collectively lose their minds with a small grin.

He'd never seen them in such a state, not over the course of the last war, and not since Dumbledore had reformed it.

It was actually quite amusing.

McGonagall and Moody both looked ready to murder Albus, Arthur Weasley was sitting quietly while his wife argued with their eldest son, Remus was carefully looking away from Tonks, who herself looked somewhere in between bright excitement and bleak depression. Sirius had to admit that it was impressive, that even with everything else going on, they still found the time and headspace for awkward relationship confusion.

Sitting next to Remus and taking up two seats was Hagrid, peacefully knitting what looked like a scarf. Hagrid had been more than adamant that Dumbledore must have had a reason for what he did. The only person, besides himself, who seemed as relaxed as Hagrid was Kingsley, although Sirius was quite sure that Kingsley wouldn't look stressed or worried even if Voldemort was to walk through the door.

Hestia Jones was talking animatedly with Dedalus Diggle and Elphias Doge while Mundungus looked on, his pipe expelling great clouds of foul-smelling green smoke.

Snape looked his usual greasy, disgusting self, although his face was more drawn than usual.

No one was quite sure what to make of this latest development. Sirius, however, thought he had a pretty good idea why Albus did it. And if he was right, well…he could certainly get behind the idea of declaring war on the Ministry.

Everyone in the room fell silent as the front door opened and the sounds of two distinct sets of footsteps approaching the kitchen were heard.

The silence became thick and oppressive as Dumbledore walked into the room, with his new friend right behind him.

Sirius had seen many pictures of Grindelwald in his lifetime. It was only a few weeks ago that he'd found an album that his grandfather, who had very much idolized Grindelwald, had put together.

The face he saw now was not the same as the one that had smiled out of the newspaper clippings at him. It was gaunter, lined with age, shadowed from years of imprisonment.

But looking into those bright blue eyes, Sirius could see the man who had laid waste to Europe lurking within.

For a very long moment, no one moved a muscle.

Then Dumbledore smiled, his eyes twinkling.

"Everyone, allow me to introduce the newest member of the Order of the Phoenix: Gellert Grindelwald."

The man himself gave a jaunty wave, tipping an imaginary hat.

Sirius could barely contain a chuckle as everyone started shouting at once, only quieting down after Dumbledore made a few enormous explosive sounds from his wand.

"Have you lost your bloody mind?" Moody, demanded, clearly not caring about Dumbledore's call for silence.

"I don't believe I have. Of course, if I had-"

"What do you think you were doing?" McGonagall snapped, "Bringing that here?"

"My dear lady-"Grindelwald began.

"SHUT UP, SCUM!"

Acting with unbelievable speed, Moody had stood up and drawn his wand, aiming it directly at Grindelwald's chest.

Sirius heard Molly Weasley gasp and Tonks urgently say something, but he, like the rest of them, did nothing except sit and watch.

Grindelwald just stood there with a strange smile.

"Albus," He said, "call your attack dog off before someone is hurt."

"Shut it," Moody snarled. "Stop talking now."

"I don't know what I've done to you personally-"

"Does the name Neleus Moody mean anything to you?"

There was an in drawing of breath around the room. Tonks' eyes widened, Elphias Doge winced and looked away, and Mundungus shrank in on himself as if sensing oncoming troubles.

"I don't believe it does," Grindelwald said, his brow furrowing, "did I kill him?"

"You might as well have," Moody growled, his lips peeling away from his teeth, "he was never the same after escaping from one of your little camps. He was the only one of his unit to make it out, and a part of him never left."

"I'm sorry," Grindelwald said, and he sounded truly sincere, "believe me-"

Moody laughed, a jagged sound like breaking glass. "Believe you? It's hard enough for me to let something like you live!"

"Why would you bring him here?" McGonagall shouted, "How could you do this, after everything he did?"

"Enough."

Albus' voice cracked through the room like a whip, making Hestia pause halfway through standing up and Moody and McGonagall stop their shouting.

"We have much to discuss," Albus said, "I assure you, all your recriminations and finger-pointing will accomplish nothing. Allow me to explain my actions."

He looked around the room, his piercing gaze settling on each individual in turn.

Muttering to himself, Moody took his seat, his wand still clenched in his hand.

"Albus," McGonagall said, "do you really expect us to trust him enough to calmly discuss this?"

"No. I expect you to trust me."

Her nostrils flaring, McGonagall sat back down.

"Our fight," Dumbledore said, "can no longer be with Voldemort alone. The Ministry has proven to not have the best wishes of its citizens at heart. The Ministry in its current form will do nothing but pave the way for Voldemort's rule."

Dumbledore looked around the room again.

"We cannot leave the Ministry as it is," he continued, "to do so would be equal to handing control of Britain, if not to Voldemort, then to the next person who wishes to follow in his ways. The corruption lurking in the heart of our government must be torn away, for once and for all, to allow our society to truly grow."

A ringing silence met with this pronouncement. Looking around, Sirius saw that almost everyone wore expressions of disbelief.

"Voldemort did not arise in a vacuum. We showed him that the powerful make their own rules, and he was ever a quick learner. How many Death Eaters used their connections and wealth to escape justice? How many bigoted, arrogant fools infest our ruling class?"

"It's interesting," Moody said, "that you didn't care about any of that until they attacked you personally."

"I have tried for decades to work within the system," Dumbledore replied, his voice colder than Sirius had thought possible. "I have attempted to pass dozens of laws, laws that would severely limit the potential for corruption, laws that would begin the process of eliminating the animosity between wizards and witches and all the other magical races."

He turned to Remus for a moment, nodding at him.

"The werewolves do not follow Voldemort simply because they are bloodthirsty monsters. No, they follow him because our government barely considers them worthy of fair treatment. They are told, over and over again, that they are nothing more than beasts, and so when a true animal like Greyback promises them the rights we have kept from them, they become eager to obey."

That may be true," Kingsley said, "but-"

"In the tunnels of Gringotts," Dumbledore continued, "the goblins mutter about our treatment of them. No matter how many times I bring up the idea, the Ministry refuses to meet with them, to even begin discussing a way to mend our relationship. If Voldemort found himself willing to deal with them, if he promised them the right concessions, they would join him in a heartbeat."

Bill Weasley shifted uneasily in his seat but seemed unwilling, or unable, to contradict Dumbledore.

"Vampires are given the same treatment as werewolves. Thankfully, there are very few of them, but almost all of them are willing to serve Voldemort. Centaurs are never given an ounce of respect, and a giant is seen as nothing more than a difficult target. Is it any wonder Voldemort is able to pull so many of our fellow magical races to his side?"

"Albus-"Minerva started, getting no further than his name before being cut off.

"Muggle baiting is often viewed as a victimless crime. We let offenders off with a slap on the wrist, and dare to question why it is that so many of our people think of them as animals?"

"And all the while," Dumbledore continued, his voice becoming dangerously soft, "the wealthy and important members of our society are allowed to do whatever they wish. A blind eye is turned to the antics of the ancient pureblood families, and we tell ourselves that we treat every witch and wizard equally. A sizable enough donation to charity and all crimes are forgotten. We claim to care for the weak, the voiceless, those who have no power of their own. At the same time, we allow an inept Minister to change laws at will. Destroy Voldemort, and in another few decades, he will be replaced, replaced by one who will have learned from his mistakes. No. Society itself must be cleansed. If the people of this country refuse to act other than as spoiled children who never learned that pulling the wings off of flies is wrong, then I will act as the parent with no recompense other than to strike."

"You're talking about a revolution," Hestia said accusingly.

"I'm certainly not talking about a tea party," Dumbledore said, "though, if I had any confidence in something like that working, I would be prepared to attempt it."

For a moment, no one said anything.

Then they all started talking at once, shouting at each other and arguing, Moody jumping to his feet and yelling something.

Albus gave a small flick of his wand, and an explosion so loud that Sirius thought his eardrums would burst occurred.

"We no longer are left with other options," Dumbledore said, breaking the blissful cessation of noise that followed.

"The only method that seems to be understood is fear. I have no desire to inflict pain and misery, but I am being given no choice. Can you not understand? Fudge is so afraid of losing power that he is willing to sacrifice our only chance of defeating Voldemort while he is still weak. Cornelius did not come to this attitude by accident. He was taught that power is all that matters, shown it in every sector of our life. If we somehow dispose of Cornelius alone, his successor will be no better. The only answer, the only one, is to dispose of every drop of this cancer. It is the only way. If power is all that matters, then I will use every ounce of power at my disposal."

Looking at Dumbledore right then, Sirius could easily believe that this was a man who could take on the Ministry.

And win.

"Albus," Arthur said weakly, "we-I agree with you. I do. But what you're talking about doing, it would mean…"

"It would mean fighting to kill," Albus said with a nod, "it would mean declaring our enmity of the Ministry just as of the Death Eaters. And it would mean, most unfortunately, that there is a chance of innocents being caught in the crossfire."

"You still haven't explained what that is for," Moody said, nodding at Grindelwald.

"I apologize, I had thought it would be obvious. I need someone who, alone, is at least almost as dangerous as I am. I need someone whose very name inspires fear in those who are fighting him. I need someone who has experience with overthrowing governments. I need someone other than myself who Voldemort can fear facing."

"He's a monster," McGonagall said, "he-"

"I am very well aware of the nature of Gellert's character. As I said before, I do not ask you, any of you, to trust him. I ask you all to trust me."

McGonagall held his unblinking gaze for a long moment before nodding and sitting back down.

"We have much planning to do," Dumbledore said, "but first, I must ask that any of you who do not wish to take part in this tells me now."

"Professor Dumbledore," Molly said, "we-our family-"

"Your family will be in no greater danger than they have been until now," Dumbledore said, "I am not asking for anyone to announce to the Ministry that they are with me. In fact, I will be doing everything in my power to ensure that the Ministry believes Gellert and I are acting alone."

Dumbledore looked around the room again.

"I take it there is no one wishing to depart?"

No one said anything.

Beaming, his eyes bright, Dumbledore began to speak again.

'Well,' Sirius thought, 'this is definitely going to be more interesting than just hiding in this stupid house.'

Chapter Text

"Seven," Gellert exhaled, shaking his head, "seven."

"Six remaining," Albus said, "and I have at least some idea of what most of them are."

"But you have no idea where they are."

"Not yet. I do have my theories though."

"And when will you see fit to share these theories?"

"We must approach this from Voldemort's frame of mind. He would have wanted to hide his Horcruxes somewhere important to him, in a location that he saw as either grand enough to host a fragment of his soul, or one that was symbolically important. I feel certain that there is one somewhere in Hogwarts."

"And yet, in all your years there you never found it."

"Perhaps I was looking in the wrong places," Albus said with a small nod, "but I have no doubt Voldemort would have hidden one there. For the others...Gringotts, I believe, would have made a strong impression on young Tom Riddle. He already has proven willing to trust one of his followers with a Horcrux. Many of the Death Eaters have vaults, it will merely be a matter of finding the right one."

"Or we could search all of them," Gellert said sourly, "break into them one at a time."

"We could. I would prefer to avoid the enmity of the goblins for as long as possible, but that is certainly an option."

Dumbledore winked at Gellert.

"Now, I was planning on interviewing a current Azkaban detainee, but I feel that breaking into the prison would send the Minister careening off the slopes of madness. Allow me to write some letters, and then we will go speak with a house elf."

"How fun," Gellert said.

"I told you it would be," Albus said, ignoring the sarcasm entirely.

"When are you going to talk to the boy?"

"Soon."

"Albus, if you keep stringing him along-"

"You have made your opinion abundantly clear. I have told you that I will speak with him, and as soon as I can, I will."

"If he is so important-"

"Enough, Gellert. Enough. I assure you, I know what I am doing."

"The Prophecy-"

"Like Voldemort," Albus interrupted, "you place too much stock in the prophecy's importance. It only matters because Voldemort believes it to have meaning."

"It only-"Gellert began, but again, Albus cut him off, standing up and beginning to pace before the small table.

"Yes, Gellert. It only matters because Voldemort believes it. I have seen the Hall of Prophecies. I have seen the tens of thousands of foretellings that went unfulfilled. A prophecy is nothing more than mere potential, the possibility of what will come. It does not bend fate to its will. And even if it did, even if the prophecy's word was law, could you seriously think, for a second, that I would not do everything in my power to destroy Voldemort? Would you honestly imagine that I would be willing to leave it up to a teenager?"

"The boy is important, Albus."

"Of course he is! Voldemort believes that Harry, and Harry alone, has power over him! Voldemort will never rest, not while Harry is alive. And Harry is a powerful symbol to all those who would stand against Voldemort."

"You truly think the prophecy does not matter?" Gellert asked, not even bothering to keep the doubt from his voice.

Albus sighed, pausing his pacing and pushing his spectacles back up to the bridge of his nose.

"I believe," he said, "that Harry may well have the potential to wield great power over Voldemort. I also believe, however, that the prophecy can be argued to have already been fulfilled. Harry did indeed vanquish Voldemort, if only for a time. Had we been careful enough, had we prevented it, Voldemort would never have been able to regain his body. I cannot base all of my plans and actions off of the prophecy. I must act as if it had never been spoken, as if I did not know its contents."

"That is not what Voldemort will do."

"I know. And I can work with that. I will work with that, in fact."

"And what will you do if you can't remove the Horcrux from him? You care for the boy, Albus. Will you be able to do what must be done?"

"I will find a way to remove the Horcrux."

"And if you can't?"

"I will cross that bridge when I come to it."

"Al-"

"I will cross that bridge when I come to it," Albus repeated, his voice carrying a note of warning.

Gellert sighed.

Dolores picked up her quill again, glancing around the room nervously.

He would come for her, she knew it. That lying, power-hungry lunatic, he would come for her.

Somehow, he'd barred her from the office that was rightfully hers, forcing her to stay in her own one where he had no doubt laid some trap.

Well, she'd outsmarted him all right. He wouldn't be looking for her in the office adjacent to Severus', and even if he would, he wouldn't be expecting the Aurors shadowing her under Disillusionment Charms.

Not that the Aurors had done well against him last time, but that had been in his seat of power.

She bit her lip as she reread her note to Cornelius, her trembling hand pushing her quill's point through the parchment when she signed her name.

Cornelius had to listen to her, he had to give her more security!

It was all well and good for him to promise that when the foreign Aurors arrived he'd station some at Hogwarts, but until then she was a sitting duck!

"They're all working with him," she muttered, "McGonagall, Hagrid, the Potter brat and his little friends, even Flitwick! There's no one I can trust except Severus!"

As she was putting her quill down, there was a sudden flash of golden fire in the air.

She made an undignified squawking noise, falling backwards off her chair in her attempt to jump.

The stone floor knocked the air out of her chest, and she stared at the thing that had invaded her security.

Dumbledore's bird hovered in mid-air for an instant, looking down at her with glittering eyes.

As Dawlish and Proudfoot finally acted, sending what appeared to be Stunners at the Phoenix, it vanished, leaving the red jets to crash harmlessly against the wall.

She slowly got to her feet, ignoring the useless Aurors' questions, her eyes locked on what the bird had left behind.

A letter, rolled into a tight scroll, sitting on her desk as if it belonged there.

"Madam Umbridge," Dawlish said uncertainly, making her pause with her hand halfway to the letter, "we should check it for curses."

She nodded, not moving her gaze from it for a second.

She still hadn't looked away a few minutes later, when the letter was finally declared clean.

With her heart pounding so hard she felt almost like it would burst, she unscrolled the letter.

'Dolores.

I believe you are owed congratulations. Not since the time of Phineas Nigellus Black has Hogwarts had a Headmaster or Headmistress so unanimously despised. Your achievement is rather impressive, particularly since dear Phineas gained his reputation after attempting to ban all breaks and free periods. In his defence, however, Phineas honestly believed that his actions would push the students to spend more time studying.

You, however, are despised because you are, forgive me for saying this, a rather terrible example of a human.

I wonder if the Headmaster's Office has even allowed you entry. I would assume not. It knows, you see, who is worthy of the role.

While, I admit, it would give me great personal satisfaction to see you punished, I would rather not have to resort to such actions. I would far prefer a peaceful solution.

Here is your option, Dolores: leave. Resign as Headmistress, a role you do not rightfully deserve, resign from whatever Ministry positions you still hold. If you stay out of my way, I will do you no harm.

If, however, you feel unable to let go of the power you have amassed, I will be forced to remove you.

Do not make me use violence, Dolores.

Albus Dumbledore.'

She read through the letter again, difficult as it was with her twitching eyes and shaking hands.

"He-I am the Senior Undersecretary-I am the Headmistress, he can't threaten me! I won't have it! I won't!"

Her face reddening with terrified rage, she turned, thrusting Dumbledore's letter along with the one she'd quilled at a startled Dawlish.

"Send these to Cornelius," she snapped, "he must see the need for extra security! He must!"

Dawlish shared a worried look with Proudfoot before leaving the office, the letters clutched in his hand.

"Sir?"

Rufus paused at the entrance to his office, his hand an inch away from the doorknob.

"Yes?" He said without turning around.

"The Minister wants to see you as soon as you're available."

He kept his sigh internal, allowing a flicker of distaste to cross his face.

"Thank you, Heather. Any idea what it's about?"

"Probably wants more security, sir."

"Please send him a message, let him know I'll be with him shortly."

"Will do, sir."

"Thank you," he repeated, pushing open the door and entering his office.

An enormous picture of Albus Dumbledore smiled at him from the wall.

It hung next to a large map which was dotted with dozens of glowing red points, each marking a possible sighting of the duo.

Each of which had turned out to be nothing.

He sighed again, staring at it.

"What are you doing, Albus?" He muttered, limping over to his desk.

He noticed the tightly scrolled up letter immediately.

"Can no one bother to use normal memos?" He muttered, scowling as he unfurled it.

His scowl only deepened as he began to read.

When Heather knocked on his door half an hour later to report that Fudge was now demanding to see him, she found Rufus staring up at the picture of Dumbledore with a pensive look and distant eyes.

Adalbold Richter, German Minister for Magic, had barely sat down at his desk when the Phoenix appeared.

He jumped out of his chair, drawing his wand in almost the same second as the bird popped into existence, blinding him for an instant with the brightness of its plumage.

He realized almost immediately that it was not a threat and lowered his wand slowly, adrenaline thrumming through him.

'Far too on edge,' he thought, staring into the bird's eyes.

After a moment it blinked.

And vanished with a flash of golden flame, leaving a tightly rolled scroll to float onto his desk.

He watched the scroll warily, his wand rising again.

'It must have been Dumbledore's Phoenix,' he thought, tapping the scroll and muttering as he searched it for curses or other surprises, 'I should call security, report it. He is certainly capable of hiding something that I won't find.'

He debated it for a moment, but curiosity won in the end. After all, he'd had a cordial relationship with Dumbledore ever since he became Minister, and as much as Dumbledore had apparently freed Grindelwald, he still could not imagine the wizened wizard doing anything as cowardly as a cursed letter.

Once he was as certain as he could be that the letter wasn't cursed, he opened it, showing no surprise when he saw that it was written in perfect German, if slightly old fashioned.

It was only when he had finished reading the letter a second time that he noticed the frantic knocking at his office door.

"Yes?"

Frieda almost ripped the door off its hinges in her haste to enter the room.

"Sir," she said hurriedly, "the Polish Minister wants an urgent meeting with you. He said-he said he's not going to send troops to Britain!"

"Arrange the meeting," he said, his voice distant, "and call in the heads of our planned task force."

Cornelius stared at the door as it closed behind Rufus, his expression one of supreme dissatisfaction.

Why was he forced to be surrounded by useless people? Couldn't they see that Dumbledore was going to come for him?

The man had all but declared war on the Ministry, he'd attacked the Minister himself along with several Aurors before going off to free the worst dark wizard until You-Know-Who, and still they did nothing!

"Useless," he muttered angrily, "the lot of them! Our men are strained, he says. Useless!"

Unless…

His eyes widened as realization blossomed.

"They're working with him! He's-he's got them under his spell!"

As he began to follow the horrific implications through in his mind, a flash of golden light split the air.

He jumped, trying to draw his wand.

It fell to the floor with a clatter. His hands were too sweaty to grip it.

The Phoenix hovered above his desk for a moment, looking like it was debating whether or not to attack him.

Then it vanished, leaving a small scroll to drop onto his desk.

His fingers shook so hard the letter almost tore as he unfurled it.

'Cornelius,' it said,

'When I was seven years old, one of my parents left a combined dictionary and thesaurus in my room. Of course, I read it all.

I still do not possess the words to even begin describing your actions. I suspect, in fact, that there are no words. Your stupidity belies mere language.

I know that you are beyond reason, so I will not even attempt to use it. Instead, I am going to give you a series of choices. It is up to you, Minister, to decide which you will choose.

Your first choice: Accept that Voldemort has returned. Rescind the warrant in my name, remove Umbridge from Hogwarts, and begin taking the steps I told you to take nearly a year ago. It is not too late to prevent Voldemort from gaining ground. It is not too late to prevent war with me.

If you do this, as I told you nearly a year ago, you will be remembered throughout the ages as one of the best Ministers of Magic to ever hold the position and as a brave and clever man.

Your second choice: Resign as Minister, flee Britain, and join your family in (I presume) China. You will be remembered as a man who realized when he was in over his head, and who allowed those more suitable to deal with the situation at hand to seize the reins.

More importantly, perhaps, I will not be forced to hurt you.

Your third and final choice: ignore this letter. Continue as if nothing has changed.

If you will be remembered at all, it will be as a mere footnote.

I will not enjoy it. But if need be, I will punish you and show the world the price of your mistakes.

I have fond memories of you, as an able and thoughtful student, wishing to change the world. Please, Cornelius, please live up to the dreams of the boy you once were.

Because I will not allow you to continue on your path.

I have never wished to be your enemy. Please do not force me to be so.

I beg you, Cornelius. Please. Be better than you are.

Albus Dumbledore.'

He stared at the letter for what felt like hours, his heart feeling like an invisible fist was tightening around it.

Then he clenched his jaw and tapped the piece of parchment with his wand, burning it to ash in an instant.

"You will never take this office," he growled, "I am the Minister of Magic, and I will not be ordered around by terrorists!"

Harry leaned back on the couch, his legs comfortably raised by the footstool.

The Common Room was far more full of life than it should have been, being as it was the middle of a weekday.

A cackle of hysterical laughter drew his attention to the couch on the opposite side of the room.

Dean was lying on it, clutching his sides with tears running down his face. Right in front of him, Seamus and Neville were jumping up and down, frantically trying to grab hold of a pillow that had evidently been charmed; it was ducking and diving away from their outstretched hands.

Chuckling, he turned back to Hermione and Ron.

"I'm sure Umbridge is getting paranoid," Hermione said, "that's why she cancelled class."

"Maybe we should try the DA again?" Ron suggested, but Hermione and Harry both shook their heads.

"Umbridge might be all distracted, but those inquisitorial squad aren't," Hermione said, "you can be sure they'll be looking out for something like this."

"So?" Ron countered, "There's more of us than there are of them! And you can bet we've all been practising more than them!"

For a few moments, Harry imagined the entertaining scene of Malfoy and his friends coming through the Room of Requirement's door only to be met with a dozen hexes.

Of course, Hermione had to point out the problems with that.

"But we're definitely not better than all those Aurors they've got here. Besides, if we did something like that, we'd be expelled for sure."

"We need to do something," Ron said, "We can't just-"

A flash of golden fire blinded them all, cutting Ron off in the middle of his exclamation.

When Harry opened his eyes again, Fawkes was sitting on the couch right next to him, rubbing his head along Harry's arm.

"That's-that's Dumbledore's Phoenix," Ron said in a hushed voice, "isn't it?"

He nodded, staring into the bird's eyes.

"He's got a letter," Hermione said, speaking, like Ron, in a reverent tone.

At her announcement, Fawkes turned his gaze onto Hermione, making a soft noise that sounded like the first note in a song.

He stuck out his leg and dropped the letter into Harry's lap.

Then, with another crooning sound, he vanished.

"Open it," Ron urged, "let's see what Dumbledore says!"

His fingers shaking with excitement, Harry opened the letter.

'Dear Harry,

I know this year must have been exceedingly frustrating for you. I know you wish that I would simply explain what is going on, why I am making the decisions that I am.

I know you want to know why I have been avoiding you.

I wish to explain. I truly do.

But, exasperating as this will sound, I cannot. Not yet. Not until your Occlumency has improved. As much as I want to tell you everything, I dare not.

As soon as your Occlumency has reached an appropriate level, I will tell you everything. I promise.

Please, Harry. Practise. Use every opportunity you have to practise clearing your mind of all thought and emotions.

I know that you have not been putting your full energy into Occlumency. I ask you now to do so.

You deserve to know the truth. But I cannot tell it to you until I am sure that it is safe.

I hope that will be soon.

Albus Dumbledore.'

"Wow," Ron whispered, from where he'd been reading the note over Harry's shoulder.

"Harry," Hermione said, "you really need to do this."

He stared at the letter, anticipation beginning to build up in him.

Finally, finally, he'd find out what was happening.

"Can't be much worse than last year," he said, "when I had to learn the Summoning Charm in a day."

"I hope not," Hermione and Ron said together.

Lucius Malfoy waited until the lift doors closed before allowing his lips to spread in a smile.

Fudge had always been almost too easy to manipulate, but now, with Dumbledore having lost his mind, the Minister was like clay in Lucius' hands.

Dumbledore's actions were worrying, to be honest, but Lucius was quite sure that no matter how powerful Dumbledore and Grindelwald were, they'd have their work cut out for them between the Dark Lord and the Ministry.

The Phoenix appeared as soon as the lift began to move.

It was there in a flash and it shot toward him before he had even thought about drawing his wand.

Burning pain shot through his face, the Phoenix's talons slashing across his cheek.

He dropped to his knees, his hand flying up to the gashes in his face.

The Phoenix gave a squawk, a noise that somehow spoke of terrible fury.

There was another blinding flash of light and the bird was gone, leaving nothing but the bloody scratches on his face and a letter on the elevator floor as evidence.

He quickly scooped up the letter, tapping his face with his wand and snarling out a healing charm.

The lift gave a ding a second after he'd finished removing the blemishes from his face and he strode out into the atrium without an ounce of the burning rage he felt showing on his face.

He barely paid attention as he greeted the witches and wizards passing him, his mind too preoccupied with the letter in his pocket to allow him to enter into a real conversation.

One Apparition later, and he was standing outside his front door.

He ignored Narcissa's welcome as he entered, pulling out and opening the letter the instant he was in the safety of his home.

"Lucius? Lucius?"

He looked up, only years of practice allowing him to keep the terror from his expression.

Even so, Narcissa was not fooled.

"What is it?" She asked, her eyes widening.

"Something to think about," he said, handing the letter to her.

Albus stopped his pacing when Gellert pulled his head from the Pensieve.

"So," said Gellert, "it would seem Voldemort is enamoured with the founders of your school."

"That, I already knew," Albus replied, "but now I have a glimmer of an idea about the last one."

"Wonderful. Another soul container whose location is unknown. Tell me, Albus, do you somehow believe that finding out what they are will obviate the need to actually find them?"

"Of course not," Albus said, "and so, tomorrow we will pay a visit to Voldemort's ancestral home."

Gellert sighed. "I always hated the ostentatious of those manors."

"Happily, that will not present a problem. We will leave in the morning."

Gellert folded his arms, staring at Albus suspiciously.

"What do you have planned for tonight?"

"I think we shall visit the offices of the Daily Prophet. Once they have closed for the day, of course."

"Ah," Gellert said, "what a thrilling break to the monotony of my life."

Albus winked at him, his smile only growing.

"You said I could kill people," Gellert whined, "I assumed I was being broken out of prison to fight, not to enchant newspapers and explore the memories of house-elves!"

"It was only the one elf. And soon, Gellert, you will have your chance to fight."

"I fear," Albus continued, his smile vanishing, "that we will not have many other options."

Chapter Text

"What's got Snape so upset?" Ron asked.

Harry raised his head, taking a sip of his pumpkin juice and meeting Snape's eyes.

His scowl deepened at the sight of Harry, beetle eyes seeming to gain heat.

"I'm sure I'll find out tonight," Harry said, looking back at his plate of eggs, "I've got Oc-Remedial Potions then."

"You have been practising, right?" Asked Hermione.

"Of course. But only since yesterday. I mean, only practising much more since yesterday."

"I'm sure it will be fine," Hermione said, "You're doing the best you can, right?"

He nodded, guilt over all the months he'd wasted squirming in his stomach.

If only he hadn't been so lazy, he'd have already had three months of Occlumency practice under his belt. Perhaps that would actually have been enough for Dumbledore to have told him whatever it was that needed such secrecy.

If he had only been less curious about Voldemort's dreams of that long corridor, he'd probably have already been told what it was that was hidden there.

In all fairness, curiosity had always been a trait he didn't exactly have much control over. In fact, if he hadn't been much more personally interested in finding out what Dumbledore was hiding from him, he'd have remained with his wish to find out what it was that Voldemort was so obsessed with.

The sound of the post owls arriving tore him away from his thoughts.

"Mind you," Ron said, looking at Snape again, "You'd look like that too, if you had to sit next to Umbridge."

Hermione gasped, making them both whip their heads around.

The Daily Prophet lay in front of her, the owl that had delivered it already flying up toward the ceiling.

More startled sounds began to fill the Great Hall from all corners, and as they looked on the newspaper changed entirely, the words blurring as they shifted with blinding speed.

With wide eyes, Harry watched as the newspaper finally finished its transformation. The headline now read:

"ALBUS DUMBLEDORE SPEAKS OUT AT LAST!"

Hermione tugged the paper out of his grip, pushing it up and forward so they could all read together.

"My fellow citizens, it is time for me to address the issue that is certainly on all of your minds.

Have I, Albus Dumbledore, gone completely insane?

In short: No.

Doubtless, many of you will not believe my simple denial. The Daily Prophet has, on behalf of the Ministry itself, been doing quite an excellent job convincing you all that I am senile, that I have lost my mind, and that I have become power-hungry and desirous of Minister Fudge's position.

These are lies.

The truth is simple.

I warned the Ministry that the wizard styling himself 'Lord Voldemort' has returned.

My warning gave Minister Fudge two options: either to believe that I was lying, or to accept the frightening truth of Voldemort's return.

The comforting lure of the former has proven too powerful for Fudge to resist.

Of course, he knows me too well to believe that I would simply lie, particularly on a matter of such grave import. He is left with no option but to convince himself, and indeed, the general public, that I am not in my right mind.

I tell you all now: My mental faculties are as fine as ever they were.

It is undeniably true that a Death Eater impersonated Alastor Moody last year, taking Moody's place at Hogwarts.

It is undeniably true that the same Death Eater sabotaged the Triwizard Tournament, leading to Cedric Diggory's murder and Lord Voldemort's return to physical form.

It is undeniably true that the same Death Eater admitted, under Veritaserum, that he was following Voldemort's orders.

It is undeniably true that before this year, only once in known history did anyone succeed in escaping from Azkaban Prison. As you all know, this year, ten convicted Death Eaters escaped the prison.

Harry Potter witnessed Voldemort's return.

Lord Voldemort has indeed returned.

Unable to face the harsh truth, Fudge has no recourse but to brand me a fear-mongering lunatic.

I have taught many of you. Many of you know me.

Do any of the descriptions of me this paper has carried over the course of this year bear any relation to what you personally know of me?

Lord Voldemort has returned, and our chosen Minister for Magic spends his days worrying for his own power and ordering our newspaper to attack the character of a teenager.

Is this what we have become?

Our society is diseased.

The wealthy and 'important' members of our nation have disproportionate control over our government. Bribery and corruption are rampant within our Ministry, and there is barely even a token gesture at hiding it anymore.

The Minister has the power to change laws and formulate new rulings with absolutely no oversight.

The old pureblood names still command more respect than any others, regardless of the actions or crimes of the individual members.

There are, thankfully few, members of the Wizengamot who have publicly made derogatory statements about Muggles and Muggleborns.

We claim to view Muggles favourably, but crimes against them are ignored, brushed under the carpet for a few Galleons.

We ignore the demands of the goblins, ignore the centaurs' requests, and treat wizards and witches afflicted with lycanthropy as bloodthirsty animals.

We tell ourselves that Voldemort is wrong, and yet our government proves over and over again that power is all that matters. Fudge would rather ignore a threat to our existence if facing it would mean possibly losing any of his power.

We claim to stand against Voldemort and his ilk, but it is we who created him.

Our society is diseased, and I will stand for it no longer. Like any disease, it must be torn out at the roots.

I will not allow Voldemort to gain control, and I will not allow this nation to sink into a hole from which it will never climb out.

I will no longer simply rely on others doing the right thing.

It is up to all of you to decide for yourselves: Will you make the right choices from your own volition, or must you be treated as children and forced to do so?

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore."

"Wow," Harry whispered reverently, finishing reading it.

Almost the same instant, an explosion sounded from the Head Table.

Umbridge was standing up, her face bright red, her wand aimed at the ceiling.

"The Daily Prophet is now banned from Hogwarts," she shrieked, "Any student found with today's edition will be placed in detention!"

"And just like with the Quibbler," Hermione said with a grin, "she just made sure that everyone will read it."

Adalbold scowled at the activity around him, reading Dumbledore's letter once more even though by now he had long since memorized it.

'Dear Minister Richter,

Voldemort has returned. No matter what the British government insists on telling you, he has returned.

Fudge has become enamoured with the power of his office. I do not know if it is fear of Voldemort having returned or fear of opposing him that is warping Cornelius' mind, but he has delved deep into paranoia.

He believes that I am lying, that I want his office. Tell me, Adalbold, have I ever struck you as a power-hungry man? Have I ever used any of my positions to gain more respect or power than my name alone grants me?

Have I ever attempted to take more control of the government than was handed to me?

If the answer to these questions is no, it behoves you to wonder why I would start doing such things now.

I will be frank with you, Adalbold. In denying his return, the Ministry have allied themselves with Voldemort. My war is with Voldemort and all those who support him, even unwittingly.

I will do whatever I must to prevent Voldemort gaining power, even if that means taking the assistance of a man who has more deaths on his conscience than Voldemort himself.

I swear to you by all that I hold dear, Gellert and I will not damage or threaten your lands. I swear to you, we will not step foot on your soil unless it is necessary to defeat Voldemort.

Or unless you force me to do so. Unless, Adalbold, you continue with your plan to aid the British Ministry in their battle with me. If you do that, I will be forced to assume that you are as undeserving of power as Fudge is.

I promise you, Adalbold, declare me your enemy and I will ruin Germany far worse than Gellert ever managed to.

I abhor violence, but I will not blindly trust in others making the right choices any longer. Force me to fight you, and the rivers will run red.

Make no mistake, I am going to win. I will be controlling Britain soon enough, and my energy will be focused on rooting out the corruption that festers within our society.

I beg you, don't make me turn my attention to you and your people.

Albus Dumbledore.'

"Excuse me, sir," one of Fudge's Aurors said, "would you mind standing?"

He hid his displeasure, folding the letter and standing up with his arms and legs spread.

"Thank you. Again, I apologize for this."

"I quite understand," he said, "orders, and all that."

The Auror gave him a relieved smile before raising his wand and waving it around.

After seeing how Fudge had sent his own security to prepare for their meeting, Adalbold could certainly believe Dumbledore's claims that the man had been taken by paranoia.

The only remaining question was whether or not he was making an enormous mistake in accepting the rest of his claims.

Not that he had much choice there. His counterparts in Poland and Austria had received similar letters from Dumbledore and had decided to withhold from sending troops into Britain, at least until such time as Dumbledore and Grindelwald showed any intention of entering their territories.

"All clear, sir. If you'll take hold of the Portkey?"

He did, touching the little metal rod in the Auror's hand a few moments before it began to glow bright blue.

The Portkey activated, tugging at his navel as it pulled him through space.

He landed on his feet, opening his eyes after a moment and forcing the nausea to recede.

"Minister Richter, so good of you to come!"

Fudge bounded over to him, seizing his hand in a tight grip and shaking it vigorously.

Adalbold sighed. He was not looking forward to so egregiously disappointing the man.

"Tell me, Albus. Your spy. You said he was actually a Death Eater before changing sides?"

"Indeed. Severus made some terrible decisions in his youth. Thankfully, he came to his senses before he was beyond redemption."

Gellert snorted, restlessly drumming his fingers on the desk.

They were in Albus' hideout, whiling away the time before Albus deemed it right to go after where he believed a Horcrux was hidden.

"You really do think that, don't you? You truly believe he has changed?"

Albus licked a fingertip absentmindedly, turning the page in his book.

"You believe that people cannot change?"

"I know that people can change. But I don't think you truly believe anyone, other than perhaps yourself, are capable of it."

Finally, Albus closed the book, turning his piercing gaze on Gellert.

"Over the last fifty years," he said, "we have exchanged hundreds, if not thousands of letters. I have seen the change in you, Gellert. Even if you do not trust that I have. I have seen how you went from blaming me for capturing you, to blaming me for not capturing you earlier, to blaming yourself for your crimes."

"And yet," Gellert said, "you never once thought to visit me. You remained content with speaking from a distance. No discussions of magical theory, not face to face. Philosophical ideas exchanged only from a country away. If you were so confident that I was changing, why not come and see me?"

"I-"

"Fifty years, Albus. Do you have any idea what it was like, fifty years of solitude? I was certain it would drive me mad. I still wonder if it did."

"I dared not," Albus sighed, "I could never trust myself with you. You remember what it was like, during that summer of madness? I felt like I had no control over myself. I never did, not when you were around. You…inflamed me like none ever had."

"So that is all I was to you. A loss of control. Your summer of madness. That is what I was, a symptom of your madness."

"That is not what I said."

"But it is what you meant."

Gellert jumped to his feet, trembling, he realized, with rage.

"And all that I am now is your tool of last resort, your final option when all others have failed!"

"Well, yes."

"So-"

"Because, Gellert, freeing you from Nurmengard had extremely far-reaching consequences, consequences which I would have far preferred to avoid."

"All very well to say," he sneered, "but don't pretend that you released me because you finally think I have changed. You released me because you had no other choice!"

"If I truly did not think you had changed," Albus said, still sitting calmly in his armchair, "I would never have dared break you out. If I did not trust you, I would not be sharing all the information I possess with you. If I thought you were still as hungry for power as once you were, I would not be taking you with to find and destroy this Horcrux."

"Then why won't you-"

"Because if you came with then, it would ruin everything. That is something that I must do alone."

"Alone," he spat, "alone. Do you truly think you understand the horrors of that word? You don't, Albus. You can't. But I do. And you could have prevented that."

"This discussion no longer serves a productive purpose," Albus said, standing up, "there were many things I should have done differently. Wallowing in my mistakes now will help no more than wallowing in yours."

"You said I could fight again," Gellert snarled, "and yet, you plan to keep me away from all the action. Admit that you're afraid I will fall back into old habits. Admit it."

"Of course I worry about that. The same way as I worry that I will cross lines that should not be crossed. I promise you, Gellert, unless there is a very good reason why not, you will be accompanying me throughout this entire journey."

Gellert paused in his pacing, turning to meet Dumbledore's eyes.

"Thank you," He said with a curt nod, "but be honest. Is that because I want it, or because you want to keep an eye on me?"

Albus opened his mouth, but before he had a chance to actually respond they were both distracted by the misty silver tabby cat that walked through the door.

"Albus," it said, speaking in a voice Gellert recognized as belonging to that Scottish witch who was in Albus' Order, "I need to speak to you alone. Ten tonight, in Headquarters. I will be there."

"How lovely," Gellert said, injecting as much scorn into his voice as he could, "an opportunity for you to leave me here again."

"Minerva will feel far more comfortable talking with me alone," Albus said, entirely unconcerned, "she holds no small grudge against you. I'm sorry, Gellert, but this is a very good reason for you to not accompany me."

"And if it is a trap?"

Albus raised an eyebrow.

"I have known Minerva for over sixty years. She is not the Secret Keeper for our Headquarters. And even if she were to attack me, I am fully confident in my abilities to defend myself."

Gellert sighed. "Fine. Let's go find this egotistical brat's Horcrux."

Rufus only allowed himself to sigh once he'd left Fudge's office.

For nearly half an hour, he and Robards had been forced to listen to Fudge rant about the traitorous, useless nature of the other European nations, about how they were in league with Dumbledore and leaving him out for the wolves.

As much as he could understand that the man was under stress, Rufus felt that a Minister should display at least slightly more composure than Fudge had.

He and Gawain entered the lift in silence, one he only broke as they exited on level two.

"Gawain, I'd like to see you in my office, please," He said.

Once they were seated with the door shut, he began casting privacy charms around the room.

Gawain lifted an eyebrow but said nothing.

"You heard what Fudge said about a threatening letter from Dumbledore?" He asked as soon as he'd finished ensuring they were safe from eavesdroppers.

"Yeah. Umbridge got one too."

He nodded, tapping his desk drawer three times with his wand and opening it.

"This was on my desk yesterday."

He placed the letter on the desk where he could see it along with Robards.

'Rufus,

Over the last few decades, we have had more than a few opportunities to work together. These have given me, I believe, an insight into your character.

I would hope it has done the same for you.

You are no fool, Rufus. You are far more of a logical man than an emotional one. You are not the sort of man to hide from the truth, no matter how uncomfortable it may be.

Lord Voldemort has returned.

I know that you have heard what I have to say. I know that you have, at the very least, considered the possibility that I am not a deluded, senile megalomaniac.

I am not. Voldemort is back.

Fudge denies the truth, and in doing so he is giving Voldemort the opportunity to once more gain power.

I will not allow that to occur, no matter what I have to do to prevent it.

I have no desire for wholesale death and destruction. I have no desire to spread terror.

But I will do whatever I must to prevent Voldemort from taking over and to ensure that such a situation never again arises.

As much as I could make use of you, I will not ask you to betray the Ministry you have so tirelessly worked for.

I will, however, ask you to not fight against me.

Your men are well trained, but you know as well as I that they will not pose any real challenge to me. All that they will achieve is to distract me, and that could only assist Voldemort.

I would much prefer to not have to remove the source of such a distraction. I bare no ill will for the Auror force, but in such a confrontation lethal force may be necessary.

Stand your men down. A fight between myself and your men will only result in needless bloodshed.

On a more pragmatic note, once Voldemort is proven (to your and the general public's satisfaction) to have returned, we will need every trained fighter we can get.

Regardless of your choice, Fudge and his coterie will fall. It is up to you whether you and your men will number amongst them.

Fawkes will return in three days for your answer. I do hope you won't do something as foolish as attempting to capture him.

Albus Dumbledore.'

"I'll bet Galleons to Knuts the Germans got one of these," he said, "and the Polish and Austrians too."

Robards looked up, face ashen.

"Do you really think he's telling the truth," he asked, "about You-Know-Who?"

Rufus leaned back in his chair, staring at the poster next to the map on his wall.

"A month ago, I'd have said that's it's possible, just really unlikely. Now…I don't know what else could have made Dumbledore do it. I really don't. He always claimed that You-Know-Who survived. And he made some really, really good points in that article."

"But-"

"I can't say I trust the man. I don't know what his plans are for the Ministry, and if he's willing to work with someone like Grindelwald who knows what else he's willing to do. But I do think, now, that he is telling the truth about You-Know-Who. Which puts us into a bit of a predicament."

"You want to listen to him."

"I don't know what else to do. He's too smart for us to just set a trap or something like that. He's powerful enough that I'd hesitate to send even a full squad up against him, and that's without Grindelwald by his side. And we know Dumbledore's got some followers. What if Grindelwald starts gathering up some of his old friends?"

"And with that article today," Gawain said quietly, "he's going to be getting more. The people who feel like the Ministry's been ignoring them."

Rufus shook his head, finally looking away from Dumbledore's picture.

"If You-Know-Who is actually back," he said, "Dumbledore is the best possible ally we could have."

"Even though he's working with Grindelwald?" Gawain asked doubtfully.

"I think it's more that Grindelwald is working with him."

"Still…"

"What we need to think about, right now, is whether we even have the manpower to deal with the two of them. Particularly if we want to be on watch for You-Know-Who."

"We don't," Gawain said flatly, "not without the other European countries. If we divert everyone we have, we could overwhelm them, no question. But we'd need them to be somewhere we could even do that. And we'd lose a lot of people."

"And if Dumbledore does have people in the Ministry, he'd know whatever we decide to do before we even do it."

A thick silence fell on the pair, heavy and cloying.

"What are you going to ask for in return?" Gawain asked.

"I still have two days. I'll figure that out in time."

"Merlin," Gawain said, standing up and shaking his head, "never thought I'd be a traitor."

"Assuming Dumbledore's telling the truth," Rufus said, "we'll be helping to save Britain."

Chuckling darkly, Gawain strode to the door. "That'll be a story to tell the grandkids."

Gellert leaned against a tree, staring at the dilapidated shack and trying to sense the magic used there.

"You always take me to the loveliest places." He said.

Albus chuckled, his hand gently stroking the empty air before him.

"You did say you don't like the ostentatious manor houses. I was simply keeping to your wishes."

The shack was very far from ostentatious. Mould and moss coated its walls, covering the cracks the elements had formed in the walls.

The roof looked ready to cave in. Half of its tiles were missing, and the visible rafters were swollen and misshapen.

"Muggle-Repelling charms," Gellert said, finally recognizing that ticklish feeling on his spine, "Unplottable too, I believe. I can't see anything else, not on the shack itself."

"Nor I. Well then, into the den itself."

He followed Albus toward the broken-down house, instinctively taking a deep breath before walking into the filth.

Even his cell in Nurmengard had been cleaner than this.

The inside walls had even more mould on them than the outside ones, if that was possible. It was dingy and dark, the small amount of sunlight that managed to filter through the thick trees only serving to show the dust floating in the air.

There was an old, rotten wooden table next to one of the walls, half of it nearly eaten away by termites. A broken chair sat beside it, so decayed that the idea of standing was extremely inviting.

And the floorboards felt heavy with magic.

He focused on them, trying to ascertain where exactly the source was, where that tantalizingly sweet sensation was emanating from.

"Ah. Stand back, please."

Albus had his wand out, aimed at the floorboard where, he realized, the feeling of the enchantments was thickest.

He took a hurried step away, drawing his own wand.

"Tom," Albus said chidingly, "I expected more from you."

Several floorboards vanished, revealing a small golden box.

"Ah. This will probably be more heavily guarded. Some assistance, please."

He joined Albus, allowing his thoughts to stop as he devoted his mind to the task.

They worked in silence only occasionally broken by a comment, slowly and painstakingly removing the enchantments and curses from the box.

Voldemort had done his work well. It took them close to twenty minutes to finally unwind the last of the curses.

"And now, we see."

With a final wave of Albus' wand, the box opened.

Laying on the box's velvet lining was a golden ring, with a large black stone set in it.

And carved on the stone was a very familiar symbol.

His breath caught in his throat, memories of his long search flashing through his mind.

"What do you think you're doing?"

He paused, his hand halfway to the stone.

"Taking it."

"I think not."

Gellert slashed his wand through the air as the ring flew towards Dumbledore, knocking it off course.

It flew back toward him, and as he made to catch it, an enormous fist seized him and threw him to the ground.

"You have already proven yourself untrustworthy with one of the Hallows," Dumbledore said, his words registering as if from a great distance. "You will not take this one as well."

He growled, his eyes not moving from the ring even as it rose into the air once more.

He managed to push up against the force holding him to the floor, grabbing his wand and jabbing it at the levitating ring with a snarled curse.

The ring rocketed off, crashing right through the weak wall and flying into the wood.

Albus spun to face him, his face twisted in monstrous rage as he aimed his wand.

And paused, eyes widening as a look of realization crept across his features.

Suddenly, Gellert felt his mind clear, his thoughts returning to normal as the urgent, overpowering need vanished.

"I apologize," Albus said, giving a flick of his wand and letting Gellert stand once more.

"That was quite a powerful compulsion," Gellert said, standing up and brushing the dirt off of his clothes, endeavouring to pretend that the events of the last few minutes had not occurred.

"Indeed. I wonder if we would have been so affected if we did not care so much for the Hallows."

"The Resurrection Stone," He said. "After all these years."

"Yes. I think, bearing the stone in mind, Fiendfyre will not be an option."

Gellert shuddered.

"No, I believe I must ask Minerva to bring me something from Hogwarts."

"We need to undo that Compulsion before anything else," Gellert said, "The ring is surely cursed. Were you going to put it on?"

"Of course. As were you, I assume?"

Gellert nodded.

"Well then, let us proceed with the utmost caution."

Albus scooped up the empty golden box, cradling it to his chest as he walked toward the door.

Snape lowered his wand, his expression slightly warmer than usual.

"Not as entirely inept as I was expecting," he said begrudgingly, "it is almost as if you possess more than a solitary brain cell."

Harry gritted his teeth, biting back his instinctive response.

The amount of effort he was putting into Occlumency would have earned him praise from anyone else.

Although, a backhanded compliment was probably the best he could hope for from Snape.

In truth, it wasn't much better than his previous attempts.

He hadn't managed to actually stop Snape from looking at his memories, but it had at least seemed a bit harder for the greasy bastard to call up the ones he wanted.

"It has been decided that once a week is not enough of a torment for me," Snape said, "I shall now have to tolerate your presence every night, until such time as you can wrap your thick head around the concept of controlling your emotions."

"Every night?" Harry asked, horrified.

"I assure you, I did not leap at the opportunity to spend time in your presence."

"But-"

"Hopeless as I might believe you are, others unfortunately do not share my conviction. Every night, Potter. I expect you here promptly, and I expect you to practise as much as you can."

"But, did Dumbledore-"

Snape made a strange motion as if to grab his left arm, flinching and lashing out convulsively.

His movement knocked a jar off of his desk, sending it crashing to the floor and filling the room with a sharp acidic stench.

"Get out," He hissed.

"Was that Volde-"

"OUT!"

Harry ran.

"I'd like to talk with you," Sirius said, "when you're done with McGonagall and Hagrid."

"Hagrid is here as well? That is a surprise, albeit a welcome one."

"They're just in the sitting room," Sirius said.

"Thank you, Sirius. We shall have a chance to speak soon enough."

Walking into the sitting room, Albus found Minerva and Hagrid there; she bouncing a small bag between her hands, he braiding a rope from what appeared to be unicorn hair.

"Minerva, Rubeus. A pleasure to see you."

"Thank you, Professor," Hagrid said, putting the rope into one of his voluminous pockets.

Minerva just nodded curtly, holding the bag slightly higher.

"I know Professor McGonagall wants to talk to ye privately," Hagrid said, "But I wanted to say tha' if you need, Grawp and I will help wit'-wit' any fightin' tha' has to happen."

It was quite touching, really. Not the most useful of offers, given Hagrid's lack of magical training and Grawp's limited understanding of English, but a touching offer nevertheless. Albus knew all too well how affected Hagrid was by public opinion, and yet, Hagrid was still offering to publicly fight for him. Even more, a large part of Hagrid's reasoning for taking Grawp from the Alps was because the other giants had been physically overpowering him, and even so Hagrid was still willing to put his brother in harm's way.

All for Albus.

"Thank you, Hagrid," he said, "But I believe it would be better for now if the two of you remained in Hogwarts' property. The castle must be protected, and there are few I can rely on as much as you."

Beaming, Hagrid rose.

"I'll wait for ye' in the kitchen, Professor McGonagall," he said with a nod.

Albus waited patiently while Hagrid left, fixing Minerva with a stare and waiting for her to talk.

She looked like she had quite a bit on her mind, it was probably best to wait for her to begin.

"I will not be fighting, Albus," she said.

"Minerva-" he began.

"Let me finish. I will not be fighting by that murderer's side. I will help you to retake Hogwarts, but that will be all. After that...well. You were right. Hogwarts must remain safe. The children must be protected. Once Hogwarts is back in your hands, the only fighting I will do will be if the castle is attacked."

"I can ask you to do no more than that."

"And I want an oath from you."

"What would you like me to swear?" He asked.

"That I will be made Headmistress until such time as the war is finished to your satisfaction. That if I and my colleagues deem you unfit or twisted by that monster, you will not retake the position even then. And that you will keep Hogwarts out of this war to the best of your abilities."

He kept his expression calm even as his mind raced through the potential of harm such an oath would have.

In every case that he considered, the gain outweighed the potential cost.

"No less than I expected," Albus said,

"On one condition. You accept that Gellert and I will be spending a fair bit of time in the castle."

Her mouth tightened, but she nodded.

"Very well then. An Unbreakable Vow?"

Minerva blanched, shaking her head quickly.

"I don't think that would be necessary. The day I can't trust your word, I'll have far bigger issues to worry about."

"Of course."

"Besides," she said, the corners of her lips twitching slightly, "I can't imagine an Unbreakable Vow would hold you if you really wished to get out of it."

"No. It wouldn't. Well, I do so swear, Minerva. I will hold myself to your restraints, and will refrain, as much as possible, from turning Hogwarts into a battlefield."

"Thank you," she said quietly, looking distinctly relieved, "thank you, Albus."

She handed over the bag, handling it almost reverently.

"What do you need it for?" She asked, curiously.

He looked inside, smiling at the hilt of the sword.

"It is better that I do not say, not right now. I assure you, Godric himself would approve of my plans. I assume the rest of the staff agree with you, with regard to the fighting?"

"Flitwick and Sprout feel as I do. Severus…depends on what He Who Must Not Be Named says."

"Very well. I will inform you when the time to act draws near."

"Severus," The Dark Lord hissed, "how good of you to come."

"It is my honour, my lord," he said, not allowing a single contradictory thought to arise in his mind.

He kept his eyes lowered, focusing on the snake beside the Dark Lord's throne-like chair.

The snake, and the pale, long-fingered hand that was stroking its head.

"You may rise."

He did, letting none of the hatred he felt at the Dark Lord's sight rise above the deepest vaults of his mind.

"Tell me of Dumbledore's plans, Severus."

"He hopes to retake Hogwarts, my lord. I was waiting to find a more exact time before bringing the information before you, but so far, all I know is that it will be soon. The teachers will neutralize the Ministry's additional security, and he and Grindelwald will deal with any other problems."

"Are you expected to take part in this?"

The snake on the floor hissed, raising its head just an inch.

Severus did not allow any fear to register in his mind.

"I am."

"You will do so. It is of paramount importance that Dumbledore believes you to be his."

"As you say, my lord. Dumbledore still trusts me, regardless of how much Grindelwald tries to convince him otherwise."

The Dark Lord smiled, his lipless mouth twisting in a horrific parody of humour.

"How is Dumbledore controlling Grindelwald?"

"I do not know yet, my lord," Snape said, "it is very strange. If I didn't know better, I would assume, based on their interactions, that they are old friends."

"You must find it out," the Dark Lord ordered, the snake now rising and beginning to slither across his lap. "Grindelwald is our natural ally. For him to have taken Dumbledore's side speaks of deep secrets. What else does he have planned?"

"Once he has retaken Hogwarts, he plans to take Potter to the Department of Mysteries, to withdraw the prophecy. He wishes for Potter to hear it, and then he will destroy it."

The Dark Lord went utterly still, not making the slightest motion, looking more like a wax figure than a man.

"I apologize, my lord," Snape continued, "but I do not yet know a more exact timeframe. I know that Dumbledore wishes to take control of the Ministry, or at least to render them-"

A hand rose into the air, cutting Snape's speech off as immediately as a Silencing Charm.

"He will destroy the prophecy?" The Dark Lord whispered.

In his lap, the great snake hissed angrily.

"That is his plan, my lord. He will allow Potter to hear it, and then he will destroy it."

"You are certain that he trusts you? You are certain that he does not know you are truly mine?"

Terror ran its fingers across Severus' spine, sending a shiver through him that he only just managed to keep at bay.

"As certain as can be, my lord. He trusts me, but as I said, Grindelwald does not. And yet, he does not appear to trust Grindelwald implicitly."

"How so?"

"He has said that when he takes Potter to the Ministry, Grindelwald will remain at Hogwarts. He has asked Flitwick, McGonagall, and I to watch Grindelwald while he is away."

"Grindelwald will not join him and Potter at the Ministry?"

"No, my lord."

"You will find out more about this plan," The Dark Lord commanded, "And you will report back to me the moment you have further information."

"I will, my lord."

"Doubtless, Dumbledore wishes to set a trap for me," The Dark Lord mused, "And yet, if he will destroy the prophecy…"

Severus crushed the triumph that tried to make itself felt, keeping his face blank and calm.

"What are his plans for the Ministry?"

"His ideal goal is for them to acknowledge my lord's return, and to join him in battling you. However, if they will not do so, he is prepared to destroy them. I do not know the contents, or to whom exactly they were sent, but I know he had a number of letters delivered to influential members of the government."

"Ah," The Dark Lord said, reaching into the pocket of his robes, "Yes. Read this, Severus."

He took the parchment from the Dark Lord, a flash of revulsion shooting through him as his fingers touched those that had killed Lily.

'Lucius,' the letter read,

'I know that there is nothing you value more than your own hide. As much as I despise what you have done with your life, I am going to give you a chance to keep it.

Betray Voldemort, give me all the information about him that you possess, and throw your considerable wealth and influence behind me in his stead.

If you do this, I will protect you and your family. No harm will come to you, your wife, or your son, and I will shield you from the consequences that your actions until now should have earned you.

If you do not do this, the retribution that you have hidden away from for so long will be swift.

It is time for you to learn that all of your gold and connections and all of the respect your family name grants you will not protect you from justice.

I am sure that you have seen Voldemort angry before. I promise you, I will make him seem to be nothing more than a toddler throwing a tantrum.

Choose well.'

"This does not surprise me, my lord," he said, "Dumbledore has long bemoaned Lucius' influence."

"Will he act on his threats?"

"A week ago, I would have said certainly not. I would have believed that these were nothing but empty words, that it is merely Dumbledore playing his games."

"And now?"

"I am not certain, my lord. But if he is willing to free Grindelwald and to work with him, I would not put anything past him."

"And how are his pathetic Order reacting to this new Dumbledore?"

"Moody is still on the fence, my lord. He is watching, waiting for a sign that Grindelwald is influencing Dumbledore before he acts. If he receives such a sign, I believe several of the Order will side with him."

"Would they side with the Ministry, or would they flee?"

"They would most probably side with the Ministry in such a situation."

"Very well. Severus, you will find out everything you can about Dumbledore's plans and how he is controlling Grindelwald. And you will not wait to be summoned before reporting to me."

"It will be my honour, my lord."

The Horcrux screamed as the sword cut into the ring, a ghastly sound of terrible, inhuman agony.

Albus pulled the sword away, staring down at the ring as black smoke leaked from it.

"One down," Gellert said, "six to go."

"Two down," Albus reminded him, "five to go. The diary was well and truly destroyed by Harry."

"One Horcrux destroying another," Gellert said, "rather ironic."

Albus placed the sword on the table, carefully picking up the ring and tapping the stone with his wand.

"Albus, if we are unable to remove the Horcrux from him, will you be able to deal with the boy? "

"I told you, I will-"

"Will you stab him through the heart with that sword?" Gellert interrupted, "Will you be strong enough to do what needs to be done?"

"I will do whatever is necessary."

"Will you? Or will you make me do it?"

"Gellert," Albus said, a chill entering his tone, "enough."

"Admit it, you broke me out to do the things you won't allow yourself to do. The things you need to do if you want to defeat this upstart."

"I broke you out so that you could do what you do best."

"And so you could keep your conscience clear!" He spat.

Albus turned a wry smile on him, tapping the Stone one more time.

It came loose, separating from the ring with a small click.

"I feel quite confident," Albus said, "that by the end of this all, my conscience will be stained."

With that, he turned the Stone three times.

Gellert's heart sped up, the air itself seeming to grow thick in the presence of one of the most powerful magical artefacts in existence.

A man appeared, more solid than a ghost but still with a strange translucence to him.

He seemed olive-skinned, with beady eyes and a pointed chin not quite hidden by his long, dark beard.

He looked around the room with interest, his eyes widening as he took in the Stone.

"Herpo the Foul?" Albus asked.

"I am Herpo," the spirit said, "and history, it seems, has judged me."

Part of the Stone's magic, Gellert presumed, was to translate between the summoner and the summoned. It did not make sense otherwise. Even if Herpo had spoken modern English, he would surely have had an accent.

"I am Albus Dumbledore, and this is Gellert Grindelwald."

Gellert nodded to the spirit, raising his hand in a momentary salute.

"Charmed. Why have you summoned me?"

"We were hoping to ask you a few questions," Albus said, "about Horcruxes."

Chapter Text

"Horcruxes," mused the spirit of Herpo, a smile stretching across his translucent face, "my greatest accomplishment."

"And yet they didn't save you from death," Albus said lightly.

The spirit's fingers twitched as if aching to reach across the Veil and seize Albus by the throat, its expression turning stony.

"My hubris doomed me," he said, "those insolent worms would never have been able to comprehend my invention had I not been foolish enough to let the secret be known."

"You…told people about your Horcrux?" Gellert said slowly, wondering how he had once idolized a man capable of such stupidity.

"Of course I did! My brilliance deserved to be acknowledged, those fools needed to know that they were in the presence of a god!"

"Of course they did," Albus said soothingly, "but why did you not make a second one for redundancy?"

"Because they acted before I could complete my experiments."

"What were you trying to ascertain before creating the second one?"

Herpo turned a look on Albus that clearly said what an idiot he was.

"Whether or not it would render the rest of my soul unstable," he said slowly, dragging the syllables out as if speaking to the mentally challenged, "did you really drag me back here to pester me with such inane questions?"

"I am currently trying to deal with a situation where a human was unwittingly turned into a Horcrux. As such, I must focus even on the basics."

"A human Horcrux?" Herpo asked, clapping his hands together, "how delightfully preposterous. And absurdly foolish. Why would anyone do such an idiotic thing?"

"It was an accident. How could we go about removing the extra soul shard without destroying the host?"

'We,' Gellert noted with a hint of glee, 'we.'

"Ridiculous. A bite from one of my children should solve your problem."

"I said, without destroying the host."

"Impossible," Herpo said flippantly, waving a hand at Albus, "utterly impossible."

Gellert tried not to enjoy the slight hint of panic in Albus' face, but it was a difficult thing. For once, Albus would have to make a decision that came close in its horror to those that he had been forced to make, back during his rise.

"Unless," Herpo said, rubbing his chin, "unless the host soul has merged with the shard."

"It cannot. His mother's sacrifice would prevent…such a…"

Albus trailed off, his eyes widening slightly.

"Love," he whispered, "not merely Occlumency."

"What?" Snapped Herpo, but Gellert just watched, recognizing that look on Albus' face. There would be no getting information out of him, not until he'd recovered from his epiphany.

Albus flicked his wand and a quill and parchment appeared on the table before him, the quill dropping neatly into his hand.

While Albus was bent over the desk writing furiously, Gellert steeled himself, forcing the question that had never left his mind to blurt from his lips.

"What is the afterlife like?" he asked, "Is there truly a hell?

"I cannot answer that," Herpo said, his voice changing, suddenly ringing with authority and power, "even that trinket you used to bring me here cannot compel me to answer that. You will learn for yourself, one day. The secrets of what is truly beyond lie out of the reach of mortals. So it has been since time immemorial, and so it shall be until all life has ceased."

"Someone like you," Gellert continued undeterred, "with a Horcrux that was destroyed. Are you truly stuck in limbo eternally?"

Herpo's face shifted, forehead growing and eyes bulging even as the cheeks hollowed out and elongated teeth pushed their way past vanishing lips.

"Be silent," the spirit growled, "mortal. The mysteries of beyond will not be revealed."

"But-"

"Please be quiet, Gellert," Albus said, not even looking up, "Even you will not convince him to talk about it."

"Fine," he grumbled, "fine. Of course, we ask everything that you want-"

"Fawkes," Albus called.

Across the room, the Phoenix woke from its slumber, casting suspicious eyes on Gellert and Herpo before spreading its wings and soaring over to the table.

"This needs to go to Severus immediately," Albus said, holding the letter out to Fawkes' talon, "and afterwards would you check in with Scrimgeour and Kingsley for me, please? Only if they're alone, of course."

If the bird could have spoken, Gellert was sure it would have sighed. Instead, it spread its wings again, small flickers of flame beginning on the very edges and spreading to engulf its body.

And then it was gone.

"There is no way that you know of to remove the soul shard from its host?" Albus asked, turning back to Herpo as if the conversation had not been interrupted for several minutes.

Herpo stood there, his appearance back to how it originally had been, rubbing his pointed chin thoughtfully and staring into space.

"This is unprecedented, to my knowledge," he said, "I cannot even begin to estimate how the shard would react with the host's soul. Further Soul Magic would be entirely unpredictable. If the souls have truly not merged, perhaps the host could make a Horcrux of his own, and then-"

"No," interrupted Albus immediately, "That is not an option."

"Weak," Herpo sneered, "For the host to have even a chance at survival, there would need to be something anchoring him to life. A Horcrux-"

"Is not the only way of doing that."

It took barely a moment before Gellert understood, and when he did his brow rose.

'Of course. Voldemort used the boy's blood to restore himself. How deliciously ironic that would be.'

"Tell me," Albus continued, "were you aware of it when your Horcrux was destroyed?"

"Barely. If, as I suspect, your enemy has made so many, he will not be aware of it at all."

Herpo smiled at them, stretching his arms out in supplication.

"Come now, it was obvious. I could think of no other way for an accidental Horcrux to be created, not unless your enemy had rendered his soul so unstable so as not to even notice."

"Well reasoned," Albus said politely, "but I think it is time-"

"No," Herpo hissed, "Don't! I can help you, I know more about this than anyone! I invented Horcruxes, I can-"

"Thank you for your assistance," Albus said, moving his hand back toward the Stone, "But we do not require more."

"NO!" Herpo shrieked, "DON'T SEND ME BACK, I CAN HELP, DON'T MAKE ME GO BACK TO-"

Albus rapped the Stone lightly, and Herpo's spirit vanished as if it had never been there.

"Well," Gellert said, forcing his nauseous fear to disappear, "that was enlightening."

'That's what will happen to you. Whatever it is that he is suffering, you will join him in it.'

He shook his head, banishing the terrifying thought.

"Indeed. There may very well still be a chance for Harry. It would be best for Voldemort himself to carry out the deed, of course."

"Good thing you have an opportunity to arrange that so soon."

Albus shook his head, rubbing his temple with one hand.

"No. It will have to be later. I will leave it as late as possible, in fact."

"Albus, your love for the boy-"

Fawkes' sudden appearance cut him off, ending his sentence before he even got to the gist of it.

He gritted his teeth, staring at the dratted bird while Albus took the letters from its outstretched leg.

"Ah," He said, reading one of them, "Kingsley has arranged a meeting for us tomorrow. In a Muggle pub in Birmingham. We shall have to alter our clothing."

"I still think this is a mistake," Gellert said.

"You will have to deal with your ego."

"He works with the Aurors, Albus. If the Ministry know about him so do the Death Eaters. We can find them ourselves."

"Yes," Albus said, picking up the next sheet, "but it would be a remarkable waste of time and of our skills. This is his speciality. And we have a meeting with Chief Auror Scrimgeour tomorrow."

"Where?"

"Glasgow. A public park, one where many muggles like to spend their time, apparently. He has promised to come alone."

"And you believe him," Gellert said, shaking his head, "Albus, I never thought you such a fool, but-"

"If he has lied to me," Albus said, "he will certainly regret it. Bedtime, I think. We have a busy day tomorrow. And if my theory proves correct, the next day will be no calmer."

Snape lowered his wand, giving Harry the appraising look that seemed to be the closest he could to actual approval.

'Anyone else and they'd have said something complimentary,' Harry thought, his triumphant happiness tinged with bitterness.

Harry's Occlumency had definitely improved, even just over the last few days. True, he hadn't managed to totally shut Snape out, but he had successfully stopped certain memories from rising, more than once in the same session.

"You experience The Dark Lord's intrusion on your mind on a daily basis, correct?"

"Yeah," Harry said, "I get flickers of Voldemort's emotions all the time."

"What have I told you about using his name?" Snape hissed, recovering from his automatic flinch.

"Sorry," Harry said, "I forgot."

Of course, he had done no such thing. If Snape insisted on treating these Occlumency lessons as torture sessions, he'd decided, then he might as well oblige the git.

For a moment, it looked like Snape wanted to say something acidic.

'Probably upset that I didn't call him sir.'

"It has been suggested that when you feel the Dark Lord's emotions, you should focus intently on those you…" A grimace flickered across Snape's face for an instant, quickly being replaced by his usual sneer, "Love." He finished.

"Sorry?" Harry asked, feeling quite confused.

"Sorry, what?" Snape asked, in that dangerously soft voice of his.

"Sorry, sir," Harry said through his gritted teeth, "but what do you mean by that?"

"How much more plain could I possibly make it? When you next feel the Dark Lord's mind intruding upon your own, you should intently focus on the people you love until you feel that emotion."

"Why?" Harry asked, hurriedly adding, "Sir?"

"Because," Snape sighed, "Dumbledore believes that will prove more effective than your puerile attempts at Occlumency."

Harry just nodded, his hands balling themselves into fists.

Snape's eyes glinted maliciously, his gaze darting to Harry's hands for an instant.

"It seems that you are no more successful at controlling your emotions than you are at brewing a simple potion," he said.

Harry kept perfectly still, taking a deep breath and trying to clear his mind, not allowing himself to rise to Snape's goading.

"Slightly better," Snape said after a few minutes, "perhaps you are less of an incompetent calamity than Longbottom. Legilimens!"

A bell above the door gave a small tinkle as they entered.

Most of the bar's patrons looked up at the noise, staring in befuddlement at Albus and Gellert as they entered.

Gellert was not surprised. No matter how much he'd warned him, Albus had refused to entertain the idea that the suits he'd made for them would attract attention.

None of the other people in the pub were wearing a suit, let alone one of silvery velvet like Albus, or of deep purple like him.

The bar itself was not so bad, Gellert had to admit. It was quite large, with little booths around the walls and mostly empty tables scattered throughout the room. A few lightbulbs on the ceiling cast a yellowish pallor on the place, brightening it up and making it feel rather comfortable

It quite reminded Gellert of some of the places he'd met his followers, back in the old days.

Most of the people there had already turned back to their drinks or food. Near the back of the room, where three tables had been pushed together and were covered in drinks and helmets, a burly, tattooed, leather-clad man with a bushy beard and sunglasses muttered to his fellows, who all appeared to have designed their costumes together.

They all laughed after one of them loudly shouted something about ponces.

'Perhaps this won't be entirely boring.'

A large woman with a friendly face and an embarrassingly tight shirt approached them, looking over her shoulder at the men for a moment.

"Don't mind Rick and the boys," she said, "they're just…bored."

"Tell the poofs to sod off already, Mary!" Yelled another of the men, his companions guffawing into their glasses.

She blushed slightly but pressed on.

"You aren't together like that, are you? It might be better to come back later, if you are."

"Of course we are," Gellert said, reaching out and tenderly grasping Albus' hand. Then he smiled as lecherously as he could, licking his lips.

"Perhaps you would like to join us?"

Gobsmacked, the woman blinked at him several times in quick succession. He ignored the raucous calls from the men, letting his right hand slowly drift toward his pocket, his pulse picking up.

'Finally. Finally.'

"I apologize for my companion," Albus said, pulling his hand out of Gellert's grip, "His sense of humour atrophied in his youth. You could almost believe that he has forgotten how to interact with people."

She laughed nervously, her eyes flickering between his and Albus' faces.

He took the cue from Albus, contorting his features into what he hoped was an apologetic expression.

'Sweet Sleipnir, I am out of practice.'

"I assure you, we have nothing to fear from Rick and his friends, nor them from us. We are merely here for a meeting."

"Well, sit in one of the booths, then. Anything to drink?"

"I'll have a beer, please," he said, "I don't mind which."

"Cider for me, please. Pear if you have it, apple if you don't. Thank you."

"You know," Albus said, leading him toward a booth, "in the old days, you'd have had that poor lady eating out of your hand-"

"Sometimes literally." He interjected.

"Not to mention those fellows. Whatever happened to your charisma?"

"I don't know," he said, sliding into the booth with Albus on his heels, "it's almost as if I've forgotten how to interact with people."

Albus didn't respond to that. Gellert could only hope that it was guilt staying his friend's tongue.

"It is good to know," he said, gesturing to the laughing men, "that muggles have not changed much."

"Don't pretend that wizards are any better," Albus said quietly, "I have witnessed far more humiliating spectacles than this in the Wizarding world."

"Here you go," the waitress said, arriving beside them and handing them their drinks.

"Another round, Mary," one of the men shouted, "and none of that piss you gave us last time."

"This Muggle we are meeting," Gellert said quietly, watching as she hurried off, "tell me about him."

"He has a reputation as one of the best private investigators in the country," Albus said, pausing to sip at his cider, "a reputation well earned. He worked as a police detective for a while before leaving that job, and now works with both the Muggle police force and magical law enforcement on occasion. His speciality is finding people."

Gellert drank his beer, revelling in the heady joy of it. Here he was, sitting in a pub and drinking a beer. It was something he'd never thought he'd have the simple pleasure of experiencing again.

"While he was joining the police force, his twin sister was joining the Aurors. Muggleborn."

"And she-"

"Joined the Order of the Phoenix as well. She was killed by Death Eaters four years before the war ended."

"Ah," Gellert said, the pieces beginning to fit into place, "and you bonded with him over it."

"Not quite. But he has a burning hatred for Voldemort and any of his followers. I can certainly trust him not to reveal my secrets, particularly once I have impressed their importance upon him."

"And you really think he can do this better than we could?"

Albus sighed, moving slightly closer to him.

"I do not know their current names," he said, "the orphanage itself is long gone, and I have no idea where their records are. I have no blood or hair or pieces of their body. They are muggles, and so without an address will not be found by owls. Of course, I could manage it. But it would take time and effort. This is his field of expertise. And he will not attract half as much attention as I would."

"But if he is such good friends with that ex-Auror of yours-"

The jingling chime of the door's bell interrupted him, him and Albus instantly breaking their eye contact and turning their faces toward the entrance.

The newcomer stood framed against the doorway for a few moments, allowing Gellert to examine him.

He stood close to six feet, broad and with just a hint of a paunch. His nose had been badly broken at some point, and was now almost as crooked as Albus'.

His hair was beginning to thin, silver strands threading through the black.

He looked around the bar, and upon noticing them began to walk to Albus and Gellert's booth.

He moved, Gellert noticed, with the confidence of one who has nothing to fear. As he walked, Gellert saw what was unmistakably a handgun strapped to his belt. The crowd of men watched him warily, suddenly silent.

Slipping into the seat opposite them, he asked: "How do I know you're really Albus Dumbledore?"

"When I informed you about Emily's death," Albus replied immediately, "you believed I was a Death Eater seeking to spread despondency. You tried to stab me with a steak knife, which I Transfigured into a lovely geranium."

The man nodded, tension draining from his shoulders.

"We could simply arrange a code phrase in advance," Albus said.

"No. Too easy for something like that to be discovered."

"As you wish. If you're drinking, I recommend the pear cider. It's rather delicious. Thank you for joining us, Jeremy. You've heard of Gellert?"

"Read about him," Jeremy said, looking Gellert in the eye with not a hint of fear, "Don't know how much of it I believe."

"You still have your subscription to the Prophet?"

"Probably one of the only people like me who does."

He waved away the waitress as she approached their booth and leaned in slightly closer to the two of them.

"Heard from Moody yesterday. Two hours before Kingsley. He asked me to let him know if you contact me, to tell him what you want."

"And will you?" Albus asked, sounding innocently curious.

"I want to hear from you first. Why's he so suspicious of you now?"

"That would be my fault," Gellert said, putting his glass down again, "I have a bit of a reputation, as you say you've heard."

"Alastor believes that Gellert will influence me, that he will lead me to become bloodthirsty, ruthless, and cruel. He has always been a strong believer in the principles of law and order. He thinks criminals should be imprisoned."

"True, that," Jeremy grunted, beginning to drum his fingers on the table.

Albus waited for a few minutes before speaking again, during which Gellert finished his beer.

"Can I trust you, Jeremy? Can I ask you to find someone for me and trust that Moody will not hear of it?"

"Why is it so important that he doesn't hear?"

"I may very well be mistaken," he said, "but if I am not, one of these people may know a very important secret. The more people who are aware that I am looking for them, the likelier it becomes that Voldemort will hear. Even with someone as trustworthy, tight-lipped, and paranoid as Alastor, the risk becomes greater."

"And if Voldemort does find out that you're looking for them?"

'If Albus is right, he will move his Horcruxes, hide them somewhere we could never find. Perhaps it is better for these people to be found using purely Muggle means.'

"If I am right, it would be beyond catastrophic. I cannot possibly overstate the need for secrecy. If Voldemort so much as suspects that we might be searching for them, the information they have would become useless very quickly. And if that happens…"

Albus shook his head, his voice trailing away dramatically.

"I'll need something from you."

"Of course, I'm sure your fee has risen with inflation. Would you prefer Galleons or-"

"No. I told you, I get the Prophet."

Jeremy leaned forward again, his face contorted in barely controlled fury, his voice a snarl.

"He's out. Prison's too good for him. I want your word, Dumbledore. I want you to promise that he'll die."

"Some would say that prison is worse than death," Gellert said mildly.

Jeremy ignored him, focusing purely on Albus.

"I mean it. Promise me that you'll kill that son of a bitch, and I'll find whoever it is. No one will know, not even Moody."

"Very well. I will kill Antonin Dolohov."

Jeremy sat back, triumph flickering across his expression for a second.

"Good. Now tell me about these people."

"Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop. As of nineteen thirty-six, they were both children, residents of Wool's Orphanage in London. I am certain they both live. More than that, I do not know."

"Not much to go on," Jeremy remarked, "you really don't have anything else?"

"Alas, no. The orphanage is long since defunct. I do not know whether they were adopted, whether they still live in England, whether they are healthy or ill. All I know is that they still live."

"How do you know that?"

"Magic," Albus said simply.

"And you couldn't use that same magic to find them?"

"Unfortunately not."

'No,' Gellert thought snidely, 'the Resurrection Stone doesn't work like that.'

"Jesus. This really is nothing to work with."

"Can you do it?"

"Of course I can. But there's a lot of things that can make this take longer. If they were adopted, they probably took their family's name. They could have changed their names or moved abroad. They could be living in some godforsaken village in the middle of nowhere. This could take a while."

"How long would you estimate?"

Jeremy shrugged.

"Anywhere from a few hours to a few weeks. Too many variables to be more definite."

"But you'll do it?"

"I already said I would, didn't I? And yes, I'll be as careful and quiet about it as I can."

"Excellent. Excellent. I wish we could stay and chat, but Gellert and I have an appointment we must keep."

Gellert followed Albus' lead and stood, nodding at the still seated muggle.

"We will be in touch. Good luck, Jeremy."

"I think you'll be needing it more than me, Dumbledore."

"He doesn't need luck," Gellert said, "He's got me."

Rufus shifted uneasily, the hard metal of the bench making his backside begin to ache. Perhaps he could get away with a quick charm to soften the metal, but the mothers kept aiming distrustful glances at him. He would have to suffer through an uncomfortable seat. He was risking enough with this meeting, even without endangering the Statute of Secrecy.

Up ahead of him, under the watchful eye of a mother or nanny, a group of Muggle children ran through the park, pulling kites behind them.

He'd chosen this location very carefully for the meeting. It was packed with muggles, parents taking their children out to enjoy the weather.

No matter what the man was planning, Rufus could imagine few things less likely than Albus Dumbledore doing anything to endanger children.

One of the mothers whispered to another, both of them looking at a point just behind him.

He forced himself to stay relaxed, maintaining a slow, steady rhythm of breath, somehow keeping his hand from straying to his wand.

Just before he would have turned around, Dumbledore spoke.

"Hello, Rufus. You picked a lovely spot for this meeting."

His heart began to race, but he kept his voice even and steady.

'No matter what else he's done,' he reminded himself, 'he's still Dumbledore. He wouldn't attack me for no reason.'

"Thank you. I hoped you'd like it."

Dumbledore appeared in his peripheral vision, with Grindelwald right behind him. For a moment, Rufus had an absurd urge to laugh.

Even though he was on the run, Dumbledore still dressed like he always did when he went into the Muggle world. Grindelwald, on the other hand, looked intimidating. Although, that might only have been because Rufus knew some of what he'd done.

"You are alone?"

"As I said I would be."

"Pardon me for not trusting the word of an Auror," Grindelwald said snidely, "I have dealt with your kind before."

"Of course no one would-"

He rammed his mouth shut, cutting the words off before they could escape.

"If we cannot have a civil meeting," Albus said, sitting down on the bench, "let us at least settle for no open hostilities."

Grumbling, Grindelwald joined them on the bench.

"So, Rufus. Will you be standing your men down?"

He kept his eyes on a group of children up ahead, ignoring his heart's pounding.

'This is it. The step into treason.'

"Not all of them. There are a few who are more loyal to the Minister and his crowd than to me."

"How many of those are at Hogwarts?"

Rufus sighed, memories of the day he'd been sworn in as an Auror flashing before his eyes.

"Four. And the security trolls."

"If you were to tell those loyal to you at Hogwarts to abandon their posts, quietly and without fanfare, how many would listen?"

"Everyone who's loyal to me would."

One of the children called their friends, pulling them into the beginnings of an impromptu game, one that appeared to involve a ball akin to a Quaffle.

He focused on them, strengthening his resolve.

If Voldemort was back and was not stopped, the potential for joy would slowly be drained out of those poor Muggles' lives.

"Very good. At some point, anytime from tomorrow to next week, I will be sending you a message. I would like you to pull your men away from Hogwarts and to remove the Anti-Apparition Charms from the Ministry. Can you do that?"

"I could. But I need something from you first."

Grindelwald's low, ominous chuckle sounded in his ears, his hand automatically heading toward his wand again.

"And what would that be?" Asked Dumbledore.

"I need to know that we aren't helping you kill You Know Who just for you to take over. I need to know that you aren't going to attacking civilians. I need to know that you won't kill my men."

"If I did decide to take over," Dumbledore said, sounding amused, "could you stop me?"

An icy pit formed in his belly, but he forced himself to speak normally.

"You said it yourself. A fight between us would only help You Know Who. No matter what, I know that you don't want that."

"You misunderstand my goals, Rufus. I don't merely want Voldemort gone. I want the corruption, the incompetence, the pandering to names and general stupidity to go."

"Leave the Ministry to me," he said, still not looking away from the playing children, "at least give me a chance to take care of that. Let us at least remain a democracy. We'll put people on trial, not simply execute them. Let Britain stay free from tyranny."

There was a moment's pause before Dumbledore spoke again. When he did, his very tone carried a threat.

"Very well. You will have your chance, Rufus. I hope that you will prove a better Minister than your predecessor."

"And my other demands?"

"You ask me to spare innocents. What do you think I am, Rufus?"

Finally, he turned to face him. Grindelwald looked entertained, but Dumbledore looked as he always did.

"I don't know," he said, nodding toward Grindelwald, "But I know what he is. I know what he's done. Promise me that you won't be doing that type of thing, and you have whatever help I can give."

Dumbledore's sapphire eyes bore into him, seeming to tear into his very soul.

Then the older wizard extended a hand.

"Agreed."

And, feeling like he was stepping off of a cliff, Rufus took the hand.

"Agreed."

Albus scanned through Severus' letter, idly stroking Fawkes with one hand, his mind a blaze of possibility.

He wasn't exactly surprised that the use of love on Harry's part had vanished Voldemort from the boy's mind. If anything, he was surprised that he hadn't thought of it earlier.

Regardless of the time wasted, this was certainly a positive occurrence. Now, he would be able to put his plans into place faster than he had previously estimated.

Of course, once he began he would have to move very quickly. He could not leave time for word of his appearance at Hogwarts to spread before he would visit the Ministry with Harry.

'Dinner time at Hogwarts,' he decided, 'that would be best. It would ensure that Severus has enough time to speak to Voldemort and that the Ministry will be empty enough for Rufus to act.'

Unfortunately, he could not be entirely confident that Voldemort would fall into his trap. It would be eminently obvious that it was a trap, but he thought that the lure of the prophecy would be enough to make Voldemort risk revealing himself.

He was sure that Voldemort would, at the very least, send a group of his Death Eaters to try and ambush him when he took Harry to the Hall of Prophecies. Capturing them would not be quite as good as showing definitive proof of Voldemort's existence would be, but it would be enough.

And no matter what happened, he would be able to keep the prophecy out of Voldemort's hands.

He was yet to decide what to do about Harry. Loath as he was to let the boy be killed, he was beginning to fear that if he did not do it soon he would fall into the same trap he always had with the boy; caring too much for him. Harry should have been told about the prophecy earlier, he knew that. But Albus' love had blinded him, had kept him from telling the boy something that he knew would hurt him.

Gellert was right that the Department of Mysteries would be a good opportunity. But that could not be entirely planned for. It would all depend on the situation at hand, on whether or not he could pull it off.

If he left it longer, perhaps he would have a chance to try and find an additional way to anchor Harry to this world, one which, unlike Herpo's suggestion, would not involve the mutilation of his soul.

But dare he risk it? Dare he push off doing something so necessary to Voldemort's destruction, simply because he hoped to spare one life?

He knew that he could justify Harry's death a thousand times over. Harry himself had placed his life in danger before, all with the intention of ruining Voldemort's plans.

Gellert may think him unable to do it, but Albus knew that he could sacrifice Harry to ensure Voldemort's destruction.

He knew, in fact, that he might have to sacrifice far more than that.

Nevertheless, he could not do it, not unless he had exhausted all alternative possibilities. For all that Herpo had invented Horcruxes, thousands of years had passed since then. It was very likely that Herpo was no longer the final authority on soul magic, even though he once had been.

And yet, if he left it too long, he might never manage to do it.

Albus shook his head, a scowl twisting his features for a moment as his thoughts began to roam in circles.

'I will think about this later,' he decided, 'for now, Gellert and I must plan our return to Hogwarts.'

He looked over at his friend and sighed, a great sadness welling up and surrounding his heart.

Gellert was sitting by the window, staring morosely out with the ravages of age clearly visible on his face.

Since gaining his freedom, Gellert had improved remarkably. Some of the time, he had been so…normal, that Albus had almost forgotten that Gellert had been through such an ordeal.

But then Gellert would adopt a melancholic expression, or would seem like he wanted nothing more than to weep, or act clingy and needy, as if he was terrified of being alone.

The crow's feet crowding around his eyes would become more prominent, liver spots seeming to form on suddenly palsied hands.

During times like this, Albus had noticed, the vitality seemed to drain out of Gellert, leaving him a pallid shell of the imposing, exhilarating man he was.

Albus could almost believe that his imprisonment had led Gellert to develop an additional personality, one who had suffered through the hell of Nurmengard and who was now sitting, staring forlornly out at the meadow but lacking the courage to face the enormity of the free world.

That was not the Gellert that Albus had known, in Godric's Hollow all those years before. That was not the Gellert who Albus had dreamed of sometimes, who Albus had written letters to and thought of.

And Albus knew that what he required Gellert to do would very possibly be terrible for his mental state.

"Good news," he said, "my theory has been proven correct. When Harry focuses on those he loves, Voldemort is driven from his mind."

Gellert did not stir, did not so much as twitch a muscle.

"So," Albus continued, "I believe it will be best for us to take Hogwarts tomorrow, while they are serving dinner. It should ensure that everyone there is at least partially distracted. I will have to halt all communication from within the castle, but I believe that restriction will only be needed for one night. I will, of course, be going to the Ministry later that same evening, with Harry."

He waited for a few minutes, but when there was no forthcoming response, spoke again, slightly more sharply now.

"Gellert? Are you listening?"

Very slowly, Gellert nodded his head.

Albus walked over to him, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"What's wrong?" He softly asked.

"I-I am afraid, Albus."

"Afraid? You, Gellert Grindelwald, the terror of Europe, are afraid?"

"I never wanted to be that," Gellert whispered, "Not at first. I was-I believed in the cause. I regretted having to kill, having to torture. Oh, I enjoyed my enemies' downfalls."

Gellert laughed then, a nasty cackle that ended as suddenly as it had begun.

"But I never enjoyed the actual killing. Not at the beginning. It was all for The Greater Good. But then...then, everything changed."

"You started to desire the power."

"Desire? I coveted it! I lusted for it, I lived for it! And that need, it grew and grew and consumed my mind. I-I began to enjoy the things I had to do, not merely excuse them! By the end of it, I was feeling most alive when I was-when I was killing dozens at a time!"

"And you had come to like doing so."

"Of course! I trained myself to like it, I needed to! And then-and then you came. By then, even though I still occasionally dreamed of you joining me, by then I would have mounted your head on a pike and paraded it around! That is what I became."

"You cannot dwell on your past," Albus quickly said, "you need to focus on the present and the future."

"I know," Gellert snarled, "of course I know that! But the dead-they don't leave, and after Herpo, I don't-"

Gellert took a deep breath, shaking his head rapidly.

It broke Albus' heart, to see him like this. To know that it was due to his actions that Gellert was like this.

'I had no other choice,' he reminded himself, 'Gellert brought it upon himself. I must make sure that I do not follow in his footsteps.'

"Albus," Gellert said, sounding as geriatric as he looked, "I am no longer that person. The Gellert Grindelwald I once was is dead. But he is who you need. You promised me that I can use my talents for something good. You promised me redemption. But-I am afraid that I will become that person again. I-I do not want good intentions to pave me another road to hell."

"I need you, Gellert-"

Gellert reached out, grabbing Albus' hand with one that felt as if ice flowed through its veins.

"I will not abandon you," he said, "but I want you to promise. Promise me, that if I start heading down that path again...you will kill me. No prison. No locking me away and binding me. Kill me."

Albus stared into those once vibrant eyes, the ghost of his love looking back at him through the decades.

"I promise."

"Something's going on," Hermione said, looking around the Great Hall with narrowed eyes.

Harry swallowed down his roast chicken, raising his head to follow Hermione's gaze.

He scanned the room, something niggling at the back of his mind.

"Hang on," Ron said, "there's like...three Aurors less than usual."

He was right, Harry realized. There were only two Aurors in the Great Hall, one standing near the doors and one by the staff table.

'Unless,' he reminded himself, 'Umbridge really does have some following her invisibly.'

"Look at Sprout," Ron whispered.

The Herbology Professor was sitting with a grim expression, her eyes flickering to Umbridge every few moments, her hand under the table.

"Harry," Hermione hissed, "Did Professor Snape say that something was going to happen?"

"No," he replied, mind racing, "he just seemed...happier than usual, I guess?"

"So, not like he wanted to ground you down into potions' ingredients?"

"No, he seemed really happy."

"What did he tell you to do again?" Hermione asked.

"He said to just think of the people I love whenever I feel Voldemort's emotions."

"And?"

"I told you, it was working. When I did it, Voldemort-left my mind, and it felt like it hurt him."

"What exactly did Professor Snape say when you told him?"

"He didn't really say much," he said, watching Flitwick now, "he just...kind of smiled, told me to keep on doing it. Didn't insult me or anything. Look at Flitwick."

They did, noticing like he had that the diminutive professor's hand had disappeared under the table.

"They've all got their wands out," Ron said, "must be. Looks like Umbridge hasn't noticed yet."

Ron seemed to be right. For all of Umbridge's paranoid eyeing of her co-workers, she hadn't seemed to realize that her security team had quietly shrunk. Her beady eyes darted around the Hall, focusing on the students as if she was expecting them to suddenly attack.

When they locked onto Harry and found him staring at her, her eyes widened, her flabby jaw twisting into a snarl.

"Something's going to happen," Hermione hissed through an almost closed mouth, "I think-"

Harry didn't get to hear what exactly it was that Hermione thought.

A blinding flash of light lit up the room, prompting shrieks and screams as everyone hastily shielded their faces.

Suddenly, voices were calling out spells.

"Stupefy!"

Someone screamed, a harsh cry that sounded halfway to an incantation and abruptly ended.

Harry quickly opened his eyes again, blinking away the spots and afterimages burned into his retinas.

His jaw dropped.

Dumbledore stood in the centre of the Great Hall, with Fawkes on his shoulder and a man who was obviously Grindelwald by his side. They both had their wands out.

He barely even noticed the teachers standing up with their wands drawn and aimed at two Aurors who had obviously been disillusioned and were now falling to the floor behind Umbridge, or the two other Aurors lying Stunned in their positions around the Hall.

One of the two behind Umbridge had been in the middle of a spell, his wand tip glowing bright blue as it fell to the floor with a loud clatter in the suddenly silent Hall.

The other became visible at the same moment as a sickly yellow jet of light shot from his wand. He tried to raise a shield, but McGonagall's Stunner hit him before he could do more than begin the incantation.

Umbridge was beginning to rise, her arm moving, her face caught in an expression of deepest horror.

Dumbledore's wand shot out faster than Harry's eyes could track.

Umbridge's wand shot from her hand, flying into the air where it shattered into a thousand splinters.

"Ah," Dumbledore said, and everyone there was so quiet that his voice seemed louder than a drum, "one of them let off an alarm. I believe-"

A roar sounded from just outside the Great Hall. A moment later, the doors exploded inwards as four security trolls burst into the hall, waving their clubs ferociously.

A group of students near the doors screamed, but Dumbledore merely flicked his wand in the trolls' direction.

The entire squad of trolls were lifted as if seized by enormous, invisible hands, and were then smashed headfirst into the stone walls before being roughly thrown onto the floor.

One of them was still stirring, trying to stand, and it was lifted and hurled into the wall again.

And then silence fell on the hall once more.

The whole thing, from when Dumbledore and Grindelwald had appeared, had taken less than a minute.

Dumbledore walked slowly towards the head table, to where Umbridge was still standing as if frozen, her face white as snow and her throat working.

Dumbledore's footsteps echoed through the room, reverberating off of the stones.

"I told you to leave," he said, facing Umbridge, his voice sounding exactly as it had when he'd discovered that Crouch had been impersonating Moody.

Harry let out a deep breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, glancing at the rapt faces around him for a second before turning back to the drama.

"I-you-"

Dumbledore towered over Umbridge, only a table separating him from her shaking, cowering form.

"I AM THE HEADMISTRESS!" Umbridge shrieked, her hand shooting out again.

But Dumbledore was faster.

Umbridge rose into the air, her arms and legs splaying out, the butter knife falling from limp fingers.

Dumbledore's wand rose.

"No, Albus."

Everyone turned their attention to McGonagall.

She was staring at Dumbledore with an incredibly odd expression, her jaw set.

For a long moment, nothing happened.

Then Dumbledore lowered his wand, and Umbridge fell in a heap.

"Dungeon five should be available," Dumbledore said, "That is where our guests can stay, at least for tonight. Gellert, Minerva will help you settle them in. Minerva, when you are done, will you and Filius raise the enchantments, please?"

He turned to Snape and gave him a nod.

Immediately, Grindelwald and McGonagall waved their wands, making the unconscious Aurors and Umbridge rise into the air. Snape walked briskly toward the doors, and a loud muttering began to rise.

Then Dumbledore turned around to face the students with a large smile plastered across his face, stretching his arms in the wide pose he usually adopted during the Welcome Feast, and silence fell again.

"I hope you are as happy to see me as I am to see all of you. It is certainly wonderful to be home again."

That broke the dam. The Great Hall exploded into noise, people cheering and clapping.

"That was a hell of a lot better than a levitating club!" Ron yelled into Harry's ear.

Dumbledore held up his hand, and again, the noise vanished.

"I must apologize, but for tonight, there will be no methods of communication from within this castle. Tomorrow, you may write whatever letters and make whatever Floo Calls you like. I am sure that you are eager to inform your families what I have done, but I beg your indulgence for this one night."

Still smiling widely, Dumbledore locked his sparkling eyes onto Harry's and nodded his head slightly.

"We should talk, Harry. Please join me in my office."

Chapter Text

"My lord, he plans to take Potter to the Department of Mysteries tonight."

The Dark Lord continued to stroke his chin with one long-fingered hand, the great snake at his feet hissing softly as it slithered closer to the fire.

"He has commanded those of the Order of the Phoenix who work in the Ministry to secretly remove the Anti-Apparition Charms. As I left Hogwarts, he was summoning the boy to his office."

"Tell me, Severus," the Dark Lord said in a distant voice, "What has the boy been doing to counter my incursions into his mind?"

"I do not know, my lord," Severus said, looking down at his feet, "I was not informed of any changes. His Occlumency is as pathetic as ever it was-"

"It is not Occlumency."

"Of course, my lord."

The Dark Lord rose gracefully, stepping down from his throne in one lithe movement and turning to face the fire, a pale hand reaching out and caressing the snake's head.

"Does Dumbledore plan to ally with the Ministry, once they have accepted the truth of my return?"

"I do not think so, my lord. He has spoken about how, when fighting the Ministry's forces, every care will be taken to ensure an as small amount of casualties as possible. He wishes to remove any elements from the Ministry that he has deemed undesirable. Unless the Ministry grants him total power, he will have to take it by force."

"And so he has given Grindelwald his freedom," the Dark Lord mused, "to help him fight a war on two fronts. Fool. When they see how he would treat them, many of the fence-sitters will clamour to be a part of our fellowship."

The Dark Lord turned around suddenly, his right hand rising.

"Your arm, Severus."

Severus pulled back his sleeve, hiding any hints of revulsion as the Dark Lord moved his hand toward his arm, the index finger extended.

For a second, the digit hovered there.

Then it pressed down, immediately flooding Severus with burning agony as his Mark turned black.

Gritting his teeth, Severus locked the pain away in some distant corner of his thoughts and focused on the breath entering his nostrils until it began to recede.

"Do you play chess, Severus?" The Dark Lord asked, turning back to face the fire.

"I do not, my lord. I have never been one for games."

"No. You haven't. Sometimes in chess, Severus, one's opponent seems to have one outsmarted. He creates a scenario where one can either walk into a blatant trap or allow him to win. He thinks he is victorious in such a case. After all, no matter what choice is made, he gains. When even a chance at gaining the bait is too enticing to pass up, what should one do in such a situation, Severus?"

"Choose the option with the least damage, my lord?"

The Dark Lord shook his head, stroking the snake once more.

"No, Severus. You walk into the trap and allow the enemy to spring it. And then you change the rules."

"My lord, I-"

A loud crack cut his sentence off as the Death Eaters arrived.

Their cloaks swished and rustled as they settled in their usual circle, all masked and robed.

"My lord," Bellatrix started, "are we to-"

"Silence. Dumbledore is taking Potter to retrieve the Prophecy from the Department of Mysteries. The Apparition restrictions will be removed shortly, if they are not already. You will go there, ambush them, and collect the Prophecy. Do not attack until Potter has withdrawn the prophecy. Kill them if you can, but bring me the Prophecy at all costs."

"M-my lord," Avery said, "It's-it's Dumble-"

"I will be joining you shortly. Grindelwald is not with him. Dumbledore is only one wizard. Deal with him."

Even through the mask, it was clear how Avery quailed under the fiery gaze.

After a moment, the Dark Lord turned to face Lucius and continued.

"Lucius, how many within the Ministry are ours?"

"Six, my lord," came Lucius' immediate response. "Between Macnair, Selwyn, Yaxley, and myself. I apologize, but with the installation of Thief's Downfall, it has been difficult to maintain the Imperius even on so few. Shall we order them to join us?"

"No. But if the Ministry acknowledges my return, tomorrow they will all attack their colleagues with no thought for life and limb."

Nodding, Lucius stepped back into his place in the circle.

"Severus. Return to Hogwarts. It is more important that you are kept as a spy than that you would help this night. The rest of you, go. I have a small errand to run before I can join you."

Harry just stared at Dumbledore, his mind completely blank.

Whatever he could have imagined Dumbledore had been keeping a secret from him, it wouldn't have been this.

That his life had been shaped by a Prophecy, that his parents had died because Trelawney, of all people, had seen the future. That if Voldemort had only chosen differently, Neville would have been the one with a scar on his forehead.

That somehow, his ability to love would help him defeat Voldemort.

And that no matter what Dumbledore has said about the Prophecy having no inherent meaning, either he would kill Voldemort or he'd have to die trying.

"Understand me, Harry," Dumbledore said, and Harry could tell just from the way Dumbledore looked at him that he knew what'd he'd been thinking. "Of course, Voldemort will do his very best to kill you. Of course, if he is not destroyed, you will perish at some point. But you are not the only one capable of it. The burden does not rest on your shoulders alone."

"Why-why'd the Prophecy single me out, then? If it really can be done by other people, why was there even a prophecy made about me?"

"Harry, Harry, Harry," Dumbledore said, shaking his head, "You don't understand what you are, do you?"

"I-what?"

"You are not merely Harry Potter, fifth-year Hogwarts student. You are the Boy Who Lived. You, Harry, are perhaps the most poignant symbol of the fight against Voldemort, of the clash between good and evil."

"Yeah, but-"

"Harry," Dumbledore said, "when the Ministry finally announces that Voldemort has truly returned, what do you think the people will say about you? You, the boy who tried to warn them and suffered their degradation and lies for your efforts. You, who bravely continued telling the truth even though it brought you the enmity of the public. As long as you live, Voldemort will have to deal with the symbol you present. As long as you live, Voldemort will not be able to stop because by your very nature you will be inciting others to fight against the darkness! And you, Harry, you would never be able to rest easy as long as Voldemort still plagues the world with his presence. You will not rest. And so neither of you will ever stop your war, and inevitably one of you will die at the hand of the other."

"How am I meant to kill him with love?" Harry asked, barely managing to keep from rolling his eyes.

"Oh, Harry. It is not love that will kill Voldemort. But it is your capacity to love that has ensured that no matter what, you would not think of joining him. It is your capacity to love that had prevented you from even thinking about delving into the Dark Arts. Voldemort created the connection between your minds, but your ability to love has enabled you to shield yourself from him. It is your capacity to love that has forged you into the brave, stubborn man before me who will never surrender, not when others are in danger."

The portraits on the wall were whispering to each other, Harry dimly noticed. He paid them no mind, his attention firmly grasped by the piercing blue eyes before him.

"In attacking you," Dumbledore continued, "Voldemort has ensured that there lives a man, not only with a direct connection into his innermost thoughts, but who will never be able to rest until he is vanquished. He created his own worst enemy, Harry, as tyrants so often do."

Harry leaned back in his chair, his head feeling like it was full of fog.

"You said that-that you wanted me to come with you somewhere?"

Dumbledore nodded gravely, glancing for a moment at his office door.

"I do not believe you are aware, but in the depths of the Department of Mysteries, there is a room filled with nothing but prophecies. You see, a most ingenious and powerful enchantment was once placed on the entire Britain: Every prophecy that is made is instantly and automatically recorded, even if the seer is unaware and there are no witnesses."

"That's what he's been thinking about all the time," Harry blurted out, "That's what Mr Weasley was guarding."

"Precisely. You see, part of the enchantment of the Hall of Prophecy ensures that only the subject of a prophecy may remove it from the shelves. Voldemort, I believe, has been trying to induce your curiosity, to cause you to retrieve the prophecy."

"But-if either of us could take it, why didn't he just do it himself?"

Dumbledore smiled, shaking his head slightly.

"You forget, Voldemort has been doing his very best to keep hidden. He would be loath to take any risk to reveal himself. Tonight, however, he will."

At Harry's confused look, Dumbledore just smiled again.

"Even as we speak, Severus is informing Voldemort of my plans, to take you to retrieve the prophecy and to destroy it. Great as he knows the risk of discovery is, Voldemort will be unable to allow this chance to pass him by. He has a brilliant mind, but when it comes to the things that he truly desires, obsession claims him. He will come, and the world will see the truth of his return."

Dumbfounded, Harry just stared at Dumbledore, his eyes wide.

"You-He's going to be there? But-"

"Harry," Dumbledore said, all traces of humour gone from his expression. "I understand your hesitance. It is, in fact, the appropriate response. Let me make this perfectly clear: You do not have to come. I will not force you to accompany me. There will, of course, be a great risk. Some Death Eaters will certainly be there, and Voldemort himself most likely will join them. I cannot guarantee your safety."

This was utterly insane. Out of everything Dumbledore had told him so far, Harry honestly thought this was the craziest.

"Professor, I-"

"If you do come, I will do everything in my power to protect you. There are three members of the Order of the Phoenix waiting for us in secret. The Death Eaters do not know that we are expecting them. And as soon as Voldemort arrives, a large contingent of Aurors will be joining us."

"Wh-what would you do if I-if I don't come?"

Dumbledore reached out absentmindedly, stroking Fawkes' back to the Phoenix's trill of pleasure.

"It is likely that Voldemort will send some Death Eaters ahead, to summon him the instant we appear. He may have ordered them to attack us and summon him only when you have withdrawn the Prophecy."

With a small shrug, Dumbledore continued.

"It is impossible to be certain, but the trap is far likelier to work if you are with me."

Steeling himself, Harry nodded. He had, only a few minutes earlier, contemplated the idea of killing Voldemort.

Now that he was faced with the prospect of meeting him again, however, Harry found it to be a far more terrifying concept than when it was just in the abstract.

"I'll-I'll come with."

"Excellent. Excellent. Thank you, Harry. Now, I'd like you to go and fetch your Invisibility Cloak. As soon as the fight begins, you will don it and hide, preferably where Sirius, Nymphadora, and Kingsley will be waiting."

Nodding, Harry found his mouth opening again.

"Professor? What you said in the newspaper, and Grindelwald-"

"We still have much to discuss," Dumbledore agreed, "not least of which are my plans for the near future. First, let us sink a quaffle, then we can worry about the snitch."

From Dumbledore's smile and tone, Harry understood that he wasn't being snubbed entirely, but that he actually would get answers to his questions.

'Finally,' he thought, standing up.

Just before he left, there was a frantic knock at the door, which immediately opened.

"Ah, Severus. Harry, fetch the cloak and come right back. We will leave soon."

Snape was paler than usual, and so distracted that he didn't even sneer at Harry as he pushed past him.

Severus waited until the door had closed behind Potter before dropping into the chair the boy had just vacated.

"He's sent the Death Eaters," He said, "and he'll be joining them soon."

"Well done. Thank you, Severus."

"That's not all," he added, his hair flapping before his eyes momentarily as he shook his head. "He knows it's a trap."

"If you recall, I told you that he would-"

"No. He is planning on...stepping into it, but he will become far more offensive afterwards. There are six people under the Imperius in the ministry, and if he is revealed tonight, tomorrow they will all attack."

"Who are-"

"I don't know," Severus snarled, slamming his fists into the table. "He said he had an errand to run. And no, I don't know what it is. But he's planning something."

"And we will react to it," Dumbledore said calmly. "You still don't know how they are avoiding the Thief's Downfall?"

"No. But I don't think you grasp the-"

"I promise you," Dumbledore said quietly, "I fully grasp the severity of this. Voldemort is prepared to move into open war. It will be just as bloody as it was in the worst days. I understand."

Dumbledore glanced at his watch and sighed, standing up.

"Thank you for telling me, Severus. I will warn the new minister. Please, ask Minerva to spread the word. Everyone must be on their guard."

"What about Grindelwald?"

"Oh," Dumbledore said with a small smile, "I believe I can find some use for him. Tell him I said to be ready."

"Ready for-"

"Come in, Harry," Dumbledore interrupted.

The boy walked into the room, clearly clutching a stitch in his side and barely even trying to hide his curiosity.

Severus couldn't spare the emotions to feel his usual loathing at the sight.

"Ready to go?"

At the boy's nod, Dumbledore moved over to his Phoenix, placing a hand around the bird's talon.

"Grab hold. It is a curious sensation, quite different from Apparition."

Hesitantly, the boy walked forward and joined his hand to Dumbledore's.

"Severus, tell Minerva as soon as you can. Lives may hang in the balance."

With that, flames bloomed along the Phoenix's body, and Severus was alone in the office.

Fawkes pulled himself out of their grip the instant they landed in the dark hallway, fluttering up to hover near the ceiling.

Harry's heart was still racing from the frantic run from Dumbledore's office to Gryffindor tower and back, the stitch in his side just beginning to recede.

But the dancing, glittering light from all around flashed through his field of vision, casting all thoughts of fatigue aside.

This was it. Finally, he was in the room he'd seen so many times in his dreams.

He started to turn around, eager to find the source for the enchanting light.

"Harry."

Dumbledore was standing next to the arched doorway, looking particularly serious.

"I am sure," he said, so quietly that Harry almost had to strain to hear him clearly, "that they are waiting for us inside. As soon as you have removed the prophecy, I would like you to keep close to me. Once I have cleared a path, I want you to put the cloak on and run to the Order members. They should be visible by then."

Dumbledore's lips quirked in a quick smile, his whole face brightening up for an instant.

"You may, of course, use whatever spells you deem appropriate to defend yourself. I must admit, I am eager to see how the leader of the army in my name fares."

Harry forced his mouth into a painful smile, his throat suddenly too dry to even try to talk.

All at once, the DA seemed like nothing more than a childish game. Somewhere ahead of him, there was a bunch of Death Eaters just waiting for him to walk into their clutches, with Voldemort himself possibly among them.

This was more terrifying than anything else he'd done before. Even when he'd been making his way down to the Chamber of Secrets or to face a dragon in the first task, he hadn't felt this bone-deep icy fear.

"Don't be afraid," Dumbledore whispered, touching his shoulder reassuringly, "I am with you. Are you ready, Harry?"

Harry gripped his wand in his pocket and nodded.

"Lovely. Well then, onwards."

With an effortless push, Dumbledore opened the door.

The next room was enormous, the blue-flamed tapers along the walls illuminating what appeared to be hundreds of long shelves, each of which was loaded with many small, dusty glass balls: roughly half of the balls were glowing with a soft greenish light, while the rest were dull and dark.

Fawkes let out a soft hooting noise and dived forward, flickers of flame marking his passage through the dim room.

"It is row ninety-seven that we need. Come along, Harry,"

Harry broke into a half-run to keep up with Dumbledore, who had begun to take large strides across the dusty floor, speaking in a loud voice all the while.

"The enchantments on this room are rather spectacular. You see, Harry, this is one of the few examples of a nationwide spellweaving, one of the others, of course, being the Trace."

For a moment, Harry wondered why Dumbledore was speaking so loudly.

'Of course,' he realized, 'he's just acting like everything's normal.'

"Whenever a new prophecy is made anywhere under the aegis of the British Department of Mysteries," Dumbledore continued, adopting a lecturing tone as he went, "It is automatically recorded and added to one of the shelves. The Unspeakables working in this section are immediately notified, of course."

Dumbledore paused and gazed down the length of a row of shelves, to where Fawkes was perched at the end of the row. After a few seconds, he nodded, whispering to Harry: "Remember the plan. Keep close."

Then he was walking again, speaking once more in his teacher's voice.

"As you can see, some of the prophecy orbs are still lit up. These are the prophecies that are still unfulfilled, at least, that are still not entirely fulfilled."

"That's most of them!" Harry exclaimed, forgetting his tension for a moment.

Chuckling, Dumbledore began to slow down, running his eyes along the shelves now.

"Indeed. Destiny does not take well to being caged and neatly defined. Ah-here we are."

His heart began to beat even faster as he followed Dumbledore's outstretched finger to the yellowish label affixed just below a gently glowing orb.

The globe looked golden under Fawkes' glittering flames.

The label said: S.P.T to A.P.W.B.D.

Dark Lord and (?)Harry Potter

"Well, Harry. This is it. Please remove the Prophecy."

The ball felt surprisingly warm to Harry's hand. It came out of the little indentation in the shelf easily, the dust on its surface feeling rough against his skin.

Before he even turned back to Dumbledore, a loud, high-pitched voice shrieked: "AVADA-"

Dumbledore had obviously been waiting for something like that to happen. He acted before the incantation was even finished.

Harry didn't see what exactly it was the old wizard did. He was still facing the shelf when a hand seemed to grab him, pulling him right up against Dumbledore as an enormous splintering sound crashed against his eardrums.

The shelf opposite from where he'd drawn his prophecy had just exploded, shattering into thousands of wooden spears which shot forward into the dozen or so masked and robed figures that had appeared from thin air.

As they all frantically raised shields and cast spells to divert the wood, Dumbledore stabbed his wand forward like a knife.

Nothing visible happened, but Harry had a strange sensation of rushing wind flowing right past him.

One of the Death Eaters slashed their wand up, and the air seemed to solidify, looking like there was a heat haze.

"Enough!"

The Death Eaters froze, holding their wands out like fencing swords.

One of them slowly stepped through the gently falling wood shavings to the front of their group, his hands up and clearly empty.

When he spoke again, it was in the drawl of Lucius Malfoy.

"Dumbledore. There is no need for anyone to get hurt. Give us the prophecy, and we will leave you in peace."

"On the contrary, Lucius," Dumbledore said, raising an eyebrow, "If you try to take the prophecy by force, I can guarantee none of your continued existences."

A shrill, mocking laugh erupted from one of the Death Eaters near the back of the group, making Harry's hairs stand up.

The robed figure walked forward, pulling a silver mask off and revealing the face of Bellatrix Lestrange.

"We all know what your threats are worth," she said, "you always-"

Dumbledore flicked his wand toward her.

She reacted quicker than Harry would have thought possible, jerking her wand in a strange diagonal movement, but it wasn't enough to entirely stop Dumbledore's spell.

She flew back, crashing into the Death Eater behind her and knocking them over.

As the Death Eaters began to move their wands, Dumbledore attacked.

The old wizard twisted his wand like a baton, spinning it around his head in a spiralling motion.

Something that looked to Harry like frozen flames shot out, making a wide circle between them and the Death Eaters and quickly expanding.

The Death Eaters screamed, shouting incantations and flinging hexes which seemed to do nothing to stop the wall's expansion.

A gout of fire shot over the wall, which undulated upwards to intercept it.

Bellatrix's frantic voice shouted, clearly heard over the din: "WITH ME!"

"Be ready," Dumbledore called, looking at Harry with a perfectly relaxed expression.

Harry dropped the prophecy orb into his pocket, gripping the balled up cloak with his left hand and his wand with his right.

Dumbledore, meanwhile, had begun to twist his wand again, jabbing it at seemingly random points in the air. Wherever he jabbed it, silvery motes danced in the air, whirling furiously around themselves.

The Death Eaters' screams died down, replaced with the occasional incantation.

And still the wall expanded, washing over another row of shelves: The wood dissolved into dust, the prophecy orbs shattering and throwing ghostly spectres into existence who immediately started speaking.

Along with the shouts of spells being cast and the shattering of more shelves, it created an enormous cacophony.

Harry felt a watery sensation around him, and turned to see Dumbledore waving his wand. A pocket of silence formed around them, the outside noise filtering in as if from a great distance.

"You have your cloak ready?"

"Yeah. What is-"

"We will have time for lessons later," Dumbledore said, "I believe it will-"

One of the Death Eaters yelled triumphantly, and a very familiar voice answered with a roared curse.

Harry's heart leapt in his chest.

"Sirius!"

The wall stopped growing, icy blue becoming green and cracks flickering across its surface.

A moment later, it shattered into mist which immediately dissipated.

The expanding wall had cleared the shelves all around, leaving an open space that looked about as large as half a Quidditch pitch.

Four or five of the Death Eaters were standing with their wands aimed at where the wall had been, their masks broken and twisted. Behind them, another few stood, shouting out mingled insults and hexes as they duelled with Sirius, Tonks, and Kingsley.

The rest of them were scattered in groaning heaps on the ground, their robes torn and smoking with frost coating them.

In the second that he was taking this all in, his wand was already instinctively rising, an incantation springing to his lips.

"STUPEFY!"

The red jet of light sped towards a male Death Eater that Harry didn't recognize, who cast a Shield Charm with a sneer.

As the other Death Eaters all began to cast spells, Dumbledore slashed his wand in their direction.

All those strange, glittering lights Dumbledore had hung in the air shot down, twisting into arrow shapes and attacking the Death Eaters. They tore at the silver masks, ripping them off before swirling around and crashing into their bodies.

A searing, red-hot pain shot through Harry's forehead along with a rushing sensation that somehow gave the impression of speed, almost dropping him to his knees. Through teary eyes, he dimly saw one of the prone Death Eater's hand falling away from the mark on his arm.

His stomach turned to water. Voldemort was coming.

Dumbledore twirled his wand, sending some of those metallic lights to fly at the backs of the Death Eaters who were fighting the Order: an instant before they collided, Tonks was blasted back with her arm bent at a horrific angle.

"Professor, Volde-"

He just managed to twist his head out of the path of an emerald green spell that came hurtling right toward his face.

He raised his wand in a panic, screaming out the first spell to come to mind.

"EXPELLIARMUS!"

Another killing curse came within an inch of his head, and Dumbledore turned with an incongruous, terrifying snarl.

Before Dumbledore's spell impacted, Harry had just enough time to recognize his attacker's face from the newspaper: It was Dolohov, the murderer of the Prewetts.

A moment later, Dolohov's chest bulged out, his eyes widening for an instant before going glassy and beginning to spout blood.

He keeled over, clearly dead.

"What did you say, Harry?" Dumbledore asked, now waving his wand in a see-saw gesture.

"Voldemort's coming," He quickly replied, "one of them pressed their Mark, I felt it, he's-"

The floor began to shake, rolling up and down like the ocean, knocking the last standing Death Eaters off of their feet.

Kingsley immediately began conjuring ropes around the fallen Death Eaters, while Sirius leaned over Tonks and seemed to be ministering to her arm.

None of them seemed aware of the approaching danger.

"Fawkes, now," Dumbledore said, watching as the Phoenix vanished in a puff of golden flame before turning his attention back to Harry.

"Put on the cloak," Dumbledore commanded, his eyes scanning the room as his wand rose, "and-"

Dumbledore suddenly moved with incredible speed, rushing forward and standing in front of Harry just as the ropes Kingsley had conjured shifted, becoming fiery serpents which slithered off of the Death Eaters and toward Kingsley, Sirius, and Tonks, snapping their jaws and spitting sparks.

And then Harry saw him.

Voldemort was standing near one of the remaining shelves, his snakelike features twisted in inhumane fury, his eyes twin flames in the gloom.

Voldemort's wand flashed, a Killing Curse flying from the end and shooting directly toward Dumbledore.

Dumbledore barely moved his hand, but one of the unconscious Death Eaters was thrown into the curse's path, his body glowing with an eerie green light as it absorbed the curse.

Voldemort growled, his rage clearly heard across the room as he twisted his wand, making a series of bluish lights appear and fly into his stunned fighters.

"The cloak," Dumbledore said quietly, taking a step away from Harry, "now."

Harry started, his mind shaking out of the terrified stupor Voldemort's arrival had inspired.

His trembling fingers managed to seize the cloak from within his pocket.

"Did you really think your Death Eaters could take the prophecy from me, Tom?" Dumbledore asked chidingly, raising his wand to a point just above his head.

"You think too highly of yourself," Voldemort hissed, "As you always have."

"I like to think I view myself honestly. It is a pity that you cannot say the same."

Harry tore the cloak out of his pocket and threw it over himself just as Dumbledore attacked.

A thousand jet-black tendrils erupted from his wand and spun around each other, forming a whirlwind which flew at Voldemort.

Immediately, Dumbledore twisted, his robes swirling around him as he vanished and reappeared a short distance to the left of where he had been, a blindingly bright spell hurtling from his wand toward Voldemort on his arrival.

Harry ran to where Sirius and Kingsley were hexing the fiery snakes, his trainers squeaking against a bloody puddle.

Out the corner of his eye, he saw Voldemort throw up a physical shield against the black rope-like apparitions Dumbledore had conjured, while one of the shelves tore itself in half and jumped in front of the bright light.

More prophecies smashed, dozens of new apparitions appearing and speaking their predictions.

"Trying to capture me, Dumbledore? You do not seek to kill me?"

"There are far worse things than death," Dumbledore said ominously.

His wand jerked and the row of shelves behind Voldemort leapt forwards, the wood suddenly growing spiky arms.

Voldemort vanished, appearing on the opposite side of the room, a Killing Curse flying from his wand as the shelf exploded into dozens of spears which shot at Dumbledore.

Harry stopped dead in his tracks, a useless warning springing to his lips.

It was unnecessary.

Dumbledore Apparated again, clearing out the Killing Curse's path and flicking his wand as he reappeared.

The wooden spears became flaming arrows and flew at Voldemort.

As Voldemort made some type of enormous, spherical shield that surrounded him, Dumbledore was already casting his next spell, a giant watery cocoon-like thing which formed around Voldemort.

"HARRY," Sirius roared, "GET OVER HERE! WE NEED TO GO!"

Spurred by the yell, Harry began to run to Sirius again. He and Kingsley had managed to get rid of the snakes and were helping Tonks again, their robes singed and smoking.

And the Death Eaters were stirring, feebly pushing themselves back into their feet.

Something smashed into Harry's back with the force of a locomotive, knocking him to the ground and whipping the cloak off of him.

Dazed, he shook his head, trying to stand.

In his pocket, the prophecy jerked harshly, tearing through the denim and flying out.

Harry dived, throwing his body over it, carefully cradling his hands around it.

He saw Dumbledore slashing his wand at Voldemort, and though there was no visible spell, Voldemort raised his wand in a clearly defensive motion.

A gunshot noise rolled into Harry's eardrums, and Voldemort was pushed back, his feet sliding along the marble floor.

"HARRY, COME ON!"

"STUPEFY!" Harry yelled, brandishing his wand and sending one of the Death Eaters careening back down.

He began to rise, cradling the prophecy to his chest and seizing his cloak from the floor.

Something crashed into him, knocking him back onto his backside. One of the Death Eaters had launched himself into him.

"Give me the prophecy, boy," he snarled, his breath hot on Harry's face, his one hand reaching for Harry's throat while the other scrabbled against his chest.

Before he could think of something to do, there was a squelching pop and Harry was splattered with blood and gore.

The Death Eater's body fell, the crushed head drawing Harry's horrified, red-misted eyes.

"COME ON," Sirius yelled, grabbing Harry by the shoulder and pulling his unresisting body up.

A bunch of new voices sounded, filling the air with screams and incantations.

Wiping the blood from his eyes, Harry saw dozens of people flooding into the room, all Ministry workers by the looks of it.

The Death Eaters noticed as well and began Disapparating away.

Still engaged in his duel with Dumbledore, Voldemort shrieked, sending another Killing Curse at his opponent before flicking his wand and sending a wall of flame in the direction of the newcomers.

The ground rose up in front of Dumbledore, intercepting the Killing Curse.

His fingernails tightening into Harry's arm, Sirius spun, pulling Harry through what felt like a tight tube.

Out the corner of his eye, Albus saw Sirius Disapparate with Harry in tow.

He couldn't help but feel a smidgeon of disappointed fear, couldn't help but second-guess his decision to ensure Harry's survival through this night.

He ignored that feeling as much as possible, focusing instead on the duel with Tom.

The Aurors, he felt sure, were capable of dealing with Tom's wall of fire. Nevertheless, it always paid to impress.

He twisted his wand, focusing on the magic Tom had used to create the flames.

He seized it with his mind, his will crashing up against Tom's and transforming it.

The fiery wall changed, becoming a mist golem. It took the form of an enormous four-legged beast with ragged horns curling out of its head like a goat's.

It dropped to all fours and charged Voldemort.

The Elder Wand sang in his mind, its joy at being used making a symphony with the bloodlust it was trying to inspire.

Tom dissipated his mist creature and tried to transfigure the air around him into concrete, but Albus stopped that before the greyish dust even began to form.

The Ministry personnel all shouted, dozens of spells flying toward Voldemort.

Useless and too late though he knew it was, he still tried to cast an Anti-Apparition Charm.

Of course, Tom was vanishing before the charm could land.

He readjusted it, sending the invisible rope of his charm to tighten around the last three surviving and remaining Death Eaters. They were unconscious, but it certainly wouldn't hurt to keep them there.

Well, it had been quite a success. None of his people grievously injured, Tom's return proven, three Death Eaters captured, and at least three killed, including Dolohov. Not bad for less than an hour's work.

Finally, he turned to face the Minister and his men.

They fell silent as he turned, their shocked exclamations falling away.

Interestingly enough, Cornelius was the first to recover. He was standing there in his dressing gown and nightcap, clearly on his way to bed.

"You-That was-"

"Voldemort," he said, hating the way they all flinched, "that was Voldemort. As I have been telling you for close to a year, he has returned."

Cornelius looked around wildly as if deciding whether to order his arrest.

Preposterous. As if he would allow such a thing.

They began talking again, all of them babbling and trying to express their confusion.

Percy Weasley, he noted, looked as if he had been punched in the stomach.

"Minister Scrimgeour," Albus said, causing them all to fall quiet and stare at him again, "I believe you should be ordering former Minister Fudge's arrest."

"You can't-"

"Minister Scrimgeour?"

"FORMER MIN-"

He twirled his wand, making a loud explosive noise which shook the walls.

"Yes," He called, affixing Cornelius with the most piercing glare he felt capable of. "I warned you close to a year ago that Voldemort had returned. You ignored me, choosing to attack my character and deny the truth. Due to your egotistical dereliction of duty, Voldemort has had a year to plot and build his forces."

"You can't just take over!" Fudge screamed, "you can't-"

"But I am not. You are unfit to remain in your office, and so I am appointing a fair and worthy replacement."

He paused for a moment to nod to Scrimgeour, happily noting the number of Aurors who had moved closer to Rufus.

Quietly and without fanfare, a large empty space was forming around Fudge.

"This is treason!"

"Treason would be ignoring the greatest threat Britain has ever faced for personal gain," he replied, "Treason would be using the so-called neutral newspaper as a mouthpiece to assassinate the character of a child who warned of danger. Treason would be accepting monetary gifts from known associates of a terrorist."

He dropped his voice to just above a whisper, allowing the icy fury in his heart to seep into his words.

"Of those in this room, only one is guilty of treason. And it is not I, Cornelius."

Two of the Aurors were whispering frantically to each other. Their speech died when his gaze fell upon them, his eyebrows rising.

"You have just seen confirmation of everything that I have been warning you about for nearly a year," he said, "is your loyalty to Fudge or to this nation?"

"But-you freed Grindelwald!"

"So I did. And he will help defeat Voldemort."

"You don't get to decide-"

"Of course he does," Rufus suddenly spat, "if you'd have just listened to him last year, we wouldn't be in this situation! I wouldn't be forced to take this responsibility. You really think I want it? I don't! I'll take it because it's better than the alternatives, but I'd far rather you were enough of a man to remain Minister!"

Cornelius sneered, his genial bewildered manner vanishing.

"Liar! You've been after this position for years! You've-

Before any of the Aurors could react to Albus' sudden motion, the Silencing Charm was on Cornelius.

"Enough. Rufus-pardon me, Acting Minister Scrimgeour, you made mention of wanting trials?"

Slowly, Rufus nodded, prompting renewed muttering from the rest of the Ministry workers present.

"Well, the three Death Eaters behind me are kept in place by an Anti-Apparition Charm. It is not my place to say, but I believe they, and anyone else awaiting trial, should not be remanded to Azkaban. It is only a matter of time before Voldemort brings the Dementors to his side openly."

Finally annoyed with his situation enough to do something about it, Cornelius went for his wand.

Albus let him draw it, patiently waiting to see how Rufus would react, and was pleasantly surprised when one of the Aurors, Reginald Hartford, stunned the former Minister for Magic.

Reginald wore a sickened expression as Cornelius fell, but his face gained some colour back when Rufus nodded to him approvingly.

"You can expect Voldemort's counter strike to be swift and terrible," Albus said, once more seizing the attention of everyone present, "Minister Scrimgeour, I believe a meeting between us to discuss strategy is called for. And someone should inform the Prophet."

"Who put you in charge?" Someone called, "what makes you think you can just come in here, replace the Minister and tell us all what to do?"

He sighed, locating the voice and identifying it as belonging to Quentin Shafiq.

"What makes me think I can do this? The fact that it needs to be done and nobody else is doing it. If you have a problem, try and stop me."

Quentin quailed under his gaze, shrinking in on himself and staring at his feet.

"Until such time as elections can take place, Minister Scrimgeour will be taking Cornelius' office. As long as the ministry is dedicated to stopping Voldemort and removing the bigotry and incompetence that so infects these hallowed halls, I will not interfere. I still believe that democracy is necessary and right."

He ran his eyes along them all, pinning them in place with a look.

"Much as I am capable of it, I am not taking over. I am giving this ministry a chance to be what it was meant to be, a chance to prove that the government of Wizarding Britain can work for the good of the people."

The sound of pounding feet on marble echoed through the ruined Hall of Prophecies, shattering the thoughtful silence his words had wrought.

"S-sir, you-"

A young hit-wizard skidded into the room, clutching his side and gasping for air.

"What is it?" Rufus snapped, "And tell me that Jason's still manning the communication centre."

The wizard nodded, bending over and catching his breath back.

The tension was heavy in the air as the wizard, Orson Blackwood, Albus thought, slowly straightened up.

They could feel it, the sensation of bad news about to be imparted.

'Tom has moved quickly. We will have to strike back as soon as possible.'

"Reports of a Giant just outside Liverpool," he wheezed. "Wrecking the motorway."

Before anyone had even process the news, another wizard came bursting through the open doors.

"Jason, what-"

"Azkaban," the wizard shouted, "It's under attack, the Dementors have turned on our men!"

Rufus turned to face Albus, his eyes wide and showing more than a hint of fear.

"The war," Albus said softly, "has now begun in earnest."

In his hand, the Elder Wand seemed to emit a sense of joy at the prospect.

Chapter Text

When she heard the first tinkle of breaking glass, Andromeda felt no alarm. She continued brushing her teeth, thirty years of marriage causing the sound of Ted's clumsiness to not even register in her conscious mind.

But when, a minute later, she heard more glass break accompanied by a muted grunt, some unspoken fear flittered across her thoughts, her daughter's voice whispering a warning in the back of her mind.

She spat out the toothpaste, quietly placing the brush in its cup and drawing her wand.

It had only been a few hours since Dora had sent them an owl to say that You Know Who might be targeting the families of Order members and that they should be on their guard. She'd paid heed to that, making sure that her wand was within arm's reach at all times.

As slowly and cautiously as she could, she opened the bathroom door, slipping out of her shoes as she went.

She walked out onto the landing, carefully avoiding the loose floorboard, listening with all her might and forcing her fear to recede.

She was halfway down the stairs, making not a sound, when he called to her, his voice slightly more high-pitched than usual.

"Dromeda, dear, could you come here please?"

An icy fist clenched around her heart, squeezing the breath out of her and driving her almost mad with terror.

Ted never called her Dromeda, never. Not since their third date, when she'd told him how her insane sister had used to call her that.

She could remember his response as if it had been just yesterday.

"Well," he'd said with a cocky grin, "at least now I know how to warn you if it seems like she's coming for us."

He'd referenced that conversation again only a few months before, when the news about Bellatrix's escape had broken.

Panic drowned her mind, her wand suddenly slick in her fingers.

Bellatrix was in her house. Bellatrix was in her house, and she had Ted.

'Deep breaths,' she told herself, 'deep breaths. Remember what Uncle Orion used to say: fear will kill you more often than an enemy. Get rid of the fear or it will get rid of you.'

"Coming, Teddy," she called, hoping that her use of the name he despised would let him know that she'd understood his warning.

Then she took a deep breath, remembering her uncle's advice and thinking of nothing but the feeling of the air entering her body.

'I am not afraid. I am not afraid. I am not afraid. She was better than me, but she's been in Azkaban. She won't be as good as she was. I am not afraid.'

"Dromeda," he repeated, and this time his voice had a tremble in it, "Please, I need some help here quickly."

"On the way."

She lifted her wand, thankful beyond belief that Nymphadora had thought to teach her the Order's method of communication.

Focusing on how she had felt that incredible day when her daughter had been born, she waved her wand and whispered: "Expecto Patronum!"

A silvery mist shot forth condensing after a moment into the form of a large eagle.

"Tell Nymphadora that Bellatrix is in our house," she whispered, "she has Ted hostage."

Her Patronus blinked at her for a moment before stretching its wings and launching into the air, exiting the house as if the wall wasn't there.

'I've done what I can. Can't do anything more until I know the situation better. If she's got a wand to his head and I surprise her…'

She shook her head, cutting that train of thought off before she could become a gibbering wreck.

'I am not afraid. I am not afraid. She comes into my house and dares try to take what is mine? She should fear me!'

She lifted her head, holding her neck straight in the almost regal manner she'd cast aside when she left home.

And then she walked on, taking no more care to hide her footsteps.

Ted called for her again, just before she walked into the kitchen.

"I'm here," she said, entering.

Bellatrix was there, a knife to Ted's throat and her wand outstretched, positioned so that his body was shielding her.

At the sight of her sister, a cold clarity settled over Andromeda, blotting out her fear.

Bellatrix looked ghastly, worse even than the pictures had made her out to be.

A purple bruise bloomed across half her face, while the rest was covered in cuts and burns.

Ted had been pouring himself a glass of gin, she thought. The bottle lay smashed on the floor, clear liquid pooling around it, while the glass looked like it had been thrown.

When she saw Andromeda, Bellatrix's face flickered through a variety of terrifying expressions. There was a wide, loving smile for a moment, quickly replaced by a sneer, which in turn shifted into a look of unbridled loathing.

"Hello, sister," she spat, the hand holding the knife twitching. "Shame of the family, blood traitor bitch!"

"Let him go," she said, her wand hot in her hand. "Let him go and leave my house."

"I'll let it go. Come with me, and I'll let it live."

"Don't," Ted immediately said, "Andromeda, run, get aw-"

"Shut up," Bellatrix snarled, pressing the knife flush against his throat, "Shut up, you stupid animal!"

The point of the knife pushed into his throat, a bead of blood forming and drawing Andromeda's horrified eyes.

'I just need to stall her, just until Nymphadora comes with help.'

She tried not to think about how few their options were with Bellatrix holding a knife to Ted's throat and using him as a human shield.

Somehow, she hoped, Nymphadora would be able to help.

"Bella," she said, "What do you expect to gain from this?"

Bellatrix's face twisted, emotions warring on her features.

"I want my sister back," she hissed, "I loved you, and you betrayed us! Come back!"

"Bella-"

"No! You put this-this abomination before your family! Do you know what you did to mother, you selfish whore? BLOOD-TRAITOR BITCH!"

'She's working herself into one of her rages. If I don't head her off early, he won't survive.'

"Let him go, and I'll come with you."

"No," Ted gasped, "she'll just-"

"Shut it, Mudblood."

The knife pushed even closer, touching the windpipe.

"Tricksy little traitor. No. You come with me, and I'll let him go then."

"You'll just kill us both. Let him go first, and-"

"She'll do it anyway-"

"One more word and you die," Bellatrix said, "just one, monster. Sister stealing monster."

"You-"

"I don't want to kill you," Bella said, cutting Andromeda's attempt off. "Not unless I have to. I just want you to come back to who you are. We can be sisters again, traitor. Come back to who you are, and I'll maybe we'll even let your pet Mudblood live."

'She's going to kill him no matter what. I need to at least try.'

"You've hated me for years," she said, the trembling in her fingers belying the cool tone of her voice. "Since I was disowned. Do you really expect me to believe that you'll put that all behind you?"

"I'm giving you a chance," Bellatrix cried, "a last chance to prove that you're more than a selfish slut. Don't make me kill you. It's not too late to show that your family is worth more than this-this freak!"

That cold centre of Andromeda's mind seemed to expand, taking over her thoughts and narrowing them to a clinical observation of the situation.

'It'll have to be a Disarmer. Anything else and it might hit him or make her cut him.'

"Where do you want me to go?" She asked, her fingers tightening around her wand.

"NO!" Ted screamed, "don't, do-"

"I said shut-"

She whipped her wand through the air, taking advantage of her sister's momentary distraction and non-verbally casting a Disarming Charm.

To her horror, Bellatrix blocked it with contemptuous ease.

"You just killed your little pet," she snarled, stabbing deep into Ted's throat and tearing across, slicing him open from ear to ear.

Andromeda screamed as a torrent of blood erupted, shooting out in a huge spray that coated the kitchen in seconds.

Ted's blood splattered her, a drop landing in her open mouth and making her want to vomit.

Her horrified gaze locked onto his face, the light in her husband's eyes fading even as Bellatrix hurled his body forward.

And then the fury came, sweeping through her like a whirlwind.

Her wand rose again, instinct propelling her to knock aside Bellatrix's Stunner.

And she slashed it back down, shouting an incantation she'd never used before in her life.

"AVADA KEDAVRA!"

Azkaban, it seemed, had not dulled Bellatrix's skill.

She reacted before the Killing Curse was halfway to her, twisting out of its path and conjuring a large block of wood to take the spell.

Another Stunner shot towards Andromeda, coming so close that she felt the wind of its passing.

Yet another spell shot from Bellatrix's wand, flying straight over Andromeda's shoulder and blowing right through the kitchen wall.

"EXPULSO!" She cried, the table that Ted had carved exploding just in front of Bellatrix. "AVADA KEDAVRA!"

"YOU'D KILL YOUR OWN SISTER OVER AN ANIMAL?" Bellatrix shrieked, a strange, rope-like spell erupting from her wand.

"MURDERER!" She howled back, the sight of Ted's body splayed across the floor driving all rational thought from her mind.

She managed to cast a Shield Charm just before the ropes would have hit her: they dissipated, destroying her shield as they did.

Her wand snapped forward, the most powerful cutting curse that she could cast flying toward her sister.

"MUM!"

Nymphadora screeched as she entered the kitchen, a horrific wail that instinctively pulled Andromeda's attention, her head whipping around.

Nymphadora hadn't come alone. A tall black wizard who Andromeda thought was also an Auror stood beside her, his wand lashing out in Bellatrix's direction.

A searing, intensely hot pain shot through her wand hand, her knees buckling under the weight of it.

Falling to the floor, Andromeda looked down and saw what her distraction had cost her.

Her hand had been sliced through just below the fingers as neatly as if it was a piece of parchment.

Whatever it was, she realized, the curse must have cauterized her flesh as it cut: no blood was spurting from her severed fingers.

She twisted her body around, barely managing to keep from falling as she scrabbled for her wand with her left hand.

Nymphadora was screaming, furiously waving her wand and trying to battle Bellatrix. The black wizard was fighting as well, spells hurtling from his wand.

Another one of those ropes erupted from Bellatrix's wand, curling around Andromeda's neck and dragging her over to her insane sister just as something hit Nymphadora, throwing her back to crash into what was left of the wall.

The wizard yelled, a purple curse flying from his wand.

Bellatrix jumped forward, hand flying toward Andromeda even as her wand spun, making one of the cabinets shoot from the wall and crash into the wizard.

Bellatrix seized Andromeda by the hair, tugging her back and twisting.

The last thing Andromeda saw before she was pulled into Apparition was her daughter jumping up, weeping and casting a spell too late.

Another terrified scream echoed through the prison, cutting off as suddenly as it had begun and returning a silence that was all the worse.

Calder Primrose huddled up against the wall of his cell, a fist jammed into his mouth to muffle his fearful whimpers.

He had never belonged in Azkaban. He'd never been like one of those murderers or rapists, had never really meant to hurt anyone.

He'd never deserved to be locked in a cell while people died all around, helpless and afraid.

Calder had enjoyed a ten-year career as one of the best smugglers in Britain, mostly in creatures deemed non-tradable, but he'd occasionally dabbled in importing potions ingredients and books declared illegal as well.

He'd never been too much of a threat, never being one of those fools who snuck dragon eggs over borders. He'd always dealt in mostly harmless creatures. All he'd ever wanted to do was make a few Galleons, and was that really so bad?

He'd been good at it, never even being suspected by the Ministry, not until it had happened.

It hadn't even been his fault, not really.

His landlady had been suspicious about some of the people who'd visited him and had snuck into his room one day while he was out, putting her grubby paws all over his stuff, reading his carefully coded ledgers.

He had to admit, the height of his stupidity had been leaving the key to his code where someone could find it.

Still, she shouldn't have been snooping around his stuff.

Well, she'd read all his writings and gone through his things, and had confronted him when he'd returned home that day.

It was her fault, not his. She'd tried to blackmail him, and he'd panicked.

He hadn't had a choice, she'd backed him into a corner.

If wouldn't have been so bad, if only he'd been better with his Memory Charm.

She'd been placed in St Mungo's the next morning, after arriving in the dining room weeping because she hadn't known who she was.

He should have scarpered after that, he knew. He should have run, gone to France or Germany or anywhere where he had contacts.

But he hadn't. And that snooping bitch had been healed less than a week later, and everything had come crashing down on him.

Twenty years in Azkaban, that's what he'd been sentenced. Twenty years, just for one messed up charm and for ignoring the ministry's idiotic restrictions.

Well, he was now four years into his sentence. Four years of being locked in this hellish nightmare, trapped with his furious, terrified thoughts.

But none of the horrors the last four years had brought even held a candle to what had been happening tonight.

It had started less than half an hour previously, with frantically shouted incantations sounding through the halls. As far as he'd been able to tell over the last four years, there were always about five human guards in Azkaban.

He'd heard as they did battle with...something, their screams and curses growing steadily more hysterical until there was nothing but silence.

Since then, the Dementors had been far more active than usual. He'd seen them gliding past his cell, making that death-rattle noise of theirs as they spread out.

And every so often, another scream started, a scream which would invariably cut off right as it reached a fever-pitch.

The murky light from the corridor outside his cell dimmed and he felt the cold coming again.

Shuddering, his stomach feeling hot and heavy, he pushed up against the wall, the rough stone rubbing uncomfortably through his tunic.

The Dementor stopped at his cell, its cowl turned toward the bars.

'I'm going to die. Something's happened and they're attacking the prisoners, I shouldn't even be here and I'm going to die!'

His heart pounded in his ears, his shaking hand scratching against his teeth.

The Dementor stayed there for a few moments, staring at him with its eyeless gaze.

Then it moved on, swooping away from his cell and making that horrific noise.

Exhaling heavily, he dropped back onto his bed, the constant noise of the waves lapping against the shore filtering through the wall again.

Footsteps sounded in the corridor, human footsteps drawing nearer.

And then a man was standing in front of his cell.

He gasped as he took in the man's appearance, his bladder suddenly making urgent demands of him.

He was tall, wearing a robe almost as dark as a Dementor's, a long wand clutched in one hand, an aura of power and fear emanating from him.

But it was his face that drew Calder's terrified eyes, his face that made Calder's skin crawl.

The eyes were blood-red, the nose nothing more than two slits in skin that was pulled tight against a hairless skull.

And Calder knew who it was.

"What is your name?" You Know Who asked, his voice making the hairs on Calder's arms stand up.

"C-Calder Primrose, s-sir."

"Do you know who I am?"

He nodded frantically, dimly aware that he wasn't going to be killed out of hand, not if You Know Who was bothering to talk to him.

"I-I do."

"Good. How would you like revenge, Calder? How would you like a chance to punish the miserable society that placed you in this hole?"

'A way out, this is a way out, he'll let me go!'

"I'd l-like that a lot."

"Join me," You Know Who hissed, "join me and you will have that chance. Obey my orders, fight at my command, and I will free you."

"I-I will, I'll do anything you want. "

'I just need to get out here, and I can go, I can-'

"You are thinking about taking me up on my offer and then fleeing the country, are you not?"

"No! No, I want to help-"

"Do not lie. Lord Voldemort is not known for his patience."

"I-"

"You will join me," You Know Who said, fingering his wand, "and you will serve me. If I remove you from this cell, you are mine. Mind, body, and spirit. You will not flee, not unless I give permission. You will do exactly as I say, and nothing more or less. Do you understand?"

"I just-I just want to get out, I-"

"Your choice," You Know Who hissed, "is a lifetime in my service or being fed to the Dementors. These are your options. You have five seconds."

"I'll do it," he cried, "I'll do whatever you say, just don't-don't give me to them! Anything you want!"

"Very well," You Know Who said, waving his wand carelessly and turning the bars at the entrance of his cell to smoke. "Remember the promises you have made, and you will have your revenge. Betray your word and you will wish you had never been born."

The pain faded, the utter agony that had totally encapsulated her vanishing, leaving her shaking and with dots dancing before her eyes.

A hand grabbed her hair, pulling her head forward and shaking it.

"Come on," one of her captors yelled, "Just tell us! We know you keep watch on Potter and his family, now tell us where they are!"

Arabella shook her head, tears welling up again and making her captors' appearances blur.

It was hard to believe that less than an hour previously she'd received an owl warning her that she might be in danger. She'd barely had time to get dressed, pack a bag, and break out her hunting knife before the door opened and a bright red light was hurtling towards her.

After that, she'd been woken up, lying on the floor with three masked and hooded figures surrounding her, one of them with bloody claw marks along his exposed hand.

It was then that she'd noticed the small, still form on the floor.

They'd killed Mr Tibbles.

Before she'd even had the chance to say anything, one of them had cast the Cruciatus.

And when she refused to answer his questions after he lifted the curse, he'd cast it again.

And again.

A fist slammed into her face, her upper lip grinding against teeth and her nose making a crunching sound as it broke.

Blood began to trickle down, slightly cooler against her chin than the pain spreading from her poor nose.

"Listen to me, you squib bitch," he rasped, "tell us what we want to know and we won't hurt you."

"Much," one of the other Death Eaters added with a chuckle.

'They're going to kill me anyway. I'm not telling them anything.'

She spat in his face, her bloody spittle just missing one of the mask's eyeholes.

His fist shot forward again, sending her reeling back.

"Stupid bitch," he said. "Crucio!"

It wracked her again, the terrible pain that was so much worse than anything she had ever imagined.

A thousand white-hot knives stabbing into her every inch of skin, her nerves screaming in torment as pure agony tore through her.

She was spasming, her legs beating a mad tattoo against her carpeted floor, the wails bursting from her throat making her feel like her vocal cords were going to rip.

Time lost all meaning, the only thought in her mind a frantic wish for death to end this nightmare.

An eternity passed before the curse was lifted, the sudden surcease of anguish almost as shocking as its beginning.

Very slowly, her vision cleared, the last shivers of pain fading.

The Death Eater who had cast the curse kicked her in the ribs, hard enough that she felt the crack as at least one broke.

Then he squatted, his wand pointed at one of her arms.

"Everyone knows that the Cruciatus can drive you insane," he said. "But most people don't know that it won't happen if you give a few minutes break between each use of the curse. We can stay like this for hours, days even. You know that you'll break eventually, you know that you'll beg to tell us what you know. Save yourself the pain and just tell us now."

"Fuck off," she snarled.

He shook his head in mock disappointment, touching his wand's tip to her trembling arm.

There was a yowling howl, and from the corner of her eye she saw a small, light-coloured shape flying at one of the Death Eaters with claws extended.

"Snowy, no!" She cried, unable to tear her eyes away.

The Death Eater kicked out, sending Snowy hurtling across the room.

"NO!"

His wand flashed, and Snowy's neck twisted to an impossible angle.

"NO! NO! N-"

"Shut up!"

He pushed his wand against her arm, muttering something she couldn't quite catch.

A deep, thick cut appeared on her arm, flaps of skin pulling away from each other.

"NO! STOP! STOP, STOP, DON'T!"

"Shut up!"

The gash grew, a long line spreading from the top of her wrist to just below the elbow.

His hand dug down, fingers gripping and twisting at the muscle inside of her arm.

Her back arched, the tendons on her neck standing out as she howled her pain to the uncaring walls.

She tried to rip her arm out of his grasp, but his hold was too tight. With a loud snap and a flash of fresh, nauseating agony, the bone broke.

He rubbed his bloody fingers on her tearstained face and stood up, his wand coming out again.

"Squib bitch!" He spat, and stomped on her broken arm.

For a moment or two, blissful unconsciousness claimed her, the world vanishing in a haze of darkness.

Then his foot collided with her broken nose again, and she snapped back into reality, sobbing the hoarse cries of a wounded beast.

"CRUC-"

"NO!" She screamed, "I'LL TALK, I'LL TELL YOU WHAT YOU WANT! JUST DON'T DO THAT AGAIN!"

"POTTER'S MUGGLE FAMILY!" He roared, kicking her in the side again, "WHAT'RE THEIR NAMES?"

"D-Dursley," She babbled, her unbroken arm rising into a useless protective gesture, "Ver-Vernon and Petunia Dursley and their son D-Dudley. They-"

"LIAR!"

Another kick to her broken arm, black shapes flying up in her vision and vomit trying to rise in her throat.

"I swear," she sobbed, "I promise, it's them, Petunia E-Evans, Lily's s-sister, she married Vernon Dursley! I swear!"

"Yeah? Where do they live?"

She only hesitated for a second, but that was long enough to make him kick her in the side again.

"WHERE?"

"Num-number four," she gasped, "number four, Privet Drive."

"Good," He said, reaching down and patting her on the head like she was a dog, "good girl."

His wand rose again, green motes forming at the tip.

"Avada-"

"Wait! Macnair, we might need to ask her a few more questions!

The green light dissipated, the terror in her belly loosening just a drop.

"Besides, he wants them as soon after they're dead as possible. It might even be worth it to take them in alive."

The Death Eater before her who she now knew to be Walden Macnair nodded curtly before slashing his wand at her.

"Stupefy!"

And Arabella Figg was plunged into blessed nothingness.

Edgar Proudfoot stifled a yawn as he arrived, stumbling out of the fireplace in his house with his mind still reeling. It had been the most insanely eventful evening in his time as an Auror, and he'd been part of the force back before You Know Who had...vanished.

It had started with Scrimgeour asking him and a select few to stay late that evening, with no indication as to why it was necessary.

It was made all the more suspicious by the fact that none of the Aurors he privately dubbed 'Fudge's crew' had been asked to stay as well.

Well, he and Savage had suspected Scrimgeour of being in touch with Dumbledore after his strange behaviour over the last few days, but they certainly hadn't been prepared for anything like what they witnessed.

You Know Who himself, duelling Dumbledore in the Department of Mysteries while Death Eaters escaped.

Proudfoot had been on the fence about You Know Who's return, at least until Dumbledore had decided to free Gellert fucking Grindelwald.

That was when Proudfoot had become certain that Dumbledore was lying.

And then You Know Who had made an appearance in the Ministry itself.

And afterwards, Dumbledore had appointed Scrimgeour as Minister.

He could have taken over, Proudfoot knew. At that moment, after everyone had seen him going toe to toe with You Know Who himself, after apparently neutralizing half a dozen Death Eaters, no one would have done more than make a token arguments

But Dumbledore hadn't taken over.

And then You Know Who had struck back.

Proudfoot frowned as he walked over to the stairwell.

He supposed it was better for everything to be put in the open, frustrating though it was to deal with. Ridiculous as it was, he just couldn't help wishing that Dumbledore hadn't forced You Know Who to come into the open and escalate so much.

'Idiot,' he told himself, 'It's better that we know what we're dealing with. False peace isn't peace. If You Know Who had stayed hidden, he'd just be causing chaos from the shadows, without us knowing what's actually happening.'

Still, he wished that he could have just continued to pretend that everything was alright instead of fighting a war.

Oh, the giant had been easy enough to deal with. There were over twenty Aurors and hit-wizards there, not to mention Dumbledore. The giant hadn't known what had hit it.

Of course, they were too late to stop it crushing over a dozen cars and tearing right through the motorway, but they'd managed to prevent further damage at least.

He was beyond glad that he wasn't a member of the Obliviation or Muggle-Worthy Excuse squads. They were going to have one hell of a time explaining away all the destruction.

His legs were aching by the time he reached the second-floor landing, his muscles crying for rest.

His night hadn't ended with the giant being taken down, much as he'd been ready to collapse by then.

Along with a few others, he'd been sent to help the Azkaban squad, and he knew he'd have nightmares about it for years to come.

The prison had been practically empty, the vacant halls seeming even colder and more disturbing than when they'd been teeming with Dementors.

It had radiated with icy menace, the twining corridors looking ready to swallow him whole.

The emptiness of the vast complex had made it all the more horrifying than the last time he'd been there, the lack of Dementors almost as frightening as their presence.

There had been six prisoners found, no sign of the other thirty-five or the five guards to be spotted.

And all the prisoners they'd recovered had been Kissed, nothing more than soulless husks.

He yawned again, hoping that Elizabeth was asleep. Much as he wanted to tell his wife about the radical changes that had happened over that night, Edgar wanted to sleep more.

Gingerly, he pushed open his bedroom door, stepping in as softly as he could.

And stopped, the sharp, unmistakable smell of blood assaulting his nose.

He cast a non-verbal Lumos automatically, all thought vanishing in a haze of shapeless terror.

The tip of his wand lit up, and he fell to his knees with a pained cry.

An enormous puddle of blood covered their bed, splatters of it starting to dry on the pillow with blackish strands pooling off of the side of the mattress.

His eyes were drawn to the wall, where a particularly large blood splatter seemed to have a few hairs stuck in it.

Beside it, a skull and snake had been burned into the wall along with the message: The price of opposition is a heavy one.

A moaning, keening noise escaped his lips, his hands curling into fists as he cursed Dumbledore for forcing Voldemort into the open.

Bill grunted, twisting his wand and forcing his magic through the cracks in the Anti-Apparition Charm.

Sweat poured down his face, the furious heat of the conflagration battening his back.

Behind him, facing toward the fiery blaze of the Burrow, his parents stood side by side, frantically trying to hold off the attackers.

Curses whizzed through the air, some of them flying close enough to whip his hair back.

The heavy, almost overpowering stench of greasy smoke filled the air, a sharp pang flashing through him at the loss of his childhood home.

"BILL," his father yelled, "WE NEED TO GET OUT OF HERE!"

"ALMOST DONE," he called back, ignoring the cracking flames behind him, not allowing the arson to distract him from his job.

He heard a terrible screech, a high-pitched wail of utter agony.

'The ghoul,' he realized, 'we didn't get it out in time.'

His mother shrieked, mingled fury and pain in her voice.

"BILL!" His father roared again.

His magic lashed out, tearing at the Charm.

With a slash of his wand, he spoke the countercharm and pulled the Anti-Apparition Charm down.

"NOW!" He yelled, spinning around and beginning to Disapparate, the cracks of his parents' Apparition clearly heard over the din of the fight.

As he did, he caught one last glimpse of the Burrow.

Enormous flames blossomed from all the windows, lighting up the night sky and sending huge plumes of black smoke into the air.

Lord Voldemort surveyed the twenty-one prisoners, a sneer tugging at his lipless mouth.

They were begging, those still capable of speech. Asking him for mercy, as if their pathetic pleas would change his mind.

His Death Eaters had done their work well, for once. They had obeyed his orders, collecting the family members of as many members of the Order of the Phoenix, the Auror corps, and the Wizengamot as possible.

Of course, they had only collected the families of those who he knew would most likely not side with him. It would be an abject lesson, a message to the others.

Fight against me, the message said, and this is what will happen to you.

He had debated ordering for the numbers of the captives to be bolstered with Muggles, but had eventually decided against it. There would be plenty of time for that. For now, he would prefer that which would have the largest emotional impact on his enemies.

It was a pity that the Weasleys had managed to escape. By all accounts, they were very active in the Order of the Phoenix, not to mention their friendliness with Potter.

Well, there were other ways to hurt the boy.

He glanced at the three muggles huddled together in the corner of the room, the weeping woman, her disgusting husband, and their equally atrocious child.

"Please, please, you don't-"

Bellatrix cackled, kicking the captive who had spoken in the back and throwing him onto his face.

"Fenrir," Voldemort said, turning away from the spectacle.

"Yes, milord?" The wolf said, walking forward.

It was disgraceful, the company he was forced to keep. One day, Voldemort knew, Greyback and the rest of his repulsive ilk would have served out their usefulness.

He was quite looking forward to that.

"How many of your kind have you convinced?"

Fenrir shuffled his feet, looking at the floor.

"Five," he muttered.

"Five? You promised me dozens, Fenrir."

The scrawny werewolf flushed, his ears twitching.

"A lot of them-they say that Du-Dumbledore's been promising-"

"I did not ask for excuses," he hissed, "You promised me dozens, Fenrir. You will keep your promises."

"I-I will, milord. I'll-"

"Go. Whatever Dumbledore has promised, it will be nothing beside the gratitude of Lord Voldemort."

"I'll-"

"Go."

The werewolf fled.

He turned back to the prisoners, running his gaze along them.

They would certainly be enough to carry out his plan. It would have been better if Fenrir had kept his promises, but the Dementors should work almost as well. It was almost a shame that he had to sacrifice one of the Giants, but the other three had only been spurred on by their companion's death.

He had enough to make his plan work.

"Bellatrix," He said, making her turn to him immediately. "Prepare the ritual."

She broke into a wide grin, excitement brightening her face up, her blood-traitor sister forgotten.

He would have to perform the ritual as soon after the prisoners were killed as possible, but Bellatrix was already bustling away to get it ready.

It was too late for a few of the prisoners, but their corpses would still be serviceable.

He raised his wand, aiming at Potter's aunt.

If Dumbledore was bolstering his forces, it was only appropriate for him to do the same.

"Avada Kedavra!"

Chapter Text

Chapter 8

Harry staggered, almost falling over as they arrived and Sirius let go of his arm.

His legs seemed to be made of jelly, the blood covering his face warm and cloying.

'His head,' he thought hysterically, 'it was like a rotten watermelon.'

Sirius seemed to be speaking, but the words sounded like they were coming from somewhere far away or filtering through earplugs.

He rubbed at his eyes, trying to clear the murk and figure out where he was.

When he pulled his hand away from his face, it was covered in gore.

Staring at it, a mad urge to laugh rose up in him.

A moment later he was bent over, throwing up.

His panicked shock seemed to leave him with the contents of his stomach, his mind becoming normal again.

A hand gripped his shoulder, Sirius' voice suddenly clear and alarmed.

"Harry! Harry, are you-"

"I'm ok," he said, straightening up and wiping at his mouth. "Just…"

He gestured at himself, trying to point out the blood now beginning to dry on his cheeks and neck.

Sirius seemed to understand. Nodding, he squeezed Harry's shoulder.

"Let's get inside. Just let me find it."

While Sirius patted at his pockets, Harry looked around, taking in his surroundings for the first time.

They were on what appeared to be a grassy hill, the sound of the sea coming from not too far off. The moon was bright on the few trees dotting the area around them, their branches waving lazily in the wind.

There was no house to be seen, no people around.

"Uh, Sirius? You sure this is-"

"Here. Read this."

A note was thrust in front of Harry's eyes. On it, written in Dumbledore's angular script, was the message: "The Order of the Phoenix safe house can be found on the Gwyrrd Tawel Hill, Pembrokeshire, Wales."

"Come on."

The note was pulled away and Harry looked up, not entirely surprised by what he saw.

A cottage shimmered into existence on the top of the hill, a cosy looking two-story house pushing out of nowhere.

Sirius was walking towards the house, waving his wand around and muttering under his breath. A blueish penumbra surrounded the cottage for a few seconds until Sirius rapped the front door sharply with his wand.

"Come on," he repeated, and Harry followed him in.

As they entered, a few candles caught fire in their holders, casting a dim light across the gloomy interior.

It was decorated in much the same way as Grimmauld Place was, although it seemed to be in far better condition. The carpet was not worn quite as thin, there were no cobwebs in sight, and the portrait frames gleamed on the walls.

"We never came here so often," Sirius said, running his fingers along the dust-free wall. "Maybe once a year or so. There was always Preservative Charms around. Only took them down last week."

"Why'd you remove them?"

"Preservation Charms aren't meant for occupied homes. You end up not being able to really change anything. Sounds good, until you want to get into bed and you can't move the blanket or pillows."

Harry nodded, fatigue beginning to catch up with him.

"Go have a shower," Sirius said, jerking his head towards a winding staircase at the end of the entrance hall. "First bedroom on the right, there's an en suite. Just leave your clothes in the room, I'll give them a quick clean."

"Yeah," Harry said, looking down at himself. "They're a bit too bloody."

By the time Harry finished his shower, he was feeling slightly more like a human. True to his word, Sirius had cleaned his clothes, although there still were a few darkish stains near his collar.

The Prophecy orb was still in his pocket. He held it up in the candlelight and stared at it for a few minutes.

'All that for this little thing.'

He found Sirius downstairs in the lounge, sitting on a couch and staring moodily into the fire with a glass of burgundy liquid.

Another full glass was perched on a table next to the couch.

"You've never been in a fight like that," Sirius stated quietly.

Harry shook his head, memories of it threatening to crowd his thoughts.

"It can be really jarring. Sit down, have a drink. We need to talk a bit. You'll only go back to Hogwarts once I get the all-clear, so you might even have a chance to get some shut-eye."

Dropping onto the couch, he grabbed the glass and took a sip.

It burned his throat going down, and he spluttered while it settled into his stomach like a small, comfortable fire.

"Easy there," Sirius said, sounding amused, "Small sips."

He took Sirius' advice, barely letting more than a few drops into his mouth before putting the glass down and leaning back.

"How come we're here? Why not at Headquarters?"

Sirius tapped his fingernail against his glass with a frown.

"Its-things are going to get very complicated, Harry. I don't know what tomorrow's going to bring. I had Dumbledore set this place up, just in case everything goes sideways."

"Headquarters is under the Fidelius too, right? So…"

"Too many people know about it. Harry, it's very likely that the Order's going to split. I guess a lot depends on what happens with the Ministry, but even if they do accept Dumbledore back, I don't see that lasting."

"Sirius. What the hell are you talking about?"

Sirius looked at him for a long moment, the fire casting strange shadows on his face.

Harry took another sip, the brandy beginning to make his mind feel fluffy.

"Look, Dumbledore's broke Grindelwald out of prison and is working with him, right? That's got a lot of people very worried."

At Harry's expression, Sirius sighed again.

"Grindelwald was one of the worst dark wizards of all time, until Voldemort. People like them, throughout history they would pop up. But they never really took more than a village or two. Sometimes a few cities. They'd take control, carve out their little kingdoms, and rule till someone killed them, ok?"

Harry nodded, sipping at his brandy again. It didn't taste quite so bad anymore.

"Grindelwald though, he was going for the world. He was involved with the Germans in that Muggle war, he had control of pretty much the entire wizarding world in Eastern Europe. He was making inroads in America and he had people working for him in Asia and North Africa. He was horrific, Harry. He was brutal, powerful, and utterly ruthless. Now Dumbledore's working with him and a lot of the older crowd remember when Grindelwald was still a threat. They lost friends and family to him."

Sirius paused to take a drink.

"So why's Dumbledore working with him?"

Wiping his mouth, Sirius grinned. "Because he's too damn useful not to. But I'm getting there. So, you've got people like Moody, whose father was captured and tortured by Grindelwald's forces. You've got McGonagall-I don't know who exactly, but she lost people to Grindelwald. You've got a lot of politicians and Wizengamot folk who remember how much Grindelwald took from us. So there's a lot of people furious with Dumbledore, and pretty afraid too."

"So Moody and McGonagall are leaving the order?"

"McGonagall's going to be focusing on keeping Hogwarts safe. We'll get to Moody in a minute."

"But-"

"Just let me explain. You wanted to know why Dumbledore broke Grindelwald out."

He nodded, holding his glass in hands that felt strangely light.

"Dumbledore realized that Voldemort isn't the only problem. The Ministry is...well, it's pretty damn broken, actually."

"Hermione said that it sounds like Dumbledore wants to-to just kill like half the government."

"She's not so wrong. It sounds terrible, and it is, really, but it's needed."

Sirius stood up and began to pace in front of the couch, his hands flying through his hair.

"I told you what my family were all like, right?"

"You said that-" Harry cleared his throat, finding it difficult to meet Sirius' eyes. "You said that they were practically Death Eaters. Your brother became one, and they were proud."

Sirius gave a snorting laugh, reaching out and snagging his glass as he passed the table.

"Yeah. You need to understand something. My parents, they were the type to be Death Eaters. They believed everything Voldemort was saying, all that shit about blood purity. But they were cowards. Didn't want to get their own hands dirty. They were happy enough to laugh about Muggleborns being killed, but they weren't going to go out and kill them themselves. So they just stayed around at home, going to garden parties and spending time with the rest of high society. Most of whom felt the same way."

Sirius drained the rest of his glass and tapped it with his wand, refilling it.

"They all felt the same way. I'm telling you, I grew up with them. Do you have any idea how many of those people were involved in politics?"

Sirius put the glass down and began naming what sounded like family members, raising a finger with each one.

When all his fingers were raised, he stopped.

"You know what dear old Bella and Regulus became," he said. "But everyone else, they were all in respectable positions in business or politics. Two of my uncles and one of my aunts were on the Wizengamot itself. My mum's cousin, Araminta, she tried to push a bill to make Muggle hunting legal. And you know, there were more than a few votes to pass it. The Ministry, the Wizengamot, they're all full of-of people like my family. You know how the Wizengamot works?"

Harry shook his head, feeling more like an idiot than ever before.

"Course not, you're fifteen and haven't grown up with people talking about it all day. Well, new members are voted in by the public. Except, first they have to be suggested by at least three pre-existing members of the Wizengamot. It's stupid as anything, but that's how it is. Oh, and under the right circumstances, it's only the Wizengamot who need to vote for it, not the public. You can bet your broomstick that if someone wants to get their friends in, they can arrange those circumstances easily enough."

"So Dumbledore wants to what? Get rid of all these people?"

"That's what it seems like. And for that-well, he can't do that and fight Voldemort at the same time. Not alone. So he broke Grindelwald out. Grindelwald, he's meant to be one of the most powerful Wizards in the world. A genius. And Dumbledore, well he's obviously got some way of controlling him. Or at least he thinks he does."

Harry took another sip of the brandy before asking: "Do you think he does?"

Sirius scratched the back of his head, his eyes distant.

"I don't think you really control a man like that. Contain him, maybe. Use him, sure. But control, no."

"What's happening with Moody?" Harry asked.

"That's where things start getting complicated. Moody's a real principled man, you've got to know that. He's got these principles he believes in enough to dedicate his life to them."

"Like catching Dark Wizards."

Sirius made an odd movement, somewhere between a nod and a shake of the head.

"That's an outgrowth of it. He believes in the law. He believes in society working, in the people deciding their fate. He wants things to be legitimate and official and democratic."

"Of course," Sirius quickly continued when Harry opened his mouth, "With Voldemort involved and the Ministry being as stupid as they are, he'll work outside the law. But the idea of someone just-just taking over and making decisions themselves, with no oversight, no representatives from the people involved, that really...doesn't work with what he wants."

"So if Dumbledore wants to take over the Ministry and reform it, Moody's out?"

"Not exactly. He's realistic enough to see the issues with the government, and he's pragmatic enough to work with Dumbledore, even if it's something he doesn't like. But with Grindelwald involved...He'd hate it, but he'd stand by while Dumbledore takes over. He won't do that if Grindelwald's with Dumbledore."

Harry digested that for a minute, taking another sip of the brandy. It actually tasted quite nice, now that his head felt like a loosely tethered balloon.

It made sense, he thought. If Moody really didn't like the type of thing Dumbledore wanted to do, and he hated Grindelwald, it would make sense for him to leave the Order. But if the Ministry was siding with Dumbledore, what could Moody do about it? Harry could imagine Snape giving points to Gryffindor easier than he could think of Moody joining Voldemort.

"So what can he even do?" He asked. "If the Ministry's with Dumbledore, and it's Voldemort on the other side, what can Moody do?"

"He can try to pull the Ministry away from Dumbledore," Sirius replied grimly, "to make a third side to this fuck-up, and he could do it. The Ministry will only work with Dumbledore and Grindelwald if they think they don't have another choice. They know they're too short-staffed to fight Dumbledore and Voldemort at the same time. Moody's got contacts in the American and Australian Auror forces. If he can convince them to send people over to help the Ministry, they'd ditch Dumbledore, probably. Plus all of the various mercenaries he's been involved with over the years. The Ministry, they're more interested in getting rid of Voldemort and keeping things the way they are than actually changing anything."

"So where does that leave us?"

"If Moody does convince the Ministry, it'll be a mess. He'd probably be able to pull Hestia and Sturgis out with him. The Ministry will know all about the Order, and everyone in it will be wanted. It'll also mean splitting the fight, dealing with both the Ministry and Voldemort at the same time."

"Sounds like total chaos," he said, stifling a yawn.

"It might be. But we'll have to wait a bit to see what happens. A lot of this also depends on what Dumbledore does. If he can show the Ministry that he's not out to just murder everyone he disagrees with, they might not listen to Moody. The problem with Moody is that he hates Grindelwald too much. Too much personal baggage there for him to think clearly."

"Do you think Moody will convince the Ministry?"

Slowly, Sirius nodded.

"They'll still be fighting Voldemort, right? And Voldemort, he'll have to fight Dumbledore and the Ministry at the same time."

"Exactly. It'll be a total fucking mess. I told you, depending on what happens over the next few days, things are going to get very, very complicated."

Harry tried to put the empty glass on the table but missed. It fell to the carpet where the last few drops spilt out.

"I think it's time for some sleep," Sirius said, standing up, "I'll wake you up when it's time to go back to Hogwarts."

Albus sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose and exhaling deeply.

The rising sun sent beams of light through his office windows, turning Fawkes' plumage into a kaleidoscope of colour and flame.

It had been an extremely long night. After helping deal with the rampaging giant and visiting Azkaban, he'd had a chance to meet with Rufus again before returning to his office.

He was quite pleased with the outcomes of that meeting. Clearing Sirius' name alone would have been worth it, but he'd accomplished more than that.

For the first time in almost a year, Albus found himself looking forward to the Daily Prophet.

Of course, as soon as he'd returned to Hogwarts feeling pleased, the news had started to pour in.

He'd just been meeting with Nymphadora when he'd received Arthur's Patronus. He'd rushed over to the Burrow immediately, but it was too late. The once vibrant and wonderful home had been rendered a charred and ruined wreck.

And there had been no Death Eaters to be found, no one to capture and interrogate.

Voldemort had responded far more ferociously than he'd expected. The giant attack and Azkaban had been bad enough, but they had been almost expected.

The attacks on the Order members and their families, Aurors, and governmental officials had not been.

At least, not so soon.

It was a rather clever tactic, and one Voldemort had successfully used in the past. It made Albus feel rather foolish for assuming that it would not come until later.

It would have been better, he thought, if the victims had all been killed. Instead, Voldemort had taken them, leaving their families and friends to suffer false hope and to terrify themselves with the imagined horrors their loved ones were experiencing.

It was a message to those still on the sidelines, a warning not to fight against him.

And, he suspected, it was more than that.

"There are many rituals he could be using them for," he said, "I think, however, that Inferi is the most likely case."

Gellert raised his head, his eyes aflame.

"I'm sorry," he said, "Do you want my opinion now?"

"Yes," Albus sighed, "I would appreciate it."

"Well, I think that I should have come along."

"I told you, Voldemort would not have come-"

"I am not talking about your damned ministry," Gellert spat, "You went to fight a giant! And to explore your accursed prison! And then to your followers' house! While I am left to interrogate your Ministry drones!"

"We went directly from the Ministry to the giant, and then to Azkaban-"

Gellert thumped his palm onto the table, sending papers flying every which way.

"You expect me to believe that you could not contact me? You could not send your bird?"

"I decided that it was still too early to expose the Ministry to you."

"Fuck your Ministry! Did you break me out of prison to hide me away in a school?! Or did you want me to actually do something?'

"Gellert," he said, pitching his voice low and speaking in a calming tone. "You know that-"

"I know that you have spoken endlessly about what I will do. But I know that you have kept me away from the action. Why did you break me out, Albus?"

"So that you could help me."

"No," Gellert sneered, "So that I could be your bogeyman. You want me to do all the monstrous things you are afraid to do yourself. You want to stain my conscience so that yours can remain clean."

"We have been through this, Gellert."

Gellert sighed, dropping heavily back into his chair.

"You want me to strike terror into the hearts of your enemies," he said, his voice dripping with fatigue. "And I agreed that I would do that. But I have had fifty years of the world passing me by, Albus. Fifty years of being neatly left alone while everything changed. If I am to be free, then I will not sit idly by the wayside. If you want my help, then maybe you should show it. And not only when it is convenient for you."

"I apologize. But from here on out, Gellert, you will be kept occupied. You need not fear boredom."

Muttering what sounded like German curses to himself, Gellert subsided.

"As I was saying earlier. I believe Inferi to be Voldemort's most likely use for the prisoners he has taken."

"They make for wonderful psychological tools," Gellert agreed. "Not to mention an excellent distraction."

"Indeed. By our latest estimates, he took at least twenty prisoners. And that is excluding the Azkaban inmates."

"Are you certain that he recruited them?"

"Unfortunately, there is very little that I am certain of. Severus is currently with him, and until he returns I must mostly work with guesswork."

"There are," he quickly added before Gellert could interject, "Three Death Eaters awaiting trial at the Ministry. I believe we should interrogate them. We also must speak to the management of Gringotts."

"You mentioned a Death Eater you wrote to," Gellert said, "You said that we would use him to send a warning to the rest of them."

The Elder Wand thrummed, awakened by the prospect of violence.

"I agreed to trials," he said. "There is little else the Minister wants from me."

"The Ministry is yours," Gellert wheedled. "Would they truly dare stand against you? It is needed, Albus. The Death Eaters must know the price of your enmity."

"It would give Voldemort a tool," he replied, "He would use it to pull those who have not made up their minds to his side. He would tell them that I would treat them the same."

"They took your people," Gellert whispered, "They will torture them for information before killing them. Then they will turn them into Inferi and send them to attack. They do this, and you are too frightened of the consequences to strike back?"

"Gellert-"

"They assault your followers'," he continued, "and you leave them be. They should fear you, Albus. The thought of you should have them wetting their finely-tailored robes. They kill your people and expect their upstart lord to protect them. Show them who you are, Albus. Let them see what I saw in you."

Albus closed his eyes, focusing on the island of serenity surrounded by his oceans of fury.

It was far more difficult than usual. Nymphadora's tear-stained, sorrowful face swam before his eyes, seamlessly merging with the vision of the Burrow's ruins.

There had been signs of a struggle in Mrs Figgs' house, not to mention the bodies of three of her pets.

Hestia's mother's apartment had been wrecked, and dear Elphias was nowhere to be found.

His rage ran hot, buoyed by Gellert's whispers and the Elder Wand's urgings.

'Gellert wants bloodshed,' he reminded himself, 'that part of him is still very much alive. The Wand wants nothing but to wreak destruction.'

"They mock you," Gellert continued, "They think you powerless, think that they are safe from you. They took those loyal to you, Albus. They took them and will defile them. Can you truly allow such an insult to stand?"

'You gave Lucius a chance. You offered him clemency, stretched out a hand of peace. He would have killed Harry if he only had the opportunity. You offered him peace, and this is how he repays you?'

"If you do not act, Voldemort will use that. He will tell his followers that need not fear reprisals. If you do not make them fear crossing you, the blood of future victims will be on your hands."

'Lucius was entrusted with a Horcrux. He did not know what it was, but he may yet know if any of his fellows were given something as precious.'

The Wand reached a crescendo, tugging on his mind and pushing him to act.

"You want me to be the man you knew, all those years ago. It is only fair that you act like the man I knew."

He opened his eyes.

Gellert was staring at him, his face all but glowing, the aura that Albus had once found so seductive surrounding him.

He extended his hand, letting the Elder Wand fall from his sleeve to land comfortably in his grip.

"Come. If luck is with us, we will find him at his home. It is warded enough that he surely believes it safe. Perhaps it is time that he was disabused of that notion."

Gellert followed him to his feet, a hungry grin stretching his lips.

"I understand where you are coming from," Rufus said in what he hoped was a calming tone. "I really do. But the fact is that we don't have enough people to take on Dumbledore and Grindelwald and fight Voldemort at the same time. Not to mention that a war on two fronts is exponentially more difficult than fighting one enemy at a time."

"You're giving the Ministry to him!" Moody growled, "To him and Grindelwald!"

"I have a deal with him," he said, "he's going to leave the government alone."

"Maybe Albus would do that," Moody quickly replied, "But if he's working with Grindelwald, you can't trust him. Everything he said in the Prophet, everything he's been telling us in the Order, you really think he'll just forget about that?"

"He said-"

"He's working with Grindelwald! Can you really trust a thing he'd say after that?"

"I think-"

"Listen to me," Interrupted Moody, "Listen. Dumbledore, he promised to leave the government to you. But when this fight carries on for a while, people will start seeing it as Dumbledore versus You Know Who. They're not going to look at it as the Ministry, they'll see it as Dumbledore. And when, if, we win, Dumbledore's going to take over. And if he's still with Grindelwald, England's not going to be a very nice place to be."

"It's Dumbledore," Rufus said. "You're treating him like he's a monster. It's Dumbledore."

Moody scowled, the wreckage of his face twisting.

"He's working with Grindelwald," he said in a patient tone. "He broke a monster out of prison, and he seems to trust him. Even the things he's been saying, all his bollocks about cleansing the nation and cleaning the infection. It's the exact same stuff You Know Who says, just aimed at different people."

"Even so-"

"Dumbledore is a good man. But I don't trust anyone to have total control of the country. Because then, the only thing standing in his way is his morals. And with Grindelwald involved, I don't see those remaining for too long."

Moody shook his head, staring at the map of Britain on Rufus' new office wall.

"I despise this government," he said quietly, "and almost everything about it. But at least it lets the people have a say. At least it's not up to the whims of one man."

"Again. You're making good points, and these are ideas that worry me as well. But we still don't have the manpower. Dumbledore got the other European countries to back away, and we simply don't have enough people. It's a choice between fighting Dumbledore or fighting You Know Who, and Dumbledore's the better of the two."

"How much of a choice is that? Dumbledore's already been talking about getting rid of everyone he doesn't like, and I don't think you understand that he's got Grindelwald working with him! Grindelwald, the man with more blood on his hands than You Know Who! HE KILLED TENS OF THOUSANDS HIMSELF!"

"We still don't have the-"

"What if I could get you manpower?"

He shook his head, smiling sadly.

"We'd need a lot of people."

"My contacts in the American Aurors say that they'd be able to send at least a hundred, maybe even two. You'd need to speak to the president, of course, but the same way they intervened in Pakistan and the Congo, they'd help us. They say that the Canadians would probably send as well, and I'm damn sure that we could get the Australians involved too. If you give the cash, I know ten mercenaries between jobs. And I can bring two members from the Order of the Phoenix, so you'd have everything we know about Dumbledore's plans."

After a moment, Rufus realized that his mouth was hanging half-open.

He closed it, giving his head a brisk shake.

"The same way that they intervened in Pakistan and the Congo," he said, "Right. Tell me, how much control do the Pakistani and Congolese currently have over their own government? It's been twenty years since the Congo situation, and they're still run by an American!"

"You need the help, they-"

"We always rejected their help in the past," he interrupted. "Because they don't stop talking about helping us maintain democracy. We know what that means."

"It still is better than the alternatives. Without them, you'll be lucky if you're left with half the government at the end. And you really think Grindelwald will let Dumbledore only kill the guilty? I know how he works. He'll use every death to send a message to those opposing him. It's what he always did. He'll torture them, make the very idea of standing up to him too frightening to think of. You're standing by and giving them free rein."

"I don't want Dumbledore as my enemy," he said. "Particularly not if he is planning on keeping to his part of the deal."

Moody snarled, Rufus' hand instinctively clutching for his wand at the sound.

Moody stood up, his wooden leg clanking as he walked toward the door and spoke without turning around.

"Just think about it. But remember, the longer you take, the more comfortable the people become with Dumbledore leading them. You're giving this country to him."

He paused with his hand on the doorknob and turned to face Rufus, his normal eye alight with fanatic, furious hatred.

When he spoke, his voice was dripping with disgusted contempt.

"Mark my words, you'll change your mind. But by then the blood will already be running in the streets."

"I must say, Lucius, I really was rather impressed with the level of security. I feel certain it would have stopped the average wizard."

"Pity that neither of us are average wizards," Gellert added, leaning against one of the walls and fingering his wand.

Lucius and Narcissa were kneeling in the centre of the ornate Persian carpet, the couches and armchairs having been moved to give Albus and Gellert a clear view of the captives from anywhere in the room.

The two prisoners kept their faces downcast, the splintered shards of their wands lying before them.

Behind them, the fire crackled merrily, returned to its usual colour after Albus had deactivated the Floo.

Staring down at them, Gellert couldn't help but feel the usual excitement, the anticipatory trembling of his heart as that old sensation of power and might coursed through him.

He and Albus had arrived in the nick of time, just as the Malfoys had been about to escape. From what they could tell so far, Lucius had only arrived home a short while previously. Voldemort had obviously kept those stupid enough to follow him busy.

The hastily-packed bags they had been carrying were strewn just outside the lounge, clothes and coins spilling through the fresh holes in their sides.

"I do wonder, though," Albus continued, "Why you felt it necessary to return here? You are a cunning man, Lucius. I feel safe in assuming that you and your lovely wife were escaping to somewhere more secure, but surely you had a method of contacting her? Surely you could have simply asked her to meet you wherever it was you were going?"

Neither of the prisoners answered.

"Lucius. Do not force me to tear the information from you. You will tell me what I want to know. It is your choice what will precipitate that."

"Lucius made it clear that I was not to trust any communication from him," the wife suddenly said, looking up with her pale hair framing her face. "The possibility of the Dark Lord's plan going wrong was too high. Only if it was him, in person, and I had verified that it was truly him, only then would I listen to what he had to say."

"Narcissa"- her husband started, but she silenced him with a glare before turning her attention to Albus.

"We will tell you everything, just spare us. Allow us to take Draco and leave the country, and we will tell you everything we know."

"What are Voldemort's plans?"

Gellert sneered as they both flinched.

His sneer only grew when Lucius hesitated, shivering slightly.

Albus caught his eye and gave a soft nod.

He detached himself from the wall, getting a nice grip around his wand as he slowly walked over to the cringing couple.

With complaints from his knees, he dropped into a squat before them, gently pushing the man's chin up with the tip of his wand.

His eyes were wide, intoxicatingly terrified.

'This. I missed this.'

"Albus says that you are a reasonably good Occlumens," he said, keeping his voice soft and calm. "You know, of course, that even an exceptionally talented Occlumens will not be able to maintain it under torture. I have seen it before, many times. You can see it in their eyes, the moment they break. It's like a candle going out, as they realize that they are going to give in. All their courage and bravery, it vanishes with the last vestiges of their self-image. They realize, you see, that they are nothing. Weak, powerless, and unable to hold it."

"Lucius-"

Quick as an asp, he moved, grabbing the wife by her hair and pulling her head up and back, exposing her throat to the probing end of his wand.

"Stop! Please-"

"What I have learned," he said, overriding her voice with his own, "is that the quickest way to break someone is to hurt the people they care about. You don't want to see your pretty little wife turned into a wailing wreck, do you?"

"Please," Lucius said, pale as snow, "don't-"

"Answer the questions," he snarled. "And there will be no need for it. What are Voldemort's plans?"

"Tell us, Lucius," Albus said. "Just tell us."

"I don't know specifics. None of us do. He's going to turn the prisoners into Inferi, use them to attack Hogsmeade or Diagon. He is unleashing the Dementors into Muggle areas. He is trying to get more werewolves onto his side, but he has given Greyback free reign to attack whoever he wishes, with specific exceptions."

Lucius swallowed thickly, his eyes closed.

"What of the Azkaban inmates?" Albus asked.

"Most of them agreed to serve him. The rest were given to the Dementors and will be turned into Inferi. Please, just-"

"He gave you a diary," Albus said, taking a step closer. "What did he tell you it was?"

"I can't," Lucius whispered, shaking his head, "He'll-"

Albus nodded at him.

Lucius cut himself off, his mouth clanging closed and eyes widening as Gellert waved his wand.

The wife's muscles tensed up, the veins in her throat standing out against her pale skin as she began to shriek, her legs beating out a drumroll against the carpet.

Albus twitched his wand and ropes appeared, snaking their way around her and holding her in place.

Her wordless shrieks reached a crescendo, her hands knocking wildly against the floor.

"STOP IT, PLEASE-"

With a wave of his wand, a Silencing Charm attached itself to Lucius.

"She thinks that she is on fire," he said, raising his voice and ensuring that he could be heard over the screams. "She can feel the flames licking at her, consuming her flesh. Of course, there is no damage being done to her. It is not quite as painful as the Cruciatus, but it can be used for far longer."

He waited for a few minutes, watching as the tears appeared and began to overflow.

"I am going to remove the curse," he said, "and I will give you a chance to answer. If you do not, then I will have to use another tactic."

He jerked his wand in her direction and waited, giving her a chance to realize that her body was unmarred.

As her shrieks died down to sobs, he removed the Silencing Charm.

"What did Voldemort tell you about the diary?"

"That-that I was to guard it with my life. One day, he said, I would send it to Hogwarts on his orders, where it would lead to the Chamber of Secrets being opened. But until then, I was to die rather than lose it."

"And after eleven years of believing him dead, you decided the time was ripe to send it to Hogwarts," Albus said.

Lucius nodded, barely a tinge of his proud nobility remaining.

"Did Voldemort ever give you or anyone else something to guard? Something that he treated with as much care as he did the diary."

Panic shot over Lucius' face for a second, before being blotted out.

"No."

"Liar," Snarled Gellert, waving his wand at the wife again.

She sat up, her face even paler than before, her hands flying up and clawing at her throat.

She let out a coughing sound, her eyes bulging.

"She will be allowed to breathe when you tell us the truth."

"He didn't, I swear, I swear-"

"I swear that your wife will die unless you tell us the truth!"

"I DON'T KNOW!"

"Gellert," Albus said in a worried tone, "she-"

Burning fury engulfed him, his head shooting around to face Albus.

"If you want me to actually do anything," he spat, "then you'll allow me to work!"

He spun around again, waving his wand and letting her fall to the floor gasping.

"I don't-"

"You won't be able to hide it forever," he said, reaching it and stroking the side of Lucius' face.

You know you're going to break and just tell me what I want. Save yourself and your wife the pain, and just tell me now."

"I-I promise-"

"I don't believe you. Understand me, Malfoy. I was breaking men stronger than you when your father was a child. You think Nurmengard robbed me of my skills? It just made me more inventive."

He stood up, striding over the woman. She saw him coming and tried to crawl away, but Albus' ropes kept her from moving more than a meter or two.

"Gellert," whispered Albus, "he may not actually know."

"He does," he said, "I'm sure of it."

He jabbed his wand forward, knocking her to the floor with the air whooshing from her lungs. Before she could move any further, he placed his foot on her chest, pressing his weight down until he could feel her ribs pushing back.

"Please, I don't-"

"You are a liar," he said, "and your wife will suffer as a result."

"Lucius!" She cried, "Just tell him, tell them before-"

He slashed his wand, pushing all of his weight onto his leg and breaking her ribs at the same time as he sliced the fingers off of her left hand.

She erupted into a terrible, harrowing cry, blood squirting from the stumps of her fingers and splattering her husband's face.

"Tell the truth, and I'll heal them. Keep lying and I'll take her hand next. Then the arm."

"LUCIUS!"

"I'LL TELL YOU," Lucius bellowed, "I SWEAR, I'LL TELL YOU, JUST-"

He was waving his wand before Lucius even finished, sending the severed fingers flying over her hand.

Skin formed, cascading up and reconnecting them.

They wouldn't be quite as useful as if they'd never been removed, but it was certainly good enough for the moment.

"I'll fix her ribs after you talk," he promised.

"He gave a cup to Bellatrix," Lucius babbled, "As a reward for her service. She was to place it in her vault in Gringotts. Please, that's all, I swear-"

"And did she?"

"She couldn't, she was wanted by then, but I took it there for her. That's how I know, she wasn't meant to tell anyone, but-"

"Describe the cup," Albus interrupted.

"It-it was gold. With two handles. And there was a-a badger embossed on it."

"And you put it in Bellatrix's vault?'

"Yes. The goblins, I told them to add every security measure they could."

"He would not have placed two in Gringotts," Albus said, "it is already foolish of him to have given two to his followers. Very well, Lucius-"

Gellert slashed his wand through the air, a large bubble of air forming around the prisoners as he spun to face Albus.

"You can't let them go," he hissed, "Voldemort will find them, and he will discover exactly what we were told. He'll know we're searching for them."

"Gellert, I promised Rufus-"

"They took your people. You offered this worm a chance to survive, and he rejected it. Use him, Albus. Use him to send a warning to the rest of them. Let them know who you are. Let them know not to stand against you."

He could see the emotions warring on Albus' face, the desire and longing fighting against his self-control.

In Albus' hand, the Wand that Gellert had once owned gave a twitch.

"You don't get to keep me away from everything and then ignore what I have to say," he said. "If you want my help, then you will actually trust what I have to say. They took your people, Albus. They took your people, and they think you are powerless. Show them why they should fear you."

Very slowly, as if his neck was a rusty hinge, Albus nodded.

Bartholomew Finch hurried through Knockturn Alley, keeping his head down and his hood up.

This was not a good time to be seen in Knockturn. The morning edition of the Prophet had already circulated, spreading its news of You Know Who's return and Dumbledore being accepted back into the Ministry.

There had also been a bunch of preliminary reports of major attacks. It seemed to Bartholomew that You Know Who wasn't waiting for the Ministry and Dumbledore to have a chance to get organized.

All the more reason not be seen in an area like Knockturn.

He'd already had one hag try to pull him off the road. She'd taken him by surprise, grabbing him around the neck while snarling something about the Dark Lord, and only his quick wit and a hasty Stunner had kept her from doing who knows what with him.

It was certainly foolish for him to be there, but Bartholomew had made a tidy living for the last few years selling his own recipe of off-market Euphoria Elixir, and there were very few stores where the ingredients he needed could be bought.

At least, there were very few stores where the ingredients he needed could be bought without a license and without the Ministry being told.

He was almost at Shyverwretch's when it happened.

The alley gave an almighty lurch as an incredibly loud bang sounded, an enormous mass of thick white fog suddenly appearing right before him.

He was thrown back, his wand dropping from his fingers as he landed roughly with his back on the uneven cobblestones.

He dimly heard someone screech, but everything around him seemed to be shaking and twisting.

He lay there until the sky had stopped spinning and then slowly got to his feet, picking up his wand and rubbing his head just below the ear.

As if in a dream, he walked forward, a shocked exclamation dropping from his numb lips as the fog cleared.

Two figures were there, bound with their backs to large wooden poles.

Their clothes had been removed from above the waist, but even though the one on the right was a particularly fine figure of a woman, it was their heads that drew his horrified eyes.

Their faces were shimmering, shifting with terrible speed between normal skin and flesh and the grinning visage of a bleached skull.

Somehow, he knew with absolute certainty that this was no illusion. Somehow, their faces were actually being torn from their bones, just for a second at a time.

They both saw him at the same time and focused on him, their eyes widening and mouths bulging.

He took a step back, gasping and cursing as he recognised them.

He'd never had much to do with them, being part of an entirely different social class as he was, but Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy were not the type of people one forgot.

As if they had planned it and synced their timing together, their mouths distended as one, Narcissa making a keening noise as their lips parted.

It took Bartholomew a few seconds to understand what it was he was seeing, but when he did he fell to his knees, nausea making his gorge rise.

Their tongues had been Transfigured into snakes, living snakes that tried to slither out and that hissed at him.

From his vantage point on the ground, he noticed something else.

Lucius' left arm had been pulled flush against his chest, propped in such a way that it was clearly broken.

His inner arm was facing out, and Bartholomew could clearly see the tattoo that marred the skin, the tattoo that had been so expertly parodied on his head.

Narcissa's body began to shake against its bonds, the snake in her mouth hissing as she wept.

'Today,' Bartholomew thought hysterically, 'was not a good day to do my shopping.'

Chapter Text

Chapter 9

"We made a mistake," Albus said, holding the Elder Wand up and allowing it to fill his entire field of vision. "We should not have done that, Gellert. The actions we took, the brutality we exhibited…many unintended consequences will strike at us. We crossed a line."

"Feh," Gellert spat, waving a hand irreverently, "you gave them nothing less than what they deserved. Leaving your enemies alive would have been foolishness of the highest order."

"Lucius certainly deserved to die. Narcissa may not have. What we did to them, however, was not an execution. It was an atrocity, nothing less."

Barking out a harsh laugh, Gellert rose and began to pace in front of Albus' chair with his hands flexing convulsively.

"Shall I tell you what an atrocity is, Albus? You know nothing of crossing lines, nothing of exhibiting brutality. I do. And I say that we acted appropriately."

"It was wrong," Albus said, lowering the wand and fixing his gaze upon Gellert's face. "And we should not have done it."

"It was necessary! Your enemies must learn to tremble at the very thought of you, they must know that death is preferable to crossing you! How do you plan to achieve that without giving them a symbol? Now, whenever they think to act against you, they will remember the Malfoys and they will falter. What we did was entirely needed."

Albus' eyes closed, a shudder shaking his body.

"I have never wanted to be an object of fear," he whispered. "I only ever wished to sway the people with my ideas, not with force."

His head rocked back suddenly, a burning pain shooting through his cheek.

He was on his feet before his eyes had even opened, his wand aimed at Gellert.

Defiance seemed to radiate from Gellert, a sneer twisting his lips as he rubbed life back into his hand.

"Wake up, Albus," he hissed. "You have decided to drag this country into morality. How did you possibly expect to do that without frightening them? Did you think your talk of love would inspire them to cast aside their greed? Did you think that Voldemort would surrender if he sees that you are willing to fight? Wake up, or you will receive far worse than a slap in the face."

His heart began to calm, the adrenaline that had momentarily flooded him beginning to recede.

"Threats, Gellert? I thought you better than that."

Gellert's eyes blazed with an inner fire, his nostrils flaring as he took a step toward Albus and spoke with a voice as cold as ice.

"Not a threat. A promise. If you are not willing to do whatever is necessary, you are going to lose, Albus. Do you even know what that means? Do you have any idea what it means to watch your work crumble around you? Yes, what you did to the Malfoys was unjust. But you do not have the luxury of relying on justice to take its course. You must do whatever is necessary to ensure that Voldemort falls to you."

The Elder Wand hummed in his hand, vibrating softly at the siren's call of justified violence.

"It is not necessary for me to adopt my enemies' tactics. Torture for the sake of inspiring fear is not-"

Growling something that sounded vaguely like a German insult, Gellert spun around, lashing out and punching the wall hard enough to make the whole shack rattle.

"Why did you break me out? So that you could ignore my advice and treat me like the devil on your shoulder? LISTEN TO ME, GODDAMNIT!"

"I did not free you so that I could become you at your worst-"

"You miserable, self-righteous bastard," Gellert hissed, his voice colder than Albus had ever heard it. "You are perfect in all ways, is that it? You could never become a monster, not the great Albus Dumbledore. That's what I'm for, so that you have someone else to blame for anything immoral that you do!"

"While you," Albus said, the anger he now felt making the wand vibrate harder in his hand, "are so egotistical that if I so much as express any self-doubt you can perceive it as nothing but a personal attack."

"Did you really believe that you would be able to take control of this miserable country of yours and defeat this upstart so-called dark lord without crossing any boundaries? Whatever happened to the man willing to conquer the world by my side?"

The anger draining out of him and leaving only fatigue and the full weight of his age, Albus shook his head and spoke softly.

"He died along with his sister."

"Then what is your plan? How do you possibly think to achieve your goals if you will not do what is necessary?"

Albus dropped back into his chair, the Elder Wand disappearing up his sleeve.

"Originally," Albus said, "I was planning on fighting Voldemort while dealing with the corruption that so infects this country. But with the change of Minister, it may be that I will not have to simply take control."

"Why don't you? You could do a far better job than any of them."

Albus stared at the bare wall, remembering the arguments he'd had with himself so many times over so many decades.

"Men such as us, Gellert, possess far more intelligence and magical skill than the average witch and wizard. But we are still men. We are not gods; we are not infallible or omniscient. And the mistakes we make have far greater consequences."

"But-"

"It would be all too easy," Albus interrupted, "for me to simply rule over them. How many chances was I given to do just that? but if I were to seize that power, there would be nothing to keep me in check, no-one to call me to task if I were to become tyrannical."

"And so you will allow them to mire themselves deeper in their corruption and ruin this land even further."

"The Ministry is aware that I will no longer sit idly by the wayside," he said, forcing himself to be patient. "And they will assist me with Voldemort. If, however, they force me to do so, I will deal with them as well. But I will not continue with such actions as we have already committed. I will not carry out such atrocities."

In a flash, Gellert stepped forward and leaned over, resting his arms on the sides of Albus' chair.

"It was necessary," he spat. "Entirely and utterly needed. No, it was not just, it was not kind. Yes, the wife was a casualty of war. But sometimes, one must focus on the more important things."

"It is, after all," Albus said bitterly, "For the greater good."

Gellert reeled, looking like he was the one to have been slapped.

"Have you forgotten who came up with that phrase in the first place?"

"I was-"

"And tell me," Gellert continued, blotches of colour now standing out on his cheeks. "You've said that if need be, you will destroy the horcrux in the boy yourself. Is that not putting the needs of the many above the needs of an individual?"

"Peace, Gellert," Albus said softly, holding up a hand. "I will do what needs to be done. I am simply afraid of falling into the same trap as you did, once upon a time."

Gellert turned away from him with a snort, his hands balling themselves into fists again.

Still facing the wall, Gellert spoke, sounding like he wanted to scream.

"And so, now that your boring self-recriminations are over, what do you plan?"

"For now, it appears that the Ministry will remain on our side. However, I do not yet know how they will react to what we did to the Malfoys. It is possible, of course, that they will not put out a warrant for our arrests, but with Alastor taking the position that he has…"

Closing his eyes, Albus emptied his mind, banishing all the background noise of his thoughts and allowing himself to focus on the problem at hand.

"If the Ministry does not begin to cause problems," he said, "We will continue as we were. Our first order of business is the destruction of Voldemort's horcruxes."

"And finding them all," Gellert said snidely, "that's rather important as well."

"Of course, it is. I still believe that one of them is hidden somewhere in Hogwarts. Jeremy is, as you know, finding what I believe will be the key to another. And that simply leaves Nagini, the Cup in the Lestrange Vault, and Harry."

"Not to mention dealing with everything he will throw against us in the meanwhile."

Albus nodded, forcing himself to not give in to his fatigue.

"I believe," he said, standing up again. "That we have much to plan. But I meant what I said, Gellert. I will do what I must, but I will not condemn myself in the process."

Bleary-eyed, Harry stretched his hand out to his bedside table, searching for his glasses. After a few seconds of his hand closing on empty air, he rolled over, yawning as he looked around.

For a moment, confusion struck at the unfamiliar surroundings.

Then it all clicked back into place.

'Yeah. This is Sirius' place, the safehouse in Wales.'

Sirius was clearly awake and apparently had a visitor over; Harry could just make out the sounds of conversation from downstairs, too muted to actually hear any specific words.

He spent the next few minutes just lying there, allowing the events of the past day to play out through his mind.

Slowly, he processed it all, his mind waking up and casting off the confusion of sleep.

It was utterly insane how much had happened in such a short time. It seemed like he hadn't been given a chance to just think, from the moment when Dumbledore had arrived at Hogwarts and retaken the school, until Sirius had sat him down and explained about the Order's internal politics.

Of course, everything had been moving, one thing after another. But he'd allowed himself to be tossed around like a piece of driftwood, he'd allowed events to just pull him along.

He'd spent the whole of the previous day reacting to everything that was thrown at him, instead of acting in the first place.

Hell, he'd barely done anything during the fight at the Ministry. The Death Eaters had almost got him, multiple times.

If not for Sirius and Dumbledore, they would have gotten him.

An icy fist clenched at his heart, his stomach twisting.

He sat up, glancing over at the innocuous-looking orb on his bedside table.

It was still glowing softly, a misty blueish-white light emanating from it.

So small, to have been something of such importance. So small, for something that had affected the course of his life from before he was even born.

Voldemort believed the prophecy had power, that the prophecy decided what the future would be.

It didn't matter whether he was right or wrong about that. All that mattered was that Voldemort thought he was right, and so he'd never stop coming after Harry, not as long as they both were alive.

He wouldn't be able to avoid those types of situations in the future, couldn't stay away from fights. Voldemort, Harry knew, wanted him dead.

He couldn't rely on other people always being there to fight for and rescue him.

But what could he do?

Harry knew that he was good at Defence Against the Dark Arts, no question about that, but Voldemort had been a prodigy years before even Harry's parents were born. Voldemort had decades of experience under his belt, and far more knowledge than Harry could possibly hope to learn in a short time.

Especially after seeing Dumbledore and Voldemort duelling, even though he'd only caught glimpses of it, Harry was certain that he wouldn't be able to beat the dark wizard in that type of fight.

And yet…

Nearly a year ago, he'd duelled Voldemort and survived. True, that had been in great part due to the brother-wand effect and not to his prowess, but he'd done more than most people could have.

He could certainly do whatever he could to make sure that if, when, he faced Voldemort again, he'd have the greatest chance of survival.

'Don't forget the Death Eaters. Dumbledore and Voldemort might be in a league of their own, but most of the Death Eaters aren't.'

A strange warmth spread out in his stomach, a mixture of encouragement and determination.

By God, the Death Eaters wouldn't find him easy pickings.

Nor any of the DA either, if he could help it.

A muffled swear filtered in from the floor below, punctuated by a loud thump.

'It's already noon,' Harry realized with a glance at his watch. 'Damn, that was a long sleep. I needed it, but I wonder what's been going on in the meantime?'

A few minutes later, freshly dressed, Harry entered the kitchen to find Sirius and Lupin sitting at the small table with a mug in front of each of them.

Their conversation died as he walked in, both of them turning to face him. Lupin took advantage of the pause to take a sip of his drink, a grimace flashing across his face.

"The sleeper awakens!" Sirius announced, giving one of the empty chairs a few pats. "So, the bed wasn't too hard, was it?"

"Uh, no," Harry said, slightly thrown by Sirius' cheer. It felt frenetic and unnatural, like Sirius was trying to force some light-heartedness into a rough situation.

Lupin and Sirius both looked as if they were attempting to hide distress; Dark, heavy bags hung under Lupin's eyes, the lines on his face more pronounced than ever. The corner of Sirius' mouth was twitching restlessly, a shadow hanging on his face somehow belying the light streaming in through the drapes.

"What happened?" Harry asked, thick dread pooling in his intestines. "Voldemort did something, didn't he?"

Lupin nodded grimly, draining his mug.

"Yeah," Sirius sighed, his shoulders sagging as the frantic energy drained out of him. "He did. We knew he'd react, but we weren't prepared for this."

"What did he do?"

"Muggle attack," Sirius answered, "near Liverpool. Used a giant. The Obliviators are working overtime, but he hit Azkaban too, so lots of Aurors have been diverted to deal with that. And then…"

"Azkaban? But they broke out all the Death Eaters ages ago, didn't they?"

"Death Eaters aren't the only people kept in Azkaban. Plenty of other scum for him to recruit, if that's what he's after. But more than that. The Dementors have abandoned the island. They're on the loose, free to do whatever they want."

It sounded like a nightmare; Dementors, spreading around England and attacking anyone they came across.

God, Muggles wouldn't even be able to see them. They wouldn't know why they were suddenly feeling hopeless and despondent, they wouldn't be able to see the creatures approaching them and lowering their hoods to use their most vile weapon.

He shivered, aware of the bizarre incongruity of sitting in the brightly-decorated kitchen with the sun warming his arms and talking about this.

"What can we do about that? The Order's doing something, right?"

Sirius and Lupin glanced at each other, some communication passing between them.

"The Order's in shambles, right now," Lupin finally said, his voice hoarse. "Harry...the Death Eaters were very busy last night. They went after us."

Harry's blood turned to ice, their faces flashing before his eyes.

'Not the Weasleys. At least not the Weasley, please.'

"Who?"

His question came out in a croak, his throat suddenly dry.

Sirius placed a hand on Harry's shoulder, his face growing softer.

"The Weasleys are all ok," he said, "but they were attacked. They're fine, Harry. The Burrow got burned down, but they all got out in time."

"Tonks' parents aren't," Lupin said. "Ted, her father, he...he's dead. And they kidnapped her mother."

Hot guilt flashed through him, burning self-disgust at his immediate thought of 'At least it wasn't someone I know well.'

'Fuck,' he thought, 'Poor Tonks.'

"Everyone's in shambles," Sirius continued, "They went for Hestia's mum, but she wasn't home. No-one's heard from Mundungus, but we don't know if that means something or not, with him. There's some talk about something that happened in Knockturn Alley, but no-one's sure what it was. And…"

Sirius paused for a moment, giving Harry's shoulder a squeeze.

"Harry," he said, his voice surprisingly gentle, "they took your aunt and uncle too. At least, they've vanished, and Arabella Figg has as well."

Harry sat there, stunned, his eyes locking onto the wallpaper's cheerful dancing pixies.

A part of him felt like laughing gleefully; after all of Vernon's rants about the Wizarding World, Harry was quite sure he'd be more than glad to have some wizards come and rescue him now.

That part was immediately crowded out as shame, guilt, and fear stepped in to wave their flags in Harry's head. He may have hated his aunt and uncle sometimes, but he'd never have wished Voldemort's attention on them.

They'd never exactly treated him well, but they'd taken him in. They were still family, no matter how much he often wished they weren't.

He took a deep breath, closing his eyes and trying, without much success, to carry out Snape's instructions for Occlumency.

'Don't think about it now. You'll have time to deal with this later.'

"Harry? Do you-"

'I'm fine," he said, opening his eyes again. "I'm fine, Sirius."

Lupin looked as if he were about to speak, a concerned expression appearing on his face.

"Ok," Sirius said, giving Harry's shoulder another squeeze, "But you know, you can talk to us about it."

"I know."

Sirius' eyes searched Harry's, intent and deep.

Abruptly, he nodded and spoke again.

"Dumbledore sent us a message. He'll be coming in a few hours, said we're to just sit tight till then. If you want-"

Harry opened his mouth, not exactly sure what he was about to say until the words tripped out.

"Will you practice duelling with me? While we wait?"

Sirius grinned.

Rufus ran his hands through his head, feeling wearier than he had thought possible.

His thoughts kept circling back to the bottle of Ogden's in his desk drawer. It belonged to Fudge, as did most of the geegaws littering the comfortable office, but he didn't think anyone could blame him for taking the edge off of things a bit.

Merlin, what a mess.

He'd never wanted the Ministerial position. He'd have been more than happy to just remain head of the Auror department, to do his part from there to make England a better place.

Nevertheless, it was far better for him to be Minister than Fudge, or for Dumbledore to simply take over.

By God, if he had to do this job, he'd at least make sure that it was done to the best of his abilities.

If only Dumbledore wouldn't be going out of his way to make it as bloody difficult for Rufus as possible.

As soon as word got out of what Dumbledore had done to the Malfoys, the Wizengamot would be up in arms.

Too many of them were friends with the Malfoys, too many of them believed, on some level, in Voldemort's ideology.

They'd be furious and demanding, at the very least, Dumbledore's arrest.

Rufus wasn't sure if they would be wrong to do so.

They couldn't just sit back and allow Dumbledore to do whatever they wanted. Merlin, what was the point of having a government in the first place if they simply bent to the whims of anyone powerful enough?

The whole purpose of the Ministry was for there to be law and order, for there to be a force of stability and civilization in Britain.

If they just ignored it whenever Dumbledore broke the law, what message did that send? That the law only applied to certain individuals?

How different was that to what Voldemort wanted?

Obviously, Dumbledore's intentions were far better than Voldemort's were. Dumbledore, Rufus believed, truly did want to improve life for all. If Dumbledore was given free rein, it would probably lead to a vast betterment of the state of life in Britain.

But if the Ministry didn't apply its laws equally, what the hell was the point of its existence?

"Going around in circles," Rufus muttered, "and I'm getting nowhere. What can I do?"

He wouldn't be able to ignore the Wizengamot, that was for sure. If he tried, they'd just unseat him and name someone else Minister. Whoever it would be, Rufus was quite sure they wouldn't care for Britain in the same way as he did.

He wouldn't be able to ignore them, but maybe, if he was careful and smart enough, he'd be able to prevent them being too stupid.

Dumbledore, Rufus thought, wouldn't bother with attacking the Ministry unless he was provoked.

His main fight was with Voldemort, as indeed the Ministry's should have been as well.

Once Voldemort was dealt with, it would be far easier to work things out with Dumbledore. If Rufus could just show Dumbledore that his intervention wasn't needed in the government, the old wizard would back off.

And if he didn't, then at least the Ministry wouldn't have to worry about fighting him and Voldemort at the same time.

"But if Dumbledore keeps pulling this type of shit, I won't be able to just ignore him."

Rufus shook his head, an ache beginning to form behind his temples.

He wouldn't be able to just ignore Dumbledore, but he might be able to focus the Wizengamot on Voldemort. Moody, Rufus knew, might prove a problem. An excellent Auror though he had been, Moody simply had no head for politics, no ability to put aside his ideals. Especially not with Grindelwald involved.

While Moody might be a problem, Voldemort's pals certainly would be. All those old-fashioned purebloods, the ones who were too cowardly to actually join the Death Eaters but would happily laugh about their actions while giving whatever financial support they could.

They had power and money and enough savvy to understand that Dumbledore was threatening their entire way of life.

The only question was whether they would support the Ministry or Voldemort.

"If I don't react to the Malfoy's murders," he muttered, "they'll go to You Know Who. But if they think that the Ministry cares about them, they might not throw their weight behind him."

If Grindelwald wasn't in the picture, it wouldn't be quite so difficult. Unfortunately, he was very much a part of events.

Somehow, Rufus needed to figure out a way to placate the traditionalist purebloods and call Dumbledore to task, all without pushing too hard against the man and while fighting Voldemort.

"I need someone I can talk this out with. Someone who isn't a part of Dumbledore's Order and who isn't one of those old school wankers. Someone who knows how to wrangle politicians."

Up until then, Robards had been the only one Rufus had been confiding in. Rufus trusted him, and Gareth had a good head on his shoulders, but the man was no politician.

Rufus hadn't wanted to be one, either. Still, no-one could spend ten years as head of the Auror Department without learning how the system worked, and how to manipulate it to their advantage.

An idea occurred to him, a name popping into the forefront of his mind.

He thought about it for a bit, absently drumming his fingers on his desk as he did so.

He'd worked with her a lot, over the years. He'd never really liked her, but her heart was definitely in the right place.

He didn't have to like her. All that mattered was that he could trust her.

Sighing, the firewhisky calling to him with its promise of sweet oblivion and release from responsibility, Rufus summoned a piece of memo paper and began to quill a letter to Amelia.

'So,' Gellert thought, 'This is the famous prophesied child.'

A wry grin pulled at his lips as he gazed upon the boy. He fancied that he could almost see the swirls of fate spinning around his head, the faint aura that promised great importance.

He wouldn't bother arguing with Albus about the Prophecy. Albus was not a Seer, he could not understand as Gellert did. Besides, his old friend could be absurdly stubborn once he'd made up his mind.

The boy was nodding, biting at his lip and looking serious as Albus explained what had happened to his relatives. He didn't look too beaten up by the news.

'Perhaps he has some strength of character. Hopefully he has more of that than he does the ability to duel.'

He and Albus had arrived in time to catch the tail end of the boy facing off with one of the men who were present.

'Black, that's his name. The boy's godfather, Albus said.'

The duel was not entirely disappointing; if Gellert were to judge, he would assume the boy was more talented than the average youth of his age. Oh, he was certainly passable, but he was simply not what Gellert would imagine fate to have chosen to combat this Voldemort. He was certainly not, as many seemed to believe him, worthy of being Albus' apprentice.

Perhaps, with enough time and effort, the boy would prove to have hidden talents; perhaps he had some secret brilliance which would shine through.

A shame, therefore, that the boy would be denied the opportunity. If Albus proved unable to do the deed himself, if his compassion and kindness prevented him from doing what needed to be done…

Well, if that was the case, then Gellert would destroy Voldemort's accidental Horcrux himself.

Did the boy know? Did he even have an inkling of what he was?

Surely he must, regardless of what Albus said. Surely he at least suspected that his connection to Voldemort's mind and his ability to speak the serpent's tongue spoke of something more than just a mysterious magical connection.

Albus was still talking, going on about the information his pet Death Eater had given him.

Gellert wanted to laugh. For a spy, the man knew far less than he should have. Oh, he had confirmed that Voldemort was turning all of his captives into Inferi, but he claimed no knowledge of where and when they would strike.

Gellert hoped it would be soon. He itched to test his skills against this Voldemort, to see if he could succeed in stealing the man's dead army from his control.

It would not stop there. He would fight this pretender dark lord with everything he had, he would show why people still trembled at the sound of his name.

Nurmengard may have stolen decades of practice, but it had not taken his knowledge.

As a gust of wind blew the curtains open, a bird flew past the window. It was a sparrow, if Gellert were to guess. It swept down, the sunlight shimmering off of the crimson patches on its wings.

Gellert's breath caught in his throat, the sheer beauty of it blinding him.

His decades of imprisonment had robbed him of this; he had forgotten, almost, the sheer wonder the world possessed. Locked away in his tower prison, he had drifted into a colourless world where he could no longer marvel at the sights of nature.

But now he was free. Free, and once again marching to war alongside the man he had loved more than any other.

The gust of wind ended, the curtains settling back into place and blocking the window from sight.

Gellert returned to his vigil, his attention focusing back on the boy's scar.

The boy kept darting his eyes toward Gellert, clearly noticing his constant gaze.

At least he was attentive.

Black was currently watching Gellert, with the other man by his side mimicking him. They both seemed slightly wary.

Frankly, it was good to know that they feared him. Allies though they might be, but Gellert had long known fear to be a more honest emotion than admiration.

He ignored them, continuing to stare at the boy, only pausing to occasionally gaze upon Albus.

His friend was pulling the kindly grandfather act again, emotionally connecting with the boy and somehow simultaneously giving him terrible news and reassuring him.

In truth, it was not an act. As much as Albus was a powerful, deadly warrior, he was also a gentle, kind-hearted man.

He was both, and so much more. A conundrum, a mystifying, bedazzling creature who belonged in legend, whose name, like Gellert's, deserved to be emblazoned across the earth. Unlike what had been the case for Gellert until now, Albus would not live forever in notoriety and infamy. No, once he would acknowledgewho and what he truly was, he would finally do what Gellert had dreamed of all those decades before.

He would transform the world into a paradise, and Gellert would be by his side.

Once, Gellert had hoped for Albus to be by his side. Ah, but that was many years ago, before Nurmengard and its endless loneliness had stolen so much from him.

Now, he would be content to play second fiddle to Albus, to take the role of the right-hand wizard.

They would destroy this upstart dark lord, and then...and then Albus would see the truth, would realize that his moral compunctions were nothing beside the corruption and evil that would claim lesser men.

They would destroy this Voldemort, and would then take control of Britain, claiming the right to rule that men such as them deserved.

And after that…

"Alastor will," Albus continued, "unless I am very much mistaken, no longer be fighting alongside us. Unfortunately, I do not believe he will simply ally with the Ministry and battle Voldemort under their auspices."

Black and his companion, the werewolf, exchanged glances. The boy, meanwhile, continued to watch Albus.

"You think he'll push them to fight you?"

Albus bowed his head, his piercing eyes closing momentarily.

"Much as Salazar Slytherin was unable to look past his fear and hatred of muggles, even for the good of Hogwarts, Alastor is unable to forget what happened to his father. Although, I doubt he would appreciate my comparison."

The men both looked at Gellert at that, the werewolf immediately staring back into his mug.

Black, however, met Gellert's eyes.

'Yes. This is a man who will follow us. Imprisoned unjustly, Albus said. Oh, how he must burn for vengeance. Raw, unshaped vengeance, directed at the society which so wronged him. Wonderful. But, if Albus is correct regarding how much he cares for the boy…'

"What will you do about him?" The boy asked.

"I will try to reason with him. And when that fails, I will do everything in my power not to hurt him if he does not force me to do so."

The werewolf swallowed, not raising his eyes to meet Albus. Black, on the other hand, nodded grimly.

"And what of you, Sirius? And you, Remus? Can I trust you? Will you stand with me? Will you help me, not merely to vanquish Voldemort, but to heal the society which birthed him?"

For a moment, neither of them answered him, although, Gellert was pleased to see, neither of them flinched at that foolish name.

"I don't want needless bloodshed, Albus," the werewolf finally said. "But I know that you don't either. You can count on me. God help me, you can count on me."

Gellert almost let a sneer form on his lips.

In war, there was no such thing as needless bloodshed. Even if a death accomplished nothing but to strike fear into one's enemies' hearts, it was not needless.

"And you know that I'd do anything to keep Harry safe," Black said smoothly, giving Albus a cocky grin and tapping the boy in question on the back of the head. "Not to mention, I'm happy to help tear down the shitty system my family helped create. I'm in, Albus. As if it was even a question."

'Ah. How that must stab Albus. He will see what he needs to do as a betrayal of this man. Perhaps I should prepare for him to be removed along with the boy.'

"My dear friends," Albus. "Your loyalty astounds me. Thank you. The world will thank you too, one day. For now, we must begin to plan. I believe that Voldemort-"

Of course, it had to happen right then. A silvery, shapeless ball of mist shot through the wall as if it wasn't there, forming into a glistening doe Patronus.

"He is starting an attack in several minutes," the doe said, speaking in the voice of Albus' pet Death Eater. "A Muggle village, one where several wizarding families live as well. Somewhere in Devon. I will inform you once I know more."

The Patronus hovered in place for a moment before dissipating.

Gellert's heart began to race, his fingers tightening around his wand.

'No leaving me behind this time. Oh yes, it all begins again now. Those… Malfoys, they were just a warm-up. This is it.'

He felt a smile appear on his face, his teeth poking through the crack in his lips.

And in Albus' eyes, he could see his own bloodlust smiling back at him.

Chapter Text

Chapter 10

The instant Severus' Patronus had finished delivering its message, Albus' mind shot into action.

Of course, none of the more traditionalist members of the Wizengamot would be living in this Devon village. They would have their own manor houses, far away from any non-magical residences. Obviously, Voldemort would be using this attack to send a message to those who were not yet on his side. It would be a promise to them, an assurance that if they did not support him, they would continue to experience such attacks regularly.

Just as obviously, this would not be all Voldemort was planning. Heartless and bereft of love though Voldemort had made himself, he knew all too well how to manipulate love. Albus highly doubted that Voldemort would waste all the effort he had forced his followers to undergo in capturing family members of the Order. He certainly wouldn't use those specific corpses on some random village in Devon.

No, those Inferi would be used at another time, or in another location. This attack might merely be serving as a distraction, to keep Albus and Gellert busy while the Inferi made from relatives of Order members were sent to where they would have the greatest emotional impact. While Albus had to respond to this immediate threat, he could not afford to be lulled into a false sense of security regarding everywhere else.

Ironically enough, this attack would allow Albus to gain favour in the eyes of those very people Voldemort was attempting to frighten into submission, as he would arrive to rescue them.

Unless...that, very likely, was part of Voldemort's plan. Doubtless, he had stationed some of his more expendable followers there, perhaps those he had recruited from Azkaban, and was expecting Albus to treat them as he had the Malfoys.

A shudder ran through his mind as he remembered what he had done, his conscience beginning to plague him once more.

What he had done had been far more than just a mistake: with one fell deed, he had threatened to undo all of the moral decisions he had made day after day for the last fifty years.

He had murdered two people, murdered them in a torturous and horrific display of his power.

Was that what he was? Was an action like that something that he, Britain's great champion of freedom and love, should have carried out?

Gellert could talk as much as he desired about how such brutality was morally sound, but Albus would still be conflicted.

What would the world look like, if he were to carry out such atrocities to anyone he felt deserving of them? What if he won and, in the process, destroyed himself, leaving a tyrant to rule?

He would be worse than Voldemort if he gave in to his deeply-buried murderous desires. If he were to allow his darker parts, the Elder Wand's urgings, and Gellert's whispers to sway him, he would be creating a regime of fear and tyranny, made all the worse by it being done in the name of justice.

Nevertheless, he had decided on his path. It was too late now for him to turn back and announce that he would be kind to all. It had been too late since the moment he'd stepped foot in Nurmengard.

And yet, he could not afford to lose himself. The world could not afford for him to become a monster.

An interesting and extremely pressing dilemma, but one that he would have to revisit later, once he had dealt with the immediate threat of Voldemort's Inferi.

As Severus' Patronus began to dissolve into mist, Albus met Gellert's eyes, instantly recognizing the bloodlust there.

He would have to speak with Gellert about this later, once he knew exactly what to say.

"Harry," Albus said, "You are certain that you do wish to return to Hogwarts?"

"Yes," Harry said immediately, "Professor."

"A wise choice. Remus, will you Side-Along Harry?"

At Remus' nod, Albus continued.

"To the Hog's Head, then, please. I'll inform Minerva to expect you there in half an hour. Sirius, if you would, the rest of the Order needs to be told what has happened. It is far too likely that Voldemort is using this attack in Devon as a distraction. I would assume the Weasleys to be at highest risk. If any of the Order wishes to meet with me, tell them I will see them in Grimmauld Place this evening."

Sirius' face fell, no doubt by the news that he was once again being kept away from the action.

Well, it was unavoidable right now. But Sirius needed more. He'd been kept away from the world for far too long, and he needed the chance to do something of value.

"And then," Albus continued, "Gellert and I would appreciate your assistance."

Thankfully, Gellert did not choose that moment to make one of his spiteful comments.

"I will see you again soon," Albus said, locking eyes with Harry. "But for now, we must once again part. Gellert, come."

The Hog's Head had changed since they'd had the initial DA meeting there.

Harry's first thought upon his arrival in the pub, was that something had gone wrong and the apparition had taken hours instead of instants, enough time for the sun to set. It didn't take long, however, for him to realize that the darkness was coming from inside the pub.

The windows were dirty, but light still filtered in through them, held at bay by the enormous shadows pooling around the floor and corners.

"Get out. And don't come back."

Echoing Lupin's movement beside him, Harry spun around, coming face to face with the snarling bartender.

His face was stormy, his eyes aflame.

"Aberforth, I'm meant-"

"McGonagall's outside," the bartender spat. "And you can tell my brother that I want nothing to do with him or any of the people he plays with anymore."

"Abe-"

"Get out. And tell my brother that I haven't forgotten her, even if he has."

"I didn't know he's Dumbledore's brother," Harry said, blinking in the sudden sunlight outside the inn.

Hogsmeade was almost entirely deserted, emptier than Harry had ever seen it. The only person in the street was McGonagall, standing just across the road from the Hog's Head and reading from a ream of parchment. When she saw them stepping out of the pub, she began to walk over to them.

"He's always been happier staying in the background," Lupin said, sounding a bit unnerved. "But I've never heard him sounding like that."

"Who was he talking about? That he remembers?"

With a troubled expression, Lupin shook his head, but he didn't have time to answer before McGonagall reached them. After a quick greeting, Harry said goodbye to Lupin and followed McGonagall toward Hogwarts.

The walk up to the castle was extremely awkward, with neither of them speaking after their initial greetings. Several times, McGonagall opened her mouth before appearing to think better of it and closing it again.

Harry wasted no time in finding Ron and Hermione once he'd stepped into the castle. Luckily, they were both in the Gryffindor common room.

Hermione hugged him tight enough that he felt as if his ribs would break, and Ron clapped him on the shoulder before embracing him too.

"Ron," he said, "the Burrow... I'm sorry, mate."

"Everyone got out," Ron replied with a shrug. "That's the important thing, right?"

"Definitely."

"Harry," Hermione half-whispered. "Where've you been? We saw a bit about the Department of Mysteries in the Prophet, but it didn't explain much, and-"

"I've got a lot to tell you guys," he said. "Bloody hell, more stuff happened over the last day than the whole of the rest of the year."

Dropping into the nearest armchair, Harry began to talk.

The village of Moulton was a lovely place. Dozens of small houses dotted the countryside, with narrow roads leading from them to the town square and from there to the highway. The picturesque church's backyard opened onto the square, its steeple watching over the small community.

It was a perfectly picturesque place, one that would have looked fitting on a postcard.

And it was on fire.

A thick blanket of white smoke coated the village, bringing tears to Albus' eyes. Terrified and agonized shrieks filled the air, meshing with the shouts of brutal incantations to form a hellish orchestra.

A near-imperceptible, thoughtless twitch of his wand formed a bubble of clear air around his head and allowed his vision to pierce the smoke.

He almost wished it hadn't. Though he had chosen to fight, chosen to do what was necessary to end Voldemort's attempted seizure of power, he could never rest easy while gazing upon a scene such as this one.

Huge, roaring flames billowed out of the church's ruined stained-glass windows and from many of the thatched roofs.

And the Death Eaters were attacking, keeping the few wizards and witches occupied while the Inferi went after the muggles.

Four members of the village's wizarding populace stood in a line with their backs to the church, sweat coating their foreheads as their wands flashed. Tears streamed down their faces, at least, all the faces that Albus could see clearly enough to make out. Doubtless, the source of their sorrow was the three bodies dotting the greying grass between them and the Death Eaters. At least five Death Eaters that Albus could see at first glance were attacking, seeming to be enjoying themselves as they fought the wizards. In fact, they appeared to be toying with their prey.

A horrible scream sounded, pulling Albus' attention to the town square. Two dozen Inferi were shambling toward the square, grave dirt and bits of skin sloughing off of some of the less fresh creatures. They were being directed by two Death Eaters, the lame leg and set of the one's shoulders clearly marking him as Thaddeus Nott.

Thaddeus' laugh still rang clear when Albus and Gellert appeared, an incongruous noise of joy in this horrific scene.

A large group of muggles had gathered in the square to make their stand against the Inferi.

More likely than a chosen battlefield, they had probably fled mindlessly from the walking dead and found themselves boxed in. One of them had climbed the rusty fountain, a milk-faced woman with a bundle of blankets clutched tight to her chest. At the front of the Muggle group, an elderly man was struggling to do something to what appeared to be a rifle.

In confirmation of his theory about Voldemort's plans for the kidnapped Order family members, none of the Inferi had been people Albus knew, as far as he could tell.

He shouldn't have felt happy about that, but he did.

He took the entire scene in instantly, trails of thought blazing through his mind and creating a plan of action before the wind of his passage could abate.

He would deal with the Death Eaters. Though Gellert might be careless toward the Muggles in his frenzy to attack the Inferi, if he were to leave his friend to handle the Death Eaters, Albus was certain none of them would survive.

If Albus wished for Scrimgeour and the Ministry to deal with him in good faith, he had to show them that he would not simply execute Death Eaters out of hand.

Besides, Gellert had been known for his use of Inferi, twisting some of the necromantic arts down paths heretofore untreated. It would be worthwhile for Gellert to be handed the undead if only to ascertain what of his prodigious skill still remained.

The muted, near-soundless crack of Albus and Gellert's Apparition still hung in the air when the towering steeple let off a terribly harsh ripping noise. Boiling hot metal screamed in protest as the beautiful spire tore away from the church, with flames engulfing it before it could even reach the ground.

The earth shook as it landed, shrapnel howling in every which way.

Its crash galvanized him into action.

"The Inferi are mine," Gellert snarled, his wand beginning to move through a pattern that Albus could not even recognize. "You take the scum, but the dead are mine!"

"As they have ever been," Albus replied. "And I would not dare suggest otherwise. And now…here is your chance, old friend."

Without another word, Albus left his companion and swept into the fray.

The first thing Albus did, before he'd even completed a full step forward, was to cast an Anti-Apparition Charm on the Death Eaters. As he'd thought, none of them showed the slightest reaction as his binding fell over them, too engrossed in their combat to even notice as Apparition was denied to them.

As he drew closer, the face of one of the fallen Moultonians swam into clarity. It was his old ally on the Wizengamot, a woman he had called a friend even long after she'd forced him to stop referring to her as Professor. It was Griselda Marchbanks, and she was undeniably dead.

Doubtless, it was her presence in this place that had led Voldemort to attack here. She was one of the few members of the Wizengamot who would never yield to Voldemort, even if she believed Albus to be as mad as the Ministry had made him out to be.

She had been blessed with an iron will, and yet had been kind and thoughtful and caring and now she was dead because these spoiled children had opened themselves to Voldemort's poisonous hatred.

Albus' foot landed, furious grief unleashing from some hidden portion of his mind as his wand shot out and twisted through the air in a circular pattern.

Were it not for the fact that he had bound himself, over and over along the endless decades, in the unrelenting chains of bitter morality, he would bring such ruin to these vermin that their fates would be whispered about for decades to come.

He would inspire such terror that none would dare oppose him, he would utterly destroy the spirits of those who hid in the darkness and raged against the light.

That would be easy. All it would require would be for him to simply be willing to cast aside the frayed chains of the ethics he'd chosen when he hadn't been gripped with such fury.

It would be easy, but it would not be right. For the barest fraction of an instant, he felt a fleeting flash of disappointment, a terrible longing to just abandon his morals.

The wand creaked under his grip as he gestured with it. None of the Death Eaters had even noticed his presence, although one of the defending wizards seemed to have; sharp relief appeared on his face as Albus drew closer, tears glimmering in the corners of his eye.

His mouth opened, framing Albus' name-

Albus' spell barrelled toward the Death Eaters, his will made reality in a thunderous roar, an invisible force recognizable only by the way the smoke veered around it and the dust was kicked up by its passing.

His work smashed through them, knocking them aside like a set of bowling pins. Four of the five were thrown to the ground, one of them landing with his arm clearly broken.

The fifth managed to keep his balance, but barely. He was spun around, his silver mask crumpling into a ball as it flew from his face. Rookwood began to raise his wand, fear twisting his features.

It almost hurt, the realization that Albus was extremely satisfied to see the terror he had inspired.

Before Rookwood could do more than take aim, Albus' spell came rushing back. Rookwood shrieked like a wounded animal and dropped; the crack of his breaking spine far louder than it had any right to be.

The spell smashed its way back over the other Death Eaters, tearing their masks away and crushing their faces into the ground. Teeth were tugged from mouths and noses and jaws broken, blood splattering across the ash and dust that was beginning to settle down from the passage of the wall of wind.

But Albus was not done. Their masks began to elongate, the silver seeming to drip and melt as they stretched out and tore like dry parchment, each of them forming into a pair of manacles. The makeshift handcuffs hovered in mid-air for a moment, before responding to Albus' jerk of his wand and flying at the downed Death Eaters to attach themselves to their wrists. He stabbed his wand in their direction as those who still could began to struggle. A blindingly bright light appeared, and when it had vanished, they were Stunned.

Silence reigned on this corner of the village. The innocent wizards and witches who, mere moments before had been fighting for their lives, lowered their wands, gratitude and awed shock fighting for control of their expressions.

Less than a minute had passed since Albus' arrival.

The wall of wind he had conjured towered above him, awaiting instructions. Albus gave his wand a twist, sending jets of air hurtling out in a circle from it and beginning the process of banishing the smoke. As he did so, he gestured toward the fires dotting the village, the flames slowly beginning to diminish and pull in on themselves.

"Dumbledore...you...you came," one of the wizards started, his voice sounding like it would dissolve into tears at any moment. "You came!'

"Did you truly think I would not?"

The group shuffled their feet, one of them muttering something beyond the edge of hearing.

A witch detached from the group, the sunlight throwing her face into sharp relief. A pang shot through Albus' heart at the pain in Griselda's granddaughter's eyes. She ignored the rest of them and walked over to Griselda's body, where she dropped to her knees and began to sob.

And then a shout from the town square reminded Albus that though he had dealt with most of the Death Eaters, the fight was not yet done.

Gellert, it seemed, had not been entirely confident that he could seize control of the Inferi in time to save the muggles. A thick wall of flame stood in place, a strong border between the Muggles and the Inferi.

Between the Muggles and where the Inferi had been, at least.

One of the Death Eaters lay in the ground in a bloody mess, his intestines spooling out through the gaping hole of his belly. His head lay several feet from his neck, his eyes empty sockets. Of his partner, there was no sight.

It took him a few moments to find Gellert, hidden as he was in the shadow of one of the few remaining houses. When Albus did spot him, his heart skipped a beat, that ghost of a smile returning to his face.

A stream of sunlight shone directly onto Gellert's head, all but granting the golden sheen of his youth. His eyes blazed with glory, that arrogant power that had so attracted Albus emanating in an almost physical wave.

His wand was twitching like a conductor's baton, guiding the Inferi. Twenty of the living corpses still remained, and they looked different to how they had been. It was subtle, subtle enough that one who could not see as Albus did wouldn't notice it, but it was there. They seemed more...alive, their limbs moving naturally, with none of the jerking, broken clockwork feeling of before.

They stood, huddling together in a tight clump just a few feet from Gellert, giving off the appearance of soldiers awaiting orders.

Their hands and mouths were covered in gore, the bloody remnants of the Death Eaters who had been guiding them before Gellert had arrived.

Thaddeus, however, still lived, although his right leg ended in a bleeding nub. He was kneeling in front of Gellert, his blank face at sharp contrast with the adoring look in his eyes.

As Albus watched, Gellert said something to the man and Thaddeus rose, limping over to the Inferi. He showed no signs of pain as the stump of his leg jammed into the floor with every step.

"Summon the Aurors," Albus said, not turning away from the unfolding scene before him. "And keep watch of the prisoners, although they pose no greater threat than a flobberworm, as they are. I am afraid that I must leave."

"But-"

Thaddeus held his hands out to the Inferi who eagerly reached out and touched his palm.

No, not touched. They were taking objects from his hands, objects too small for Albus to clearly make out.

With a flash of insight, Albus realized exactly what Gellert was doing.

"The Aurors will not waste time once they know what has happened here," he said, "I will ensure the muggles are taken care of before I leave. I am truly sorry for what has happened here today. I hope, at least, the wishing well survived. If I recall correctly, it had the finest collection of graffiti in all of Devon."

The Inferi were crowding around each other in small groups now, their hands joining in the middle of the circles they had formed.

Albus twisted into Apparition, certain as he did so that it would be too late to stop Gellert's plan if he truly wanted to.

He was correct. He appeared silently beside Gellert, but by then the Portkeys had already activated.

"Where have they gone?"

"Not a word of congratulations? As you well know, most people believe it impossible to seize Inferi from another's control."

Gellert chuckled, tossing his head back so proudly that Albus felt his heart shudder.

"There will be time to stoke your ego later. Where did you send them, Gellert?"

Gellert's humour vanished in an instant, his eyes burning, not with power now, but with fury.

"I sent them back where they came from. If your Dark Lord couldn't be bothered with obliviating his lieutenant," he huffed at this before continuing, as if disappointed that Thaddeus hadn't put up more of a fight. "He obviously couldn't be too bothered about my discovering his location."

"And you did not think that, perhaps, it would be worth consulting with me?"

"You were busy. And I thought I would prevent you from having to struggle through another one of those moral quandaries you seem so fond of."

"I appreciate your thoughtfulness," Albus said, "but where, precisely, did you send them?"

"That fool's home. Your Dark Lord apparently is enjoying his hospitality. It was up to me, therefore, to provide him with entertainment."

Before Albus' mouth had finished framing his next words, Gellert waved a hand and continued. "If I can trust anything that I found in that worthless soup he calls his mind, there are no innocents at that fool's manor. Only his eldest son, who, he was happy to recall, wears Voldemort's brand proudly. No collateral damage, Albus. Besides, it's not like a paltry few Inferi should pose them any threat. There's no need for you to sully your perfect composition with anger."

"I am not angry in the slightest. I would merely prefer-"

"For me to consult with you in the future, yes, yes. Jawohl, Kommandant. But shouldn't we be focusing on the poor Muggles right now? And didn't you promise to let your Animagus follower join us?"

Albus sighed, breathing deeply and banishing his pique. There would be no arguing with Gellert now, not when he was in this sort of mood.

"You are, of course, as correct as ever. It appears we will merely be meeting with Sirius for a debriefing. But come, we can at least save the Obliviators the trouble. And I'm sure it would take the two of us minutes to set this village looking like nothing untoward occurred here."

"How absolutely thrilling," Gellert said brightly. "Why, I could think of no better use for our talents!"

Albus sighed again, the wand vibrating ever so gently in his palm.

"Wow," Ron muttered, seeming at a loss for words. "Wow."

Hermione's eyes were distant, a look Harry knew far too well.

"Yeah. It's...I don't even know. It's crazy."

"Dumbledore's really off his rocker, isn't he?" Ron said, a touch of admiration in his voice.

"Didn't you say the same thing in our first year?"

"Didn't realize how right I was. Bloody fucking hell. What are we going to do?"

Harry looked around, eyeing the rest of the common room. No-one was close enough to have overheard, not with him, Ron, and Hermione having made a point to keep their voices down.

"I've been thinking," Harry said, glancing at Hermione again. He fancied he could nearly hear the wheels turning in her head. "About the DA. We need to make sure that everyone can actually fight."

"Wasn't that what we were doing?"

He shook his head and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

"We need to step up our game, Ron. The Death Eaters aren't playing around-"

"We never thought they were."

"I know, but it's...Sirius is right. The bristles are really coming off the broom now. You can feel it, how tense everyone is. Now that we're not hiding from Umbridge, I think we should have a meeting every night. We need to train as hard as we can. Sirius and Lupin both said they'd be willing to give us some pointers, and we could probably ask Flitwick, wasn't he a duelling champion or something?"

Ron shut his gaping mouth with a clang. "Every night? You think they'll all come? Harry, we've got quidditch training, we'll have homework-it's OWL year- do you really-"

"None of that matters! C'mon, Ron, none of that stuff is as important as learning how to actually stand up to Death Eaters! It's not going to quieten down; it'll just get worse! And if we're with Dumbledore, we might have to fight the Ministry too! At least for us, for the three of us and-and Ginny-we can meet every night, even if the others aren't willing to!"

He was burning up, feverish, terrible intensity pounding against his chest. He couldn't remember feeling like this except when he'd thought Sirius had been the one to betray his parents. When he blinked, he could see the Department of Mysteries again, he could feel the fear as he'd stood there unable to even properly defend himself. He wouldn't be that helpless again, and he'd be fucked if he let his friends go forward without doing everything they could to fight back.

Something of his obsessed need must have shown; Ron had leaned back in his chair, his eyes wide.

"Damnit, Ron, they burned down the Burrow! They could have killed your parents! They would have if they could have! This isn't a fucking gobstones match! They will kill us if we let them!"

Slowly, his face hardening and making him look for a moment like the man he would one day become, Ron nodded.

"Hermione? Hello, are you there?"

Hermione shook herself from her trance and looked around, her eyes moving skittishly.

She bit her lip, and in a soft, hesitant voice, asked: "Do you think-maybe Dumbledore has…"

"Has what?"

"Lost it," she said, looking at Ron. "Gone a bit, well, crazy."

"I don't think-"

"Harry, he broke Grindelwald out of prison. That's like-imagine if you put V-Voldemort in Azkaban, and broke him out in fifty years. It's worse, because-"

"I don't believe this," Harry hissed. Well, it was that or shouting, and half the common-room was already staring at them. "I don't believe this. You've always been the one to say we've got to trust Snape because Dumbledore-"

"That's not the same, and you know it. Harry, just-"

"No!"

He was on his feet in an instant. The shout had escaped him, and everyone was staring at him but he couldn't care less. The fact that now everyone could hear what he was saying didn't even occur to him.

"No, you've always said that we need to trust Dumbledore, you had no qualms about listening to him when it came to leaving me in the dark all summer, both of you-"

"I didn't say anything," Ron muttered, slouching down in his chair.

"And now that he's actually being open with me, now that we can actually do something, you're getting cold feet!"

"The way you said it, he's ready to kill anyone who opposes him," Hermione cried. "That's not the Dumbledore we've always known! Harry, can't you see that what he's talking about is wrong?"

"Yeah? Well, it sounds pretty damn right to me!"

Hermione shook her head, tears glistening on her eyelashes.

"Right now," he said, "the Ministry's not going against him, so it's him or Voldemort. And if Sirius is right and they do try to fight him, I know who I'll trust between Dumbledore and the Ministry."

He held his hand up to her, the pale scars Umbridge had put there standing out against the rest of his skin.

"Harry-I just-I don't know. I don't know what's going on anymore. Nothing makes sense."

He dropped back into the chair, the plaintive way she'd spoken diffusing his sudden anger better, he thought, than even Occlumency could have been able to.

"Are you with me, Hermione? Whether it makes sense or not, are you with me?"

Her lips still shook, her eyes landing everywhere but on him.

The whole common room seemed to be holding their breath, as Hermione made up her mind.

Finally, she nodded.

"Of course I am," she said, and met his eyes.

Gellert tapped his feet in perfect tune with the jaunty tune he was humming, his hands slapping his knees every so often.

It made it harder for Albus to think, but, he thought, that was a small price to pay to see Gellert in a good mood. Especially since, as far as Severus had been able to tell, Gellert's rash action with the Inferi had cost no lives. Worthwhile though it might have been to remove Death Eaters from the picture, Albus had made Scrimgeour a promise, and he would not break it as long as Scrimgeour kept up his side of the bargain.

Of course, the Inferi had torn Thaddeus' partner apart. He'd been identified as one Nolan Lacroix, a French wizard who had never been known as a supporter of Voldemort, nor had any of his family. In fact, by his age alone, he would not have been old enough to fight during Voldemort's last rise.

Worrisome, that. If Voldemort had been recruiting in France, likely he had not left it there. His followers had connections in many countries, but last time Voldemort had avoided inciting the enmity of the other European powers.

Perhaps he viewed Albus' release of Gellert as an invitation to step on the international community's toes.

"When is he coming? This waiting is becoming rather tiresome."

"You know as well as I that he should be here any moment," Albus said. "in the meantime, you could make use of the library. The Black family library is considered one of the best collections of Dark Magic on this island."

Gellert's tongue clicked against his teeth as he rose, the sound from his knees matching that from his mouth.

"When I was still in school, I was writing papers more advanced than anything they have."

Gellert grumbled, looking around with distaste. From down the hall, they could hear Sirius' mother's disgruntled muttering, as they had for the last fifteen minutes.

It was a rather impressive piece of magic that kept them from removing her portrait, but Albus was quite sure that if she didn't hold her tongue soon, Gellert would tear it straight from the wall.

If he didn't have Sirius' loyalty already, doing that would be a sure way of achieving it.

True to his word, he and Gellert had made short work of Moulton. They'd had time to Obliviate the Muggles and repair the damage to the village before the Ministry had arrived.

Then, they'd met up with Sirius in the new safehouse in Pembrokeshire. Happily, Sirius held no ill will toward them for not leaving him a piece of the action. He seemed disappointed, but not upset. He couldn't be upset with them, in truth. They'd finished up at Moulton before Sirius had even managed to meet every member of the Order. They'd finished up with enough time to have lunch and walk along the cliffside before Sirius returned.

And now they were here, waiting for Kingsley in Grimmauld Place.

It had certainly been a productive day. The residents of Moulton might not be the most influential in the British Wizarding World, but their opinion would still make a difference. Even if they felt angry about Albus and Gellert arriving too late to protect poor Griselda and their other fallen, they would still remember who it was that had come to save them from Death Eaters. More importantly, they had seen Gellert Grindelwald defending Muggles from dark wizards.

Yes, it had been a productive day.

If Albus was right about why Kingsley had felt the need to urgently meet with Albus, then hopefully they would have some busy, productive times ahead of them.

Just as Gellert was beginning to say something else, doubtless some complaint about his boredom, the front door opened.

Kingsley's footsteps preceded him down the hall.

"Please," Albus said quietly, "Gellert, please try to be civil."

Gellert rolled his eyes.

A moment later, Kingsley entered the room.

He hesitated at the doorway for a moment, his attention on Gellert.

Then he walked in, moving with none of his usual calm grace.

"Good evening," Gellert called.

Kingsley nodded to him as he took his seat, his lips pursed.

"Can I talk to you alone, Albus?" He asked, his gaze flickering to Gellert before returning to Albus' eyes.

"What's the matter? Don't you trust me?"

"Of course," Albus replied. "Gellert, if you will step outside for a moment."

For a moment, Albus was sure his friend would argue.

He didn't, instead standing again and striding over to the door.

"Maybe I will find something of interest in that library after all."

Albus ignored him, just as Kingsley did.

"Jeremy gave me this," Kingsley said, and passed Albus a small folded note he'd pulled from one of his pockets. "I didn't read it; in case you're wondering."

"I would never accuse you of spying," Albus said softly. "Thank you."

Dumbledore, it said. Found Dennis Bishop. He's in Sunny Acres, a retirement home in London. He's got advanced dementia, so good luck getting any information out of him.

The girl moved to America. I don't know anything else yet.

J

Albus' lips tugged themselves into a smile. It would very likely lead nowhere, but a lead was still a lead.

For a while Kingsley said nothing, only sat there and stared at his clasped hands.

Albus did not break the silence. There was clearly something on Kingsley's mind, and it was better to give him the chance to work out what it was he wanted to say.

Not to mention that letting one stew in their juices was a tactic Albus had found particularly effective.

"Why do you trust him?" Kingsley eventually asked, still staring fixedly ahead of him, as he had since Albus had taken Jeremy's note.

"I have told you that you do not need to trust him. I only ask that you trust me."

"That's a lot to ask right now," Kingsley said, raising his head. "Albus, how can I trust you when you're working with a man responsible for more death than You Know Who? How can I trust you when you sound nothing like the man I've known and respected for years?"

Albus considered the question carefully, giving it the thought it deserved.

It was possible that the Elder Wand had manipulated him more subtly then he had thought, using his old dreams and repressed rage to twist him. It was possible that spending time with Gellert was returning him to the reckless, careless, irresponsible mindset of his youth. It was possible that he had truly lost his mind, as the Ministry had claimed, and was acting on insane urges.

There were many possibilities, but Albus thought none of them likely.

"Have I truly changed? Am I not simply taking a more active role in ensuring the future I have always dreamt of?"

Kingsley ran a trembling hand over his scalp, his earrings jingling with the motion.

"I don't know. Albus, I just don't know. The route you're taking-you'd be asking me to fight Aurors. I didn't sign on to be a part of a revolution."

"No. You signed on to help me eradicate Voldemort and all he stands for. And that, Kingsley, is precisely what I plan to do."

"Is it? Is that all you want to do? Is it really?"

"It is. I assure you-"

"But that's exactly what I'm saying," Kingsley interrupted, "I don't know if I can trust you!"

"By definition, I cannot tell you anything to change your mind."

Kingsley looked dismayed.

"I just-I need to think, Albus. You're the best man I've ever known, and you know how many times I've trusted you with my life. But this-isn't you, Albus."

Kingsley's slow, sad statement broke Albus' heart.

But what was an old man's heart worth when weighed against the lives of thousands? What did it matter if history branded Albus a monster, so long as he saved them all from Voldemort and the system that had birthed him?

"Maybe you never knew me as well as you believed."

"Maybe not," Kingsley murmured, shaking his head. "Maybe not."

"I respect and admire you, my friend," Albus said, feeling tired beyond reason, Kingsley's expression sapping the very life from his bones. "And I trust that you will do the right thing. You have the right to follow your conscience. I hope you truly make use of it."

Kingsley stood up and stretched out a hand. After a moment, Albus shook it.

"I won't fight you, no matter what," Kingsley said. "But I don't know if I can stand beside you."

"I understand," Albus said, and he did. He had caught his followers, his friends and loved ones, in a terrible vice, forced them to make an impossible choice. "Try and calm Alastor down, please."

Kingsley gave an odd, jerking nod, and walked out of the room.

With tears in his eyes, Albus watched him go.

He was still standing there and looking at the door when Gellert walked into the room.

"I'm sorry," he said, his frail, veiny hand falling onto Albus' shoulder. "It hurts. I know it does. But you're doing the right thing."

The terrible burden of the horrific choices he was faced with hovered over him, a dark wave about to crash.

His composure wavered, his vision blurring for a moment.

Gellert seized him in a tight embrace, his brittle chest fluttering with every breath against Albus in a savage mockery of their time together, all those decades in the past.

"You are making the right choice. Voldemort must be destroyed, and everyone who brought him to power must fall along with him."

"I know."

Chapter Text

Chapter 11

With a name like "Sunny Acres," Albus was expecting the retirement home to be a pleasant place for one to spend the sunset of their life.

His mind had conjured up the image of a palatial building surrounded by rolling lawns, with copses of oak trees and birds flitting from one feeder to another. Perhaps there would be butterflies, their gossamer wings making the air dance. There would be streams running through the gardens, with little ivy-trellised bridges crossing them.

Once again, he was proven entirely wrong. Sunny Acres was a large squat building, its peeling paint a horrifying urine-yellow. There was a small garden, but it looked more suitable for an ant adventure than for an elderly person to relax and commune with nature.

He sighed, glancing at Gellert for a moment, all but certain that his friend would not miss the opportunity to point out how muggles clearly need the hands of Wizards to guide them.

Gellert said nothing. He was staring at the building with a slight frown, and he appeared to be calm.

Albus, however, could see the storm raging beneath the surface.

They'd had another argument that morning, precipitated by the previous evening's meeting with Kingsley. The Ministry, Gellert claimed, was certain to declare Albus an enemy at any moment. If he wanted to win, he would need to attack before the Ministry had the chance.

There was undoubtedly some truth to his claims. It seemed very likely that the Ministry would break away from him, in truth as well as ideology.

And yet, Albus was reluctant to act against them. It would be impossible to ensure the safety of innocents in such a confrontation. While he was willing, perhaps, to kill Death Eaters out of hand, he would not be so flippant toward Aurors, who, though misguided, wished to make Britain safer.

He could not be flippant toward them, not if he wished to tell himself that he was still the moral man he'd been for so long.

Well, he had set his mind and would not be changing his opinion, regardless of how much Gellert wheedled. Fighting the Ministry, unless they put him in a position where he had no other choice, would be crossing a line.

'As if you haven't crossed so many already.'

His left hand stroked his beard absently, his right wrapped around the wand in his pocket, his eyes still locked on the building before him.

Yes, he had crossed lines. Freeing Gellert, attacking the Malfoys, using fear to influence the government: he had crossed many lines in a very short period. Nevertheless, with the exception of what he had done to the Malfoys, he did not truly regret anything he had done.

He could not. If he allowed his guilt and morals to bog him down, he would never succeed in vanquishing Voldemort and everything would have been for nought.

Even if he did destroy Voldemort, unless he changed the fabric of the Wizarding World, there'd be a new Voldemort in just a paltry few decades.

No, the Wizarding World needed to be reformed. Regardless, Voldemort needed to be destroyed before any of Albus' hopes could be realized.

And thus, Albus was here, standing before a decrepit old age home. He was, in fact, grasping at straws in an attempt to push off having to invade Gringotts. That certainly was not going to be an enjoyable experience.

As if he were hearing Albus' thoughts, Gellert chose that moment to speak.

"Do you really believe that we're going to find something of value here?"

"As I have already explained, I believe the cave where he tormented those poor Muggles would hold great significance for Voldemort. As far as I can tell, this was the first time he truly demonstrated his superiority over them."

"You said that he had already been terrorising them in his orphanage. He murdered that boy's rabbit, did he not? Positively diabolical of him."

"I'm glad you were paying attention," Albus said, "but you are forgetting something rather important. While at the orphanage, he was not truly in control. He may have exhibited his abilities, but he was still under the thumb of Muggles. Near as I can tell, the first time he had anyone entirely in his power was the cave."

"Yes, but-"

"Besides, do you really think, for a moment, that he would hide a piece of his soul in the place he so desperately hated and wished to escape? No, the cave is a far more likely location."

"You're desperate," Gellert said bluntly, "I tell you; we capture one of his most trusted, that's how we'll find another. Didn't we already find one that way?"

"Indeed, we did, and you agreed with me that it would be best to leave Gringotts alone for the moment."

A car honked at them as it drove past, the passenger's shout lost in the wind.

From the tone, however, it seemed humorous. Perhaps they had actually appreciated Albus' choice of clothing. He and Gellert were once again wearing their Muggle outfits: his suit was velvety silver and seemed to change colour in the sun, while Gellert's was a frankly boring dark purple.

It really was a terrible shame that people were such conformists when it came to their clothing.

"Of Voldemort's most trusted followers," Albus said, "only Bellatrix still lives. We already know that she was entrusted with a Horcrux, just as Lucius Malfoy was. Severus has confirmed what I already suspected; these were the most trusted Death Eaters Voldemorthad since his rise to power all those years ago. Perhaps Barty Crouch Junior could be listed among them, but he too has passed beyond our reach. Besides, I highly doubt Voldemort would have trusted more than two of his Horcruxes to his followers. Even two is two more than I would have suspected."

"You do realize that the dead are not beyond our grasp, don't you?"

"Of course, I do," Albus replied with a nod. "And we may soon need to summon the spirit of Evan Rosier. But there are only two Horcruxes whose locations are unknown: the one which I believe to be in Hogwarts, and the one which I believe we will find shortly."

"Well then, shall we enter? Or are you afraid of losing your mind within the senile mess we shall find?"

Steeling himself, Albus eyed the decrepit building and nodded again.

Thankfully, the inside of the nursing home was in better shape. It looked rather comfortable, in fact. Lovely paintings decorated the wall, and colourful fish swam lazily in large tanks.

The people he saw seemed far happier than the exterior would have led him to believe. There were many of the home's residents in the lobby; playing chess, or struggling with crosswords, or simply sitting and chatting.

Their laughter was uplifting, though it pained Albus to see people who were certainly younger than him looking so ancient and worn.

It was always a shock when he considered how poorly muggles aged.

It was easy enough to find Mr Bishop's room; they came across a cheerful-looking staff member whose name tag identified him as Fred Graham, and he was happy to point them in the right direction with nary a question, especially after being hit with Albus' Confundus.

"Good luck with him," Fred said as they arrived at the door to room 237. "His caretaker had to go back to Dublin for a family emergency, and she's the only one who can get him to talk. Hell, he's barely even let the rest of us clean his flat."

"Thank you," Albus said brightly. "You've been most helpful. Have a wonderful rest of your day."

A look of confusion flickered across Fred's sunny face for a moment, a frown appearing and vanishing in the blink of an eye.

"You as well," he said. "I'm sure Mr Bishop will appreciate that...friends of his have come to visit."

The scene that greeted them was rather depressing, to put it mildly.

From what Albus could see, the apartment was bare, with only a token picture of a forest hanging on the wall. Dirty plates and glasses were piled up in the sink. The buzzing of flies and humming of the refrigerator filled the small kitchenette, emanating into the rest of the flat and burrowing into Albus' ears.

Dennis Bishop was in the lounge. His wheelchair had been placed next to the couch, and in it, he looked remarkably like a mummified body Albus had seen on his last trip to Peru.

His skin was the colour of old parchment. It drooped off of his hands, portraying a strong man gone to waste. He was draped in a fraying tartan blanket despite the warmth of the day, and his face seemed as empty of thought as his head was of hair. A thick line of spit draped out of his mouth to a small pool on his chin.

Looking at him, it was very difficult for Albus to believe that he was nearly double this man's age.

Dennis had been placed directly in front of a television set. If he was paying attention, he was watching an extraordinarily handsome man complaining to a likewise absurdly beautiful woman about her infidelity.

Gellert's wand appeared for an instant in the corner of Albus' vision: the television went black as a plume of smoke erupted from it.

"Was that really necessary?"

"The inanity bothered me," Gellert said.

"And you couldn't have simply turned it off?"

"No. Don't pretend this man will ever have a need for it. Perhaps now, his 'caretaker' will actually be forced to pay attention to him."

"Be that as it may-"

"Oh, shut up, Albus. Focus on your stupidly dangerous task, and on trying not to get lost in a vegetable's mind."

Albus bit down on the sharp retort that tried to make itself heard and smoothed his face, washing away all emotion.

Though the point could have been made in a slightly...kinder way, Gellert was entirely correct.

Using the Mind Arts on people with serious mental or intellectual issues was one of the riskiest propositions Albus could imagine. There was a very good reason that Legilimency or the like had never been sanctioned for the treatment of people like the poor Longbottoms. No Legilimens would agree to face the very real possibility of having their mind destroyed by the person they were trying to save.

His knees cracked as he knelt, locking his eyes with those of Dennis Bishop.

"Do not disturb me," he warned.

"Do you think me a fool?"

Albus returned to ignoring his partner, to ignoring everything except the pair of cataract-clouded brown eyes before him.

For the next ten minutes, he didn't move a muscle: he stayed there, not even blinking, cementing his will and emptying his mind of all thought but the need to discover the location of the place Tom Riddle had once taken this man, a lifetime ago.

Was that a hint of awareness, lurking behind the senility? Was there a shadow of the man Dennis Bishop had once been or was it just a trick of the light making his eyes look alive?

Whether it was a sign of a functional mind or not, Albus finally felt ready.

He raised his wand, for once glad that he held a totem of such wondrous power. For an endeavour such as he was undertaking, he would happily accept the extra power it offered.

"Legilimens!"

Albus had performed Legilimency on many, many people over the years. None of his past experiences had prepared him for Dennis Bishop's mind.

Usually, a person's mind worked in a relatively linear, sensible fashion. When using Legilimency, one could see the train of thought, could trace the connections being made that pulled up specific memories. It was a process of disconnecting from one's own mind and viewing the thought process of another, of seeing the associations being made and the thoughts being created. Through an assertion of will, specific memories could be called up, enabling a Legilimens to ascertain what had occurred.

At least, they could if the mind in question was not a haven of chaos.

A film of black coated his vision. This was no ordinary darkness, no mere absence of light. This was the oppressive icy-cold of the void, thick and heavy, weighty as a boulder.

He shouted into the darkness, roaring out a wordless command that was nothing more than an extension of his will.

'Tom Riddle. I need to see your memories of Tom Riddle.'

A blindingly bright light exploded, smashing Albus off of his metaphorical footing.

A thousand memories attacked him, swooping over and into him like a pack of angry birds.

They ran over him, snatches of jumbled and confusing scenes appearing and consuming him for a fraction of a second each before disappearing.

It was a sunny day, the sound of children playing loud in Albus' ears. He was standing in a park, watching as a far younger Dennis Bishop leaned over on his picnic blanket and kissed a beautiful woman. As the memory began, her face twisted into a shapeless void and a patch of darkness appeared in her chest and began to spread. The memory crumpled at the edges, the children's voices becoming an indecipherable buzzing sound. Then it tore apart like a wet tissue, fragments of it flying in all directions like shattered glass.

Before Albus could do anything, another scene from Dennis' life enveloped him.

He was standing in a cubicle. Dennis was seated at a desk just in front of him, writing something.

"Hey, Bishop."

"Yes, Martin?"

The newcomer was leaning against the entrance to what was obviously Dennis' office, a coffee mug clutched in his hand.

"Are you coming to the pub tonight?"

Something strange happened to Martin's voice in the middle of the sentence. It deepened and slowed, growing louder as it morphed into an earthshaking growl.

As with the last one, the memory suddenly paused, black spots appearing and spreading, that unbearable darkness once more taking over.

Memory after memory took Albus into their fold, invariably falling apart mere moments after their beginning. He heard snatches of voices, saw flashes of faces, all of them melding into one another and forming an amorphous mess.

He was tugged through Dennis' life, only seeing bits and pieces of scenes as they unfolded. None of them lasted long enough for him to understand their purpose, or even who the people in them were.

He felt Dennis' pain at these memories. The anguish burned as he saw Dennis trying, trying so hard and failing to remember the names of his friends and loved ones.

And as suddenly as they had come, the memories vanished, leaving nothing but the incredible darkness of an empty mind.

Albus reeled, tears prickling in his distant eyes.

Suddenly, the darkness changed. Nothing was visibly different, but it suddenly felt...warm. Warm and welcoming, comfortable and entrancing.

How could he have thought it was cold? It was lovely, with its tendrils reaching out and stroking up against his own thoughts.

'I was looking for something,' he thought, but the desperate need that had so recently driven him was gone. 'It was important.'

But what was it?

'Tom Riddle.'

Terrible fear seized him, the Elder Wand nearly falling from his suddenly-trembling fingers.

He had almost lost himself. Just a few more seconds, and he'd have remained there forever, becoming as much a shell as Dennis himself was. His stomach roiled, the desire to vomit rising.

In an instant, he gathered up all his strength, forging a hammer from his will and spirit.

'SHOW ME TOM RIDDLE! SHOW ME WHERE HE TOOK YOU!'

The blackness fled from before him.

Again, a myriad memories attacked, but Albus paid them no need.

Bodiless, he strode forward, mashing aside the irrelevant remembrances as they came.

And then-

He was on a rickety bus, standing in the aisle. A young boy was whispering something to the girl on the seat next to him.

"Dennis!" She said, her shocked expression matching her voice perfectly. "You wouldn't be so mean to him today! Come on, we're going to the seaside, just enjoy it."

Dennis coughed, twisting around in his seat and glancing at the boy in the back row.

The boy to whom Albus had once given a Hogwarts letter.

"He's not normal," Dennis hissed, a scowl appearing on his chubby face as he turned back to his friend. "He's not-"

The memory began to shake, the light slowly draining from it.

'No,' Albus thought desperately, 'No, this is it-'

The very air rent itself in two, nothingness seeking through the crack.

'NO!'

He bore down, overpowering Dennis' mind, forcing the memory to go on.

And then he heard it. The voice of the matron, Mrs Cole, as she made an announcement.

"We'll be visiting what is known as the Jurassic Coast. Specifically, we'll be-"

The memory collapsed.

He pushed with everything he had, demanding more.

He had been so close. There had to be more, another memory, something.

'WHERE DID TOM RIDDLE TAKE YOU?!'

Everything was shaking, lights dancing before his eyes. He felt Dennis' poor, weakened spirit crashing up against him, trying in vain to force him out of his head.

He would not allow that to happen. Painful as it obviously was for Dennis to revisit those memories, Albus needed them.

He bore down, pulling up reserves of will he didn't know he had and launching them against Dennis' attempted defence.

Dennis' will lasted another fraction of a second before vanishing with a sickening ripping sensation.

Flashes of locations shot before his eyes: he saw cliffs, a beach, children running into the ocean with wild abandon.

The darkness was closing in again, the memories starting to pull away from him.

But he needed more. He pushed on, moving through Dennis' memories as if he were swimming through molasses.

A cliff appeared; a cave entrance just barely visible near its foot.

And then he was abruptly thrust from Dennis' mind, torn away as if seized by a wild hippogriff.

Nearly a minute passed before Albus realized that he was back in his own body. He was lying on his back, and his face felt extremely warm. He was also quite sure his head had never hurt as badly as it did right then.

His vision was cloudy: the only thing he could make out was a dark shape hovering in front of him.

"Albus! Can you see me? Can you hear me? Are you here?!"

"One moment," he murmured, closing his eyes, "just one moment, please."

When he opened them again, he could see clearly.

Gellert looked like he had aged ten years in the last few minutes.

"You stupid, arrogant old fool!"

Albus brushed his fingers against the warm wetness on his face. When he looked at them, his suspicions were confirmed.

His nose was bleeding, and he'd bit his lip enough for there to be another source of blood.

"Please, help me up."

Grumbling and cursing to himself, Gellert did so, his hand squeezing around Albus'.

"Had I not pulled you out of there-"

"I would have lost myself."

"And that would have been even worse than what happened to him," Gellert hissed, his cheeks going white. "Look!"

Albus followed Gellert's outstretched hand, and his heart skipped a beat.

Dennis Bishop was clearly dead. Blood was caked across his face and chin from where it had apparently erupted from his nose and mouth. Thick, dark trails leaked from his ears. The whites of his eyes had gone a dark purple.

"I killed him. I-"

"Don't start," Gellert snarled, whirling around and thrusting a pencil-thin finger in Albus' face. "You almost met his fate! Did you at least find what you were searching for?"

Albus tore his attention from Dennis' sightless, accusing eyes and thrust the guilt away.

He'd have time to dwell on it later.

"I found something," he whispered. "But...I must rest."

Albus had barely finished talking before it became apparent that he would not get the chance to rest, at least not immediately.

Severus' Patronus appeared, forming into a doe the instant it entered the room.

As always, the sight of it brought intense sadness.

"I need to meet with you, urgently." It said, Severus' voice sounding more like Minerva's than Lucius', a sure sign of stress. "If you can bear to spare me the time. I will be at Grimmauld Place in half an hour."

"Albus," Gellert said immediately, speaking before the Patronus had even begun to dissipate. "You need to rest. You could have died-"

"If Severus has urgent information to impart, I need to hear it."

"Then send me!"

Albus shook his head, tired beyond description.

"Not for Severus. Not yet."

"Albus-"

Albus looked back at Dennis' corpse, nausea and terrible heartache flooding him once more.

He'd died for no reason other than Albus' need for information. It may have been a release for him from the torment of his constant forgetting, but that didn't stop Albus' stomach from twisting.

The worst part was, he knew he would do it again if need be.

"Not yet, Gellert. Soon, but not yet. I do not wish to be alone right now."

A sneer pulled at Gellert's lips, but then his face softened.

"Fine. On your head be it."

And though his tone was harsh, he squeezed Albus' hand again.

He raised the can to his lips, the cold soda flooding his throat.

Merlin, he wished he could have something stronger, if only to make the information Aberforth had given him seem slightly less ominous.

Unfortunately, the full moon was only a few nights away, and bitter experience had taught Remus that drinking so close to it was a bad idea.

He could already feel the precursors to the coming change: his heartbeat was up and he felt itchy all over, and the sharpened lights and scents around him were stabbing into his brain.

He'd have a migraine in an hour, sooner if he didn't stop thinking about what Aberforth had told him.

After dropping Harry off with McGonagall, Remus had returned to the Hog's Head, confused and determined to find out what Aberforth had been talking about.

It hadn't taken long for Aberforth to spill the beans. Remus was quite sure that if not for the fact that Aberforth had never spoken about it before, it would have been a far more onerous task. He'd barely spent a few minutes cajoling before Aberforth launched into the whole sad tale.

Frankly, Remus half-wished he hadn't returned to the Hog's Head. He'd know far less, but at least his mind would be calmer.

He drained the can and twisted slightly, tossing it into the rubbish bin beside the bench.

The park he and Kingsley had agreed on for their meeting was almost completely empty. The only other person Remus could see was a young man walking his dog under the setting sun.

A gentle breeze rustled through the trees, the scent of honeysuckle wafting over him.

For a moment, he felt almost peaceful, but then his thoughts returned.

If anyone besides Aberforth had told him about Dumbledore's history with Grindelwald, Remus would have laughed in their face.

But it hadn't been anyone else. It had been Aberforth to tell him, choking up and crying a bit as he did so.

And it made horrible sense. They'd all been wondering how Albus had come to trust Grindelwald, but even their wildest theories hadn't come close to this.

To know that Albus and Grindelwald had been lovers was one thing, but to know that Albus had actively helped Grindelwald plan for world domination was entirely a different story.

And to know that this had led to Albus' sister's death and that Albus had somehow decided to go back to Grindelwald…

Well, that was simply mind-boggling.

From the first Order meeting after Albus had freed Grindelwald, Remus had been unnerved by the rhetoric being spouted. He'd always been interested in history and thus had been perfectly placed to recognize what Albus was saying as being all too similar to the ideas Grindelwald had espoused. Now, to find out that Albus had actually helped create that ideology in the first place, well, it answered a few of his questions.

And absolutely terrified him.

Before hearing Aberforth's tale, Remus had been on edge, unsure if staying on Dumbledore's side was the moral decision. In truth, he owed far too much to Dumbledore to simply walk away from him. If Dumbledore had been more like his predecessors, Remus would never have been allowed to go to Hogwarts. If not for Dumbledore's influence, he would never have found employment at all, even if the jobs he did get were usually dirty and short-lasting.

Then Dumbledore himself had hired him, giving Remus the chance to teach as he'd always wanted to.

How could Remus just abandon him, even if he thought what Albus was doing was wrong?

He'd been faced with an impossible choice, and then he'd met Aberforth.

Now, his choice had been made for him, bringing cold disillusion with it.

He could have accepted, maybe, that Dumbledore made horrific mistakes in his youth. He could have reconciled the image of the kind, caring mentor he knew with that of a brilliant teenager who realized too late that he was starting to travel a terrible road.

But for Dumbledore to return to Grindelwald, to happily re-tread the path he'd abandoned when his sister had been killed, that Remus could not bear.

Frankly, it enraged him. He realized, of course, that he had no right to feel as if Albus had betrayed and lied to him.

And yet, he still felt it.

The only real question which remained was whether he was brave enough to act on his decision, or whether he would follow his old pattern of running from his problems.

It would be easier to run, far easier. He wouldn't have to face Tonks, wouldn't have to face Sirius. Tonks would be furious if he joined the ministry, grieving as she was, but Sirius would be worse; Sirius would view it as a worse betrayal than anything Remus had ever done.

Tonks would certainly not even think about abandoning Albus, not after what Bellatrix had done. As for Sirius...

There'd always been a wildness to Sirius, a bloodlust lurking deep beneath the surface. Back in Hogwarts, the pranks and tricks which Sirius played were always more likely to lead to serious injury than anything Remus, James, or Peter thought of. There was the time he'd trapped Macnair in a closet with a Boggart, the time he'd sabotaged Dolohov's potions, and, of course, the time he'd tried to lead Snape to his death.

No, Sirius was already too inflamed by Grindelwald's presence and the promise of battles to come. Not to mention that Albus was more interested in Harry's safety than the Ministry. Sirius, Remus was quite sure, would be more than happy to die for Harry, if only to leave one part of James still alive.

There was no chance of either Sirius or Tonks going with Remus. Whatever he chose, he would be doing it alone.

Alone, as he had been for so many years.

He could do it, he knew. He could run away, make his way to his cousin in Iceland, and live out the rest of his life in obscurity, always debating if he'd made the wrong choice.

Or he could stay and fight. He could continue his work with the werewolves, he could be an extra wand to aid the Ministry.

He could fight his friends, go to war against people he loved.

But would he even be achieving anything?

Well, that depended, at least in part, on what Kingsley had to say.

The sun had completely set by the time Kingsley arrived, the last light having long faded from the horizon.

The crunching of leaves preceded his arrival, but Remus had already gotten a whiff of his aftershave, just sharp enough to make him want to be sick.

Sometimes, he really wanted to execute Greyback.

Kingsley was wearing his Muggle garb. Remus had to admit, he pulled off a dark suit better than most Muggles, let alone the wizards who would try to put their hands through the trouser legs.

Kingsley dropped into the bench with a muted grunt.

"Good evening," he said.

From the corner of his eye, Remus saw Kingsley's hand casually drifting into his pocket.

There was no point in beating around the bush. Kingsley was on his guard, no doubt half-expecting Remus to attack.

"Sirius says you've left the Order."

"Dumbledore knows I have as well," Kingsley said. He smiled innocently and scratched his scalp, giving the impression of harmlessness. Remus knew better than to fall for that.

"He didn't seem too bothered about it, in fact. Are you going to try and convince me that I made the wrong decision?"

Remus couldn't hold it in any longer. He needed to explain, to tell someone, someone he considered a friend, what he'd heard.

"I bumped into Aberforth yesterday. He had a lot to say."

"Did he, now?"

"They knew each other, Kingsley! Back before Grindelwald started conquering, they knew each other! Hell, they were planning on taking over together!"

Remus halted for a moment, surprised at the force with which the words have left him. He'd been damn near shouting.

But once he'd started talking, he found he couldn't stop. As he spoke, Kingsley's face shifted through a wide variety of expressions: from shock to horror, grim understanding to determination.

Remus spoke himself hoarse, interrupting only to conjure a glass and fill it with water.

By the time he was done, Kingsley's hand had left his pocket.

"I can't stay with him," Remus said, hating the plaintive note in his voice. "Even...even if Sirius and Tonks do, I can't, not now that I know this."

Kingsley rested his elbow on his knee and rubbed his chin, eyes distant.

"I thought-I could carry on what I'm doing with the werewolves, but unless the Ministry is willing to make real promises-"

"Unlikely," Kingsley interrupted as he straightened up and adjusted his tie. "You didn't hear this from me, but Moody convinced Scrimgeour and Amelia Bones. They've got their hands full trying to gather up enough Wizengamot support. If they were to try and convince those codgers to vote for werewolf rights, they'd lose any support they have."

Remus slumped, his head falling into his hands.

That was it. The one possibility he had of doing anything other than fighting had been shot down, ground beneath the heels of politicians with more Galleons than sense.

"What do they need that support for?"

Kingsley shifted in his seat and glanced around.

"Hiring mercenaries," he said, "Making deals with the goblins to shut down Death Eater vaults. Drafting people to the Hit-Wizards. None of those can be done without Wizengamot support."

"Fuck."

Nodding, Kingsley put a hand on Remus' shoulder.

"If I were you," he said, "I'd get out of Britain. You're already under suspicion for being part of the Order, and for being a known werewolf. Unless you're willing to fight…"

Kingsley trailed off, clearly sensing Remus' feelings on the matter.

Remus' hands balled themselves into fists. His head was pounding now.

Either fight his friends or run away with his tail between his legs.

Just another horrific situation the universe deemed fair to thrust onto his shoulders.

"Maybe I'll have to," he said, standing up and stretching his legs. "What will you do?"

"Whatever I have to."

By all appearances, Severus was not pleased with being kept waiting.

Of course, he kept his true feelings hidden deep beneath the surface, only the flaring of his nostrils and absolutely minuscule white spots in his cheeks betraying him.

Albus often thought that Severus would be a far happier man if he didn't bottle up his emotions so much. If he was feeling slightly more himself, he would needle Severus into a furious explosion, giving him the chance to vent his frustrations and aimless, ever-present rage at someone who was not an innocent child under his care.

Unfortunately, Albus was most definitely not feeling his usual self.

His legs were screaming, and his temples felt as if they would burst at any moment. This merely exacerbated the odd sensation he was experiencing: his thoughts seemed to be crossing a vast ocean to travel from one point to another as opposed to the usual flashes of insight he had.

Thankfully, his nosebleed had stopped.

It had taken them longer than expected to leave Sunny Acres and travel to Grimmauld Place. Albus had been determined to ensure that Dennis' body was not left too long, and since he forbade Gellert from using the Imperius, it took more time than it could have, especially once they had to cast all the Memory Charms.

Even so, they were still early for their meeting. Severus had said half an hour, and it had only been fifteen minutes since his Patronus' arrival.

Nevertheless, Severus was displeased.

They found him sitting in the lounge, a familiar sneer plastered on his face as he read some book, doubtless 'borrowed' from the Black family's library.

"I'm glad you saw fit to meet me," Severus said, his sneer morphing into the scowl he usually donned for Albus. "It's not as if I'm risking my life for you or something equally idiotic."

Gellert chuckled. Before he could say anything to ignite Severus, Albus shook his head slightly.

"I'm sorry to have kept you," Albus said.

A quick glance revealed that his preferred armchair had been cleaned recently. He would have to make sure to thank Kreacher for that.

He sank into it, thighs sighing in relief, and gestured for Severus and Gellert to mimic him.

Gellert took to the couch and lay on his back, scuffing the cushions with his boots.

Severus, it seemed, was more agitated than Albus had originally thought. In lieu of sitting, he began to pace, potion-stained fingers rubbing his forehead.

"I was explicitly forbidden to tell you any of this," he spat. "If I know you, you will act on this information in a way that will immediately make it clear I told you."

"Have I ever done so, Severus? Has he ever had an inkling that you are telling me anything against his will?"

Severus' scowl deepened, his jaws beginning to grind together.

"Will you sit down already?" Gellert asked, "Or at least stop pacing. You're giving me vertigo."

Severus halted, his shoulders stiffening. Then he sighed deeply and sat.

"He has become far more paranoid, as he was in the last days of the war. He has begun limiting our communication with one another, forbidding us to speak of missions we have been assigned. Similarly, he has become far vaguer about his plans."

"So, what you are saying is that you are useless."

Severus did not rise to Gellert's bait, thankfully.

"Still," Severus continued, his nostrils flaring wider. "It is clear that he is planning something for this weekend. Albus...he asked if it is a Hogsmeade weekend, and if there truly will be Aurors present. And he is overly knowledgeable about goings-on in the castle."

"Students?" Albus asked quietly.

Severus nodded, a grim look replacing his scowl for a moment.

"Yes. Draco Malfoy is not at school, obviously, but he is in contact with his friends, many of whom are themselves related to Death Eaters. Draco himself has been pulled into the fold. And... many of the other Slytherin students are being actively recruited."

"Did he give any hint of his plans for Hogsmeade?"

Greasy hair waved wildly as Severus shook his head.

Of course, it was eminently clear that Voldemort would not simply murder children willy-nilly. Not, to be sure, because he had any moral compunctions preventing him from doing so. Rather, he was clever enough to understand that he could only push people so far. There was a fine line between intimidating someone and forcing them to revolt, and Voldemort would walk that line as carefully as he could.

"There is more. He has plans that involve a giant, and on the full moon, there will be a series of werewolf attacks. I know no more specifics."

Albus nodded, almost too tired to think it over. He was reasonably certain that Voldemort would use the giants on the Hogsmeade weekend, if only to give Albus, and the Ministry, more situations to deal with at once.

"Is there anything else?"

"Because giants and endangered schoolchildren are not enough for one time," remarked Gellert.

"He has someone in the Aurors," Severus said slowly. "Or perhaps the Hit-Wizards. Whoever they are, they were meant to modify the memories of those people in Moulton. They did not manage; you'll be pleased to know."

"I assume he wished then to remember Gellert and I being the ones to attack?"

"Obviously."

"Indeed. When he next asks, tell him that we are busy building up a network of supporters. Tell him we have numerous spies in the Ministry and that you do not know their identities. And tell him that we have made plans for the eventuality that the Ministry moves against us."

Albus pushed against the chair's arms and rose.

"Thank you, Severus. I cannot exaggerate the importance-"

"Wait."

"As long as you wish," Albus said, nodding at Severus. "Please, go on."

"There...may be something I can do to entrench myself in his good graces."

Albus found himself frowning slightly at Severus' apprehension.

"If I were to encourage those Slytherins who he is already recruiting...If I were to push them closer to his service...He has always shown the most favour to those who brought others to him."

Albus' heart constricted, sudden guilt barraging him.

Dare he do it? Dare he encourage children to join the enemy, to kill their joy and youthful innocence for no reason other than to secure a spy? Dare he add this to his litany of sins?

And, did he dare not?

He closed his eyes and swallowed heavily, shunting the pain to a corner of his mind where it could not bother him.

"Do not force any of them," he said. "And make sure that you are only dealing with those who are already being recruited, and who you think are likely to join him even without your efforts."

"And what will you do?" Severus replied, his voice a silken blade.

"I will plan my next move."

Severus' expression forced a smile onto Albus' face, even despite the weight of the order he had just given.

"Voldemort used a chess analogy when talking with you the other day, correct?"

Severus nodded, his scowl making a reappearance.

"I find it rather ironic," he said, "that he betrays a Muggle mindset in this respect."

Gellert smiled, but Severus just rolled his eyes, a nerve in his cheek jumping. "Would you mind explaining what exactly you are talking about?"

"Gladly." Albus looked down his nose at the man. "Tell me, Severus, what is the only difference between Wizarding and Muggle chess?"

"In wizarding chess, the pieces have been enchanted with-"

"No." Albus raised his finger. "In wizarding chess... the pieces are alive."

Chapter Text

Chapter 12

The sea crashed up against the rocks, a fine mist spraying over them.

Albus made sure to breathe deeply, the salty tang relaxing him immediately.

A seagull squawked as it flew over them, something too small for him to clearly discern disappearing into its gullet.

Even though he was on the brink of possibly finding another of Voldemort's Horcruxes, one which would undoubtedly be protected at least as well as the ring had been; even so, the scene before him did not fail to grant a sense of peace.

It could be difficult at times, for a wizard as powerful as him to maintain their connection to the world. It would be all too easy to become lost in the intricate mysteries of reality, to become trapped in his ego and forget about the wondrous beauties that nature had to offer.

When standing in front of the ocean or staring up at the clear night sky, however, he could not help but be reminded of how small he was against the grandeur of the universe.

How different the world would be if Voldemort and his ilk were capable of being humbled so easily.

"The Jurassic Coast," Gellert said. "I am so pleased you narrowed this cave's location down with such precision."

"After all your complaints about not having seen the outside world for half a century, I expected you'd enjoy the opportunity to traipse around the countryside."

"Not when there are nearly a hundred miles of countryside to search. Has anyone ever told you how utterly frustrating you can be?"

"You have," Albus said, "Many times. And you were not alone in that."

"Albus…"

"You helped me with the scrying, and so you most assuredly know that there are merely seventeen likely caves along this coast."

"Only seventeen," said Gellert, "imagine that."

"And the task becomes more onerous with every moment we stand here," Albus said, sand swirling around his feet as he strode into the ocean. "Care for a swim?"

Grumbling, Gellert followed.

Overpowering white-hot pain shot through his forehead.

Harry staggered, his bookbag falling from his shoulder as he fell to the floor against the castle wall.

The pain nearly consumed him, far worse than anything he'd ever experienced before.

He didn't hear Ron and Hermione's startled, worried fussing: he couldn't even think through the pain, let alone focus on what they were saying.

An eternity of agony passed before he pulled himself together, his thoughts sluggishly arriving through the pain.

'Think of someone you love.'

The photographs Hagrid had given him of his parents swam before his eyes, followed by images of his friends and Sirius.

Slowly, the psychic onslaught lessened, the pain receding inch by inch.

"Harry? Harry, can you-"

"I'm alright," he muttered, "just...give me a minute."

Ron and Hermione stopped talking to him, although they were still muttering among themselves.

Harry ignored them. Keeping his eyes closed, he started rubbing his forehead and wiping his face.

When it had entirely passed, he opened his eyes. Hermione was chewing on her lip, and Ron's face was so pale that his freckles looked like they'd glow in the dark.

Ron helped him to his feet and then took a step back, his expression thoroughly unnerved.

"Was that him?"

"Yeah. Like the other times. Just much worse. God, that hurts."

He shook his head and immediately regretted it.

If the aftershock headache remained much longer, he'd have no choice but to go and see Madam Pomfrey. There was no chance he could even pretend to be paying attention in Transfiguration with his head feeling the way it did.

"I thought it was getting better," Hermione said. "Have you been keeping up with the Occlumency?"

"He hasn't tried that in a few days," Harry admitted. "And no, why would I practice Occlumency when I've got something that works better?"

"You look like shit, mate."

"I wonder why."

They started walking again, continuing along the corridor that would lead them to the staircase down to the Great Hall.

"Harry," Hermione said in a pinched voice, "don't you think you should mention this to someone? Maybe Dumbledore's too busy, but Sirius or Snape-"

"Sirius is busy too," he replied. "Remember, he's got all that paperwork with the Ministry to have him registered innocent."

"He'd want to know," Hermione insisted. "And you should-"

"I don't need to go running to Sirius because my scar hurt," Harry said, feeling suddenly angry and unsure of exactly why he was. "I have to be able to handle my own problems and I can't just keep running off to other people for help."

"That's not what I meant at all," Hermione said. "But-"

"I can deal with it," Harry said shortly. "I have to. After all, there's a fucking prophecy about me."

"Doesn't mean you can't take people's help," Ron said.

"Harry, just...if it carries on or gets worse-"

"I'll ask Snape," he promised, "and I'll tell Sirius. I'm not an idiot."

"Could've fooled me," Ron said

They started walking down the staircase and stood to the side as a group of students made their way up.

One of them, a Slytherin who Harry vaguely recognized as Theo Nott, sneered at Harry, his face contorting in utter hatred.

"You know," Ron said thoughtfully, his eyes locked on the Slytherin's back, "I reckon there's a lot going on we don't hear about."

Harry snorted.

"You think?"

"Have you thought about how we're taking the DA forward?" Ron asked.

"I told you guys, we meet more often and we make sure that we spend the time working on actual fighting stuff."

"Yeah, but what does that actually mean? And who are we including in it? Not Smith, right?"

"Definitely not," Harry muttered. "I'm not sure who, to be honest. And yes, I have thought a bit about what that would actually mean. Like I said, I want to get Sirius or Lupin in to teach us practical stuff, and I want us to be duelling each other a lot. Actual fights, not just using one spell."

"Isn't...Harry, all the Death Eaters are adults, they've all finished Hogwarts and have far more experience-"

"So what?"

Hermione shrunk, taken aback by Harry's outburst.

"Don't you think your expectations are a bit, well, high?"

Memories of the Department of Mysteries flashed before Harry's eyes, images of carnage and death.

"I expect," Harry hissed, "for you to do everything you can to survive."

Moody paced around the room, his wooden leg's tapping against the floor punctuating his grumbles dramatically.

"I don't like this," he repeated. "We've never been able to trust that sort. Odds are they're in league with He Who Must Not Be Named."

Rufus threw his hands up, his shoulders slumping.

"What do you want me to do? No, I'm asking honestly. What do you expect me to do? We've been talking for days now, Alastor, and so far, I think you've given two concrete ideas. If all you're going to do is criticize, maybe we could do a hell of a lot better without you."

Moody turned to face Rufus, his magical eye locking onto the new Minister's face.

"Without me, you'd still be sucking up to Dumbledore and eating up everything he has to say. You'd still be happily ignoring that man he's working with. Without me-"

"Could you both please act more like the adults I was expecting to be meeting with?" Amelia asked, her hand falling away from her forehead. Her hair was unravelling from its tightly coupled bun, her eyes laden with dark bags. "These are trying times, but infighting will accomplish nothing."

"All I'm saying is that we'd best not start trusting Shafiq's faction too closely. You all should know exactly where their loyalties lie."

"The same place as everyone else's," Rufus said, his voice rising, "money and power. We just need to show them all that maintaining the status quo is the best way for them to get what they want. Won't be hard, especially since, if you'd try and actually remember, none of Shafiq's lot ever actually supported He Who Must Not Be Named-"

Moody's palm slapped into the table, sending quills and parchment flying away from the impact.

"What I remember is all the laws they voted on. I remember how he smiled after he voted against using testimony gained from Veritaserum. I remember how they all voted back at the very beginning, about declaring the Death Eaters a treasonous group. I remember their voting to keep Knockturn open, even when we knew what was going on down there. Do you remember any of that? Or were you too busy kissing up to old Barty to focus on what anyone else was saying?"

"Enough! You too, Rufus, enough! Or I'll kick you both out of here and meet Quentin alone."

Moody growled and stood back up to resume his pacing, while Rufus gaped at Amelia.

"You know that he specifically wants to meet me, right? He wants promises from the Minister for Magic."

"Then stop acting like a teenager and act like the Minister for Magic. For god's sake, you might practically have his support, but that's no excuse to start acting like Fudge."

"Amelia-"

"No, Rufus. I need you to be smart now. You can't just give Quentin everything he wants. You have to make sure to placate the people Albus would be drawing to his side. In case you haven't been reading the letters to the editor in the Prophet, more and more of them are ready to join him every day."

"It's not just about placating them."

Amelia had almost forgotten that Moody was there, quiet as he'd been since she'd started in on Rufus. For once, the man looked thoughtful, an expression she found quite disquieting on his war-torn face.

"The ministry can't be seen as weak," he continued, "and it can't be seen as pandering to the old, established families. You want to get the people on your side? You need to show them that you're...that you're...that you're a force. And it's more than just strength that they need to see. I've been with the Order of the Phoenix, and I've captured enough Death Eaters to know how they think. The Order look at Dumbledore like he's their saviour, and the Death Eaters view He Who Must Not Be Named the same way. You want people to stand behind you? You need to make them feel like they really, really want to."

"We know, Alastor-"

"No," Moody said, and the pensive way he said it, so at odds with his usual gruffness, gave Amelia more pause than did his interruption. "No, you don't. The average person, they're just thinking about what's best for them. You're the government. You've got a million and one considerations to think about. They don't have those. They're just thinking about themselves and their families. You want them behind you, you make sure they think, they believe that the best way to keep themselves and their families safe is to trust and support the ministry, and not Dumbledore or He Who Must Not Be Named."

Rufus was staring at Moody, as if stunned that such rational talk could come from a man who usually gave the impression of a tightly compressed ball of righteous fury.

"You get the Prophet on your side again," Amelia continued smoothly, the wheels in her head whirring. "Have them carry on talking about how great the ministry is, and how terrible Dumbledore is. After all, it gave him enough trouble last time. You make a point, in your speeches and the Prophet's articles, in talking about how bad Grindelwald is, and how incredibly illegal what Dumbledore did to the Malfoys was, and about how terrible it was that he and Grindelwald sent Inferi after a family on the mere suspicion that they are Death Eaters."

"The Notts are Death Eaters," Moody said. "There's no argument there."

"But they didn't face any due process," Rufus said, a smile spreading across his face. "And if Dumbledore can attack a family that he thinks are Death Eaters, what happens if he's wrong? That'll give the people pause, sure enough."

"And, the next time he or Grindelwald do something that crosses the line, you declare him a terrorist, and you do the same for the Order of the Phoenix. You talk about the need for us to band together as one nation, if we want to remain one nation."

"And you damn well make sure," Moody picked up, "that you mention standing against He Who Must Not Be Named too."

"Obviously." Rufus said. "Of course, there'll be problems. We just announced that Dumbledore's right, and now we're turning on him again? We just declared Sirius Black innocent, and now we're announcing he's a terrorist, but not a Death Eater terrorist?"

"We can work with all of those," Amelia said. "It's just a matter of speech writing. What's with Potter, nowadays? The boy is a very powerful symbol."

"He's with Dumbledore," Moody grunted. "One hundred per cent."

"Still," Rufus mused, "maybe I could convince the boy to try and help us bring the people together…"

"Don't be idiotic," Amelia said brusquely, "he's fifteen years old and the ministry has spent nearly a year attacking him in the press. He won't help you, not if anything my niece has said about him is true."

"Still...we could...co-opt his image, so to speak. Remind the people that he warned that You Know Who is back and that we're acting on that. I'll find a way to work him into my speeches."

"We still need more manpower," Moody said. "And we need to upgrade security among the Aurors and hit wizards."

"Fine. I'll speak to Robards. Expect to be officially called out of your retirement in the next few days."

"And the manpower?"

"I will not allow the Americans to be brought in," Amelia said, "If the other European powers see their way to lending a hand, fine. But perhaps…"

She trailed off, her eyes focusing on nothing in particular.

"Perhaps," she said, "we could make a formal request for the International Confederation of Wizards to step in?"

"On what grounds?" Asked Rufus.

"Grindelwald wanted to destroy the Statute of Secrecy," she said, "we can claim suspicion that he and Dumbledore wish to do so. And we can claim that with him, Dumbledore, and You Know Who battling, we are unable to maintain the Statute without additional support."

"I think," Moody said, his magical eye affixed on the wall, "that we'll need to carry on this conversation later. Shafiq's standing outside. Good thing we've got secrecy charms because it looks like he's trying to eavesdrop."

Rufus nodded, taking a deep breath and shaking his head.

"Later, then," he said, feeling, for the first time since Grindelwald's release, the flutter of hope in his chest.

Gellert's hand shook as he waved his wand over himself, warmth spreading over him.

Damnit, but he was too old to be swimming in frigid waters. The cold had sunk into his bones, to a level barely touched by his magic.

And yet, he was excited beyond belief. The heady, musty, rotten scent of corruption pervaded the air, calling to something he thought he had long excised from his tattered soul.

Magic had been done here. Magic of a most beautifully terrible sort.

He'd caught a whiff of it before they'd even begun their swim over here, thankfully. After their previous four swims had led them to dead ends, he'd been ready to possess a passing seagull and make it fly over there to save them the trip, as much as he despised the sensation of possession.

"Necromancy," he said, once his teeth had finally ceased their rattling. "Necromancy awaits us beyond that wall."

He pointed to it, but Albus was already stroking it, whispering to himself.

It was downright unfair how spritely Albus remained. He had suffered none of the ravages of age that so wrecked Gellert, he had borne none of the tortures of a half-century spent in terrible conditions.

'And yet, I deserved so much worse. And so much worse awaits me when death will finally catch me.'

"A blood toll," Albus said, his voice laden with disappointment. "I really expected better from Tom."

"I'll pay the next one," Gellert answered. "You still owe me for those pointless trips."

Albus grunted as the knife flashed over his arm, blood spraying up onto the rock.

The wall of stone lit up for a moment before vanishing. Gellert felt his lips curling. The stench had grown much stronger as the wall vanished, reminding him of some of his greatest victories.

'My greatest downfalls.'

The cave they entered was enormous, nearly as large as the dwarf caverns of the far north.

A huge black lake filled the cavern, lit up by an eldritch green light on- Gellert peered, focusing his wand's light- what appeared to be a pedestal on an island in the centre.

So Albus was right, after all. There was a horcrux here, or something else Voldemort cared for deeply.

But all of that was secondary, because the lake was full of Inferi.

He felt them, felt the coils of twisted power that had brought a pale imitation of life to their corpses. It blanketed the water, piling up in places where the bodies must have been thickest. Tendrils of the stuff reached out to him, sensing, perhaps, that he had devoted so much of his life to its study, and caressed him, rubbed against his very soul.

He shuddered, as much in disgust as in ecstasy.

The things he had done to earn familiarity with necromancy had earned him a place in hell, if such a place existed.

The deals he had made to procure an endless supply of bodies for experimentations...the promises he'd made to his followers, all of them so convinced that he loved them like a parent, to have them undertake dangerous rituals, all to give him a larger army to fight a war that he had started...the abominations he had created, the abominations he still craved to create...

Sometimes, he thought it more frightening that such a place as hell might not exist, that a monster like him could truly escape justice.

"The boat will only allow one of us at a time."

Blinking, he shook himself from his reverie and saw what Albus had found.

A small, rickety boat, moored to the shore by an iron chain.

"Once I've dealt with the Inferi," he said, "It will be an easy enough matter for me to find a way across. You can take the boat; I think I'll walk."

"So, they are Inferi," Albus clicked, shaking his head. "Thank you for the confirmation."

"Since you were so displeased by what I had the Inferi do last time," Gellert said, injecting just a smidgeon of spite into his words, "What shall I have these do?"

"I think it would make a lovely surprise for Voldemort were his own creations to attack him if ever he comes to check on his horcrux. He will surely defeat them, but the insult would drive him into a rage, I believe." Albus chuckled.

"Whatever you say."

"Gellert."

Albus' momentary humour had vanished, his eyes dangerously intense once more.

"Do not underestimate him. The Inferi you faced before, you dealt with in a moment. Those were mere foot soldiers, meant as a distraction to us. These are guarding one of his most prized possessions. Do not be overconfident."

"You cured me of that decades ago," Gellert said, turning away and smothering the brief flash of resentment he felt.

"I will work on the boat. I think it best if we travel across that way. He almost tricked us before, with the compulsion on the ring-"

"Whatever you say," Gellert snapped. "you know best."

He took a deep breath and held it, feeling the air flowing into his lungs, the life filling his every inch.

On the exhale, he thrust his magic out along with his breath, twisting his wand and whispering a harsh word.

He called out to the dead, and they answered.

A horde of pale, moss-coated bodies began to move, the tops of their heads emerging silently from the lake, white eyes fixed on him, arms breaking the surface of the water, outstretched as if in supplication.

Their posture was a lie. He could sense their fury; he knew their intentions toward him were anything but benign. If they reached him before he could establish his control over them, he would be torn to shreds.

He had time. It would take them at least twenty-five seconds to reach him, and Albus was watching. He had time.

He took another breath and twisted his wand once more, wordlessly casting, relishing the contradiction as his chest swelled with life and his mind filled with necromantic incantations. The power of death swirled in his veins, a twisted counterpoint to the steady, life-affirming beat of his heart.

"You are mine," he hissed, his breath visible in the sudden cold patch before him. As he spoke, he bore down with his will, imposing his power on the dead. "You are mine."

The words were not for the dead, who could not understand them. They were for him, a way to ensure that he wouldn't lose direction or focus. What he was doing now was magic far beyond the need for words, magic that could not truly be constrained by something as ephemeral as an incantation. This was magic at its deepest core, magic that could never be taught by a book or in a classroom, magic that outstripped language and theory and subsided purely in the depths of the human spirit.

He sent out tendrils of thought, feelers of might, and crashed up against the spell Voldemort had placed on these corpses.

A great force pressed on him, the spell's instinctive response to being pressed.

His face rocked back as if he had been slapped, his feet grinding against rock as he was pushed back several inches.

Snarling, he set his legs and straightened his back, bringing everything he had to bear.

For all that Gellert would never admit it, Albus had been right. These Inferi were nothing like the miserable creations he'd faced in that village the other day. These were better enchanted than any he'd seen before, nearly as good as some of his own works.

Voldemort had just risen in his estimations.

"No. The dead are mine!"

He dove deep into himself, calling on his past. Memories welled up, memories of the thousands of dead he had raised, of the hundreds of experiments he had performed. He allowed himself to feel them, to experience what it had been like to be so entrenched in that darkest of powers.

He pulled on those experiences, a strand of thought spinning off and drawing that power into reality. A dark penumbra formed around his body as he blanketed himself in it, his body temperature dropping rapidly and his eyesight narrowing to one point.

The frontmost Inferius stepped out of the lake, water pouring off of it. It had once been a young man, full of hope and plans for the future.

Now it was nothing more than an empty vessel.

But it remembered being filled, and it knew that what Voldemort had done was not the same, though it would gladly accept even a mockery of life.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Albus take several steps toward him. He dismissed it, an irrelevant distraction that would gain him nothing.

The other Inferi were starting to reach the shore.

He had maybe twelve seconds until sweet, stupid Albus thought Gellert desperately needed assistance.

He locked eyes with the lead Inferius, reaching deep into himself and pulling on every ounce of willpower he had.

It was getting colder. He was deep in it now, deep enough that if he was to go much deeper his blood would literally freeze and he would join the bodies in this cave.

But this was how it was done. To truly control the dead, to master them as much as possible…

The tendrils of his will still rubbed against Voldemort's spell, searching for somewhere where the enchantment had been sloppily cast.

So far, there were no cracks. It was, as it had sometimes come down to, a battle of wills.

A battle of wills and experience.

The Inferius took a step forward, some of the fury ebbing from its aura as Gellert's magic continued to work against Voldemort's. Behind it, others were streaming from the lake, but, as he'd hoped, none of them were streaming past the one whose gaze he had caught. He'd trapped the first, and, it appeared, the link to the others was strong.

Albus moved slowly, the Elder Wand rising-

"Do nothing!"

Another breath, another intake of life. His heartbeat was slowing, the weight of the black magic he was casting bearing down on him.

Another seven seconds and the lead Inferius would reach him.

His heart would stop in five.

Darkness was rushing in on him, blocking out everything but the pearly white eyes of the corpse. The sound of water dripping, somewhere in the cave, began to fade. His arm began to droop, his legs weakening.

He was about to die.

Gellert smiled.

Here, here at the brink of death, one could gain power over the dead as at no other time. At this point, when life trailed out behind in a flickering ember and the abyss hailed before with its endless darkness, one could act as the axis around which mortality danced.

With his exhale, Gellert thrust himself along with his will against Voldemort's. He pushed against the wall of Voldemort's spell, reminding the Inferius whose eyes were still locked on his, what it was to live.

He was closer to death than Voldemort had ever been. He could command the dead in truth, for he was as close to them as any living being could be, and he still held his illimitable will with which to do so.

"You," he gasped, "are mine!"

Voldemort's spell shattered.

For a moment, as always happened, Gellert saw through the eyes of the dozens of dead in the cave, a dazzling and bewildering input.

And then it was over.

Everything wavered for a moment, the world shaking around him.

When he came to, he was panting, his hands on his knees, Albus by his side.

The Inferi had returned to the lake, responding to his unthought wishes. He could sense them at the back of his mind if he concentrated, and that was enough to guarantee their eternal service.

"I'm all right," he said.

His voice, he was pleased to see, sounded as hale and hearty as ever it had. His heartbeat had returned to normal, his sensory input working as usual once more.

Again, Gellert had danced with death, and again, he had come out alive.

As always, he felt drained. Everything was dimmer when he was not facing his imminent demise.

Ironic, that he felt his most alive an inch away from death.

"That was rather impressive. Horrific, but impressive. Did you ever teach others how it was done?"

Gellert's back clicked as he straightened, his arms doing the same a moment later when he stretched them.

"No. None were talented enough to learn. Maybe you, but by the time I worked it out, you weren't interested in anything I had to say."

Albus wore a strange expression, his eyes glowing brilliantly in the greenish light.

"My talents have never run in that direction," he quietly replied. "And that is something I am ever grateful for. The boat is ready for the two of us, but perhaps we should have a small rest?"

"Five minutes, Albus. Just give me five minutes."

"Is the DA going to carry on?"

Harry blinked and looked up, incantations and wand movements swirling around his mind.

After a short lunch, he, Ron, and Hermione made their way to the library to start looking up the spells he hoped to practice. If they were going to learn to fight properly, they needed to narrow down what they'd be focusing on.

Lupin and Sirius had given him pointers when they'd duelled, and he had some ideas based on what he'd seen in the Department of Mysteries, but they needed more. They hadn't yet studied the really advanced stuff in Defence Against the Dark Arts, and so they'd have to first find what spells they even knew enough of the theory to cast, and only then could they narrow their search.

So far, it was a depressingly short list.

"Sorry, Neville," he said, rubbing his eyes, "what did you say?"

Neville shifted, looking uncomfortable. The library was quite empty at this time of day, and the alcove he, Ron, and Hermione had found was private enough, but Neville still looked like he was afraid of being overheard.

"I said, are we going to carry on with the DA?"

"Yes, but it's going to be different. Do-"

"Look, Neville, pull a chair, mate. You're making me feel like a professor or something," Ron said.

"I was saying," Harry said, raising his voice slightly over the sound of Neville's chair scraping on the floor, "That we are carrying it on, but things are going to be a bit different. We're going to focus much more on...dangerous spells, I guess you could say. The type of stuff we could really use in a fight with Death Eaters."

"I can see that," Neville said quietly, looking at the table.

It was covered in heavy tomes, all open to pages depicting combative spells.

Blushing, Hermione closed the book with the most graphic illustrations.

"It's just that everything's become so much more dangerous," Harry explained. "Out there. We need to be able to actually survive. Not just to cast a Disarmer. It means…it means that we need to know how to kill if we have to."

His Adam's apple jumping, Neville nodded.

"I don't think everyone in the DA will want to carry on if this is what we're doing," Harry said.

"Although you're welcome to, of course!" Hermione interjected.

"We're going to be meeting at least four times a week. And we're going to be working hard. Anyone who wants to come, can. As long as they're willing to do whatever they must to survive. And as long as they know that this isn't a game. You can come, Neville. I'd be happy for you to come. But you have to know that this is not a game. This is for real."

Neville was silent for so long, his face downcast, that Harry half-thought Hermione had put him under a full-body bind again.

"You were with Dumbledore at the Ministry the other night," he finally asked, still not looking up. "Weren't you?"

"I was."

Neville looked up.

There were tears in the corners of his eyes, sparkling in the library's lamps.

"The Prophet said that-that-"

Neville broke off, his throat working. His hand, Harry noticed, had curled into a fist.

"The Prophet said that Bellatrix Lestrange was there."

"She was. She tried to kill me."

"You know what she-what she did to my parents. I know that this isn't a game, Harry. I'm in. And I'm not the only one. Susan Bones would join. So would Dean and Seamus. So would Luna."

Harry nodded. Neville knew, as much as anyone his age could, what the Death Eaters were capable of.

"Tell them to talk to me. We'll let you know when we're starting again. Probably only next week, because there's a lot to prepare, but I promise, you're in."

Neville nodded, an incongruous smile appearing against his serious expression.

"Thanks."

He stood up, and an idea suddenly occurred to Harry.

"Neville?"

"Yeah?"

"Watch out for the Slytherins. There's something going on there. Let me know if you see any of them being weird, will you?"

"Sure."

"One of us will have to drink it. It certainly won't prove lethal, as Voldemort would want to question whoever so breached his defences."

Gellert remained poker-faced, not returning Albus' prattle. It was beyond obvious that a potion such as this one was meant to be drunk, and Voldemort was certainly skilled enough to prevent the potion being removed in any other manner.

As for the deadliness of the potion or lack thereof, that was equally clear.

If this had been Gellert's horcrux, if he had been hiding something here, what would he have done?

He would have set it up to do one of four things: it would either place the drinker into a deep magical sleep, one that he would remain in until Gellert found him; or it would cause the drinker to lose all of his memories, so that he would be unable to recall why it was he was in this cave; or he would have it cause such pain as to render the drinker utterly impotent; or, if he had the Resurrection Stone or knew he would be present when the potion was drunk, he would have the potion kill the drinker.

This potion was certainly not a Draught of the Living Death or any of its variants, nor was it any variant Gellert knew of the Amnesia Potion. Since Voldemort did not have the Resurrection Stone and could not guarantee that he would be present when the drinker died to bind his ghost, the potion would not be lethal.

There was only one thing this potion could do.

Voldemort, or course, must have assumed that whoever made it this far would either be unable to make the simple calculation, or would be too frightened of mere pain to drink.

Voldemort was a fool.

Pain was easy. Pain was nothing at all. It was easier, in fact, to suffer pain, than it was to see one you loved suffering.

And it was far easier to suffer pain than to realize what you had wrought, and to realize it too late to salvage anything.

'And, if this is truly in the service of good, the greater my suffering in the process, the more real my redemption.'

The potion glowed with an emerald light, emitting no scent that Gellert could sense but a strange...coldness, perhaps.

"You may have to force me," Albus said, "whatever it is, it won't be pleasant."

"No," Gellert said slowly, "I don't think I will."

"Gellert," Albus frowned, "you have done enough today. Allow me-"

Gellert snorted, his wand flashing.

A silver chalice formed in his hand before Albus had a chance to react. By the time the Elder Wand had risen, Gellert had dipped it into the basin, filling it.

"Let me suffer for my salvation. Let me earn it." he said, raising the chalice to his lips. "Capturing the Inferi was a bit of fun. Let me do something hard, for once."

"Gellert-"

He drank.

The first thing he noticed was the cold.

The potion was cold as ice, cold enough to grate against his throat on the way down. His brain froze, his tongue automatically rising to the roof of his mouth

Then the taste: It was vile, unrecognisable. It made him want to puke, to be rid of this horrific substance.

And then the pain. Gellert welcomed it as it arose in his chest, a roaring, boiling beast that spread from his torso to his neck. If this was all the potion would do, why, this would make a lovely day trip.

He almost laughed.

And then he heard the voice, in the back of his mind. A voice he hadn't heard for nearly a hundred years, a voice he had carefully not thought about for almost that long.

He heard his father's voice, and he suddenly realized that he may have miscalculated the potion's purpose.

Albus was watching, worried, the Wand still raised.

"I'm fine," he snapped, refilling his goblet and draining it and trying, as much as he could, to ignore the memory that was shoving its way to the forefront of his mind.

"Expelled! Expelled! Never in my life… The shame you have brought upon this family! How do you expect your mother and I to show our faces?"

Gellert pulled himself together, rising to his full height. He was tall for a teenager, but not as tall as his father. Not as muscular or as broad either. Nor, like his father, was he capable of growing facial hair that looked like anything worth having, and his face bore one too many pimples for him to have his father's handsomeness yet.

All that aside, they looked alike.

But far more importantly, Gellert knew who was the smarter of the two, and who was the more powerful, and he was sick to the death of pretending otherwise.

His mother, the true ruler of the home, had collapsed into an armchair and was staring at Gellert, her lips compressed and eyes narrowed.

By all the gods, he had been stupid.

To have been caught!

The indignity of it, the sudden, shocking realization that he had made such a grand mistake!

It was almost as bad as the expulsion itself, almost as bad as knowing that in the end, he would be expunged from Durmstrang's records, that his academic achievements would be tossed away, that no more journals would be happy to accept his work.

In one fell stroke, he had ruined his life. No more hope of a research position for him, no possibility of a future in politics.

They would all take one look at his record and see that he had been expelled, and what he had been expelled for at that, and he would never be accepted.

He had ruined his life, and now his parents thought to berate him? Now his father, an ignoramus who barely deserved his job as a clerk, thought to berate him? Now his mother would lash him with her tongue?

Did they think him too foolish to realize what he had done?

"Don't pretend it is I who embarrass you. You can continue slaving away for your revenue department, and she can continue writing about history instead of making it!"

Dimly, Gellert realized that he had not refilled the chalice. He did so and began to drink once more.

"Listen here, boy," his father spat, taking a step toward him, meaty hands curling into fists. "It was my connections that saved you from getting arrested, that saved your wand from getting snapped. You should be grovelling and thanking me!"

"The world should be grovelling and thanking me for what I did! Some things can't simply be learned from books, and if our world is to be saved-"

His father's fist collided with his temple, throwing him to the tiled floor. Stars swam before his eyes, pain and fury swirling to a crescendo before him.

He leapt to his feet, his wand dropping into his hand. His mother rose from her seat, her own wand in hand.

His father took a step back, fear appearing in his eyes.

Had it finally come to this? Would they finally see how powerful, how gifted he was? Would they finally learn, first-hand, just what his impressive grades translated to?

"You dare to strike me?"

"You ungrateful, miserable brat," his mother whispered. "We gave you everything you ever needed. We withheld nothing. We raised you as best we could, and you repay us like this?"

"Your jealousy is showing, mother," he hissed, "my achievements outstrip both of yours combined, and I haven't even started. I will be our salvation."

"I had high hopes for you," she said, stepping closer, her wand steady. "But you refuse to learn the lessons I tried to teach. You are no son of mine. Leave my house."

"Oh, I'll leave. I have no wish to be surrounded by people as shackled as you. I'll leave, and you will never see me again. But I promise you this: everyone in the world will know my name. And none of them will know yours."

Gellert was swaying slightly, the chalice almost slipping from his hand.

Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. Strange, that it should hurt even after a century had passed. This, this was the potion's true purpose: to force the drinker to relive his worst experiences, to feel all the pain and agony of the event itself.

This was going to be brutal.

And he was only a quarter of the way through the potion.

Albus was still standing there, watching him. Did he realize how beautiful he was, how the power he held transformed him from a mere man into something closer to a demigod?

Did he realize that he still held Gellert's heart in his palm, perhaps now as much as he ever had?

How could he not, brilliant as he was?

Gellert refilled the chalice and raised it to his lips, shivering and dreading what he knew would come.

Ariana lay dead on the floor.

Gellert's heart skipped a beat, his rage evaporating at the sight.

Aberforth had knelt down beside her and was wailing, his own pain under the Cruciatus forgotten in the face of his sister's death.

But it was Albus who drew Gellert's eyes, Albus who demanded all of Gellert's attention.

The sight of him broke Gellert's heart.

He was standing there, his wand dropped from a suddenly limp hand, his face lost and forlorn.

A hand gripped Gellert's heart and squeezed tight.

It was over.

There would be no recovery from this.

He knew how great Albus' love for his siblings was. Now, one was dead and he, Gellert Grindelwald, the man with whom Albus had planned to conquer the world, was responsible.

It was all over.

Once again, Gellert's brashness, his need to overreact, had ruined everything.

He could have chosen not to fight with Aberforth.

He could have left it for Albus to deal with.

Once the argument started, he could have Stunned the idiot quickly, instead of putting him under the Cruciatus.

He could have done a thousand things, but instead, he had chosen the path that led to Ariana being dead on the floor and Albus looking so broken.

It was all over.

He had found love, not just a mere infatuation. He had found someone whose intelligence matched his own, someone whose power matched his own, someone who saw the world for what it was and believed as he did in what was required for its future, someone who even believed as he did in the power of the Hallows. He had found all of these things, and lost them all with his idiocy.

This was pain worse than he knew to be possible, pain beyond words, pain almost beyond his capability to comprehend.

Something was tearing within him, all his hopes and dreams and goals going up in smoke before his eyes.

Like a coward, he turned and fled, unable to look at Albus any longer, unable to continue looking at what he had thrown away.

He had fallen to the ground, small rocks cutting into him as his body shook with sobs.

Knowing that the potion was forcing him to relive these memories did not help.

He was reliving them in truth, feeling them as if they were happening right now.

And watching them in retrospect made everything worse since he knew that these were the turning points, that so much pain and suffering could have been avoided if only he had acted slightly differently.

If only the potion had induced physical pain.

If only the potion had killed him.

"Drink," Albus said, his voice wavering, "Gellert, you need to drink this."

Gellert opened his mouth blindly and allowed misery to pour its way down his gullet.

"The closest village is approximately three miles from here, my lord-"

"Don't call me that."

"Apologies, sir. It is a smallish one, fewer than five hundred muggles living there. Farmland. They appear to be civilians."

Gellert cursed and turned back to the maps.

The International Confederation of Wizards, spurred on by the British, Americans, and North Africans, were sending their representatives soon. If his spies were to be believed, and he knew they were, there would be far more than just twenty-five diplomats. They'd have nearly two thousand warriors in waiting, ready for the moment he refused to surrender to attack and end his insurgency.

He had four hundred of his followers with him. Everyone else was scattered around the continent and the Americas, drawing more and more people to his flag.

He had four hundred, and he would be facing at least two thousand, who would be led by Wystan Krum, a man famed for his skills on the battlefield.

He had four hundred, and he needed far, far more.

"What's over here?"

Lukas leaned over, peering at the point Gellert had noted on the map. It was relatively close to them, within Apparating distance, at least.

"That's one of our Muggle allies' camps, sir. A work camp, I believe."

His lip curled, bile pooling in his chest.

Disgusting. The things he had to do to secure a victory. The animals he had to work with… They gleefully, joyously committed atrocities he could barely bring himself to think of.

He hated to even think of what he had to do. He wanted to retch, to run back to a time when everything was so much simpler, when he wasn't faced with decisions like this.

And yet… he desperately needed the numbers.

"How many inmates do they usually have?"

"Several thousand, I believe. At least four or five thousand."

Four or five thousand. That would change everything.

But to do what he was planning…. four or five thousand lives…

But without them, he would be lost. And with them, he could gain a victory that would spread his fame and inspire such terror in his enemies as to weaken their knees before they even thought to face him.

The Elder Wand whispered to him, assuaging his doubts, washing away that anxious pit in his belly.

The decision made, his hands stopped their trembling, though a heavy pit still lay open in his heart.

'It is better,' he thought, 'for one man to damn himself than for the entire world to do so. If I must carry this guilt in order to spare our world it's certain destruction, then so be it.'

"It is," he muttered, "for the greater good. It is all for the greater good. What is it if a few Muggles die, if it will mean my movement survives?"

"Sir?

"Tell Friedrich that I want every Muggle in that nearby village killed," he said. "Tell him to take a squad. I want their bodies whole. And you, Lukas. Go to this work camp, and order them to exterminate their inmates. Every last one of them. They too must leave the bodies whole. Do you understand?"

Lukas nodded, his face a mask.

"They might not wish to obey my orders, sir. They use their captives for work necessary for their war effort."

"Then show them this."

He pulled a folded document from his pocket and handed it to Lukas. His second-in-command, no fool, read it, his eyes widening.

"This is real?"

"Yes. I obtained it in my last meeting with their Fuhrer. It is real. And when they see his signature, they will know that they must do whatever the bearer of this document orders."

"It will be done, sir. For the Greater Good."

"For the Greater Good," Gellert whispered, as Lukas walked out of the room. "Another five thousand sacrifices for the Greater Good."

He remembered that day well. That had been the first time he'd relied on his Muggle allies to provide him with bodies, to provide him with troops.

He'd avoided it until then, in part because he was afraid that his actions might turn some of his less fervent followers away from his service.

In part, however, it was because he loathed to kill innocents purely to create Inferi.

That had been the first time, and he'd agonized over the decision.

After that, it had been easier every time.

"No more," he whimpered, "no more. Don't make me...Let it end. Let it end. Let it end. Let me die and let my sins be cleansed. Let it end!"

"Here. Here, this will make it end. This will make it end."

He drank eagerly.

His right arm broke, the Elder Wand flying from it.

The duel was over.

The earth continued to swallow him, rising until it had consumed him to the waist before hardening again, trapping him there.

It was all over. He had lost.

After everything, he had lost.

All the blood and death and torture had been for nought. He had lost. He had failed.

"Kill me. Do it, you son of a bitch. You worthless, arrogant, beshitted fuck! Kill me!"

Albus walked into his field of vision, still beautiful. His robes were smoking, blood coating his face. His original wand was in his left hand, the Elder Wand in his right.

Berlin was burning behind him, the joyous sound of the Russians attacking its citizens barely heard over the screams. Bodies littered the ground.

And Gellert had lost.

It was all over.

"You don't deserve death," Albus whispered.

The Elder Wand twirled. Everything went black.

"No. No, no, no, no! Kill me!"

It was hopeless. He would never die.

He could see that clearly now.

He was doomed, cursed to live on and repeat his mistakes, to never learn, to fail, over and over and over and over again and to destroy himself in the process. He would never succeed, he would never feel anything other than the utter futile pain of seeing everything he had hoped for torn down before him, of seeing in retrospect how he could have avoided it. He would do nothing other than to delve, once more, into the depths that lurked in the darkness of his soul. And in the end, he would always regret. Better to die. Better to die and to escape this damned cycle.

"Kill me," he begged, "kill me."

"This will kill you. This will bring an end. Drink, Gellert. Drink, my friend."

He drank, waiting for his escape.

"I was wrong," he wept. "About it all. I was wrong."

Gellert lay in his cell, snow sprinkling through the window. Another letter from the family of one of his victims lay before him. Another accusation, another damnation.

Millions of deaths lay at his feet. And it was all for nothing. He had been wrong, he had never had any right to make the decisions which he had, he had never had the right to take a single life, let alone…

He had been wrong, and it was too late to do anything about it. It was too late to change his mind. It was too late to make everything right. It was too late to take it back. It was too late to return the lives he had stolen.

Gellert was just beginning to understand that there was nothing so vile, no two words as brutally, disgustingly painful as 'too late.'

The pain was too much. The remorse, the sorrow, the horror...too much to comprehend. Too much for any one man to contain. It was a wonder he hadn't burst, a wonder his body hadn't spontaneously combust with the pain of it all.

"I should have died," he wept. "I should have stayed with Papa and Mama. I should never have fought Aberforth. I should have died as an infant. I should never have done any of it!"

It was too much.

He sat up and leaned back before ramming forward and slamming his head against the wall.

His head exploded with pain, but it did not fulfil its purpose. It did nothing to distract him from the horrors of realising that it was all too late.

"Too late," he moaned, dropping back onto the floor. "Too late."

He would kill himself, if he thought himself deserving of death.

But he did not deserve that sweet release. He did not deserve to escape. He deserved to live a long, long time, and to spend every second dwelling on what he had done and how it was too late.

Gellert screamed, an explosion of his emotions, a sound that could not possibly even begin to describe his torment.

"I deserve this," he wept, "I deserve to suffer. I deserve to suffer."

Sobbing, Gellert screamed again, the sound echoing through Nurmengard.

Somewhere in the distance, he heard one of the guards laugh.

His sobbing redoubled, the pain only increasing.

Oh gods, it was too late.

Thirst.

Thirst so bad it was beyond anything, beyond even the torment he felt. He wanted nothing other than to slake it, to guzzle until his patched, dried throat was soaked.

"Water," he muttered.

He needed water. It was imperative, beyond all thought, beyond all feeling. He needed to drink, and he needed it now.

"Water."

"Here. Drink, Gellert. Drink."

He drank. The water felt like heaven as he swallowed, a godsend.

His thirst vanished as suddenly as it had come, and his faculties returned.

He was still shaking. He could still feel, in that bone-deep, terrible way, the horror of the realization that he had been wrong and that it was too late to realize it.

He could feel that, but he'd been feeling it for decades now.

His eyes were still closed. He kept them that way.

He did not wish to see Albus, not just yet.

'A tricky one, this Voldemort. But why….ah. The water.'

"You had to bring water from the lake," he muttered, "didn't you?"

"Yes. No conjuring up water in this cave."

'And if I hadn't taken control of the Inferi, they would have attacked. Clever. Clever. Of course, they would kill the drinker, but no-one would escape with the horcrux. Clever. The potion could only be completely drunk if two people had managed to enter here, one to force the other to drink. What if I had not finished the entire potion? Would the memories have continued forever, trapping me in them?

Likely. And if someone managed to finish the potion, it is not worth the risk of them escaping, even if it means losing the information of how they knew about this place. Clever. Plans within plans. He is a dangerous one.'

He knew, of course, what he was doing. He was trying to avoid thinking about everything he had experienced after drinking the potion.

But he could not push it off forever.

"Gellert-"

"Not yet. Albus. I'll tell you later. Give me time."

He pushed himself to his feet, hating how incredibly weak he felt.

"Would you like me to call Severus? He is the greatest Potioneer I have ever met. He could assist, I am sure."

"I need no help, other than time. A nap, perhaps. Enough alcohol to kill a battalion. A few hours, Albus, and I will be fine."

He waited a few minutes, breathing slowly, clearing his mind of all thoughts and feelings.

Then he opened his eyes.

Albus was holding the locket he had pulled from the basin and frowning at it. With a deft flick, he opened it and pulled a piece of parchment out.

His eyes widened as they scanned the parchment.

When he got to the end, Albus closed his eyes and furrowed his brow.

Gellert waited, breathing deeply, still ignoring what he had seen and felt.

"Ah. R.A.B. Very possible. It could have been him, indeed."

"What?"

"This is a fake," Albus said, handing him the locket and the parchment, "and I believe I may know who planted it. If you are up to it, let us return home. I think we need to put the Resurrection Stone to work once more."

Chapter Text

Chapter 13

The Resurrection Stone clicked for the third time in his hand, and Regulus Arcturus Black appeared, a scrawny, pale young man with long dark hair framing a tired face.

It hurt to look at him, to stare into the face of yet another one of those ruined by his inaction. It always hurt when he saw what some of his students had become.

But, if he was correct, Regulus had tried to do what he could to make it right.

"Good evening, Regulus. I wish that our meeting was taking place in a more usual situation."

Regulus appeared skittish, much like the boy he remembered. His eyes darted around the room, settling on no location for more than a few seconds. His hands jittered, jumping in and out of ghostly pockets.

"Liar," Regulus hissed. "You and your Order would have been happy to kill me for what I'd done. And that's only if the aurors didn't get to me first."

Gellert leaned forward, the lamp's shadows twisting his face.

His wand tapped on his knee, as if he thought to attack a spectre. Knowing Gellert, he did.

"Did you not deserve it?" Gellert asked. "Did your crimes not buy you your death, a dozen times over?"

"Yes," Regulus answered hoarsely, looking at his feet.

"Then stop your fucking whining. God, you British are so caught up in yourselves and your insignificant little problems. You don't even know how much I envy you, dead brat. At least you're free of the guilt and-"

Gellert's jaw abruptly shut, his nostrils flaring.

Whatever it was the potion had done to him, Gellert had refused to speak of it. Albus was loath to press his friend when he so clearly wished not to be, but it was affecting him. Though it had only been an hour since they left the cave, Albus was beginning to believe that their conversation could not wait much longer.

It was clearly affecting Gellert, and Albus refused to watch Gellert be in pain without offering, again and again, to help.

"We would not have turned you away, Regulus. Not if you truly wished to leave Voldemort's-" Even in death, Albus was disappointed to see, Regulus jerked at the sound of his former master's name, "service. But that, of course, does not matter now."

Albus raised the locket he had retrieved from the cave. Regulus' eyes widened, his hands coming from his pockets once more and clenching into fists.

"I feel safe in assuming that this belonged to you. Tell me, Regulus. Please. What happened to the original locket? How did you come to know of its existence? And why did you replace it with this fake?"

Regulus stared at him, mouth opening and closing mutely, and shook his head.

Gellert, Albus knew, would be able to force the spirit to speak. There were ways to compel the dead, ways Gellert certainly knew of, not to mention how happy he would be to experiment with the Resurrection Stone.

This situation, however, called for a bit more delicateness.

"Whatever your crimes, Regulus, you were but a boy, a young man who deserves far more from his life. More should have been done for you, to allow you to see past your family's teachings, to allow you to see that Voldemort's way was not the one you had to take. I should have done more for you, Regulus. I did not, and I will bear that pain to the grave, along with the pain of all the other lost children."

Regulus' lips pursed, his eyebrows rising.

"But, for all that I, and the world, let you down, you were a hero in the end. You committed an act of such remarkably incredible bravery, that I truly believe, if it were known to the world, stories would be told of you. Whatever you may have done before then, Regulus Arcturus Black, you died a hero. And I beg you, do not allow your death to have been in vain. Do not let your greatest act be lost to history. Tell me what happened. Let us save more lives, let me save more children. Please."

"I died, Dumbledore. Let me enjoy the peace I never had in life."

"I wish I could do so," Albus sighed, rubbing his forehead with a weary hand. "I truly wish I could. But you died for a purpose, Regulus. You went to that cave knowing that you would die. You drank the potion and replaced Voldemort's Horcrux with this fake locket, knowing you would die. You were not a fool, Regulus. You were a brave, brilliant young man who deserved so much more. You were prepared to die for the chance to hurt Lord Voldemort. You died to hurt Lord Voldemort."

Regulus nodded, an anguished expression appearing and vanishing in the blink of an eye.

"Now, I beg you. Help me hurt him. I swear to you, Regulus. I will destroy him. But I need to know what happened."

Regulus' eyes locked onto Albus' and remained in place, unblinking, staring into Albus' soul.

Then the spectre sighed and lowered his head.

"It was all for nothing. Everything we did. It...the realization crept up on me, I suppose. We were meant to be advancing the pureblood cause but…"

Regulus broke off, a stream of chuckles that sounded unnervingly like Gellert's emerging.

"What does it even mean? To advance the pureblood cause? I thought it would...it wasn't what it was meant to be. It wasn't what we were promised."

Gellert leaned over and patted Regulus on the spectral shoulder.

"We tend to do that," he confided. "Manipulate young, idealistic, useful idiots like you to die for us. Don't feel too bad about it. Your Voldemort is obviously skilled at it."

Regulus blinked, clearly unsure of how to react to Gellert. Apparently, he elected to ignore him.

"Everything was meant to improve. We were meant to take power, And to establish a perfect nation. We would have created total separation from the Muggle vermin, removed Mudbloods from their families as soon as their magic revealed itself...it was meant to be a utopia."

Regulus shook his head and sighed, far more wearily than a dead man should have been capable.

"But everything we were doing...it wasn't going to lead to that. We were doing nothing but creating more bloodshed. Yes, the Dark Lord was gaining power, but so were you. So were the Muggle-lovers. Barty's father was going to become Minister for Magic and he was as ruthless as we were. In our quest to raise the pureblood flag, how many of our oldest families did we destroy?"

"Many," Albus whispered, their faces flashing before his eyes.

"And we were revealing ourselves to the Muggles," Regulus continued, "with our use of giants and grand displays of magic. It was madness. And...the things we did...they were just Muggles or blood-traitors, but…"

He trailed off, a sob tearing itself free before he could choke it off.

"All I wanted was to please my parents. But then nothing was making sense anymore. And He-He is a half-blood. And whenever one of the Death Eaters-"

He glanced between Albus and Gellert, his eyes skittish, before swallowing and continuing.

"Whenever one of us died, he didn't care. He was angry that he'd lost a tool, but that was it. Nothing made sense, and I couldn't carry on, but I couldn't stop. There was nothing to do...and then I realized about the Horcrux, and understood that the reason he didn't care was because he was barely human. Death didn't mean anything to him. He didn't care what happened, because he would be alive at the end of it all. He could destroy everything and rebuild it from the ashes. So I...even if I were to die, it would mean that He would have to care, because he would be in the same boat as the rest of us. And I would finally be at peace, and the nightmares would stop."

"And are you at peace?"

Regulus avoided Gellert's gaze and ignored the question.

"How did you discover that he had a Horcrux?" Albus asked, "And how did you know where it was?"

"We all knew he was immortal, even if he'd never explicitly said how he had achieved that feat. We discussed it among ourselves, but no-one knew. I never even suspected he'd made a Horcrux, until I overheard Bellatrix and Rookwood. Rookwood was saying he thought the Dark Lord had made a Horcrux. That's when it all made sense. That's when I knew I had to destroy it."

Regulus sighed, shimmery shoulders slumping.

"But I had no idea where it was, and no idea where to even start searching. For nearly a year, I had to pretend to be the perfect Death Eater, all the while watching the Dark Lord for any hint, any clue. Then he asked to borrow Kreacher."

Understanding seared its way through Albus' thoughts as Regulus described how he had ordered Kreacher to return. Of course, Voldemort would have wished to test the potion and the cave's defences. Of course, Voldemort would have made the cave impenetrable to Apparition, but would not have thought to prevent house-elves from using their own form of transportation. And of course, Regulus had assumed Voldemort would only make one Horcrux.

"When Kreacher had finished forcing the potion down my throat, he took the locket and went home, leaving the fake as I'd ordered. I managed to crawl over to the lake, and that's when…"

Regulus trailed off, looking down at his incorporeal form with a sneer.

Gellert's slow clapping broke Albus from his reverie.

"Brilliant. Tell me, did you spare a thought for how you would destroy the locket before rushing to your death in your stupid attempt to assuage your conscience?"

Regulus' cheeks coloured, his hands balling into fists as he rose.

"I ordered Kreacher to destroy it," he snapped.

"And you thought a fucking house-elf would be capable of that?"

"That fucking house-elf was able to get out of the cave and take me back there!"

"For all the good it did. You stupid child, you could have-"

"Gentlemen," Albus held up a hand, "this will accomplish nothing. Regulus, I wish that you had come to me with this information when you gained it. Nevertheless, my appreciation, and the world's, for your actions, cannot be expressed. What you have told me today may save thousands of lives. Thank you, Regulus, and goodbye."

Regulus nodded, his jaw clenched.

Once Regulus had vanished, Albus turned to Gellert.

"We should make haste to Grimmauld Place. But first-"

"No. I have no interest in talking about it."

Albus sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Gellert, my dear friend. Please. Help me to help you."

Gellert shook his head, nostrils flaring.

"Not now. Let me think."

"Certainly. Bear in mind, however, that you have a tendency to...ignore, shall we say, that which ails you. We will talk on this soon."

"As you say. Can we go destroy this Horcrux now? Please?"

Albus rose from his chair, his robes billowing out behind him.

"With pleasure. We will have to inform Sirius of this. Hmmm..perhaps he should be given the opportunity to destroy the Horcrux... although if it is as dangerous as the ring, that may prove to be foolish."

"What is foolish," Gellert said as he stood, "is telling that man. Have you forgotten that every additional person to know about this is another person your Voldemort could torture and Legilimize for information?"

"If only I had forgotten, it would have made my decision easier to make. I think, however, that you have forgotten the reactions of the rest of the Order to our...partnership. I need to bolster those who are still on my side, Gellert, lest I end without any support. This will, I believe, greatly encourage Sirius to ignore Remus' decision-"

"I thought all he cares for is the boy," Gellert interrupted. "And no matter what you tell him about his brother, he will turn on you when you kill the boy."

Albus pinched the bridge of his nose, ignoring, for a moment, the trains of thought running in the back of his mind.

"Gellert…"

"Feh," Gellert spat, waving a hand, "I know. You're not going to kill the boy, you'll just engineer a situation where Voldemort does. Brilliant, by the way. If he survives, well and good, and if not, you have yourself a martyr."

"I will only do that-"

"Yes, yes. If all else fails and all your research leads nowhere. But tell me this, Albus: how long have you suspected that the boy is a Horcrux?"

Far, far too long. He'd begun to suspect, when Harry had handed him Tom's diary, but had not allowed himself to dwell on it. In his weakness, he had not allowed himself to face the harsh truth. At least, not until Harry had seen through Nagini's eyes.

And yet...though he had not admitted the truth to himself, he had still found himself researching Horcruxes, and researching how one could possibly be removed without destroying the container.

On some level, on the level of his mind that did not care for self-pity, Albus had known and planned for years.

"Long enough," he whispered.

"And you have heard from the inventor of Horcruxes, insane as he was. So stop lying to yourself and admit what you have to do and commit to your goddamned course of action!"

Albus' brows rose.

So that was it.

"I assure you, my friend, I am entirely committed. I have told you repeatedly: I will do what must be done. But I will not do it so long as I have a chance, however slim it may be, to save Harry's life."

Gellert turned away from Albus with a huff, his fists balling up.

"Gellert-"

"You want to know what I saw, Albus? My friend? Do you want to know what the potion made me see?"

Albus almost took a step back, his fingers nearly leaping toward his wand, so ferocious was Gellert's snarl.

"I saw myself, throughout my life. I saw all the chances I had to...avoid what happened. I saw all the times I dug myself deeper into hell, and I saw how I could have avoided them. And now…"

Gellert turned, and as surprised as Albus had been by his sudden rage, the tears in his eyes were more shocking.

"Now," Gellert hissed, his cheeks blotching, "now you come to me and tell me I can make things right, but I fear I am just digging once more. Yes, you want to save the boy's life, but I will not, I cannot take this path alone. I cannot make the wrong choice once more."

"My hesitation is not intended to cause you to question the righteousness of our cause-"

"I know that!"

"What would you have me do?" Albus asked, as gently as possible. "How can I help you?"

Gellert's shoulders slumped, his fists opening.

"Albus, I can't trust myself to make decisions. Not now. Perhaps not ever again. So far, I have had to force you along. I have been the devil whispering in your ear. No longer. If you want me to trust you, to trust that I am not simply repeating my old patterns, I want you to truly take the reins."

The Elder Wand's song rose to a crescendo, a shiver running down Albus' spine.

Slowly, as if his neck were a rusted hinge, he nodded.

"And," Gellert locked eyes with him, staring deep into his soul. "If I start heading down that path again...if I return to my old habits...crossing lines that should never be crossed...I want you to kill me. Do not lock me away. Do not spare me in cruel mercy. Kill me. Promise me, Albus."

"I swear to you," Albus whispered, "if it becomes necessary, I will do as you ask."

Slytherin's locket sat heavy on the table, a black hole that sucked in the little sunlight streaming through Grimmauld Place's kitchen windows. It seemed to have a weight to it far more than its size should have allowed, as if it were a stone pressing on the blanket of reality.

At least, it did to Albus' eyes, knowing what it was and what had been done to make it. Had he been blissfully unaware of what was contained therein, he would have likely given it no more a glance than any other historical curiosity to cross his path. Such, of course, was the nature of Voldemort's spellcasting: always an exceptional wizard, his enchantments would have prevented even Albus from recognizing the locket's true nature.

Kreacher's heartbroken sobs and Gellert's muttering as he prodded the locket with his wand were the only sounds within the kitchen.

Beside Albus, Sirius sat ramrod straight, a tic in his jaw the only movement on his stony face.

The creaking of the floorboards upstairs told Albus that Molly was still walking around, cleaning obsessively. It would be worrisome, if not that he knew how it gave her comfort after the loss of her home. At the back of his mind, Albus made a mental note to discuss his idea for a new home situation with Arthur when he returned from the ministry, assuming nothing urgent called Albus away before then.

"Kreacher failed," the elf groaned pitifully. "Kreacher tried and tried but…"

He started sobbing full-force again, shaking back and forth as he pummeled his head with his tiny fists.

"Stop that!" Sirius snapped, the first words he'd spoken since Kreacher had begun his tale. "That's an order, Kreacher."

Kreacher ceased his shaking and punching, but continued to sob, albeit while glaring balefully at his master.

"You-" Sirius swallowed thickly and gritted his teeth, "you didn't fail him. You gave it to us, and we can destroy it."

Albus was rather proud of Sirius for that. It was the kindest he'd ever spoken to Kreacher, even if his face looked remarkably like Severus' did whenever Gryffindor won the House Cup.

Sirius shook his head and swallowed again, his eyes gleaming suspiciously.

"But...why didn't you tell me?"

"Master Regulus ordered Kreacher not to tell any of the family, especially not his saintly mother." Then, in what passed for a mutter in Kreacher's poor, mangled mind, he added "Not that Kreacher would have told the mangy mutt who broke his mother's heart and hated his perfect brother, no, Kreacher-"

"Kreacher, I swear-"

Sirius cut himself off with a choked noise, shaking his head once more.

"Sirius, your brother, misled though he was for years, died in an attempt to sabotage Voldemort. Had he been successful, the damage he would have dealt Voldemort would have been...incredible. The destruction of this locket will go a long way toward destroying Voldemort himself. Your brother died a hero."

Sirius nodded, looking like he did not trust himself to speak.

"Parseltongue," Gellert suddenly said, "That's the enchantment. It has a password on it in Parseltongue. Unless you want to go with my original plan and use-"

"No,"

"Fiendfyre will still work even if it's closed, while the sword-"

"I said no, Gellert. Only if we cannot remove the enchantment."

"Didn't you say the boy is a Parselmouth?"

"We're not bringing Harry into this," Sirius said, tone leaden. "Whatever this is."

"Fine," Gellert spat, glancing between the two of them. "Then will you kindly help me with that?"

"Certainly."

Albus drew the wand and waved it at the locket, allowing the enchantments to swirl around and envelope him.

They rose to his senses now, responding to his prodding: he could feel them, could all but see them, dancing in technicolour just beyond the edges of his vision.

The interlinking threads hung there, the glorious, bewildering tapestry that his most infamous student had woven.

"I'll help too-"

"You could help best," Gellert grunted at Sirius, "by staying out of our way, and bringing me whatever I ask."

"Rudely phrased, but not incorrect. Too many wizards spoil the potion, Sirius. If it proves possible, Gellert and I will be done soon. And after that, you will have your part to play, if you so wish."

With that, Albus turned his full attention to the locket and began his work.

The attack came stronger and worse than it ever had before.

Instinctively, he reached out to the emotion that would drive it away: he thought of his parents, of Sirius, of his friends, and he felt love burgeoning within him.

But the attack did not abate.

Pain enveloped Harry, pain of such depth that he could not comprehend it. He was being choked, choked by something that had squeezed around his body a thousand times, with barbs emerging from it and piercing his skin, drawing him into it even as it consumed him. The creature was screaming as well, but as it screamed it pulled Harry tighter, bringing new heights to his agony.

This was worse than anything Harry had ever experienced, worse than anything Harry had ever thought possible. If only he would die and this torment would cease.

Through the agony, he felt his lips moving, dimly heard a voice that was not his own emerge from his mouth: so great was his pain, however, that he could not understand the words.

Voldemort, for it surely was Voldemort, drew Harry closer. His limbs were flailing, somewhere far, far away, his hand rising.

Impossibly, the pain increased: Harry's vision lit up red, and then merciful nothingness blanketed him.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, when Harry woke it was to find himself in the familiar surroundings of the hospital wing.

As he blinked slowly, coming into himself, he was surprised, however, to discover that the pain was gone. In truth, it had been so overpowering that he couldn't have imagined it would have ever faded.

'If I could even have thought while it was happening. God, if it keeps happening like that-its only getting worse. It's only getting worse.'

Horrified at the thought, Harry opened his eyes fully, the hospital wing coming into view.

"Harry? He's awake! Ron, call Madam Pomfrey."

"She's still busy with McGonagall, and give him a minute!" Ron hurriedly said, before turning back to Harry, "And you, don't ever do that to me again."

Ron was pale as snow, his hands shaking as he passed Harry a glass of water. Hermione looked like she was going to burst into tears, but she waited for Harry to push himself onto his elbows and take a sip before throwing her arms around him.

"How long was I out?"

"Been about an hour," Ron said, "but mate, that was horrific. You just...started shaking, and you you sort of sat bolt upright and screamed, but you were talking-"

He cut off suddenly, looking sickened.

"What did I say?" Harry asked, feeling a sudden terror.

"It sounded-it wasn't you. You said something-something about being in the Gryffindor common room. Then you-he screamed some more, and kept screaming 'what is this?' and you-you tried to put your wand to your-to your head. And the voice was-it was twisted, it could barely speak, but it was starting some incantation. I don't know what it was, I could barely hear it, but-"

Ron looked away again, his eyes shining.

"I Stunned you. Knocked you out, but you were bleeding, from your nose and ears-eyes too. I thought you were…"

Hermione hugged him tighter and made a snuffling noise before releasing him, rubbing at her face.

Just then, McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey walked out of Madam Pomfrey's office, still deep in conversation.

"-not in my bailiwick, maybe St. Mungo's but…"

"Yes," McGonagall sighed, "Taking Potter to St Mungo's in the current climate would be catastrophic. What else-Potter!"

Upon seeing him awake, Madam Pomfrey hurried over, waving her wand and clucking her tongue as she harangued him, kindly though, for his constant injuries.

"Not much more I can do for you," she said. "I've a few options that will certainly put you into a sleep that even Possession wouldn't wake you from, but you can't take them for more than a few days concurrently, and it would be better to save their use for when one of these attacks are happening...If we could have someone on standby at all times, ready to force-feed him the potion and even Stun him if necessary-"

"I'll talk to the house-elves," McGonagall said, lips pressed into a thin line. "They can set up a rotation."

"But it's not a permanent, or even very good solution. Normal Possession is rare enough that there aren't many who've specialized in it, but this...Even if St. Mungo's would be a viable option, I doubt there'd be more than one Healer who would know where to start."

Harry shook his head, gritted his teeth, and prepared to say a sentence he'd never imagined saying.

"Snape can help. I need to talk to him."

McGonagall and Pomfrey both sighed, the latter walking back into her office while muttering to herself.

"Potter-Harry," McGonagall said, "Professor Snape is unavailable."

"Unavailable? I don't- listen, professor, he's been giving me Occlumency lessons, he's-"

"Been summoned by He Who Must Not Be Named," McGonagall interrupted, "And we can only hope that he will be returning healthy, whole, and soon. For now, he is unavoidably unavailable. I'm sorry."

"Then what about Dumbledore?"

An unreadable expression flashed across McGonagall's face for a moment, her eyes blazing before subsiding.

"It would be better to wait for Professor Snape to return. Albus is not the most easily reachable person at the moment."

"But-but you're in the Order, you can contact him!"

"As a matter of fact," McGonagall said tersely, her shoulders tensing, "I am not in the Order any longer. It is best for Hogwarts to be independent, to remain apart from the strife that threatens to tear this nation asunder. Someone needs to think solely of the students, and I cannot do that and fight Albus' crusade at the same time."

Harry goggled, words drying up in his throat. Hermione looked flabbergasted, and Ron's jaw had dropped almost audibly.

"But," he managed, "this-we can't just leave this-it's getting worse, and Dumbledore can help-"

McGonagall reached out, as tenderly as he'd ever seen her, and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"I doubt you will listen," she said, "yet it must be said. You are one of my students-forgive me for crossing this boundary, but you are one of the students I think most highly of, and I would be entirely remiss-I would be betraying your parents' memories if I did not speak now. Harry, I beg you...do not trust Albus Dumbledore unconditionally. You do not know what occurs within his mind. No-one does. Do not place him on a pedestal and blind yourself. His goals may not be your own."

Cold fury burned suddenly in Harry's gullet, a fire awakening in his chest.

He shook away from her hand, noticing the pain in her eyes and not caring one inch.

"So," he said, his voice shaking with rage, "just because he's doing something you don't like-something you don't understand, you'll stand by and let Voldemort win?"

"That is not my intention in the least," she said softly, "and you know it."

"I-" Harry shook his head, unable to believe what he was hearing. "How could you? Even if Grindelwald is that bad, I get it, but-"

"I'm afraid you do not. You cannot. None of you can possibly hope to understand what Grindelwald was-what Grindelwald is. You didn't live through it."

"I don't care!"

Harry's yell echoed through the hospital wing, his throat almost bursting at the volume with which it had suddenly erupted. Hermione and Ron both winced, but McGonagall looked unfazed.

"I don't care! He's fighting Voldemort, and that's all I care about! And the ministry, they've got to go too!"

He held up his hand, angling the words Umbridge had forced him to carve into it toward her.

"They've all got to go, and I don't care if Grindelwald is a monster, I don't care if you don't think you can trust Dumbledore, if they're fighting Voldemort, I'm with them!"

McGonagall continued staring at him, wearing a strange sad expression.

"I will contact Albus for you," she said, "but I want-I need to tell you something first."

Harry lay back down and closed his eyes, the storm within him subsiding slightly, his hands still shaking with frustrated fury.

"He Who Must Not Be Named was the terror in the night, the unnamed fear, the shadow that lurked and struck with no warning. You have seen, in the last two years, how he operates-in utter secrecy, with targets unknown to all but him. You do not know what he plans to do, who he plans to kill, who he plans to torture or enspell. So it was, but on a far worse and larger scale during his first rise. Anyone you spoke to-"

She cut off, closing her eyes tightly and drawing a deep breath.

"Anyone you spoke to could have been one of his followers. For all you knew, you were a target. Your friends, your loved ones, they could have been placed under the Imperius or forced into his service, and you would never know. Every day, he seemed to gain more power. Every day, the Dark Mark appeared somewhere new, another innocent falling. We, the Order, we fought him, but we were few in number, and we couldn't ally with the Ministry who we knew to have been infiltrated. Paranoia was rampant, terror in the tone of all you spoke with. He seemed unstoppable, for all that Albus frightened him."

At some point, Harry had turned to face her, his eyes opening and his anger dissipating. Hermione and Ron were both watching her, riveted, although Hermione was chewing her lip furiously.

"But there were no pitched battles. There were no armies marching forward to clash for the fate of the nation. His plans, atrocious, terrible, despicable, horrific, nightmarish though they were, centered solely around Britain. Grindelwald was an entirely different beast."

She shook her head again, looking exhausted.

"You simply cannot understand. I was just a bit older than you three when Grindelwald's war became the center of our lives, but I can remember every minute of it. Receiving the newspaper every day to see which cities or countries had fallen to him overnight. Hearing rumours of the atrocities he was committing. The fear, the everpresent anxiety as he gained more ground, as nation after nation was conquered, as he did things no-one had ever done before...as people, people you knew and loved-"

Her voice shook and she broke off, conjuring a handkerchief with a flash of her wand and blowing her nose forcefully before resuming.

"Well, they were all sent off to fight and simply vanished, joining the thousands, the millions in their mass graves if they were lucky, or forced into his inferi armies if they were not. And every day, the stories...soldiers, thousands of trained wizards, sent to capture him, falling to him and a paltry few of his followers. He was unstoppable. Muggle Russia never fell to Grindelwald's Muggle allies, thankfully, but Wizarding Russia fell to him-for the first time in history, it fell."

Her eyes misted over in remembrance, tears forming in the corners.

"I will never forget that day. We all thought he would take everything, and then, well, for all that he spoke about ruling muggles fairly, we could see past the propaganda. But for all that the world was his, he never dared attack Britain. His Muggle allies did, but he never did, and nor did any under his command. Do you know why?"

Harry locked eyes with and nodded.

"Because, terrifying and nigh all-powerful though Grindelwald was, he was afraid to come into direct conflict with Dumbledore. Do you know what that felt like? To know the man who frightened the man who terrified the world?"

McGonagall shook her head, sighing again.

"So much of that time period has been lost on you all. You Know Who has made us all forget. People seem to think one day Dumbledore just went and duelled Grindelwald and it all ended, but it wasn't like that at all. Dumbledore joined the fray, fighting in France and freeing it from Grindelwald's men. He single handedly turned the tide in Paris, in Rouen, in Troyes, in a dozen other cities...he freed France, and then he moved on, letting the coalition wizards and witches keep the peace. Which, mind you, was a very simple job. Grindelwald's surviving men there were too afraid to start anything with us, after seeing what Dumbledore did, and everyone else was simply glad to see us."

"Us?" Hermione asked, "You were there?"

McGonagall nodded, a shadow falling over her face.

"I joined as soon as I was allowed to, not long after completing my NEWTS. The coalition forces needed every wand, and I had people to find…"

She shook her head again, closing her eyes tightly.

"I saw Albus in action. He saved my life more times than I can count. I saw the true horrors of the war Grindelwald helped create...I saw his men, driven mad by loyalty, lust for power, and fear of displeasing him. They ran straight into spellfire, fought till the soil was so soaked in their blood one could hardly walk. I saw the bodies Grindelwald had left behind as a warning to those who dared cross him, maimed and disfigured beyond recognition. I saw things I still revisit in my nightmares. And I saw Albus step up and lead the charge against the darkness, and emerge victorious."

Looking at Harry, Ron, and Hermione in turn, McGonagall cleared her throat with an almost Umbridgelike sound and continued.

"I tell you this so you can have a glimpse of understanding of what Grindelwald is. I do not, for one millisecond, discount the gravity of the threat that He Who Must Not Be Named poses. I have lost far too many to him and his Death Eaters to, as you put it, just stand by. But I will not, cannot, allow myself to be allies with a creature like Grindelwald, even for the sake of fighting another evil. And I cannot, for the life of me, begin to understand how Albus can think to do so."

She locked eyes with Harry again, intent, her gaze burning.

"You must understand this. Please, Harry. After the dust of the war settled, for several years I apprenticed under Albus and continued my Transfiguration studies. I have been teaching at Hogwarts for just shy of four decades, and I have worked extremely closely with him during that time, especially during my tenure as Deputy Headmistress. For the majority of my life, he has been my mentor, a close friend, the figure I would turn to for guidance. I have been his friend as well, and I have, I dare say, spent as much time with him as nearly anyone else alive. I know him better than nearly anyone else alive. But I cannot fathom his thought process. And perhaps this means that I do not know him at all."

A thick silence met her words.

"I will send him your message, and I will convey his response. I will not sit idly by while you suffer either. But I beg you: do not put all your trust in a man whom you can never and will never understand."

With that, McGonagall patted Harry on the shoulder and strode out of the Hospital Wing, leaving Harry, Ron, and Hermione with nothing to say.

Albus lowered his wand just as a bead of sweat fell into his eye.

He rubbed it, tired, watching as Gellert grumbled and healed the cut on his arm. The silver chalice, wherein sat the locket, still glowed crimson, although Gellert's blood had long since disappeared.

The room was in quite a state of disarray, with potion bottles and ingredients scattered all around, the chairs knocked over, and a scorch mark on the wall in the shape of what appeared to be a kangaroo. Night had fallen, the sun having long set while they were engrossed in their work.

"That was quite the ritual," Albus said, "even if that is stretching the definition of the word somewhat. Did you just invent it?"

"No. I've used it hundreds of times, whenever dealing with a lunatic who mixes Sumerian, Egyptian, and his own spells to protect Parseltongue passwords on a magical locket containing-" Gellert cut off for a moment, glancing at Sirius. "Why couldn't we just have used fiendfyre?"

Albus smiled, some energy coming back to him after the hours spent battling Voldemort's ingenuity.

"Did you not enjoy it?"

"Albus…"

"This way, we will still have the locket. We will be able to return it to the cave, refill the bowl with potion, and make it seem as if nothing is amiss."

"Unless he checks it carefully, which he would do if we went to check."

Albus' smile grew slightly wider.

"Then what a shame it would be if we booby-trapped it, don't you think?"

Gellert turned away from Albus, muttering about old Englishmen, but Albus distinctly saw the corners of his lips twitch.

Sirius coughed, pushing himself to his feet. The poor man looked exhausted. Not trusting Kreacher to get it right, he'd spent the last several hours running around and collecting objects and ingredients for Gellert's ritual, some of which had sent him to Diagon Alley, and two of which had even sent him to Knockturn. Then, however, he'd been watching them do battle with the locket with excitement and intrigue.

Now, he was pale, his eyes darting between Albus, Gellert, and the locket.

"Albus," he said, a distinct tremor in his voice. "You said that this locket is one of several objects that need to be destroyed in order to defeat Voldemort, right?"

"Correct."

Sirius's throat was working, a look of revulsion on his face.

"You-you said that without destroying them, no matter what, we wouldn't be able to kill Voldemort?"

Albus simply nodded.

"When-when I was ten, and Regulus was eight, my parents visited our cousins in France. They had my grandfather, Arcturus," here he nodded at Gellert, "big fan of yours, by the way. They had him look after us for a week. That creepy old bastard, he read us a story from Beedle,"

'Ah,' Albus thought, understanding. 'That explains how Regulus knew what a Horcrux was in the first place. Arcturus may even have told Orion about them. Of course, Tom just as likely found the information in the Hogwarts Library, but it would be deliciously ironic if the son of the man who told him about Horcruxes helped destroy one of them.'

At the same time, another train of thought was weaving its way through Albus' mind.

'He cannot know that Harry is a Horcrux. I cannot lie to him if he suspects and asks, and I cannot mislead him if believes it to be true: lying to him now would only make it so much worse if the worst comes to pass. Yet, if I were to tell him, it would break him. He lives for little other than Harry, and it is doubtful that he will be helpful in finding a method of removing the Horcrux. I cannot tell him that Harry may have to die to defeat Voldemort. Sirius will not be able to live with that.'

"There's only one story worth reading in there," Gellert said.

"He read you the Warlock's Hairy Heart, did he not?"

"Yes. He made it as scary as he could, which was pretty bad, for kids of our age. And then-"

Sirius gulped, glancing at the locket and paling even further. When he spoke, it was hurried, as if he were rushing to get the words out before he lost his nerve. "And then he told us that the magic the warlock did in the story wasn't real, that it was all just a story, but that there is something similar, something much more powerful and dangerous. A way for a wizard to split his soul and hide a shard of it in something, to live forever as long as the object it's in isn't destroyed. He called it a Horcrux, said we should look it up in Secrets of the Darkest Arts and in the Unnamed Tome. Albus...is that-did Voldemort, did he make a Horcrux? Did he make more than one?"

"The locket is a Horcrux," Albus said gently, "and yes, Sirius. I'm afraid to say he has made seven."

"And you'll never guess what one of them is." Gellert said in a sing-song voice.

Luckily, Sirius had staggered when Albus told him how many Horcruxes Voldemort made, and had half-turned away, looking as if he would retch.

Albus seized the opportunity to shoot Gellert the most intense glare he was capable of.

Gellert shrugged, entirely unrepentant.

"Fucking-bloody fucking shitty piece of FUCK!"

Sirius punched the wall and slapped himself across the face, then pulled himself up to his full height, took a deep breath, and turned back to Albus and Gellert.

"Fine. Fine. Voldemort is functionally immortal. Bloody fucking wonderful. Please tell me that after we kill this piece of cunting dark wizard soul there's nothing else to do right now so that I can break out the whisky and black the fuck out?"

"That's a lovely plan," Gellert said, "I'll join you. You know, Albus, I quite like this one. Before anything though, boy, you said your grandfather told you to look up Horcruxes in the Unnamed Tome. Did you?"

"Not a fucking chance. That book was...it was printed on human skin, and it was worse than anything else we had. It tried to read you back."

"You have a copy of it?"

"Master Regulus burned it," Kreacher said suddenly, surprising Sirius and Gellert who, to Albus' amusement, seemed to have forgotten was present. "And Secrets of the Darkest Arts."

Gellert looked crestfallen.

Albus Summoned the Sword of Gryffindor to his hand and then said: "Gentlemen!"

They turned to him. At the sight of the sword, Sirius stiffened his shoulders, his eyes blazing with grim resolve.

"Do you wish to do it, Sirius? I believe it would be a fitting tribute to your brother's memory."

Sirius stretched out his hand and clasped the sword's hilt, a terrifying toothless grin stretching his lips.

"I should walk past mum's portrait with this," he said. "Get disowned a second time for wielding the Sword of Gryffindor. And to be honest-Regulus died as a hero, but he lived as a Death Eater arsehole. I'll figure out how I feel about him later. I'm doing this for everyone else Voldemort took from me."

"Sirius," Albus said urgently, "whatever happens, you must stab immediately. The Horcruxes we have faced, and so far several have been destroyed, have all been enchanted and deadly in their own way. Do not tarry. Do not allow it a chance to fight. Open it and stab, and destroy the soul shard therein."

Sirius nodded, jaw set, and took a step toward the chalice, putting out a hand to open the locket.

Before Sirius had completed his action, Gellert was by Albus' side with wand raised.

"If this goes wrong, I'm casting fiendfyre, and I will never let you live it down."

Albus raised his own wand, nerves steeled.

Sirius flicked open the locket.

Immediately, a figure burst from it. Of silvery sheen, it formed in heartbeats, legs, torso, arms, and then a head and perfectly formed face, distending and forcing themselves through the opening.

For a moment, it seemed as if Sirius would stab. Then, with James Potter standing before him, his nerves failed: his hand fell limply to his side, fingers barely maintaining their grip on the sword.

"It's not him," Albus said, "Sirius, this is part of Voldemort' enchantments, Stab it!"

Sirius seemed not to have heard. He stared, tears streaming down his face, as the apparition with James' form began to speak. When it did, Albus was barely surprised to note that it spoke with Voldemort's voice, Voldemort as he had sounded thirty years previously.

"It's your fault I'm dead, you know. Your idea to have Pettigrew be the Secret Keeper. What, you were too cowardly to be it for us yourself?"

"Sirius, do not listen!"

I'm going to do it," Gellert whispered. "I'll give him thirty seconds, but then-"

"We trusted you. Loved you, even. And then you had to go and mess it all up. But that's the story of your life, isn't it. You used to wonder why your parents always hated you. I used to wonder why I ever liked you. And then you caused mine and Lily's deaths. You really are worthless. Harry has more chance of survival without someone like you as a godfather."

"Sirius, stab it, or Gellert and I will destroy it."

"If I thought you were halfway competent enough to do so," the apparition said with a sneer, "I would have thought you were working with the Dark Lord."

"Sirius, this is your last chance-"

With a wall-rattling roar, Sirius raised the sword and plunged it into the locket.

Metal shrieked, and along with it the shard of Voldemort's soul screeched like nails on a blackboard, a sound that simultaneously encouraged and terrified Albus.

Black smoke exploded from the locket; for a moment, the scream continued, and then it, along with the smoke, vanished.

Sirius screamed wordlessly and kicked the table: one of its legs fell off and the table collapsed, chalice and locket spilling onto the tiled floor.

Sirius stood there, breathing heavily, a look of mingled rage and misery on his face.

"Sirius, my friend," Albus said, striding over to him and placing a hand on his shoulder. "Voldemort has thrived always on lies, and on poisoning love and all that is good. Cherish the memories of the true James, and know that you have dealt Voldemort a great injury this day."

"Now would be a wonderful time for that whisky," Gellert added.

Of course, it was right then, before Albus had a chance to say anything else, that Severus' Patronus appeared, immediately followed by Minerva's.

Chapter Text

Chapter 14

"The Dark Lord is increasingly perturbed by how Potter manages to repel his mental attacks. I have never seen him like this. He is becoming as obsessed as he was over the prophecy. After today's attack…"

Severus shook his head, hair fanning his face.

"You will be pleased to know," Albus said, "That Harry is recovering well and is in good health. I am assuming that the same unfortunately applies to Voldemort?"

"Yes. But he is shaken. He described the pain of the experience to me as akin to when he was disembodied."

Albus nodded grimly, a slightly hopeful thought occuring.

"He collapsed, did he not? Did any of his followers witness it?"

"None but Bellatrix."

"That's his whore, correct?"

"No," Severus answered, somehow encompassing several paragraphs' worth of revulsion into a single word.

"She is his most devoted follower," Albus told Gellert, "she was the one who led those who did not give up hope in him even after he appeared to have died. This will not weaken her conviction."

Turning back to Severus, Albus nodded for him to continue.

"He asked if the two of you had done something to the boy, performed a ritual or the like. He was extremely displeased that I could not answer."

'I will have to move quickly,' Albus thought. 'If Voldemort begins to dwell on the nature of their connection, there is only a narrow window until he will realize the truth. I cannot afford to wait, even if it means warring with the Ministry. But I was prepared for that.'

His eyes flickered for an instant to Gellert before looking toward the window, where the golden rays of the dawn had begun to lazily light up the room.

'Thirty two hours or so until the students make their way to Hogsmeade. He will certainly have something else planned for the same time.'

He affixed his gaze on Severus and nodded once more, as his mind moved faster, conjuring up plans even as he listened.

"He still plans to go ahead with his attack on Hogsmeade, whatever form that will take. I have been," his lip curled momentarily, "instructed to remain in the castle, so that I will not be forced to either fight his forces or show my support of them through inaction."

"What else has he planned for tomorrow?"

Snape grimaced.

"I don't know, other than that it will be large scale and result in many Muggle casualties. I've already told you, he has become far more paranoid."

"I assume therefore," Albus said quickly, cutting off Gellert before he could speak, "that you do not know the identity of his spy in the Ministry?"

"Spies," Severus said, emphasising the plural, "and I'm sure you understand what the word paranoid means."

"You're not a very useful spy, are you?"

"Pardon me," Severus spat at Gellert, "but immediately after experiencing his emphatic displeasure at my lack of information was not the time to fish."

"Aww," Gellert said, as if to a child, "did somebody taste the Cruciatus?"

"Enough," Albus said, his voice cracking like a whip. "We can spare no time for this pettiness. Gellert, your comments are entirely uncalled for. Severus has proved his ability as a spy many times over, and the information he has given us has already gained us much ground."

Glowering, Gellert nodded and muttered something inaudible to the white-lipped nostril-flaring Snape.

"Severus, what of the students you have been working with on his behalf?"

"A few are interested," Severus said, "but I have taken none of them to meet him and swear their allegiance. Not yet. But...the Nott boy is in touch with Draco Malfoy, that's where the Dark Lord's information from within Hogwarts was coming from."

"How is young Draco?"

"Proudly bearing the Dark Mark," Severus answered with a scowl, "being tutored by his loving aunt, and hoping dearly to have the chance to kill you."

Gellert gave a full bellied laugh and clapped his thigh.

"Whoever he is, better men than he have tried."

Albus closed his eyes and thought, a dozen plans arising and being discarded, more coming to mind, some that could work, some with higher chances of success than others.

"Well? Is there anything you wish me to tell the Dark Lord?"

Albus raised a single finger and continued to concentrate, following the trains of thought, seeing, in his mind's eye, his plans through to their conclusions.

Grief blazed across his plans, burning in his chest like acid.

The time had come.

His plan for Harry's survival, based as much upon hope and dreams as upon true theories, seemed to have the highest chance of success if Voldemort himself cast the curse.

Given the line of questioning he was already pursuing, with enough time, Voldemort would ascertain the true nature of his connection with Harry.

His arrogance and conceit would slow him down, but he would get there in the end.

Once he did, not only would he attempt to kidnap Harry, to hide him somewhere Albus would never find, but he would almost certainly suspect that Albus had discovered his secret.

If that happened, he would undoubtedly check on his Horcruxes, discover that Albus had destroyed several, and would then hide the rest away further and redouble his protective enchantments.

The war would never end.

There was so much Albus needed to accomplish before Voldemort learned the truth, and the only way to do so would be to set events into motion that would inescapably lead to innocent deaths.

His eyes flashed open for the briefest fraction of a second and he caught a glimpse of Gellert.

Unwittingly, he remembered that wonderful, terrible day when he had written his friend that letter, when he had penned those accursed words that he still lived by, much as he wished he did not.

It needed to be done, and this way Harry could possibly survive.

But he had been quite sure about things in the past and been proven horribly wrong. On the other hand, inaction would be worse than action.

As much as he loved Harry, he could not allow that love to blind him to the suffering that would befall the world if he did not do what was needed.

He needed to give Voldemort much to focus on, more innocents on the altar to the world Albus hoped to build.

Voldemort must be distracted, so that he and Gellert could hunt the rest of the Horcruxes and enact his other plans.

He would have to act against the Ministry sooner than planned, and he could no longer push off a visit to Hogwarts, regardless of how much it would displease Minerva or how distasteful the actions he would need Gellert to take there.

In fact, a visit to Hogwarts could play well into his plans…

Albus swallowed, forcing himself to appear calm, realizing that, of course, he was trying to salvage the last few moments before he would give the orders he so desperately wished he did not have to.

In his pocket, Albus wrapped his fingers around the Elder Wand, allowing, for once, its urging and song to ignite the fury he tried so hard to keep at bay.

He should never have been forced into this position.

Harry should have the promise of a full, happy life ahead of him, not the mere possibility of one.

Voldemort should never have been allowed to do this, to commit any of the atrocities he had.

Voldemort and his Death Eaters had committed worse than mere murder and torture and destruction.

They despoiled, forcing those who stood against them to sink to their level.

To win this, to uproot Voldemort and his ilk root and branch, Albus would be forced to do terrible, terrible things.

It was frightening and infuriating how eager he felt to show Voldemort and his followers just what they had ignited.

From his perch across the room, Fawkes crooned a few notes, filling Albus, as always, with strength.

His heart gave a pang and, eyes still closed, he spoke.

"Tell Voldemort that Gellert and I have done something to Harry, cast some enchantment of which you do not know. Tell him that we are utilising the connection between the two as a weapon against him, and that even Occlumency will not save Voldemort from it. Every time Voldemort utilises the connection, it will make it easier for us. Tell him, Severus, that though we have been vague, you believe that we will soon be able to strike at him through Harry, that, from an overheard conversation, we estimate no more than three months before we can do so, depending on how much he uses it."

An oppressive silence filled the room, matching that in his heart. The silence dragged on until, once he was certain no tears would fall, Albus opened his eyes.

He expected Gellert to be happy, but he did not appear so: his eyes were soft with sympathy, a sad smile only just touching his lips.

Severus was frozen in place, looking more a statue than a man. His eyes bore into Albus', confusion and fury glittering therein.

"You understand," he said, his voice taut with menace, "what this information will force the Dark Lord to do?"

"I understand perfectly well. Better perhaps, than even you do."

"After–everything I have done, everything, has been to protect Lily's son, and now you will set the Dark Lord even more furiously against him, set him to kill as surely as if you launched the curse yourself!"

"And yet, Severus, I am doing this to protect Harry."

Severus' mouth worked soundlessly for several seconds, his face paling and tightening with rage.

"To protect-what is this-"

"There are matters at hand," Albus interrupted, "that are more complex than perhaps anything I am aware of in recorded history. At the moment, Harry is safe and sound at Hogwarts, where he is beyond Voldemort's reach-"

"Unless he has someone at Hogwarts murder the boy! Not five minutes ago I told you he is in contact with the Nott boy without informing me, he could tell him-he could order me to kill Potter! If I tell him-"

"When you tell him," Albus corrected, "he will almost certainly want to do as you described. But you will immediately thereafter prove your value as a spy, and he will not be so quick to throw what he believes your true allegiance into light. As for Theodore Nott...Harry is protected at Hogwarts. Minerva already informed me that she has set a rotation of house-elves to watch him, lest Voldemort attempt to break into his mind once more. And I will impart upon him the urgency of his being on his guard."

"And how," Snape spat, "do you propose I prove my value as a spy? Seeing as you do not seem to trust me enough to tell me why you are trying to get the Dark Lord to kill Potter-"

"You will tell Voldemort that I have decided to go on the offensive: that my plan, which I have not yet shared with the rest of the Order of the Phoenix, is to begin attacking the Death Eaters. I will meet with the Order soon and then, on Tuesday night, we will take Avery, and once I have torn the information on the rest of them from Avery's mind, we will take the rest, one by one. We will launch an assault on the Ministry holding cells and destroy any of Voldemort's supporter's we find. Tell Voldemort as well that Gellert and I believe that he plans to move on Hogwarts, and so we are visiting the school to bolster its security. Tell him that I plan to move against the Ministry, beyond just their cells, through the use of several well placed spies."

Albus sighed, weary beyond belief. Kingsley and Alastor had chosen their side, but he knew that he would regret what he was about to do for the remainder of his life.

The things he was forced to do to win this war would haunt him forever.

"Tell him that Kingsley Shacklebolt and Alastor Moody are bringing the Ministry under their wing, and that they belong to me, no matter what face they present to the world. Tell him where Kingsley lives. He already knows Alastor's home location."

But, of course, that would not be enough.

Albus wished he could allow himself the comfort of weeping, wished he deserved to feel pity for himself.

The words tasted like ash in his mouth, but he forced himself to speak.

"Tell him further that somehow, Emmeline Vance is central to one of my plans. Inform him as well that Gellert has reached out to the children of many of his former followers and is bringing in foreign fighters, and that Hagrid, on my orders, has been bringing together an army of creatures in the Forbidden Forest entirely loyal to him and me."

Stunned, Severus stared at him, eyes widening.

"While he will still, most certainly, be obsessed with killing Harry, these other concerns will gain us time, that most precious resource of all."

"You would have me sign their death warrants?" Severus whispered, "Just to gain time?"

In the privacy of his mind, Albus knew that he would gladly sign a thousand death sentences and a thousand more if it would guarantee Harry's

safety.

Even Emmeline Vance's.

Even Hagrid's.

Even innocents who had no part in this war.

"This will accomplish far more than merely buying time, this will cement your status for Voldemort, this will help me accomplish several goals, and, with luck, we will be able to prevent this from leading to any further deaths. This will also allow-"

Albus cut off as an idea occurred to him, one which was as absurd as it was brilliant, as risky as it was ambitious. Elegant in its simplicity, he almost slapped himself for not thinking of it sooner.

It would be perilous. Severus would be facing the very real prospect of death or worse, and it was nigh-impossible that he would be able to carry it out and remain a spy.

And yet...after everything he has just ordered Severus to tell Voldemort, could he really turn aside at the thought of one more terrible command?

Of course, it could not happen yet. The other Horcruxes would need to be dealt with first, for her death would undoubtedly lead Voldemort to realize.

"What is it?" Gellert hissed. "I know that look. What have you thought of?"

Albus locked eyes with Severus, the Elder Wand humming in his fingers.

"The time will come, Severus, when I will have to ask you to do something...something more dangerous, and with greater reward, than anything I have asked of you in the past. It may be in a matter of days, it may be in some weeks, it may be in six months, though I dearly hope not...but the time will come when I will need you to kill Nagini."

Severus blanched, somehow paling even further, and seemed to shrink on himself.

"Kill Nagini?"

"Yes. A basilisk fang should do the trick, and as luck would have it, I know where we can find them. This will-"

"You ask too much!"

Severus launched to his feet, his cloak billowing out behind him.

"You expect me to do-how can you possibly think-"

"Severus-"

"No!" Severus roared, and spun, pacing back and forth through the small kitchen, as he ranted.

Fawkes gave a trill as if of fright and flew across the room, landing on Albus' shoulder.

Albus stayed perfectly still and calm, moving only to place a hand on Gellert's when the latter moved to draw his wand.

"You place me into danger, time and time again, you have me walk the finest line possible, have me willingly go to be tortured, to test my Occlumency against the greatest Legilimens in history-you have me give him information that will lead to deaths, lead to victories for him, have me take children and mold them into his followers! You have me do all this and more, and I complain not, for I swore to keep her child safe, and now I must tell the Dark Lord precisely what he fears most, precisely what will make him most desirous of the boy's death-and then, and then you tell me that I must kill his snake, the only thing that he seems to care for, regardless of the danger to me, and what do I get in return? Will you explain? Do you explain any of your decisions with more than meaningless, empty lies? You ask too much and give nothing in return!"

Severus' fist slammed into the table, his chest heaving, fury and agony warring for control of his expression.

"You explain to him," he snarled, jabbing a finger toward Gellert, "but you'll say nothing to me; after all I've done, all you would have me do, you refuse to tell me the truth!"

"Perhaps," Gellert said lightly, "that is because you are regularly in close contact with your so-called Dark Lord, and you know as well as I that even the greatest Occlumens can be broken. And watch where you point that finger, boy."

Severus' mouth opened, and Albus fancied he could see the building explosion of vitriol.

He needed to tell Severus. It was the only way to diffuse the situation, and in fact could play to his benefit.

If their trip ended in failure, Severus would be able to search Hogwarts for the Horcrux that Albus was still convinced was hidden there, and would be able to watch for any signs of Voldemort discovering that Albus had learned his secret.

"Severus," he said quickly, "you are, of course, correct. You deserve to know the truth, the whole truth. Please, sit down. It is time. I am going to tell you everything."

Severus did, scowling and still looking ready to explode.

"Are you certain of this?" Gellert asked. "No matter how good an Occlumens one is, the truth-"

"I am completely certain. Tell me, Severus. What do you know of Horcruxes?"

"I am tired, Gellert. So very tired."

Hogwarts hung above them, the purplish crimson hues of the setting sun and lengthening shadows serving to strip its parapets and gargoyles of their once welcoming embrace.

Perched on his shoulder, Fawkes trilled out a few notes. Hauntingly beautiful as ever, there was an undercurrent to them, a beat that all but matched the Elder Wand's call.

Recognizing what had been its and Albus' home for so long before their ignoble expulsion, the phoenix called for righteous fury.

Hogwarts was his no more. First, he'd been stripped of its wonder due to his inaction.

Now his long awaited action was causing him to live that pain once more.

Minerva would serve well as Headmistress, of that he had no doubt, but he had given his life to Hogwarts, burned his ambitions and hunger for power upon its altar, fed it his youth and the long hours of his days for generations.

The irony, enough to nearly elicit a bitter laugh: were he truly the unhinged madman they so feared, he would have no qualms about seizing the school, regardless of who stood in his way.

'There are none so blind,' he thought, 'as those who refuse to see.'

Severus had left them after their discussion, disturbed and quietly thoughtful. He would do what Albus wished, distasteful though it was.

Albus knew how to lead him along well enough to ensure that would be the case.

Enough truth to prevent him chafing at the bit, emphasis on the importance of his mission, pulling at his tortured, guilt stricken conscience.

It was cold, but it was necessary.

Far beside the point and much as he loathed it all and himself for every word, the important thing was this: Albus meant and truly believed them.

Before Albus and Gellert had taken the chance to leave for Hogwarts, however, urgent missives had come in from Arthur, Nymphadora, and, surprisingly, Mundungus.

Nymphadora, at least, had actually sent a message along with her request to meet.

Her message, though it had added to his slowly building fury, has encouraged him. He had thought it would happen and had set his mind on how to deal with it.

No time to meet them then, he'd called an Order meeting for the next morning, giving Gellert and himself a paltry few hours at Hogwarts. They simply couldn't tarry, not if they wished for any sleep tonight.

Albus suspected he would not find much sleep in the days to come.

"All these years, Gellert," he said, "all these years I spent hiding away in this castle. I taught and led and made my mark, sure enough. I did boundless good through education. And yet there was so much more I could have done. After I defeated you, the world lay within the palm of my hand, and I sought the higher moral ground. I did not exert my power. No, I merely gave my years and strength to their children and protected them, and for that I am disdained and cast aside, forced to act against my nature and flagellate with self-recriminations and guilt. Guilt, for paying evil back as it deserves."

He shook his head, forcing, somehow, his palm to open and release the wand.

"I am tired of being tired," he said. "You were right. I need to show them who I am. I need to show them what they have forced me to become. It is time to stop with the games, my friend. We will be very busy in the days to come."

Gellert clapped him on the back, feeling very much like an electric shock had run through him.

For the first time in decades, there were butterflies in his stomach.

Once again, he was standing at the precipice of greatness, preparing to make history.

This time, however, he would be marked a hero, remembered as one of the saviours of Britain.

Far more than Britain, if he had his way.

Taking a step forward, Dumbledore waved a hand, eyes narrowed. The screeching creak of metal followed, the wrought iron gates opening.

On their pedestals, the winged boars bowed their heads to Albus momentarily.

As they should.

"I trust you will face no difficulties locating the thestals?" Albus asked.

Gellert snorted in reply.

"And you're sure-"

"Yes, Albus, I can do exactly what I said I would. It

would likely be easier if I'd had more time to experiment with the Stone, but it will work fine. I have carried out far more complicated tasks in the past, and I know what I am doing. Go up to the school and leave me to my business."

With a nod, Albus strode through the hallowed gates, leaves crunching underfoot.

Gellert watched him go, a shining figure of might and magic, emblazoned against the dying day.

Finally, finally it was happening, Albus was coming into his own, taking the place that fate had determined for him when it endowed him with such prodigal gifts.

With his mind set, conscious clear, and Gellert at his side, Albus would be unstoppable.

Together, the power they could amass would make any Gellert had ever gained seem miniscule.

And with Albus by his side…perhaps redemption was not entirely beyond Gellert's grasp.

He took a deep breath, relishing in that budgeoning hope, and started walking to the forest.

"I am so proud of you, Minerva," Albus said. "You truly do deserve this position. Regardless of our disagreements, I want you to know that."

Minerva nodded sharply, still looking unsure as if she was unsure whether or not to speak.

"I had a chance to peruse the latest edition of the

Prophet," he continued, "and I enjoyed your interview. You carried yourself well, as I always knew you would. Hogwarts is in good hands."

"Thank you, Albus."

Other than three personal photographs and several new additions to the library, Minerva seemed to have changed nothing in the office.

She hadn't even removed Fawkes' perch, something Fawkes had been thrilled to see.

He'd flown over to it the instant they entered the room and immediately went to sleep.

Albus could almost pretend everything was the same, were he not sitting on the wrong side of the desk.

The uncomfortable, cold silence between them; that was new too.

The portraits of Headmasters and Headmistresses past had welcomed Albus amiably with one exception; Armando had sniffed, shaken his head, and stepped out of his portrait.

Albus tried not to let it bother him too much.

Armando had been his mentor at one point, but he had never accepted that Tom Riddle, perfect student that he was, could ever be a threat.

Eventually, Minerva found her tongue.

"Is there anything you can do for him?"

"Possibly," he said, ignoring Phineas Nigellus' snort. "So far as I can tell, this is a unique case."

As he'd hoped and expected, she did not press him for specifics, just as she hadn't when he'd been using his instruments.

"If I may ask, how has the feeling been among the student body?"

Minerva's reply was long in coming.

"Tense. Far more arguments and fights than usual. Poppy has had her hands full dealing with some nasty hexes."

Unsurprising.

Children they were, but children absorbed the views and beliefs of their parents, and when said parents were directly involved in the conflict…

Hogwarts was always apart from the politics of the outside world, but it could never escape them entirely.

"Any withdrawals?" He asked lightly.

"Only three. Families running off to the continent, just like before. Albus…what exactly do you need the house elves to do?"

He kept his sigh internal.

Also unsurprising that his relationship with Minerva was dust in the wind.

A friendship of over forty years, cast aside in favour of the ghosts in Minerva's memory.

"I dare not tell you. It will not endanger the students, staff, or integrity of Hogwarts, and will not cause them to be derelict in their duties. This I swear to you."

A low susurrus of the portraits' whispers filled the room as Minerva's lips tightened and nostrils flared.

"Albus-"

"I do not speak lightly," he said. "But I truly believe this may prove utterly essential to Voldemort's defeat."

She didn't even flinch at the name, he noted with approval. Instead she leaned forward, hands clasped on the desk which so recently had been his.

"This is a school, Albus. A school which has been placed in my care. I would hope you of all people understand the weight of that responsibility."

"You will find, I think, that I understand the weight of responsibility greater perhaps than any other living being."

She shook her head briskly as if ridding herself of a fly.

"Hogwarts' position is still at great risk. We have no Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, and the ministerial decree which allowed them to force that woman upon us is still, theoretically at least, in effect. The governors begrudgingly accept my position, but it is tentative. At our first meeting, one of them proposed that if You Know Who moved on the school, we should surrender unconditionally to him."

Were Albus not familiar with the governors, his jaw would have dropped.

"Another suggested a partnership with the ministry. A third suggested unconditional surrender to you. All three proposals were voted out, but none were shouted down. Albus, for Hogwarts to weather this crisis, for it to survive as it has for a thousand years, we must remain apolitical. My duty is to the students, to their parents, to the staff, and to the governors, in that order."

She rested her hands along with her case, gazing at him expectantly. No matter the appearance she wished to give, she was on edge. Her hackles were raised, her muscles tensed, her hand ready to fly for a wand.

For the first time, Minerva McGonagall was looking at him with fear. Doubtless, she knew that if he wished he could simply seize the school from her right then, taking what was in fact, rightly his.

If he had not already crushed his heart, it would have shattered at the emotion lurking in her eyes.

"In an ideal world," he said quietly, "Hogwarts would not fear governmental interference. In an ideal world, it would welcome it."

"The world is far from ideal," she snapped, "and I need to proceed with the assumption that it won't become a utopia overnight-"

"Certainly not. It will take me several months at the very minimum."

A moment of blank silence followed, and then Minerva laughed. Her mirth vanished as suddenly as it had come, but a vestige remained in her eyes, blanketing that terrible fear Albus had noticed.

Still asleep, Fawkes began to hum, a lovely, heartwarming, deep melody.

Minerva glanced at the phoenix and sighed.

"When you agreed to hand Hogwarts over to me, it was under the condition that you and he had some business here that you would need to carry out. I will not deny that I accepted that condition. But, Albus, you must understand my position-Hogwarts' position. If anyone-parents, governors, or ministry-even discovers that you are here…"

"I understand. None other than you, Harry, and the elves will know that I was here. You know how dearly I hold Hogwarts' independence and the students' safety."

"We'll know you were here," Phineas Nigellus said from his portrait, causing his neighbors to begin to heckle him for the mere suggestion of impropriety.

Armando walked back into his portrait and pointedly directed his words only to Minerva.

"He's on his way here."

Minerva nodded.

"Just answer me this, Albus. Truthfully, please. If I had refused your request, what would you have done?"

Albus locked eyes with her. Her smile was gone, all her comfort with him vanished once more.

"If the choice was between obeying your wishes and letting Voldemort roam free or bringing about his downfall, I would, with all my love and respect for you, have been forced to choose the latter."

"And if I had stood in your way?" She whispered.

"Let us be thankful," he said heavily, "that it did not come to that."

The thestral's blood matted the forest ground, leaves and twigs caught in its marshy blackness.

Against all reason it shone, a darkness that pulled at the eyes and intrigues the senses.

The body had been discarded, much as Gellert had loathed to do so.

If Severus truly was as talented a Potioneer as Albus claimed, he could have worked wonders with thestral teeth and eyes.

Though he hated the waste, if he killed the thestral for any reason other than the spell, some symbolism would be lost.

He could have performed it without the thestral, of course, but it had been long enough without doing so that he wanted every aid he could take.

As far as Gellert could see, the forest was empty. Since the thestral, he'd come across nothing living, just as he'd expected.

The work he was about was as ancient as history, and the wild places remembered and feared it well.

All was silent in the clearing, a pocket of icy calm enveloping him and cutting him and his work off from the rest of the world.

He could see the trees shaking, could see clouds pinwheeling across the moon's pale gaze overhead, but no wind was heard or felt in his surroundings.

The distant lights of the castle were muted, candles across an ocean.

He had begun slowly distancing from the world of sensation, of life, from the moment he had slit the thestral's throat and spilled its blood on the now unhallowed earth.

A flick of his wand and the earth began to glow around the pool of bloody mud, with hauntingly beautiful and utterly impossible shapes appearing in the ichor's reflection.

He kept his eyes away from those bedazzling shapes even as he knelt and cupped a hand into the blood, careful not to let his mind wander from his purpose.

The blood was as ice to the throat, so cold it burned with his swallow. He drank more, forcing his way through the delicious agony of it, spitting out the tiny twigs, broken grass, and crushed leaves as he went.

It tasted earthy and cloying, but still he partook of his unholy sacrament, the results of his sacrifice of death unto death to call the dead.

Somewhere far, far away, a bell tolled.

Having drunk his fill, he rose with a curious weightlessness, a strange sense that if he would but jump he would soar through the air like the wind itself.

As he stood, he ran his hand, still coated in a thick cloying layer of the beast's blood, over his face.

Not a drop fell from his chin, not a drop was lost.

The bell chimed once more, closer this time.

His heartbeat began to slow as he concentrated, and, eyes still closed, he cast the spell, breath exploding in a cloud of icy mist at the final exhalation.

He felt it as something barely more tangible than a whisper exploded from him, rocketing forward and splitting into streams which then themselves split and shot out, searching, searching, finding….

The bell chimed again, a hair's breadth from his ears.

He opened his eyes once more and saw that the dead of Hogwarts had come to him.

There were dozens, no, hundreds of them–the closest were but an arm's length away, the furthest on the very edge of the clearing his spell had formed.

With no discernible order to their ranks, they stood in lines, a silvery grey sea of bodies facing him, many bearing the gruesome injuries of their deaths.

A silent mass, the ghosts stared at him.

These were not, Gellert knew, the ghosts as the residents of Hogwarts saw them: his summoning had done more than merely call them to him. They had been brought closer to life than their shadowy existence ever offered, but at a terrible cost: by all accounts, it was excruciating for them. Far more importantly, only by binding them could a ghost be exorcised or truly permanently harmed.

There was the other side to the coin as well, the risk Gellert was taking: by binding them, he made himself vulnerable to attacks from them, attacks that an immaterial creature such as a ghost would otherwise never be able to carry out.

Some of them were certainly not regular fixtures in the school. The young girl with her entrails spilling out of a nasty stomach wound would likely have spoiled the mood between classes, as would what Gellert thought was a victim of a truly incompetent flaying attempt.

"You have not the right," a wizened witch hissed, her skeletal hands working as though she longed to wring Gellert's neck. "No master of Hogwarts are you, no master of these lands. You have not the right!"

"I have the right. By will, by knowledge, by might, and by need, I have the right."

An ancient ghost, certainly one of the oldest present, caught Gellert's eye. Wearing a knee length flowing robe with a metal rod tucked near his waist, he held a sickle in one withered hand. With a wild grin, he mimed slashing it across his throat.

How long had it been, Gellert wondered, since druids roamed these lands? How many centuries had this druid spent chained, wishing it could abandon this mockery of life?

If only it had chosen differently at the moment of its death.

A silvery, plump ghost decked in the habit of a monk floated forward, pushing his way through a knight pierced with so many arrows he looked a pincushion. Frowning, the monk spoke softly.

"There is darkness in you, yes, but you are more than that. By the ancient laws, you should not do this. It is not too late to turn back and leave us in peace. Please. For your own sake as much as ours."

That speech, so earnest and honest, tore a cackle from Gellert's throat.

Laughing madly, he slashed his wand forward.

The bell chimed again, inside his head, so loud that all other noise was eradicated.

A thousand ink-black threads exploded from Gellert's chest, intangible and horrific. In the blink of an eye, they hurtled forward, burying themselves into the mass of ghosts.

By all that was holy and unholy, it was glorious. Intoxicating power surged through him in a flood of ecstasy–he was untouchable, he was unassailable, it was like he was young again with the world in his palm-he was a god amongst insects. This army of spirits was his, bound to him tighter than words could ever describe. He felt their fear, and oh how he had missed that sensation, trapped in his tower and locked away from his magic.

"You dare-" the claw-handed crone began, until, mirth in his voice, Gellert's shout cut through her ire.

"I dare! I have always dared to do what I must, and I will not be commanded by the shades of those too cowardly to face what lies beyond!"

That sent a ripple through them, indignation and fury driving hands to memories of weapons.

A knight stepped forward, spectral fingers tightening on the hilt of a broadsword.

"Will you do better?" He called, "We have heard of your deeds. Will you choose to face what justice waits, when your time comes?"

"And it draws near," the crone snarled, "with every breath you take, your end approaches. Every beat of your age-ravaged heart brings you closer to your own ending. Release us!"

Power thrumming through his veins, Gellert tossed back his head and laughed again.

He felt it before it happened, of course. He would have known even without the binding, because, separated by millennia though their lives were, he and the druid were kindred spirits.

Like Gellert, the druid would choose nothingness over servitude to another.

Blazing with purpose and might, Gellert would not offer the choice.

A whirlpool of fury and the strange strength ghosts gained with age, the druid shot toward him, sickle and rod outstretched. His hatred rode before him in a wave, palpable and heavy. He was quick and sudden as a bolt of lightning on a cloudless day.

Gellert was faster.

The barest tap of his wand along with a snarled thought and the druid was swatted out of the air like a fly against a giant's hand.

Immaterial though he was, his crash left a crater, dirt and rocks flying helter skelter along with rod and sickle as if to escape his fate.

His blood pounding with might, Gellert sneered at his erstwhile foe.

This being had thought to attack him.

Had thought to bring him down.

Had thought to free himself of the bonds Gellert had forged.

Ridiculous. Disgraceful.

An example needed to be made. The spirits were his in bonds of magic few but he knew to forge, but soon they would be his in the far tighter bonds of terror and awe.

Gellert raised his wand at the prone, translucent figure, and the stench of the massed shades' fury crashed into him.

"Stop." He raised a hand, and they obeyed. "Pay heed."

A tiny piece of what passed for the druid's flesh tore itself free from his body and rose until it was in full view of the assemblage. It shimmered strangely in the moonlight, motes glittering as it fell to infinitesimally miniscule pieces and vanished from sight.

The druid began to scream. Soon, there was nothing to be heard but his screams, not even the gasps and exclamations of his watching peers.

Gellert did not allow it to pass quickly.

He worked with excruciating patience, ripping away at the druid inch by inch, allowing each piece to fall apart before moving on.

He left the head for last, so that the sounds and expressions of agony could be heard and seen until the very end.

By the time it was over, the moon had raced halfway across the sky. Gellert rose, alive as ever he'd felt, and faced the ghosts he had called.

They looked sickened, horrified. Their fury had been burned away, replaced with a terror that the dead had thought long behind them.

"No exorcism for him," he said softly, "no final release. Nothing but pain until time itself ends. Follow my bidding and I will release you. Disobey or attempt to harm me, and I will make his fate seem a mercy."

"He-he had been haunting here for centuries before the Founders were even born," a young, shell-shocked woman said, looking like she would be sick if she could. "He advised them and the Architect. He guided them to magic none others knew. How could you? What you have done is an abomination, a desecration of-"

"Spare me the sermon. I have done far worse. Likely I still will."

He ignored the strange feeling that had no place when he was so powerful, the feeling he'd experienced so much in his cell.

Guilt gnawed at him, but he pressed on.

"I require information, and I have a task for you. That is all. Bound you are, but bound you shall be no more if you but tell me what you know and do as I ask without delay. Understand?"

"We cannot harm the students of Hogwarts," a ghost wearing an extremely pompous outfit, complete with ruff, said. "Bound or not, we cannot."

"And I would not ask you to," Gellert replied, "after all, I'm helping them now. As they would say, I'm one of the good guys. No, it's not the students of Hogwarts I come to you for. It is Voldemort. Tom Riddle, as once he was known."

A ripple ran through the mass, one or two of them shaking at the name, preposterous as it was.

"He was, is, obsessed with objects belonging to the Founders. Most of you were present in his school days. Did he discover any? Aside from Hufflepuff's Cup and Slytherin's Ring, that is. Speak now, if you know. Be silent if you do not."

The ghost who had lamented the druid glided forward, her eyes as cold as the blood on her chest. Chains rattled as a bloodstained, wide eyed man stared at her as she went.

When she spoke, her voice glistened with poison.

"He knew the location of Rowena Ravenclaw's Diadem."

Ignoring the muttering that broke out at this, Gellert leaned forward, locking eyes with her.

"Are you certain?"

"I told him where it was myself."

His heartbeat quickened. "And where was that?"

"A hollow tree in a forest," she smiled cruelly, "in Albania."

He closed his eyes and counted to ten, forcing himself not to destroy her, destroy them all.

A forest in fucking Albania? If Voldemort had any sense, he'd have turned it into a horcrux and left it there. Searching the beaches with Albus had been torturous enough, but an entire fucking country, and Albania of all places at that…

"Does anyone else know anything?"

He opened his eyes to see them milling around, shaking their heads or simply ignoring his gaze.

"Very well. Thus I command, and with this I release you: search the school. Every inch of it, the places used daily, the secret places none have tread for centuries. Search for this Diadem, or anything else belonging to one of the Founders. When you find it, alert Snape at once, and take him to it. That is all."

He slashed his wand through the air, and the thickness vanished. With a pang, he felt that incredible strength and icy confidence leave him.

"You," he said, pointing at the witch, "go tell Albus what you told me, and then join the rest of them on their search. Now!"

They fled.

As soon as they were gone, Gellert dropped to his knees, bleakness stealing over him.

Was this all he was good for?

To inspire terror and fury, to destroy?

To practice the darkest magic once again in the name of the greater good?

Could he ever change? Could he ever, at the very least, stop enjoying his role?

Was this what fate had cast him as?

His tears wove bitter lines down his face, and he contemplated loosing his fury on the world.

He had set Paris aflame once. He could do it again, larger, a conflagration that would snuff out millions.

Let Albus and his sweet lies of redemption mourn him, but let it end.

At least he would stop circling the same old position, always the villain, always telling himself he was doing it for good, when in truth he was doing it because that was when he felt most alive.

What was the point of trying to be better, when he had destroyed his capacity to do so?

A figure appeared at the edge of his vision.

He was on his feet in an instant, wand drawn, before he realized it was the ghost of the monk.

"I told you to go."

"Ah," smiling, the monk wagged a finger, "but you didn't forbid us from talking with you first. Not that any of the others wanted to, I don't think."

"What do you want?"

"Many things. Peace on earth, an end to unwarranted hatred, for every man to love his fellow like a brother, equality for all…but right now, to offer a correction. You said we had chosen to remain as ghosts out of cowardice. That isn't true, at least, not in all of our cases. Helena stayed because she wanted to remind her mother of her role in her death. The Baron stayed because he felt he did not deserve rest. Ichabod wanted to defy his murderers. Cuthbert wanted to continue teaching as did, I think, poor Diviciacus. Fear of the beyond played a part for many, but certainly not all."

Gellert shook his head. "Do you have a point?"

The ghost, damn him, was grinning. The dead bastard was enjoying this.

"I stayed because I had dedicated my life to the service of others. In my short time on earth, I helped many. It would not be prideful to say I was a force of good. And when I died, I thought…why end it now? So I remained, and in the thousand years since then, I have helped countless times more than ever I had the chance while living."

The ghost floated closer now, mirth vanishing and being replaced with–was that pity?

"One does not manage that without learning to read people very well," the monk said, "a skill, admittedly, that I always had, even as a young child. A good sense for what people are feeling. And you, my friend, are in terrible pain."

Millions dead by his wand and orders. Turmoil and strife that still left its echoes across the world. His name forever cast in infamy.

An endless spiral, always returning back to the same monster he was doomed to be.

No, pain was not a word Gellert would choose. There were no words for it.

"Like many of us, I pay attention to the news and politics of the living world. Pray tell me: why have you allied with Dumbledore? Why have you joined him on his crusade?"

"Perhaps I just wanted the chance to be free again. To be free to destroy once more."

Gellert strove for a light tone, but failed. Bitterness lay heavy in his words, and a wind rose around him, pulling dust around his feet.

"No," the monk frowned, "that's not it. I have a feeling about you. A strong feeling. After all this time, my feelings are usually correct. There is much darkness in you, Gellert Grindelwald. But there is more than that. Why did you join Albus? Why fight Voldemort, when you could betray Albus, ally with Voldemort, and achieve your original goals?"

Hateful, despicable creature. How dare he subject Gellert to this analysis, as if it would possibly help?

"I hoped for a chance of redemption," he spat, "for something good to be attached to my name."

Beaming, the ghost clearly restrained himself from clapping. It took almost as much restraint for Gellert to not tear him to shreds.

"I thought as much. So then, if I may ask: why must you portray yourself the villain? Your display with Diviciacus was unnecessary, and I could see that while you enjoyed it, you also loathed it. Why must you take that role?"

Gellert's wand flashed, a nearby tree exploding into a million splinters

"Because that is who I am!" He roared.

"Is that who you are," the monk said patiently, ignoring the outburst, "or who you were?"

Gellert's wand came to rest directly between the monk's eyes. Enough, enough of this absurdity.

"There is no difference. I am as I was, and I always will be."

"I don't believe that. And you don't have to believe that either."

A howl erupted somewhere deep in the forest, Gellert's hair rising at the sound.

How long had he spent listening to this insipid drivel?

Motes of a terrible purple light gathered at the tip of his wand.

"Enough. What do you want?"

Annoyance, finally, flickered across the monk's expression.

"I already told you. I want an end to hatred. An end to inequality. I have worked towards this goal for a thousand years, in my own quiet way: speaking to students, assuaging them of their fears of others, bringing together those who would never choose to meet. I remained as a ghost and served as an example of love and compassion, and though few recognize my contributions, they have had an effect."

"How lovely for you. Ten seconds before I discorporate you, then you can scream into the void about love and compassion."

If the threat frightened him, the monk did not show it.

"If there is one man who I know to share my dream, it is Albus Dumbledore. If there is one man who I believe could make that dream a reality, it is Albus Dumbledore. Much as I abhor violence, I am not so foolish to think it is never necessary. Albus Dumbledore can heal the world, with your help. If, that is, you are willing to view yourself as something other than a monster."

Gellert's arm, heavy suddenly, fell to his side. Fatigue stole across him, his eyes closing.

"I am-"

"You are more than the darkness within you," the monk said. "You are more than your deeds. If you choose to act the hero now, you will not have to be the monster. The choice, my dear man, is yours. There is always choice."

Silence stretched out. A cold wind blew, leaves crashing through the clearing.

Gellert forced himself to speak through the heaviness in his throat.

"Nothing I do can wash away my crimes. Nothing I do can fix them."

"No. But that does not mean you have to return to them. Nor does it mean you are prevented from doing good. The choice is yours."

He opened his eyes again. The monk was staring at him, still pitying.

"There is darkness within us all. But very few sink so low into it that they cannot still do good. You have not sunk so low. You dare not sink so low. For if you do, you will bring Albus down with you. And if Albus falls to darkness…"

He shook his head and then, abruptly, cocked it, staring at the castle.

"I must go join the search. Already I have pushed the boundaries of your commandment to the breaking. Think of what I said. You always have choice, and you do not need to be a monster, not even in your own eyes."

Albus nodded along patiently, waiting for Harry to ask the question that was so clearly burning at him.

They'd shared an interesting and useful enough conversation, with Albus confirming–with the aid of one of his instruments–that Voldemort's soul shard was still separate from Harry's soul.

In sacrificing herself, Lily had ensured not only that Harry would live, but that he would be unaffected, to a degree, by the horcrux.

Through Lily's sacrifice, Harry might come out of this all alive.

He'd assured Harry, of course, that Voldemort's attacks were not likely to continue.

He'd reminded the boy of what he needed to do in the event that Voldemort did attempt an attack, and made it clear to Harry that he should make every effort to not be alone at any time.

He was both sickened and proud at the ease with which he said these things.

Reassuring Harry while planning what could easily be his demise?

Despicable. Beyond reproach.

But necessary. And so he did it.

Mere moments before Harry had arrived for their meeting, Albus had received a most interesting guest. The Grey Lady herself, coming, on Gellert's orders, to confess how she had handed Voldemort an object for a Horcrux.

He gave no indication to Harry that his thoughts were elsewhere, but they most assuredly were.

As they discussed how Harry and his Defence Association were progressing, the general feeling in the school, and most importantly, Voldemort's intrusions into Harry's mind, he was musing on the diadem.

Voldemort would not have left it in Albania, he was all but certain of that. All the other Horcruxes had been placed in locations with symbolic meanings to Voldemort, locations of great import. What meaning did Albania hold to him?

None, while Hogwarts held plenty. The Diadem- the final Horcrux they'd been struggling to identify-surely it, of all objects, would be placed in Hogwarts?

And yet…after the Killing Curse had rebounded and destroyed Voldemort's body, his wraith had fled to Albania.

It was there that Quirrell had found him.

It was there, later, that Peter had found him.

If there was no Horcrux hidden there, what had drawn Voldemort to Albania?

A troublesome thought. If, as he so dearly hoped, the ghosts or house-elves found the diadem in Hogwarts, it would not warrant worry.

Then he would merely have to concern himself with breaking into and stealing a Horcrux from a Gringotts vault, killing Voldemort's snake, dealing with the Harry problem, and killing Voldemort–while facing off with the Ministry.

Nothing too onerous, thankfully.

Harry was still silent. Albus copied him, turning his thoughts to the upcoming order meeting and what he would need from his…friends.

Yes, matters could play out quite satisfactorily, if all went according to plan.

He'd have to stop and speak with Hagrid before leaving Hogwarts, however.

If Voldemort believed Snape's words, it could at least serve in Hagrid's best interests for him to gather up some deadly creatures. He certainly still had one or two of those Skrewts around, as much as he'd tried to hide them from Albus.

Harry still wasn't talking. The portraits were stirring, the instruments Minerva had not removed were whirring, and Fawkes was humming, but Harry was silent.

"Well, Harry," Albus said, making a show of looking at his watch. "This has been a most informative and, dare I say, lovely meeting, although I wish the circumstances were better. Unfortunately, I believe the Headmistress will soon be wanting her office back."

Harry looked stricken, for a moment.

Ah. So he did want to ask. He just hadn't built up the courage. A doorway question it would be, then.

"You'll be keeping your father's cloak with you at all times?"

Harry nodded.

Oh, how Albus longed to borrow the cloak, to finally unite the hallows. Just at the thought, the Elder Wand began to thrum.

He would not do so. He would not give in to his desires.

Of course, if his plan failed and Harry did not survive…

Another detestable thought, one that made Albus want to retch.

What a monster his mind was.

"Before I leave," Albus said, rising from the chair that had so recently been his in truth, "I did wish to offer you my compliments. For your interview with Ms Skeeter," he said, to Harry's confused look. "That was a most courageous step you took. To go public with your story…I'm sure it must have taken some wrangling for her to offer an unvarnished interview."

"She's an unregistered Animagus," Harry muttered. "She can turn into a beetle. Hermione figured it out, even caught her in a jar for a while. She had to do the interview properly or we'd tell the Ministry."

"An ingenious plan," Albus said, "though one I would not be so quick to admit to. Blackmail is still frowned upon by many, even if Ms Skeeter is a deserving target. My compliments, nevertheless. And, if there is nothing more, until we meet again, Harry."

He nodded his goodbyes to the portraits, whistled for Fawkes, and began to leave.

His hand was on the doorknob and Harry still had not asked.

Interesting.

Was his trust in Albus so great that he would overlook Grindeldwald's involvement? Or was it his hatred of Voldemort?

Regardless, it worked in Albus' favour, particularly if Harry's friends felt the same way.

As long as Harry's reticence wasn't due to mistrust.

After all, he who holds the hearts and minds of the youth, holds the future of the world.

Off to speak with the house-elves, Albus left the office that had once been his.

"You did well."

Gellert grunted, his eyes not moving from the glass in his hand. The amber liquid sloshed as he swirled it, the intensity of its odour melding with his pipe smoke and giving the impression of a bar.

A small, cozy bar.

They'd retired to Albus' cottage, to plot and sleep before the madness continued. The place felt more homely now, with Gellert in tow. Homelier, but more morose, too.

"Diary, Ring, and Locket destroyed," Albus said, aiming for as cheerful a tone as possible. He didn't quite manage it, not with Gellert so out of sorts.

"The Cup is in Gringotts–I imagine it will be best to wait as long as possible before taking that one. Nagini is with Voldemort, and Severus will deal with her at the right time. Harry is at Hogwarts. As for the last one, the Diadem…I still believe it is at Hogwarts. I hope it is at Hogwarts, because the alternatives are unbearable. Still, if the elves and ghosts have no luck within the next few weeks, we may need to visit Albania."

"The way my life is," Gellert said, "we should pack our bags now. Have you had any alternative ideas about dealing with the boy?"

Albus' brow furrowed. What had happened to Gellert in his meeting with the ghosts? He sounded compassionate, a far cry from every other time they'd discussed Harry.

"You know I haven't. We need to tear Voldemort's soul out of his body. Maybe, maybe if we were absolutely certain it was possible, and that we could trust a Dementor to choose the correct soul-no, I would rather risk Harry's life than risk his soul. I won't stop looking, even if I have given up hope that I will find an alternative solution."

Gellert nodded, tapping his pipe into his glass.

"If it comes down to it, and Voldemort will not do it–"

"I have told you before, I will not falter!"

"I know you won't," Gellert said. "I was going to say that you should let me do it."

Eyes narrowing, Albus took a step forward, the Elder Wand singing from his pocket and begging to be drawn.

"You still don't believe me capable," he accused. "You think I will place my love for the boy above everything."

Gellert raised a hand. "Not at all. But I think it will harm you far more than it would I. There is a spark of innocence in you, Albus–not naiveté, not ignorance, but a spark of childlike joy and wonder. Killing the boy, no matter how necessary it is, would crush that spark."

For that, Albus had not been prepared. His sudden ire dissipated, a bright flash, reminiscent of the all-encompassing love he'd felt that summer so long ago taking its place.

"It would not be the same as killing your enemies, and you know it," Gellert continued. "You love the boy. You would do anything to spare him harm. To be the one to kill him would destroy you. And I fear what you could be without that spark."

A crooked smile twisted Gellert's lips.

"Besides, think of what it would do to your image. Few will understand why it had to be done, if it comes to it. Better for them to add another crime to my name."

He was on Gellert a flash, gripping him in a tight embrace. Were he a younger man, he would have felt the stirrings of desire. But time had not passed him by, and the urges of the flesh had gone.

"Thank you," he whispered. "but if all else fails, and Harry must be killed, better it be at my hand. Better it be at the hands of one who loves him and wishes for nothing other than his survival."

"Albus-"

"No, Gellert. I appreciate the offer-truly, I do, but this is my burden to bear. I could have done more to stop Voldemort when he first rose. I could have prevented the conditions that allowed him to gain power. Because I did not, so many are dead, and Harry may have to die. This weight is already on my shoulders. To allow you to take it would be to abrogate my responsibility."

Gellert sighed, eyes closing tightly.

"Whatever you say, Albus. I'll allow you to destroy yourself. Whatever you wish."

What had happened to him in the forest? What had the ghosts said?

"Gellert -"

Gellert's eyes shot open, blazing. He moved back, breaking out of Albus' arms, and locked gazes.

"Do you remember what I made you promise?"

"Yes. But Gellert-"

"You promised," Gellert said, "that if I start crossing boundaries and going down old paths, you would kill me. Will you stand by it? Will you do me the same favour you would offer the boy?"

"I already told you I would."

"I want you to promise again, now. On your sister's grave. I need to know, Albus. I need to know that I won't drag you down. I need to know, with utter certainty, that you would kill me before that happens."

Albus seized his shoulder, his stomach churning with a sudden fear.

"What did the ghosts say?" He asked urgently, "what did they say, Gellert?"

"Nothing I did not already know," Gellert said. "I am not giving up. I am not asking you to do this now. I just need to know that you will do it if necessary. I need it, Albus, for my own peace of mind. I have ideas and plans, but I need your promise to launch them."

"As you wish, Gellert," Albus said, "I promise you, on Ariana's grave, on my mother and father's grave, on the graves of all those whose deaths I could have prevented: I promise that if you are falling into darkness again, I will kill you before it is too late. I also promise that it will not come to that."

But the emphasis he placed on his final words did nothing for the foreboding sense of doom he felt.

Chapter Text

Chapter 15

"We need to talk."

One glance at Sirius was enough to succinctly inform Albus what, precisely, the subject of their conversation would be.

Dark bags hung below red-rimmed eyes, sure signs of a sleepless night.

He had figured it out, as Albus had been certain he would. Sirius had always been too intelligent for his own good.

"Certainly," Albus said with a grave nod. "Certainly. Would you prefer to wait until after the meeting?"

Sirius glanced over his shoulder toward the sitting room, where the rest of the Order was clearly present. Albus had heard their conversation the moment he'd entered.

Sirius closed his eyes for a moment, face tightening. "I'll wait," he said hoarsely.

"Thank you, Sirius. You know I wouldn't even suggest waiting unless I believed it truly necessary. Gellert, you were planning-"

"Yes," Gellert interrupted, "I'll talk with her after the meeting."

"Perfect. Onward, then."

The atmosphere among the Order grew thick and heavy, even a tad frightful, as Albus and Gellert joined them, their conversations breaking off as the door to the sitting room opened.

Sirius stalked to join Nymphadora near the empty fireplace.

Albus took a moment to gauge the room as he and Gellert took their seats at the head of the long oak table.

The group still seemed strong, though clear factions had formed, and he was sure he knew their intentions.

Sirius and Nymphadora, there by the fireplace, expressions telling their tales.

Hestia, Dedalus, and Sturgis, huddled together around Emmeline on one side of the table, nervously looking away from the Weasleys on the other side.

Hagrid, beside the Weasleys, was calmly knitting, apparently oblivious to the tension in the air, while Mundungus was doing his best to fade into the few shadows in the corners of the room.

This will be an interesting one.

"Good morning," Albus said, a flick of his wand bringing steaming teacups before him and Gellert. "I hope you are all well-rested, for I fear we have our work cut out for us. I apologize for my shortness—now is not quite the time for chit-chat—and I hope it will not be mistaken for rudeness. Nymphadora, have you heard anything from the Ministry?"

The tightening of her fists was enough of an answer, but he let her speak, sipping on his tea to pass the time.

"Mandatory bereavement leave," she spat. "Not that anyone else has been placed on it. Proudfoot is still there, hell, they're bringing in everyone they can, no more leave or anything like that. And Kingsley all but told me that if I leave the Order the Ministry will welcome me back with open arms. Bastards."

Kingsley's betrayal burnt deep, tempered only by the fact that it was not unexpected. Damage control, that was important now. Nymphadora was in a perfect position for his and Gellert's needs. How much, however, could Kingsley tell the Ministry that he had not already?

"I am truly sorry," he said, "I know how important your work as an Auror has been to you. You will soon have your position back, I swear it."

Nymphadora nodded, all but growling.

"I must ask—"

"Three," she said. "Three willing to talk to you. I'm as certain as can be that they're not plants."

"Good," he said warmly, "very good. Thank you, Nymphadora. Arthur, I assume the Ministry has acted the same toward you?"

Arthur nodded glumly.

"They gave me notice yesterday," he said. "Won't qualify for unemployment either, the way they've done it."

Poor, poor Arthur. His salary, meager though it was, was what his family had been relying on for everything, not to mention rebuilding their home.

"I am so sorry," he said, the words dead on his lips. "Bill, what of the goblins?"

Bill shifted in his seat, hesitating for a moment before answering.

"You know them. They're not willing to give the Ministry anything without very heavy concessions. As a whole, they're not interested in you or You Know Who either. More interested in him than you, actually."

Gellert muttered something, a low, furious phrase equal parts insult and curse.

Albus drained his tea, then, setting it down, clasped his hands tightly.

"My friends. My brothers and sisters in arms. It is time to do what we must. I take no pleasure from saying this, but the time has come for us to begin moving against the Ministry in earnest."

"Albus…they may be misguided, but how can we raise our wands against the Ministry? How can we fight our friends? How can you ask this of us?"

Ah, Emmeline. As I suspected.

"This is a last resort," Albus said, "something I dearly wished I would never have to do. The Ministry is broken, Emmaline. Can't you see that? Can none of you see that?"

Murmurs of agreement met his statement, Hagrid, of course, louder than all the rest.

"Aye, broken's too kind a word by half, I'd say."

"The Ministry," Albus continued, "has resisted every attempt at reason. It continues to pander to the wealthy, the pure, the so-called highest members of our society. Right now, as we speak, the Minister and his coterie are scrambling to make deals with wizards who are Death Eaters in all but name. How can I ask it of you? How could I not?"

The crosstalk was growing, Hestia now arguing with Sirius, a red-faced Nymphadora looking as if she would whip out her wand and start hexing at random.

"If we fight the Ministry, we're going to cause a full scale civil war, Albus. Chaos, madness—The Ministry was chosen by the people—"

"Then perhaps it would behoove the Ministry to remember whom it is they serve."

"And killing them all would achieve that?" Emmeline shouted, cutting through all the other arguments and leaving a ringing silence in her wake.

"I would have hoped you'd know me better than to think that was my plan," Albus said quietly.

"I thought I did," she said, cheeks pink, "but everything you've been doing—"

"Sometimes, it is necessary for a good man to do evil things. This is a war, Emmaline. I did not start it. I did not make Voldemort what he is. I did not make Lucius and Narcissa choose their side. I did not make Nott choose his side. They chose it. And if we wish to end this war, to truly end it, then, even though we despise doing so, we must visit upon them such violence that they will not dare to fight us."

Nymphadora had leaned forward, her teeth bared, an eager, terrible light in her eyes.

Emmaline, however, shook her head.

"Albus—"

"I will harm no innocents," he interrupted, "and I will not request any of you to do that, nor approve of it if you do. But my mind is set. The Ministry is Voldemort's unwilling and unwitting partner, and is unfit to guide its constituents through this crisis. If you are not with me on this, if I do not have your trust…I will ask you to leave."

Emmeline flinched back, stricken.

"There will be no retribution if that is your choice. Any of you." He glanced around the table, Emmaline's group jerking their gaze from his, while the rest stood strong. "I will not begrudge you that choice, I will not lose any respect for you. I have made my reasoning clear, when first I brought Gellert to freedom, and repeatedly since then. I have chosen my path. Now, I am afraid, it is time for you to choose. Are you with me?"

It was hesitant, slow and shaky. Time passed, Albus staring at her over his steepled fingers, until finally…

"Yes," Emmaline whispered, echoed by Hestia, Sturgis, and Dedalus.

"Excellent. Now, I think, we have much planning to do."

Albus allowed himself a moment to think, to rub his forehead and allow the calm, confident exterior to vanish.

Sirius had already entered the library, and Albus was but a few steps behind him. He wouldn't have long, but by god, he needed a moment.

He'd let the meeting drag on throughout the entire day, with barely so much as a break for lunch.

His decades as an educator had prepared him for squabbling children, and dealing with Severus on a bad day had more than sharpened his tool. Still, by the end of it, his composure had been more than slipping, and several times he'd had to prevent Gellert from doing something bad.

Regardless, it had served his purpose well. The Order were now as prepared as possible for what was to come, agonizing though that process had been.

He'd plotted with them as if he were just thinking of his plans, pushed them to articulate his ideas as if they'd thought of them themselves. By the end of it, even Emmaline had been hard at work—even Mundungus had pitched in.

Guilt gnawed at him, making him want to retch.

Emmaline had very little time left, weeks at the most. He'd all but handed her to Voldemort, along with Kingsley and Alastor.

And he would do it again, if he had to.

Now he had to face Sirius, to explain to him what would have to happen to the only remnant of Sirius' closest friend—the boy Sirius loved almost like a son.

His mind burned like bile with those accursed words he'd formed for Gellert. How he wished they weren't true.

Enough. Enough time spent moping.

He ran his fingers over his eyes, breathing deeply and restoring his usual manner.

Then he followed into the library.

Some of the books on the shelves hissed as he entered, while others whispered for him to pull them out, to settle down and lose himself in their promises of power.

Sirius was waiting for him, sunk into a deep leather armchair, wild hair draped over his bowed head. His shoulders were tense, muscles taut.

Albus took the armchair across from him and leaned forward slightly.

"Since you told me about—about Voldemort having Horcruxes," Sirius said, with no preamble, "I've been thinking. Too many things make sense now. Tell me I'm wrong, Albus. Tell me Harry isn't a Horcrux. Please."

Albus' stomach twisted, Sirius' begging tone tearing into him.

"I wish I could," he said softly. "But it will forever remain a wish. I will not feed you false comfort and honeyed lies. You are right, Sirius. Harry has a piece of Voldemort's soul within him. I am so sorry."

Sirius began to sob, lifting his hands to his face and shaking with the force of it.

His throe passed so quickly that Albus was almost unnerved.

"I fucking knew it," Sirius said. "his connection to Voldemort—he's a Parselmouth—I fucking knew it. But then I got thinking—"

He lifted his head, tear streaked face level with Albus's.

"I was thinking—if he is one—why wouldn't you fix it? Why—why wouldn't you remove the piece? And the only thing that makes sense to me, the only fucking answer—"

He broke off suddenly, punching his leg and groaning.

"You can't remove it, can you?"

"No."

Sirius began to shake with sorrow, a pathetic figure so far a cry from his usual lively self Albus could scarcely reconcile the two.

Albus waited in silence, allowing Sirius the time he needed.

Time would be in short supply soon, after all.

"So Harry has to die?" Sirius finally asked, as his heaving sobs receded into hiccuped coughs. "Or else Voldemort lives forever?"

And here it was. The moment of truth.

Dare he give Sirius hope?

"There is a possibility," Albus said slowly. "An infinitesimally small possibility, but one that exists, nevertheless."

Sirius looked up sharply.

"You recall, I am sure, that Voldemort used Harry's blood to resurrect himself, and that afterward Voldemort was able to touch him?"

A jerky nod, a tiny flash of light in Sirius' eyes.

"He used Harry's blood, Sirius," Albus said. "The blood in which Lily's sacrifice, Lily's love, still flows: the very love which had saved Harry from Voldemort in the first place. If Voldemort himself were to kill Harry, I believe Lily's blood would tether Harry, and only Harry's soul, to life."

"You believe," Sirius said flatly. "You believe it might. For fuck's sake Albus, that's not enough. No, that's not nearly enough. Fucking hell, this is Harry's life here—"

"And what would you do? Would you take Harry and flee? Do you think, for an instant, Voldemort would ever stop searching? Do you think you would evade him forever?"

Sirius leaped to his feet, kicking back his armchair. Tears were drying on his cheeks, his expression contorted with pained rage.

"I don't fucking know, all right?! But would it kill you to be a bit more certain? Can't you—can't you just fucking say—all this theorising and maybes, it's his goddamn life!"

"I promised you no false comfort," Albus said, "and I will give none. I can be no more certain. The theory is sound, but we are in entirely uncharted waters. I have searched, Sirius. I have scoured the Library of Alexandria, the great storage of Svalbard, the ancient refuge of Vilcabamba. I have left no stone unturned in my studies. This is magic in its purest form, magic beyond spells or language."

Sirius staggered back, dropping into his discarded chair like a stone.

"I broke out of fucking Azkaban for him," he said, voice ragged. "He's all that's left, everyone else is gone, Remus fucked off, James and Lily—Marlene—Albus, he's the only one left."

Albus placed a hand on Sirius' shoulder, gripping firmly.

"Voldemort and the Ministry have stolen so much from you, my friend, so much from us all. We cannot bring back all that we have lost. But we can fight until the last breath, until the blood has run from our veins, to ensure that no more is stolen."

Sirius laughed, wild and furious, a hint of madness lurking within.

Albus would never tell him, but he could be frighteningly like his cousin sometimes.

"Oh, I'll fight. I'm with you, Albus. I'm going to burn every last one of those motherless cunts."

"So we shall. But we shall not give up hope for Harry, not for the tiniest fraction of an instant."

"Never."

"And as for Remus…" Albus frowned. "Someone, I think, has been telling stories they should not have. It is something I should have dealt with earlier. Do not give up on Remus either, Sirius. You know him better than I do. You surely know his tendency to run when overwhelmed."

"Yeah," Sirius said, wiping his eyes. "I do."

"Then you must also know his tendency to return. I cannot speak for him, but I am sure Remus is already suffering terrible guilt and remorse at having fled. I believe he will rejoin us. Even if he does not, however, we must soldier on. Come what may, we must soldier on."

Sirius met Albus' eyes, and Albus fancied he could see the man strengthening his resolve.

"Till the bitter end," Sirius said.

Gellert led the way up the stairs, not checking to see if his quarry was following him.

He knew she was. Frankly, it felt quite nice to be followed by a pretty girl. Far too long since he'd had that, even if she wasn't looking quite so pretty at the moment.

It put a jaunt in his step.

He led her up through the winding old home, down a portrait-lined corridor, and through the room he had spent a night in.

"Just through here," he said, walking to the balcony.

Once upon a time, a pretty girl like her would have found him entrancing and begged for a break in the bedroom before discussing business.

Now he was being followed only out of curiosity and a hope for vengeance, while being looked at with fear and disgust.

Ah, how the mighty fell.

He took a seat at one of his conjured chairs on the balcony, basking in the still night air and moonlight. The meeting with Albus' followers had taken far longer than expected, long enough that he'd wanted to murder the lot before even hitting the halfway point.

But at least he could have this conversation now, just after nightfall.

It felt right.

The Muggle houses all around slightly spoiled the mood, particularly with how polluted the sky was. He could barely make out the constellations, his old friends.

But to sit here, in the heart of London, overlooking the city, a free man…

The mighty could fall, but perhaps they could rise again too.

She took the other seat as he lit his pipe, relishing in the thick smoke.

"Well," she asked. "You said you wanted to talk to me."

She didn't sound frightened at all. That was good, impressive. But that was to be expected. She was an impressive woman by all accounts, for all that she was barely more than a child.

He eyed her, absently blowing smoke rings as he did.

She'd lost her powers along with her parents, that much was readily apparent. When he'd first met her, her hair had been a striking pink, her features improved with dozens of imperceptible changes.

Now she was—well, pretty enough, but bland.

"You're a Metamorphmagus," he said. "How could I possibly miss the opportunity to speak with you?"

She flushed, shoulders tensing slightly.

"I'm much more than just—"

"Yes, yes," he flapped his hand through the air, "you're an Auror, one of the youngest in the last hundred years. Not just that, but you were mentored by that mad dog Moody, who I hear had not taken other apprentices for near a decade. You had top marks in all your classes, and Albus accounts you a talented and loyal witch. But we cannot forget that you are a Metamorphmagus."

He stretched his back, tapping his wand on the glass table and summoning a drink.

"I was quite enamored with your kind for a period, you know," he said, "I grew obsessed, one might say. The idea of discovering the roots of it, of granting the power to my followers, it took hold of me. An army of unidentifiable spies, capable of infiltrating everywhere I wished."

He shook his head, whistling softly.

"It was a beautiful dream."

"That's impossible." She said flatly. "You're either born a Metamorphmagus or not. You can't become one."

He stared her in the eyes, the glittering lights of London behind her.

"I have never let the impossible stand in my way."

He sighed and took a sip. Quite good liquor, this Black had.

"But, in this case, you are correct. I studied until there was nothing left, until I was the greatest theoretical expert on Metamorphmagi in the world, perhaps. And then—well, I'll spare you the gory details, but I studied the two unfortunate Metamorphmagi who fell into my grips intently. Extremely intently. Every inch of them, inside and out. And to my supreme displeasure l, I found no way to grant the gift to others."

"If that's supposed to reassure me—"

"No, I was a different man then. And if I'd wanted to study you, you'd already be trapped somewhere far, far away from others. I want something quite different from you. I want to help you."

She narrowed her eyes at that, but said nothing.

He let the silence stretch out, relighting his pipe and taking another sip from the brandy.

"Help me?"

"Is this the real you?" He asked, a flap of his hand taking in her appearance as a whole. "Where is the colorful hair? Where are the striking eyes, the shifting nose?"

"Fuck this," she said, jumping to her feet abruptly. "I don't need a sodding analysis."

"No. You need revenge. You need to destroy your bitch aunt and everyone she associates with, and this beshitted world which has let them flourish. And I want to give that to you."

"And by talking about 'the real me' you're going to give that to me?"

For all the sarcastic bite in her words, there was interest. There was hope there.

"Oh yes. There was a Muggle by the name of Sun Tzu. He said—"

"Yes, I know the shit. If you know yourself, whatever. I know myself, alright?"

"Then why have you lost your ability?"

She staggered as if slapped, going pale.

"From what I know, Metamorphmagi have a difficult time knowing themselves truly. The constant tiny shifts in appearance, the utter fluidity of it all... It can't be easy to maintain a solid state of self amongst all that, I would imagine. It can be easy to utterly lose control of one's abilities, to even lose them entirely, when a sudden emotional shock comes. But I can help you get them back."

"How?" She whispered.

He gestured to her seat, taking another sip.

"Those who cannot do, teach. I already told you, I studied your type with a single-mindedness I doubt you have ever seen. I can help you get your powers back. And so much more. With your other talents, I could make you your aunt's equal. You could help Albus and I destroy them all."

He smiled at her and placed his glass and pipe down sharply on the table.

"If, that is, you are willing to learn. If you are willing to ignore what you think is impossible. And if you are willing, of course, to do whatever is necessary to achieve your goals, to let nothing stand in your way."

She took a seat, eyes wide.

"Teach me."

A speck of light drew closer to the cottage, flying out of the sun and carrying its radiance along.

It would appear they did not have long until it all began.

It should not have excited him the way it did. The Wand's song was almost too soft to hear, now, but it was constant, humming along with the blood in Albus' veins.

He had never before hungered for a fight the way he did now.

"You remember the plan?" Albus said.

Gellert snorted.

"I made the plan with you. If you make me go through it one more time, I swear I will do something utterly vile."

"Please remember when you're speaking with-"

"Albus," Gellert said, placing his hand over Albus' and squeezing enough for it to just begin to hurt. "I know how to command a crowd."

"Of course. How could I forget? I will admit, old friend, I find your demeanor quite encouraging. When we went off on separate missions in the past, you wouldn't let me hear the end of it. Now, well…I am encouraged."

"How could I not be happy?" Gellert said, smiling easily. "This is my plan as much as yours. It will work, provided the others do as they must. And I am rather looking forward to seeing what I can make of her."

Another sacrifice to the greater good. But what was Nymphadora's innocence and unstained soul weighed against so many lives?

Regardless, Voldemort had already stolen Nymphadora's innocence.

"Your hopes for her are still as high?"

"Higher," Gellert laughed. "An apt pupil, that one. If I can remember enough from my obsessive period, she will manage it, I have no doubts. Even if she does not manage that, she will do very well. Enough time with her, and she'd rival my greatest followers. You've neglected her deeply, Albus."

Fawkes was drawing nearer now, his song just on the edge of hearing, melding perfectly with that of the Elder Wand.

"I've preferred not to turn those who trust me into weapons."

"If only you could still afford such a luxury."

Albus turned from the window and clasped Gellert's outstretched hand.

"If only. Good luck, my friend."

In the face of the old man before him, Albus could see a shadow of the teenager he had known once, with that fearless, incorrigible grin.

"Luck? The only day I needed her, that fickle bitch abandoned me. Go on, Albus. Be wonderful. Be yourself."

With a crescendo of inhuman song and golden flame, Fawkes appeared on Albus' shoulder.

It was time to go.

"You're quite perky."

"I've always been a morning person," Gellert said, winking at her. "All the wild, untapped potential of the day to come, it will give you strength if you just let it."

Tonks rolled her eyes, her hand never leaving her pocket as they walked.

They were walking through Knockturn Alley, apparently considered to be a relatively lawless place, especially in the current climate.

It was nothing special, to Gellert's eye. The soot stained buildings, foggy road, and shadowy storefronts had their charms, he supposed, but nothing about them bespoke danger. There was no sense of the rage and fear he'd felt in true lawless places, none of the false bravado he'd learned to expect and appreciate.

Of course, he was a recognizable figure. The huddled forms they passed shrunk further or fled, leaving his and Tonks' footfalls the only ones to be heard on the cobbled street.

"I slept well last night," he continued, "and am still reveling in my freedom, even if this unholy land refuses to give me a good, full sunny day. Tell me, child, did you practice those exercises?"

She eyed him with a similar expression one would give a rampaging hippogriff.

"A little. I'd be able to concentrate on them more if you explained how they'll help."

"And I already explained that once you practice them a bit more, you will see the benefit yourself, and that it is an intensely personal experience and one that will make itself perfectly clear. Do try and keep at them, will you? Otherwise our work will be limited to other areas."

"You said—"

"Those other areas are still necessary," he interrupted. "But until you can learn to detach your ability from your emotions entirely you will not benefit from anything I can teach you regarding them."

They walked past a few decrepit buildings in silence before she grabbed his arm and stopped, pointing at a tavern across the street.

"That's one of the places Dung was talking about."

Gellert peered at the faded wooden sign that creaked in the wind outside the place.

"The White Wyvern," he muttered. "What a stupid fucking name. Are they all this bad?"

"This is actually one of the better ones," Tonks said, "I think."

"Pray that we are rescued soon. Anything will be better than this. Well, into horrors unknown, eh."

The bar was much as Gellert had expected. Dark, with little sunlight filtering through the grayed windows and the few candles placed haphazardly around the scattered table serving to highlight the pools of shadows, not banish them. The walls had some remarkable stains, but otherwise, the place was like one he had visited a thousand times before.

Silence fell as the bell above the door announced his arrival, the dozen or so people there turning to stare. They were adorned in a manner befitting their locale: tattered robes and torn rags were the theme, it appeared.

They recognized him, faces paling, drinks falling from suddenly weak hands. There it was, the delectable fear he'd been awaiting.

With Tonks having entered, he blatantly tapped his wand against the door and unnecessarily spoke the incantation for a locking charm.

Fear transformed to terror, the ecstasy of holding it all in his palm threatening to drown him.

He allowed the silence to stretch on for a few moments before calling: "Next refills are on me. Get yourselves something good, would you? I'm not wasting my money on troll piss."

Laughs too shrill to be natural greeted his announcement, and he and Tonks made their way to the shaking barman.

"Please," the barman whispered once they neared him. "I don't want any trouble here. None of them are bad folks, I don't want a fight—"

"I don't want a fight either," Gellert said, tossing over a small pouch that jingled as it landed. "I'm just here to talk."

"That's what they all say, though, isn't it? Please—"

"I'll have an ale. Something strong and dark. And your name, please. And she'll have…"

"Just a tea. Green."

The volume behind them was slowly rising, as the denizens got over their shock and immediate horror.

I wonder how many have thought of drawing wands already? Not enough, I'd wager.

Wide-eyed, he stared at them for a moment.

"Your name?"

"Clarence. Clarence Honeywell."

"Well, Clarence, I solemnly promise that my intention is not to fight. I merely wish to say my piece and leave. If any of your customers are stupid enough to attack me, I will show them the error or their ways, and I will do so without causing any breakages or the like. Now, about that ale and tea…"

Clarence shuffled away, glancing repeatedly over his shoulder as he did.

"This could be bad if they all turned on us," Tonks whispered.

"They won't."

Gellert scanned the crowd again, taking them all in. They were putting on a brave front, going about the very serious business of morning drinking as usual, but could not keep themselves from turning to him every few seconds.

Yes, his speech would work here, with some minor adjustments.

"Even if they did," he continued, "we'd be fine, and they would serve as an example at the next place. We'd be out some of Albus' allowance, and protecting Clarence here would complicate things somewhat, but it would be a matter of ease to end this rabble."

"You'd protect him?"

The drinks arrived, skittering along the bar.

"To your good health," he said, clinking his glass against hers. "Although what you would keep it for if you insist on drinking fucking green tea is beyond me."

"It's healthy! And I work better without booze in me."

"That sounds horrific," Gellert said, wiping the foam from his mustache.

God, he would never take something as simple as a beer for granted.

"To answer your question, it is best to stay in bartenders' good graces. They hear and see more than given credit for, and a few choice words from them to the right person at the right time can change the world."

He sipped at his beer and waited, watching them. They seemed to be growing more accustomed to his presence, perhaps even assuming he was there for nothing more than a drink.

He drained his beer and gestured to Clarence for a refill, watching them all the while.

"Well? Aren't you going to talk to them?"

"In a bit," he said to Tonks.

He sipped some more, watching the crowd, waiting, waiting…

Now

"Gentlemen! May I have your attention, please?"

Silence reigned supreme once more, as the patrons turned to him, that delicious fear returning.

"Ladies too, of course," he added, bowing to a trio of hags in the corner.

"You all know who I am, so I'll spare the introductions. I'm sure you're all wondering what brought me here today. I'm sure as well that many of you know. You see, I know that Voldemort has been recruiting here."

A shudder ran through the room at the name, more than one of the listeners spilling their drink in fright.

"Not that he came in person, of course. Hell, I'd be surprised if he sent any of his nearest and dearest to you. Regardless, he's been trying to convince you to join him, to fight for your glorious futures."

Gellert began to walk through the room, circling the tables, the patrons' chairs creaking as they rippled away from him.

"I'm sure it sounds quite attractive to you. And I understand, truly. You've got the Ministry constantly passing their unreasonable laws, making it harder to do what you're good at, pushing you to the outskirts of society. They force you to work your fingers to the fucking bone and for what?"

He paused beside an old balding wizard who was staring at him spellbound.

"For what? So you can earn a pittance and barely feed your family? So that you can just keep the creditors at bay? So that you can drudge through life, one step ahead of the darkness that lunges at you? That's not a life. That's not what any of us deserve. And then Voldemort comes, with his promises of power and eternal glory, his promises of a utopia where you will be treated with the respect you deserve due to your blood. You'd have to be fucking fools to not be attracted."

A few people were nodding, their eyes alight. Others looked confused, still frightened.

"But Voldemort didn't come himself, did he? No, Voldemort," he spat on the floor, "considers himself better than you. And you all know it. Who are his greatest followers, hmm? Are they among us today? Are they your friends, your neighbors? No, they're the ones in the mansions, the ones crowing about their family trees predating Merlin. They're the ones who toss you in the shit and laugh while you drown. None of them would hand you so much as a Knut if you needed it to save your life, and you all know it."

"Yeah, but at least he's fucking offering us something!"

Gellert faced the heckler, a short, dark haired wizard with horrible burn marks on his face and neck.

"He's offering you to be nothing more than his pawns," Gellert said. "For you to be the mindless drones he sends forth to die in his stead. If he wins, do you think your situation will change, truly? Perhaps you will have more people below you, the mudbloods and all, but would you actually be better off?"

Burned-Face mouthed silently, sitting down when one of his friends tugged at his arm.

"Voldemort cares for you less than you care for an ant you step on. He believes that your lives will make a useful distraction and will further serve to damage mine and Dumbledore's reputation."

He paused for a few beats, long enough for that to sink in.

"I care. I have sat where you all sit. I know the pain of a life that seems empty of possibility, and the joy that even a hope you know to be false brings.

Voldemort is offering you your deaths. I am trying to save your lives."

"What, you want us to join Dumbledore?"

Gellert smiled at the pimply, skinny man who had spoken. This one was still sitting, his Adam's apple working furiously.

"That would be ideal, yes. I did not come here to recruit, but joining me, joining Dumbledore, would be the best thing you could do. He may not be perfect —"

"He's a Muggle-loving, soft-hearted fool, is what he is!"

Gellert's wand was out instantly, pointed directly at Burned-Face's head.

His companions jumped away from him in a clatter, tripping over themselves in their haste.

"Think very carefully before talking about your betters," Gellert snarled.

Breathing heavily, Gellert turned back to the crowd. They were fearful again.

Fuck.

"Albus Dumbledore is not perfect," he said, "but he truly does wish for the world to be a better place. In his world, none of you would be struggling with the bitterness and current hardships of your daily lives, hardships brought on by the ruling class who wish only to see you firmly under their boot. In his world, you would truly get what you deserve. There would be justice. Don't believe me, go and see the laws he attempted to pass, the progress the Ministry prevented him from making. Look beyond the lies your government has fed you."

His circling had led him back to the door, and, he was pleased to see, Tonks had followed his lead.

He glared back at Burned-Face, now cowering alone.

"If you join us, you will be following a man who truly cares for you, a man who sees you as human beings, as people who deserve only the best, and he will do all in his power to provide you with that. But join us or not, I don't give a shit. Just stand on your own fucking feet, and don't cower beneath Voldemort's."

He looked around the room slowly, meeting their eyes one by one. Many of them looked away, but enough faced him to give hope.

"I knew Voldemort was trying to recruit you all. I will know if you join him. And if you do, I will kill you. I will kill your families and friends. I will kill your fucking pets, if that's what it takes to get my message across. Join Dumbledore or stand neutral, but join Voldemort and you will face me and all the might and fury I can muster."

With the last words still ringing in the air, he unlocked the door, and with Tonks on his heels, left the bar.

Aberforth spun around the instant Albus arrived as if he'd been expecting him.

"You," he grunted, pointing a dirty dishcloth like a weapon. "Heh. You. Figured you wouldn't have the balls to come."

"I still have all my appendages, thank you," Albus said. "Rather quiet, isn't it? Particularly for a Hogsmeade weekend. I can't remember the last time I was the only patron here."

Aberforth's eyes narrowed and he discarded the dishcloth, pulling out a set of grimy glasses instead.

"Mostly your fault, that," he said, as he filled the glasses. "People aren't exactly out and about while there's a war brewing, are they?"

"Oh, I'd say the war already started a while back. Thank you." He took the glass and raised it, a silent, wandless charm confirming that it was nothing but the firewhisky it appeared. "To your very good health."

"I hope you die in agonizing pain."

They drained their glasses.

"So. You want to tell me to let your little club meet here again? Cause that's not happening, I'll tell you that now."

"No," Albus said slowly, "I understand your mind is made up."

"Oh, you understand, do you? Fuck off with your politician speech, will you? Don't talk to me like you're going to suddenly get me to accept what you've done."

"I don't expect you to."

"Good." Aberforth's face twisted, in rage or pain, Albus couldn't tell. "You want to pretend that you're out to be the savior, fine. Do whatever you want, I don't give a shit anymore. But you crossed a fucking line, brother. You jumped right over it as if it wasn't there, and you showed you didn't care. You know this is going to be the last time we'll ever speak?"

He'd known, but oh, how it hurt to hear it.

"I assumed as much. I'm not here to convince you of the nobility of my intentions."

"Stick your noble intentions up your ass, if you can fit them up there with his cock. You're after the same thing you always were, you power-hungry son of a bitch."

"Don't insult our mother like that," Albus said, a stupid attempt at lightening the mood.

Aberforth always managed to get him off-kilter.

"Fuck off. Fuck off, Albus. Sod off and chase whatever you want, your greater good or hallows or whatever the fuck it is now, forget about your family and responsibilities, trick the world with your silver tongue, but get the fuck out of here. NOW!"

Aberforth's expression had been growing steadily more deranged as he ranted. He shouted the last word, tossing aside his empty glass and grabbing a knife and wand in each hand.

"GET THE FUCK OUT!"

"No." Albus said. "I'm sorry, Aberforth, but we need to speak. I understand your fury, and I understand your reaction, but I will not simply leave."

"You understand nothing," Aberforth shrieked, spittle flying everywhere. "You fork-tongued cunt, stop with your bullshit talk!"

Albus' heart broke again, his stomach dropping.

It had come to this, much as he'd hoped it wouldn't.

"Aberforth," he began, knowing that it would be useless but unable to help himself.

Aberforth bellowed, hurtling into action. He threw the knife at Albus, simultaneously casting a series of hexes and curses.

Fawkes shrieked off Albus' shoulder, a furious song sounding as he flew at Aberforth, talons outstretched.

Albus twisted his wand and a shield erupted into existence around him, the knife transfiguring into a bat which spun in mid-air, its beady eyes and horrific fangs aimed at Aberforth.

"Aberforth," Albus shouted, as a spell crashed Fawkes into the wall and knocked him to the ground. "Stop this!"

Spellfire crashed into his shield in response.

The bat dove toward Aberforth and burst into flames, so hot that nothing but ash was left in seconds.

"You know that you cannot beat me," Albus said, a note of pleading entering his voice, though the Wand was screaming for murder. "You know it, Aberforth. This is pointless."

Aberforth bared his teeth, still standing in the same place behind the bar, nothing moving but his wand.

"CRUCIO!"

A table flew in front of Albus, exploding when the crimson spell hit it.

"Don't make me hurt you," Albus begged, his eyes growing damp. "Please, Aberforth."

In response, Aberforth snarled like a beast, twirled his wand like a baton, and brought the bar to life.

With a creaking sound of aged wood, the chairs and tables began to skuttle, trying to circle Albus. Not to be outdone, the glassware, bottles, and cutlery leaped forth, a dazzling clatter of death.

"ENOUGH!"

A wave of concussive force exploded from Albus' wand, knocking down all in its path. The Hog's Head's windows shattered, a million shards of glass smashing to the ground as inside, all that Aberforth had brought to life fell.

He immediately followed it up with a powerful hex that hit Aberforth directly in the chest, tossing him to the wall where he crumpled to a heap.

Albus closed his eyes, trying to wish away the tears, trying, with all his might, to ignore the mad fury that had seized him, the terrible desire to respond to a challenge with death.

The clatter of broken glass died down. Albus stepped forward, walking delicately through the wreckage, past the feebly stirring furniture, and around the bar.

Aberforth was leaning against the wall, a bloody gash on his forehead, his deep blue eyes glittering with malice.

"I know why you're here," he coughed. "I told Lupin about her, and you're afraid I'm going to tell others. Can't go ahead and convince the world you care for them when you didn't even care about your family, can you?"

"No. That would put a significant damper on my plans."

"I'll bet." Aberforth pushed himself up further, into a sitting position. "You killed her, you know?"

"None of us know who cast the curse."

"But you brought him into our home. You invited the devil in and acted surprised when he showed his true nature. And now you've invited him into the world. You fucking bastard, I wish I was good enough to kill you. I meant it, the toast. I hope Voldemort fucking guts you."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Albus said, crying openly now. "I truly am."

"Doesn't matter, does it? Because you still can't see." Aberforth began to laugh, incongruous hysterics that shook his battered body. "You're so fucking bright and you can't fucking see, and that's the best part. You can't stop me from talking, Albus. Not unless you kill me, and from the way you look right now, I don't think you can do that. I'm not going to stop. I'm going to tell every whore's son who steps foot in this shithole, I'll write the fucking Prophet, and there goes your grand plans. In the end, it'll all have been for nothing. You'll never get them on your side once they know. I heard Lupin did a runner. He won't be the only one. You're done, Albus."

Aberforth continued to cackle, laughter that eventually became a series of hacking coughs.

Tears still streaming down his face, Albus stared, considering, ignoring the icy fear that had popped up.

"No," he said eventually. "I'm not done by any means. You will tell everyone. You will write the Prophet. You haven't done any of that yet. And you certainly haven't prepared ahead, putting it in writing anywhere, you're far too alike our father for that. No, I'm not done."

Albus squatted, meeting his brother at eye level.

"You are right, I would not be able to kill you in cold blood," he said softly. "But I don't need to kill you to stop you talking, do I?"

Aberforth's humor vanished as suddenly as it had come, terror stealing across his face.

"You—you wouldn't. You wouldn't! Kill me, rather! Fuck your feelings, just kill me already!"

Aberforth's hand moved suddenly, snatching at a large shard of glass, no doubt to stab Albus.

Unfortunately for him, Albus was prepared, and he was hit with a Body-Bind before he'd barely had the chance to move.

Aberforth stared at him, hatred and terror in his eyes.

"I won't take her entirely," Albus whispered, raising his wand. "But you'll soon see things differently. Nothing about Gellert, anymore. No memory of that horrid fight. We quarreled for months instead over how best to care for her, and though in the end we were both wrong, you blamed me. It's for the best, brother. I have to do this. You will never know how much I will regret it."

Albus cast the memory charm.

Albus had just finished setting the bar right when he heard the first scream.

He'd repaired all the damages, healed Aberforth as best he could, and laid him on his bed, studiously ignoring Ariana's painting as he did so.

Now, moments after he'd put the windows back together, it appeared the attack had begun.

Not a moment too soon, he thought, glancing at the clock in the corner. Severus' information, as usual, had proved precise and accurate.

The screams continued, tearing at his soul, setting his blood ablaze once more with righteous fury.

There were children screaming. The Death Eaters had come, Inferi in tow.

They come to attack children. The children who attend your school, regardless of whether they call you headmaster. They bring soldiers and abominations of dark magic to attack children.

Fawkes perched on his shoulder and he drew his wand as he stepped toward the door.

A dark-robed, silver-masked figure walked past the Hog's Head, and Albus did not hesitate.

For the second time that day, the pub windows exploded outward. This time, however, the thousands of pieces of broken glass were guided by Albus' will.

They tore through the Death Eater before he'd had time to react to the sound, leaving his falling body riddled with holes beyond count.

Then they hovered, glittering red in the morning light, and Albus stepped through the hole they had left.

He looked away from Hogwarts to the direction the now late Death Eater had come from.

There were others there, two of them halfway down the hill, both frozen and trembling at his appearance.

"No more mercy," he whispered, slashing his wand.

They died screaming, shredded by the glass, too pathetic and too untrained to cast even a shield. New recruits, no doubt, who had never raised their wands except against those helpless to fight back.

And they came to attack children, to frighten those who should but be enjoying a break from their studies. A quick death is too good for the likes of them.

They will pay. They will all pay.

He turned toward Hogwarts, blood boiling and mind enveloped in an icy fog.

A pillar of flame stood halfway through the village, minor skirmishes occurring on both sides of it.

On his side of the fire he could see three Death Eaters, all masked and unrecognizable. They had at least a dozen Inferi with them, and were casting frantically through the flames, trying both to extinguish them and to aid their companions on the other side.

Through the fire and smoke, Albus could make out madness on the other side.

In the distance, Filius was leading a large group of students in retreat to the castle, black flames erupting from his wand at the encroaching Inferi.

Closer, Albus saw what appeared to be two groups of students dueling. Harry was there, flanked by Miss Granger and Mr Weasley, facing off against what looked like a group of Slytherins.

Nott and his fellows. If anything, they will have orders to kidnap Harry. They must be stopped.

Closer still, Sirius was dueling Bellatrix, while Hestia and Bill Weasley met the disgusting Carrows blow for blow. Other Death Eaters, masked, danced around the edges, jets of light flying from their wands.

And around them all, the Inferi roamed.

Hogsmeade residents and trapped students were screaming, running frantically and casting useless spells at the approaching dead. Very few thought of using fire.

Hagrid was there, a host of his own. In the instant Albus took in the scene, he saw the half-giant tear an Inferi's head from its body and hurl it at another.

He looked only for an instant, but it was enough.

His forces would not win this fight without him.

Luckily, they were not without him.

No mass Anti-Apparition Charm. Some Death Eaters will escape, but at least the innocents will not be trapped.

Snarling, he conjured up a series of fireballs and tugged at the ground, pulling up large rocks and mounds of earth. At mere thought they formed into the shapes of monstrous beasts, horrors from the depths of the darkest tomes Albus had scoured.

Fawkes took to the air, shrieking in fury.

The Death Eaters spun, Inferi turning with them.

With every dead face he recognized, Albus' fury mounted, their names carving themselves across his heart.

Andromeda Tonks. Arabella Figg. Petunia Dursley. Vernon Dursley. Dear, sweet Elphias.

Look at what these animals have done.

How dare they?

HOW DARE THEY?

"No more," he said, and unleashed his rage.

"You're not what I expected at all."

"Really?" Gellert said, suppressing a belch. "I'm not a horrific monster deadset on destroying all I come in contact with?"

They were on the way to his fourth performance, at what he'd been told was a little shack where smugglers liked to meet and do their drinking. His latter two had gone smoother than his first, with the bloody fools at the third tavern even cheering him at one point.

He'd forgotten how good that felt.

Tonks chuckled, shaking her head.

"No, I mean—I don't know. You really get them. You know how to talk to them. You relate to them, and you're funny, and you really do care about Dumbledore."

"Is that so?"

"I saw your face when that nutter insulted him. You just don't seem like any Dark Lord I've ever heard of. You don't seem like anything I've heard about you."

"Dark Lord," Gellert grunted. "I never claimed that title. A good thing, because it doesn't exist. Only someone as obsessed with how he is seen like your Voldemort would do something like that. He doesn't even use his real name. He needs to be seen as something, and has crafted his name and image to fit, instead of forcing the world to fit him."

Tonks watched him intently.

"I am the man you read about," he said, "I commited all those atrocities, all those terrible things that would give you nightmares to hear the details. I did them joyously and with love. That man lives within me. But there is more to me than that, just as there was more to Erkizidis than his obsession with Azkaban, more to Herpo the Foul than the snake thing. But we all shared our obsessive qualities, and we all were willing to do whatever it takes for power."

He met her gaze, a wry smile tugging at his lips.

"It is sometimes necessary to take that approach," he said, "but men like me…we do not stop. We take it all the way to the horrible end."

"Men like you? Dark wizards?"

"Do not compare me to any mere wizard who makes use of Dark Magic. I refer to those of us who are lucky enough to be blessed with boundless talent, prodigious intellect, and incredible power. We few who approach magic with a more instinctual understanding than others can ever appreciate. Of course we tend to fall into the Dark Arts, because it leads to more power and a greater understanding of everything. Of course the Dark Arts corrupt even the noblest intentions, because that is what they do. Dumbledore is the exception to our type of men."

"I see," Tonks said, though she didn't really.

"We will discuss this," he said. "But it's not of major importance for you. For now—"

A ball of silvery mist appeared on the street before them, forming instantly into a near translucent doe. It looked around, as if making sure they were alone before speaking.

"They are attacking Hawkshead," it said, in the voice of that miserable spy. "Shacklebolt lives there, as do some Wizengamot members who have been leaning toward Dumbledore. Dementors are being sent into Muggle London en masse, and they're unleashing a giant in a Muggle area. No information on where."

Adrenaline pounded through him, his heart racing.

Finally!

"Excellent," he hissed, "maybe one of the Death Eaters in this Hawkshead will know where the giant is. Ever killed one of them?"

"What? No!"

"It is an experience, my dear. Into the fray we go. Remember, do not spare one of them. And don't worry about me."

The only thing to be heard above the crack of their Apparition was his wild laughter.

They arrived on a small scale battlefield. The similarities of the village to the one Albus had previously taken him struck Gellert immediately: the postcard church, pretty mountains in the background, and lovely little homes dotting the green landscape.

And the screams and spellfire and walking dead, of course.

A small horde of Inferi had corralled what appeared to be some Muggle residents, leaving a trail of destroyed corpses in their wake. Between them and the muggles, four wizards were furiously spellcasting, only one actually using fire.

Ridiculous.

Not too far from them, Kingsley Shacklebolt and another wizard who bore him a remarkable similarity dueled a quartet of Death Eaters at the entrance of a house. A third witch lay dead behind the Death Eaters, her broken wand next to her outstretched hand. There were bodies behind hers, mingled Muggles and wizards from the looks of them.

A witch was alone on the hill with her wand aimed at the Inferi, standing mere inches away from where Gellert and Tonks had arrived.

Gellert took this all in the moment he arrived, his mind already forming a plan.

"Oh my god!"

"Just call me Gellert," he said to the shocked witch. "And this is Nymphadora. We're here to help."

"H-help?" She asked faintly.

"To help you," he clarified, looking her in the eyes and making quick use of some Legilimency, just enough to ensure that she wasn't a honey pot.

"Have you summoned the Ministry?" Tonks asked.

"We—we tried, but they said they're already responding to other emergencies, they advised us to Apparate away but we have children, and there's all the Muggles and—"

"Breathe," Gellert said, "slowly. It's all right. We're here now. The children are holed up in that house?"

She nodded, eyes welling with tears.

"Them and a few others, everyone who thought they wouldn't be able to help, and some muggles ended up in there I think…Tofty's with them, his granddaughter was visiting with her kids and—"

She shook her head, looking like she was going to retch.

"Tofty's on the Wizengamot," Tonks whispered, "friends with Dumbledore."

"Her husband," the woman said, gulping down air, "he and Gamp went after a few of the—the Death Eaters. They went round the back."

No time to take the Inferi as my own. She may not be ready to stand without me, but she'll have the element of surprise and backup.

"You've been a great deal of help," Gellert said, "stay here and wait for it to be over. If anyone you don't recognize approaches, Apparate away immediately. Tonks, go help them at the front, will you? Keep at least one alive."

Before he'd finished speaking, he was casting, his wand undulating through the air.

An enormous fiery Acromantula tore its way from the tip of his wand with a roar of flame and a clatter of fangs.

"Fiendfyre?" Tonks asked, sounding shocked.

"Similar. Go, I told you."

He didn't watch to see if she obeyed his instructions, instead focusing on his creation. He squashed its will with his own, urging it to destroy the Inferi.

It charged them, scorch marks appearing wherever it trod. The Inferi, too poorly enchanted to notice their approaching death, had managed to reach one of the useless wizards and were tearing his innards out while his compatriots fled.

The Acromantula ripped through them like a tidal wave, burning them to ash in moments.

Gellert released the spell, letting the spider collapse into wisps of smoke, then Apparated.

He appeared just between the fleeing wizards and the Muggles, stopping them dead in their tracks.

"Were there more of them?" He demanded. "The Inferi, were there more?"

"N—no, I don't know, I think—"

"Stay with them until I give you the all clear," he said, gesturing to the Muggles. "And use fire, damnit! Do none of you have any sense?"

Their stupid, baffled expressions had him nearly demonstrating on one of them.

"Fire spells," he said, dragging the syllables out. "Fire. Inferi hate the light, and they tend to burn like kindling. Now, protect the Muggles, and stop being so fucking stupid."

He took a quick look at the house. Tonks seemed to be doing fine, with one Death Eater fallen by her legs, and the other three weakening to her along with Shacklebolt and the other wizard.

But there were flashes of light and shrieks coming from the back of the house.

One of the wizards had started saying something.

"Protect them, use fire," Gellert interrupted, and Apparated again.

Behind the house, the Death Eaters had been winning. There were four of them, in their obnoxious masks and robes. A dead wizard lay just beside Gellert's Apparition point.

As Gellert appeared, one of the Death Eaters' wand spat an emerald green curse at their opponent.

Gellert reacted as quick as thought, sending the wizard flying away and pulling a Death Eater into the Killing Curse's path with one twitch of his wand.

Shocked silence fell along with the corpse.

"Any of you interested in surrendering, by any chance?" Gellert asked, his smile widening as he fingered at his wand.

None of them would be even remotely a worthy opponent, but oh, how good it felt to be able to unleash his strength, even just a drop.

One of them began to raise his wand.

Idiot

Gellert's curse split him in twain, a fountain of blood erupting from his two halves and liberally splashing his brothers-in-arms.

One of the remaining dropped his wand and fell to the floor with his hands clasped in supplication.

The other jumped at Gellert with a screech, wand flashing.

Gellert hit his stupid mask with an explosive hex and drove the shrapnel deep into the man's head, little popping noises sounding they shot out of the back of his skull.

Blood splattered Gellert's face, a red haze covering his right eye. He laughed wildly, turning his wand on the last Death Eater.

"I surrender! I surrender!"

The wizard had cast aside his mask and looked up at Gellert, face pale where it wasn't covered in ichor.

"Please, I surrender!"

Gellert met his terrified eyes and dove in with Legilimency.

He emerged seconds later with all he needed.

The man was useless, nothing but a petty criminal who'd been press-ganged into Voldemort's service when Azkaban had been raided. Furthermore, he didn't know anything about the Giant attack, or even the attack on Hogsmeade.

None of them did, as far as the fool knew. They'd been split into separate groups and given individual instructions, with his group being told to terrorize the town and kill Shacklebolt, Tofty, and the wizard whose life Gellert had just saved, a Wizengamot member named Gamp.

He did, however, know that the Dementors had been sent to several areas in Muggle London, and he knew where one of them was.

"Please let me go," he begged. "I won't do anything again, I'll leave the country, I'll spy for you, anything!"

"You can never trust someone who surrenders so easily," Gellert told him before beheading him with a deft flick of his wand.

When he returned to the front of the house, the fight was over.

A Death Eater lay stunned, bound, and gagged besides his three dead companions, right in front of Tonks who was very blatantly not speaking with Kingsley or the man Gellert assumed was his brother.

As Gellert strode over to Tonks, he cast a Killing Curse at the stunned Death Eater.

"You can't just do that!"

"You should have stopped me, then," Gellert replied, fixing Kingsley with an angry glare. "And shouldn't you be too busy thanking us for saving your hides, and the rest of this village's, to criticize?"

Kingsley opened his mouth, but the other wizard quickly gripped his arm and shook his head.

"What would you have done with him anyway? Held him in a cell until you decided to send him to Azkaban from where he would be broken out? Feh. Save your moralizing for yourself. I have no need for it."

"They were after you, you know," he continued conversationally, "You, and the Wizengamot members here. While they did all this, the Ministry sat on its hands. Think about that."

He applied a Sonorous charm and spoke, his voice echoing from every corner of the village.

"The threat has been dealt with. You are all safe now. Try and remember that while the Ministry did not send aid, Dumbledore did."

Removing the charm, he focused his attention on Kingsley once more.

"I'm sure the Obliviation Squads will be here soon, got to protect the sanctity of the Statute and all that. In the meantime, there's some dead Death Eaters and an unconscious man who'd been fighting them behind the house. There's no more coming, but if they do, you know who to call."

Turning to Tonks, he continued: "Apparently there's been some Dementors set loose in the West End. Shall we see a play once we've dealt with them?"

Giggling, she followed him into Apparition.

Albus stalked through the flames, their heat not touching him.

His golems finished tearing at the carcasses and followed, dozens of fireballs circling the air around him, Fawkes screeching into the fray.

Justice had come to the Death Eaters.

He slammed a shield between Harry and the group of Slytherins, following it up with a series of impossibly swift stunners that dropped the lot.

He softened the earth around them for an instant, then hardened it again, trapping them in perfect molds.

Off-course spellfire crashed harmlessly into his shield, lighting him up in a dazzling display.

Very few had noticed him yet. Those that had, Harry and friends included, were staring slack jawed.

Make an entrance.

His wand spun, its tip twirling through the air to finally rest on a target, a Death Eater attempting to break into the Three Broomsticks.

A caul fell over the sun and an earth-shaking roll of thunder threw everyone off their balance a fraction of an instant before a bolt of lighting struck Albus' target.

His scream died almost as soon as it began and he fell to the earth a smoking mass of ruined flesh; but not before the lighting had branched out from him, striking at a pair of Inferi behind him and instantly immolating them.

The weight of a hundred pairs of surprised eyes hit him.

"Enough," he said, jabbing his wand forward.

The circling fireballs shot forth as if individually guided, each of them burying in an Inferi and destroying it.

His golems roared, charging forward and attacking the Death Eaters.

Fawkes tore into a Death Eater's scalp, dislodging the mask in the process.

Pyrites. A lower level scum who'd been captured in the Department of Mysteries so recently.

Albus' curse shattered his heart in his chest. The man fell, blood fountaining from every orifice.

Spellfire shot continuously from his wand in all directions as he walked; Death Eaters fell where they stood with their organs collapsing, an Inferius created from Dudley Dursley exploded into a mass of formless flesh, dark shadows leaped forth and joined his golems in their destruction.

The Death Eaters dwindled, death or Apparition taking them. Those that remained were idiots, fools who would receive what they deserved for daring to challenge Albus, for thinking to stand against destruction incarnate.

The Wand grew warm in his hand, its song becoming one of exultation. Finally, it was being put to its intended purpose.

This was not a fight. This was a massacre.

A Killing Curse shattered his shield in the back: he pulled one of his golems into its path as he spun to face the coward who thought to defeat him from hiding.

The earthen creature, an unholy cross between a manticore and a hippogriff, exploded into a dozen rocks and clods of earth, green flames licking at them all.

The masked Death Eater was trying to fire off another curse even as he twisted into Apparition.

No.

Albus shot the rocks at him while catching him in an Anti-Apparition Jinx, then made a slicing motion with his wand and tore off the man's mask, replacing his mouth and nose with smooth skin as he did so.

It was Mulciber. Battered, he dropped to the ground, hands flying to his face, clearly desperate for air.

"Who do you think I am?" Albus said, "Who am I, that you dare to attack me? Die, Jarred, and hope that there is mercy beyond, for you shall no longer find it here."

Mulciber collapsed, heaving, skin taking on a purple tinge as his eyes fluttered.

Albus' next spell crushed his spine and broke his legs.

"Die," he hissed, and turned, leaving him to his fate.

It was all but over.

Only one pair still fought: Sirius and Bellatrix still dueled furiously, seemingly oblivious to all that had occured around them.

As Albus approached, Bellatrix shot a jet black curse that made Sirius leap out of the way. She turned to Apparate—

Albus' severing charm hit precisely where he had aimed. She disappeared with a crack, leaving behind half of her hand, three fingers, and her wand.

It was over.

The furious rage and overwhelming thirst for vengeance that had so driven him began to ebb away, leaving a disconsolate loneliness in their wake.

Filius had done his work well. Harry and his friends remained, with a bloody and mud-splattered Hagrid before them, as did the Slytherins Albus had stunned and trapped, but no other Hogwarts students did.

Sirius joined the group, dragging Harry into a tight hug.

The gates to the castle, Albus could see, were resolutely shut, a trail of destroyed Inferi leading there. The school's defenses had been raised.

One point of hope remained in the misery settling in on Albus: no students had been killed, as far as he could see.

Albus vanished his few remaining fireballs and let his golems collapse back to the earth while he took in the scene.

The Carrows, it appeared, had escaped. Bill was tending to Hestia who had a terrible slash across her torso—based on her cursing, she would recover.

The village was now a scene of total carnage.

Every other house or store bore signs of wreckage: shattered storefronts, charred or smashed doors, walls that were half caved-in.

Burning Inferi dotted the village, the stench as repulsive and obscene as their existence.

Corpses littered the village as well, all mangled and torn. The majority were Death Eaters, but not all.

He saw Rosmerta's blank, dead face, just within the Three Broomsticks; a mess of black robed figures lay around her, bearing his golems' marks.

He had not been quick enough for her. Or for others, too many others that he recognized, too many bloody pulps and torn-off limbs left by the Inferi.

He had done this. He had left all these dead scattered like firewood. Those not dead by his wand were dead by his inaction: he had known the attack would come and not prevented it, had, in fact, capitalized on it, chosen not to inform the Ministry.

It had been necessary, and he would make the same decision if he had to go back, but that did not stop the dead from staring at him so balefully.

It did not quiet the worm of guilt that had begun to gnaw.

There would be much to do, soon. He would have to speak with Harry before sending him and his friends, accompanied by Sirius and Hagrid, back to the castle. He would have to begin restoring the village to its norm, extinguish the few fires that still smoldered, and reassure the residents that they were safe now. The Aurors would arrive soon, he had no doubt, and he would have choice words to share with them, hopefully in full view of the Hogsmeade residents.

He had much to do, but he remained for a few moments, gazing over the destruction, mourning the dreadful necessity of it all.

Mourning as well, how much he had enjoyed it.

The Aurors could not have come at a better time.

Albus had been busy in his time since the end of the battle. The conversation with Harry had been short, due to necessity, and the boy and his friends had happily returned to the castle. He'd sent information to Minerva with Hagrid as well, about the Slytherin Death Eaters in training he had captured.

Even though a part of him cried for their destruction, he had spared them, leaving them stunned and trapped.

Then he'd set to clearing the dead.

They lay in two rows and a pile, now. The Death Eaters he had lined up, their faces and tattoos visible whenever possible. Just to their side he'd piled the remains of the Inferi, waiting only to be seen by the Aurors before he would burn them to ash.

A little walk away, he'd lined up the innocents. Them, he had treated with dignity and respect, cleaning their corpses before conjuring sheets to cover them.

He'd found three wounded as well, with Fawkes' help. After ensuring that they were not in immediate danger, he had sent them to St Mungo's along with Hestia and Bill, a torn off piece of robe serving as a Portkey.

Those tasks completed, he'd begun to work on the homes and stores. He restored the glass in the storefronts, replaced signs, washed away the bloodstains on the walls.

By then, the residents had hesitantly ventured out and started approaching him.

They were grateful, all of them. Shaken up, shocked and afraid, but grateful. He shook their hands, gave words of courage and hope, and listened to their fears. He felt their pain as they recounted their losses, but continued to promise that they were safe now, and that they could always rely on him.

It was to that scene that the Aurors arrived with Robards at their lead.

Albus let go of old Mr Blishwick's hand with an apology and turned to them.

"Dumbledore—what—"

"I did what was necessary for the protection of this village," he said, loudly and as full of scorn as he could. "Look at them, Gawain. Two of these had been captured at the Ministry, barely a matter of weeks ago. Yet here they were, leading monsters in an assault on civilians."

Wide-eyed, Gawain looked at the line of Death Eaters.

"Where were you?" Albus continued. "When Hogsmeade was under attack, where was the Ministry? This place was teeming with Hogwarts students, and yet when the enemy attacked, the Ministry was nowhere to be found."

There were shouts of approval at that, the Hogsmeade residents beginning to yell their grievances.

"We responded as soon as we could," Gawain said stiffly.

This was met with more shouts from the villagers, names of the dead being screamed with fury.

The Aurors drew close together, sick and frightened expressions appearing on their faces.

"As soon as you could," Albus said. "Not soon enough, Gawain. Not nearly. Had I not been summoned, casualties would have been far, far greater."

He gave a flick of his wand and the pile of Inferi caught aflame, a putrid pyre that should never have existed.

"You disapprove of my methods," Albus said, gesturing to the dead Death Eaters. "But you offer no alternative. I warned Cornelius, and he ignored me. I warned Rufus, and it appears he is ignoring me as well. You cannot treat a viper as if it will do anything but strike."

"Albus—"

"No, Gawain. You will not try to lecture me. You will not change my mind. Remind Rufus of our conversation. Tell him I see no reason to keep any bargains if the Ministry will not protect its citizens."

More approving calls from the villagers.

"There are a group of Hogwarts students awaiting you," he said with a gesture. "They were assisting the Death Eaters. I am no monster, Gawain. I have spared them. I would advise you to communicate with the Headmistress as you proceed."

"If there is ever a need," he called to the villagers, "I will come. Know that someone, at least, cares for you."

Robards tried to speak to him, a pleading tone in his voice. Albus ignored him and Apparated away.

"A very successful day," Gellert said, smiling so widely his face looked fit to burst. "Beyond my expectations, even."

Albus nodded with a sigh, rubbing his forehead deeply.

"If we can take the right steps next, we can catapult this greatly. Very greatly indeed."

"Yes," Albus said. "It was worth the cost."

"Do not doubt that for an instant," Gellert said sharply. "Today may have won you the Ministry. It was well worth the cost."

"I know," Albus said, then lapsed into silence and stared out the window.

They were back in the safehouse, away from the world. He was sat at the small desk in the bedroom, while Gellert, on the bed, practically bounced with excitement.

The sun was setting, bleeding into the night.

He was so tired. So weary.

"You should have seen me," he finally said, barely above a whisper. "I was a force, Gellert. A mighty figure of yore, dealing out death on a scale I have not even seen since your war. I was a maelstrom of vengeance, an inhuman being."

"I wish I had been there."

"I loved it," Albus continued. "Every moment of it. I was truly alive, in thrall of my own greatness. None could have faced me. It was like killing bugs, and I loved it. It terrifies me, Gellert. I am deathly afraid of what I can do."

"As long as it does frighten you," Gellert said softly, "it is well. Do not lose that terror. Let it guide you, but do not let it cripple you."

Albus shook his head.

"I could never lose it. The things I did—I will do whatever is necessary, that has not changed. But I can not lose myself to it. And—I may need you to remind me of that."

"Who better?"

Albus turned to face him, tears welling in his eyes.

"I modified Aberforth's memory," he said. "Just before it all began. He will not be telling anyone of our past. He begged me to kill him rather than to do so. I couldn't bring myself to kill him, and so I stole his memories, Gellert. Because I had to. Because I told myself that I had to. I am relying on you to reign me in if I start telling myself I need to do things I shouldn't. I need you to know this. You're the only one I can trust."

All was still for a moment following his revelation, and then Gellert was on him, seizing him in a sudden kiss.

It was not like the urgent, hungry kisses of their youth. In those hormone-ridden days, they would already have been tearing at each other's clothing, biting as much as kissing.

This was gentle, wam, and inviting. It did not inspire burning passion, but it promised to relieve guilt, at least for a time.

Albus did not lean into it. He did not deserve to indulge in such pleasures, not when he'd done so much bad to so many people.

"Listen to me, Albus," Gellert said, pausing for a moment, "for once in your life, just stop thinking. Listen to me, damnit."

He returned to the kiss.

Albus listened.

Chapter Text

Chapter 16

"Wake up, Gellert!"

At the sound of his name, Gellert shot from a deep sleep to total alertness instantly, passing through the intermediate stages without touching them.

"What is it?" He demanded, his wand and clothes flying to him even as he asked. "Damnit, Albus, the sun's not even risen yet! What's so urgent that it can't wait till I'm rested?"

"Voldemort has responded."

Such was the chaos of the scene that their arrival caused no notice.

A flaming building greeted them, the harrowing screams of those trapped within drowning even the yells and alarms of the muggle emergency personnel swarming the area.

Even through the smoke, he could smell that terribly enticing aroma of crackling human flesh.

There were firetrucks by the dozens, their operators trying pointlessly to fight a magical conflagration.

Hundreds of firefighters ran about, endlessly attempting to establish a means of entry into the building and rescue of its occupants.

The flames were as hot and hateful as any Gellert had seen bar Fiendfyre; they shrieked while billowing out of the windows, tormented faces appearing momentarily in their tongues.

"A hospital," Albus said in disgust, "he strikes a hospital."

"Only a fool thinks there are rules to war," Gellert said quietly. "This is doubtless meant as a distraction as well as a lesson. While we help the poor muggles, he will go after your allies."

Albus was staring at the hospital, his face carved of granite, his fingers tight around the wand that still haunted Gellert's dreams.

"Albus—"

"Find Sturgis," Albus said, "he was here and said that he would await me. He blends in well with muggles."

Without another word, Albus began casting surreptitiously at the hospital, whispering to himself as he did so.

It was a lost cause, though Gellert did not bother to tell him so.

The screams from within were dying already, and the flames, from what he could tell, would not last long once there was no more life for them to feed on.

"Find Sturgis," he muttered, "Come, Gellert, it's time for me to remove you from Nurmengard. Come, we need to defeat an egomaniacal dark wizard and seize the government. Oh, here's an obvious distraction, I'll rescue the muggles who are beyond saving while you search for my pet idiot. Nothing could be a better use of your—"

He caught a whiff of deliciously twisted power, of magic being used for torment and pain. He snapped his wand out instantly, cast a Disillusionment Charm on himself and spun into apparition, using the spell he'd sensed as a marker.

He arrived in an alleyway close enough to the hospital that the stench of smoke still filled the air, but far enough that the screams were silent and the Muggle respondents' racket was distant.

Three figures stood between the narrow buildings, two masked and cloaked while the leader, a tall, dark man with wild hair and shockingly bright eyes, cackled at the sight before them.

Sturgis Podmore had curled into a heap, his shaking head slipping into the puddle of vomit on the brick street.

His shrieks still echoed in the alleyway.

Nothing but the Cruciatus for these Death Eaters.

Gellert would never speak against its effectiveness, but by god, was there something in the air of this stupid island robbing everyone but Albus of any hint of style?

"Come on, Podmore," one of the masked idiots said, in a gravelly voice, his wand rising. "Go easy on yourself, and just tell us what we want to know."

"You will tell us," the leader—Macnair, Gellert recognized his face from a paper Albus had shown him—added. "You know you will. A blood traitor like yourself doesn't have the strength to withstand pain in the name of a higher service. You will tell us Dumbledore's plans."

He nodded to the one with his wand out and said, "Make him scream."

"I think not."

Gellert's curse took the trio by surprise, neatly beheading the fool with a drawn wand and drenching his companions with his lifeblood.

He acted before they'd had a chance to recover from their surprise enough to so much as raise wands. With a sweeping motion, he raised a dense watery shield around Podmore, ending his stroke with a twist that cast an Anti-Apparition Charm, and finally, with a thought and the lightest tap of his wand to his skin, removed his Disillusionment charm.

"It's him!" Macnair screamed, firing off a terribly executed curse which Gellert blocked with ease. "Goyle, help me you coward!"

His cry was to no avail. Goyle had been quick enough to realize that Apparition was no longer available to him, and smart enough to understand he could not face Gellert.

He was also dumb enough to run, arms pistoning as he fled down the alley.

Gellert's curse took him in the torso, blowing a hole the size of his forearm clean through like a muggle cannon. His momentum carried him forward, legs still working for a few moments before they received the message that the body which they served would run no more.

Then Goyle fell, twitching in death, just one more undignified corpse.

Macnair's terror was writ large in every line of his face, every muscle in his body. His spellcasting grew sloppier and more frantic as Gellert approached, each less likely to cause damage than the preceding. The curses bounded off course to splash into buildings, leaving smoking dents and acidic burns in their wake.

Still, Gellert made no counterattack, only continued his blithe stride, his wand flicking as he conjured shields and dismissed Macnair's curses as if they were no more than the words he'd spoken in incantation.

"AVADA KEDAVRA!"

Furious, Gellert tore at the air with hands of power; the street rippled with a concussive wave and rose, bricks shattering with emerald flame as they intercepted the killing curse.

Gellert roared, words lost to his rage.

That this cockroach who did not deserve the right to magic should even think to make an attempt on his life—

Macnair rose into the air, invisible ropes tightening around his arms and legs, splaying him out and stretching.

He began to scream, tendons in his neck standing out as his limbs broke with cracking noises.

"You disgusting little maggot, you think to kill me? Who are you? You putrid vermin, who do you think you are to strike at me?"

Gellert punctuated his words with harsh gestures from his wand. Macnair soared through the air, crashing first into the building on one side of the alley, then across and into the one on the other.

"Despicable little man, in service to a small minded fool, and you think to kill me?"

Gellert cracked his wand like a whip; with each rise and fall, Macnair was hurtled into the air and then smashed into the ground.

Macnair groaned as Gellert approached, body battered and broken. He lay in an indent in the street, blood pooling in the smashed bricks around him, his clothes ripped.

"Miserable worm," Gellert spat.

Macnair tried to speak, his mangled mouth opening to reveal shattered, blood-stained teeth.

Gellert ignored him, ignored the scent of blood and death, ignored, even, his own pounding rage.

He looked into the dying man's eyes and tore into his mind.

There was no occlumency to speak of barring his way. Even if Macnair had been a master, he would not have managed to maintain it in his current state.

Macnair's mind was a jumble, thoughts and memories racing to be heard before death. Gellert cast them aside, focusing, focusing—

A cold, cruel voice was speaking, a voice not only used to giving commands, but to having those commands obeyed to the letter.

"Macnair, I trust you will not disappoint me?"

"No, my lord."

Voldemort turned around, scarlet eyes glittering in the candlelight and piercing Macnair's very soul.

There was no room for pity in those eyes, no knowledge of mercy.

"Won't you? But you have disappointed me so often of late. I find myself wondering if you are truly as loyal as you claim. I wonder if perhaps you grew too comfortable in my absence."

Sweat broke out on Macnair's brow, despite the coolness of the room.

"My lord, I—"

Voldemort moved, swifter than a striking viper. One instant he was across the room, the next he was standing before Macnair, holding his wand with the tip right between Macnair's eyes.

"Your sycophantic mewling sickens me," he hissed, "It moves me nearly to rage. Your mission, Macnair, is to send a message and provide a distraction. Dumbledore is so desperate to prove he is better than the Ministry that one of his lapdogs is sure to come. Or do you doubt me?"

His eyes crossed as he tried to focus on the wand. He was sure he could make out motes of light gathering at its tip: but what colour?

"Never," he managed.

"When they arrive," Voldemort continued, "you will allow them enough time to contact him. And then you will remove them, far enough that he will have to search, but close enough for him to find. He will want to help the muggles, soft-hearted fool that he is, but you will ensure that he remains there for as long as possible."

Macnair's hand began to shake, betraying his terror.

"I do not ask you to lay down your life for me in this," Voldemort continued. "You are not to attempt to engage Dumbledore. Return with your companions, and you will have regained my trust. But you will complete your mission, Macnair. Else you will have lost Lord Voldemort's faith forever. Ask Karkaroff if that would be an enviable fate."

"I will not disappoint you."

"Good."

Voldemort removed his wand and Macnair relaxed an inch.

"Now go. Carry out my will, my trusted servant."

Gellert tore his way from the Death Eater's mind, a frantic search quickly revealing no further knowledge on the rest of Voldemort's plans.

"A distraction, of course" he muttered, pulling himself together. "Who could possibly have predicted it?"

Macnair coughed, spraying out a fine bloody mist as he did.

Almost as an afterthought, Gellert beheaded the man as he twisted into Apparition.

Gellert's magic hurtled through the air, a maelstrom of his hatred and fury bringing doom in its wake.

None of his opponents were worthy of his attention.

He found himself laughing as he strode forward through blood and viscera, death flying from his hand toward the last enemy that still stood.

He was a dark young man. Terrified out of his wits though he was ,he had some measure of talent; he'd survived this long, though he hadn't had a chance to fire off a single attack.

A smidge of talent, maybe, but no wits. He hadn't escaped with the bitch and the other leaders upon Gellert's arrival.

The house was near collapse with the pure might that had suddenly been unleashed within it.

It had been utterly ruined, the furniture mangled beyond recognition, bookshelves and their occupants strewn across the living room, the carpet smouldering in parts.

It had been a nice home, once. No longer.

A graceful twirl of Gellert's wand sent the remaining armchair at the trembling fool, its cushions transfigured into a gaping toothy maw which seized out and bit…

Gellert was now the only living being in the house.

He hurried onward, mindful of the urgency of this mission, but knowing, already, that it was pointless, that he had arrived too late.

Still, this would be to their benefit. If Voldemort was doing what Gellert thought, he and Albus would be forced to act, to truly unleash their might, to no longer wallow in hiding and in half deeds–

He reached the study.

A good fight had taken place here, ending just before Gellert's arrival. The bitch had walked out of the study, and though she had fled, Gellert wished she hadn't. From what he heard, she would at least have made it an interesting fight.

Gareth Robards was dead in the center of the room, and from the looks of things, he hadn't gone easily.

"Good for you," Gellert whispered, taking in the other bodies and limbs around the room, the scorch marks and dents in the walls.

With a click as he straightened his back, he began to walk around the room, gazing at Robards' corpse. The man showed clear signs of torture. It couldn't have lasted too long, not with Albus receiving the alarm and sending Gellert with such haste, but those moments must have dragged on with syrupy slowness for a lifetime, enough for the man to choke on his own screams.

"What did you tell them? Not that I blame you. In the end, it will all serve to our benefit, I think. I'm sorry you had to end in such a fashion, though. I hear you could have been an asset if you'd simply abandoned your boss and joined us. We wouldn't have forced the information out of you, not in this manner."

He shook his head sadly. Albus had believed that Gareth Robards could possibly be pulled away from the Ministry. For what reason he thought so, Gellert neither knew nor cared. All that mattered now was that a peaceful resolution was less likely.

Cold electric fingers danced across his nape. An immediate Disillusionment Charm hid him even from his own eyes an instant before a crack split the air and he sensed her.

"Ah," he said, coming back into view. "Good morning, my dear. What alarm does Albus have for me now?"

Wide-eyed and pale-faced, Tonks glanced around the room, slipping slightly on the bloody hardwood floor.

"We need to go now," she spluttered, "We need to get out of here, they can't find you here, we have to-"

"It's a set-up?"

She nodded frantically, gesturing to the dead.

"Hit-wizards," she said, "and others from Magical Law Enforcement. Must have been Imperius, there's no way Lenny here—oh god, Lenny, Lenny—"

Gellert kicked one of the bodies, cursing himself. He should have seen it. He should have fucking seen it. He would have, if he hadn't been so excited for a fight.

None of the dead were dressed as the Death Eaters were, none of them bore that ridiculous brand on their arms.

"Calm yourself," he said. "I have taught you the methods of doing that, have I not?"

She looked at him as if he had gone mad.

"The Aurors will be here soon! If they see us here—"

"I am blessed with enough wisdom to know they should not. Now, you will use what I have taught you to calm yourself or I will not leave."

She shook her head, mouth opening and closing wordlessly, only giving a little shriek as he seized her shoulders with a sudden motion.

"You want to access your powers again, hmm? Well, we need you to do so, and we don't have time for coddling any longer. Now, control your fucking emotions and listen to me."

For a moment, she looked as if he'd slapped her.

And then, standing amongst the bodies of those she'd undoubtedly called friends, emotion vanished from her face.

"Good," he said. "See? You can control your feelings at will. You do not need to allow them to shackle your abilities. Now, change something for me. Anything. An eyebrow, your chin, a fingernail, I don't care. Anything."

"The Aurors are still coming," she said, not betraying a hint of fear. "Is now truly the best time?"

"Now is the only time. If we are still here when the Aurors arrive, I will deal with them."

That sent a momentary flicker of fright and shock across her face. Her eyes screwed up in concentration and Gellert hoped, still planning what else he could do, but hoping nonetheless—

"Nothing," she snarled, "yes, I can still feel my abilities just out of reach, and yes, I'm still clear of emotions, but—"

"Not quite."

"What?"

"You're still feeling something," Gellert said, heart racing. This was it, he knew. He'd known from the beginning that an integration of some sort would be necessary, but here, at the edge, he finally felt the thrill that always preceded an accomplishment.

How long did he have before the Aurors arrived?

And what would it matter if they saw him, if the fix

was in?

"You're furious," he said, "and you have been for a while. That's what made you lose access to your abilities, as much as the loss of your parents. More, because nothing can give your parents back, but you can vent your fury."

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Your anger, dear child, is fit to boil over, but you're not giving it a chance, are you? You've got it tightly linked in your mind with your aunt, and nothing else you do will give you surcease from that. Release your rage! Let your power flow!"

"Now is not—"

Gellert roared, twirling his wand through the air, a trail of golden smoke in its wake.

The corpse she had named Lenny rose. No true Inferus, he was barely more than a marionette.

Tonks blanched, taking a step back and stumbling over an outstretched arm on the floor.

"Destroy him," Gellert said, "or he will destroy you. Pardon me, she will destroy you."

He acted hastily, throwing illusion and transfiguration together in an unholy mixture upon the dead man. The result was close enough to Bellatrix Lestrange, however, and that was what mattered.

Tonks was pushing herself back, shaking her head and imitating a fish again.

"SHOW ME YOUR FURY," he yelled, "NOW!"

Something went off in her mind. She leapt to her feet with a screech, her wand flashing off a urine yellow curse at the corpse.

"You can do better than that! Is that what you'd do to your parent's killer?"

He laughed at her emerald curse, as it impacted with nothing more than green flames.

"You cannot kill what is already dead, girl! Destroy it! Destroy it! Let your anger think for you, destroy the fucking thing!"

He felt her next curse building, knew what it would be before, he thought, even she did. A shield formed around him as he began to cast, calling to the other dead to rise, all except Robards.

Her curse flew. Lenny's body exploded, limbs and head flying from torso and crashing into the walls and against Gellert's shield.

"Now them," he called, sending the rest of the dead at her, all cloaked in the same visage as Lenny had been, "destroy them."

Tonks looked like a creature from another age, a callback to the days when children were sacrificed on stone altars to unknowable gods. She was drenched in blood, her hair thick with it, her eyes crazed and wild and entirely alive.

If only he'd met her fifty years earlier.

"Gellert!" She screamed furiously, "end this!"

"You end it! Change for me, or destroy them!"

She shrieked, flames spurting from her wand and engulfing two of the dead.

He neatly batted away the curse aimed at him, and jeered.

"Come now, is this all you are capable of?"

Her next scream was so loud he half-thought his eardrums would pop.

Something burst from her wand, a black, half-formed beast, with tusks so large they ought by rights not to exist. It bellowed as much in the agony of existence as it did in hatred as it charged the remaining corpses, tearing them apart.

It turned to Gellert, its dozens of eyes focused on him, its great maw heaving.

And then he felt it. Cold electric fingers dancing across his nape

Fuck.

His wand flashed, charms settling around the house along with a thick mist even as the cracks of Apparition split the air.

It had to be now. He could not back down from her, not on this.

Her creature's muscles coiled, preparing to leap—

"Enough of that," Gellert said with a slash of his wand.

The beast shuddered, flickering in place for several moments before shattering like it had been made of glass, with all of its shards dissipating into dust.

The room looked like all hell had been unleashed there. It was not too far from the truth.

Robards' body still lay untouched in the center, but flesh and chunks of bones were scattered around the place, intestines draping a bookshelf like a demented Christmas decoration. Blood coated the floor, sodden parchment floating along like makeshift boats. The walls were caving in, teeth glittering where a skull had been smashed into one and then pulled back.

Voices echoed through the fog he had created, mingled incantations and calls for their surrender.

Yet Tonks still stood in place, a mad smile tearing her face, silent sobs shaking her body.

"Change for me," he said softly, entreating now, "you can do it, my dear. Show me what you can do."

Tonks began to laugh, a hysterical, insane sound, a perfect melody to her tears. She dropped to the floor with no warning and huddled with her arms wrapped around her knees.

Blood soaked through her socks, through her robes, but she cared not.

Dimly, Gellert could feel the Aurors working on his defensive charms. Minutes or seconds remained, depending on their skill and knowledge.

He would not back down, even if they all barged in. He would force her to fight them, if it came to that.

"Please," he whispered, the thrill of anticipation beginning to fade, worry creeping in its wake.

Could he have been wrong?

"Please, Nymphadora, show me I was right about you."

She looked at him, eyes still alight with madness, still laughing and sobbing.

And for a moment, her hair rippled. From a listless brown it became a shock of jet black, with streaks of pink.

Just for a moment.

He grabbed her by the arm, facing no resistance, her hair mousy brown once more.

The Aurors broke through the front door.

"You have done so, so well. And we will do wonders together. I promise you."

He kissed her gently on the forehead and dragged her into Apparition with him, the last sight as they vanished that of the ruins of Gareth Robards' home.

Albus sipped at his tea, wishing it was something stronger. Firewhisky laced with a Calming Draught, that would be nice.

They were back in the cottage, the strain of a long night seeping into Albus' bones. He did not quite need to sleep yet. The torrent of rage in his heart and furious planning in his mind would do well for wakefulness for some time still.

The sun had risen not long earlier. Albus had gone outside to watch it, thinking his vengeful thoughts, his mind filled with plots that could blacken the very air.

"You are certain the tack you are taking with Nymphadora is the correct one?"

Still lounging on the couch, Gellert barely looked up from his parchment.

"How many times do you plan to ask me that? I am right, Albus. I know it. A week or so and I will have her right where I want her. It would have been earlier had you not neglected her education so."

Not looking up, Gellert raised a hand to forestall Albus' comment.

"Yes, yes, you didn't wish to push her toward the dark side. Putting your ethical gibberish aside, how many methods do we have of proving that the witnesses' memories were tampered with?"

"None that the Ministry would allow or even accept," Albus said, taking another sip.

There were ways, of course, methods of proving that he and Gellert had not intimidated any of the Wizengamot members who had been leaning against them, had not murdered Amelia or Dawlish—as if he would ever waste his time on Dawlish, of all people.

Voldemort had acted brilliantly, as was his way.

No Dark Marks left flying over the victims' properties, multiple witnesses all remembering Albus or Gellert at the scenes of the crime or actually committing the crime—as if Albus would leave a witness unless he wanted one!—all the victims people who had spoken out or acted against Albus.

An extra spanner in the work, the sign of the Deathly Hallows, forever to be associated with Gellert, carved into Amelia's chest.

With everything else that had happened, the muggle hospital fire and the scores of muggles attacked by dementors, few would take a close look at who the other wizardly victims were associated with.

Emmeline Vance had vanished, signs of a struggle readily apparent within her house. Dedalus' body was barely recognisable, as were those of his wife and children. Bill Weasley was in Saint Mungo's—he would live, but would require at least a day or two of recuperation.

If Kingsley was, as Albus knew, giving the Ministry information, they would know none of those could possibly have been Albus targets. Doubtless, it wouldn't matter to the Ministry. With the misinformation already flying and terror in the air, they would try and make use of it.

It was working. He'd had to reassure Arthur and Molly that he'd had no part in any of it, and the St. Mungo's staff had clearly wanted him out, for all their famed neutrality. Nymphadora's contacts, similarly, were no longer an option, too frightened of even talking with Albus.

His way forward, unfortunately, was clear.

"Albus," Gellert said, finally sitting up and looking out of the window. "Your bird's gone mad."

Just beyond the small hedges that Albus had tended to which marked the end of his property and protective enchantments, Fawkes was fluttering madly around, looking to all the world like he was having a stroke.

Flame erupted as he vanished, reappearing several feet to the left, his beautiful wings stretching wide as he screamed out a horrific song before vanishing and reappearing again, talons outstretched, feathers dropping to the dirt, his song now one of great distress.

"An attack?" Gellert asked, rising and drawing his wand.

Frowning, Albus drew his own wand. He'd seen Fawkes react to danger before, but he'd never seen him act this way—

He hadn't seen him act this way for a long time.

"I do not think so…I think, in fact—"

An enormous lighting bolt tore the heavens, as if God was photographing the earth. Its afterimage burned into Albus' retinas, bright as the midday sun. No thunder accompanied it.

When the spots cleared from Albus' eyes, Fawkes was back in the cottage, perched on his shoulder, and a large black bird could be made out in the distance. Even from several miles away, it looked cruel.

Lighting struck again, less intense this time, and the bird was suddenly far closer.

Albus and Gellert shared a look before walking to the door.

"So the old bastard's still in the game?"

"It would be more accurate," Albus said, stepping into the sunlight as another, dimmer stroke of lighting brought the bird within walking distance. "To say that he is the game."

The bird swung into a steep dive, its descent clearly bringing it to land right beyond Albus' hedge.

Lightning struck.

A young man was standing on the other side of the hedge, mother-naked.

He would have looked exotically beautiful from afar, with his perfect proportions and those dazzling white and red whorls etched across his pitch-black skin.

Up close, however, was an entirely different story.

Up close, he could not be mistaken for human.

The bones in his shoulders were moving slightly, rippling beneath the skin, and he was wrapped in a frightful aura of tightly coiled menace.

When he smiled, which he did often, his lips seemed to stretch across his face, and his mouth opened far too wide. This gave a perfect view of his teeth, of which there were far too many rows, all of them carved into gleaming tips.

His cheekbones were moving too, constantly shifting as if at war with his skin.

Worst of all were his eyes. He had no pupils, no iris'; nothing but glistening whiteness with no indication of where he looked, though he always seemed to be staring into a bloody future.

He was said to be the last of his kind. He, like his race, had no known name, but anyone who lived after meeting him knew his master.

Albus had met him before, several times. So had Gellert.

When he spoke, his voice was chocolate and wine.

"My master wishes your presence this evening," he said. "Sundown, at the place you last met in London. He expects both of your presences. And no one else's."

"We shall be there," said Albus, "and we will come alone."

Lighting flashed once more, and the large bird was in the air.

"Well," Gellert said brightly, "that was unexpected. What strings do you think he'll attach?"

"I think he finally sees another solution, and will attach whatever strings can get him there. It's been fifty years since the last opportunity passed him by, after all."

"This will be very interesting. I'd almost forgotten about him, you know."

"It's a talent of his," Albus said with a sigh. "This should not have been unexpected. Well, I foresee a busy day before us. Let's proceed, shall we?"

Barnabas Cuffe's office was a shrine to fame that even Horace Slughorn would envy.

A stout, thick-armed wizard with a gold necklace and perfectly coiffed white hair, he sat perched in his velvet armchair with his back to the stained glass windows overlooking Diagon Alley, looking for all all the world like a king awaiting only for his subjects to kneel and kiss his bejeweled fingers.

His desk, a fine oaken piece, was all but covered with papers bearing the Ministry's seal, many of which were marked as top secret. A bronze plaque bearing his name and title stood front and center, flanked on one side with a picture of his family, his wife and son waving merrily from the beachfront.

On the other side was a photograph of him pumping Cornelius Fudge's hand.

Similar pictures dotted the wall, of Barnabus with political figures. There he was with Millicent Bagnold—that one with Barty Crouch was at the height of Voldemort's rise—with Albus, with an aging Vicência Santos. Foreign Ministers of Magic were a dime a dozen here, all placed neatly beside framed issues of the Prophet. Those issues, Albus knew, showed Barnabus' rise, from his first contribution all the way to his promotion to Editor-in-chief.

This was his temple, and Albus and Gellert had come to profane it.

He stared at them with the same expression he'd worn since they walked in, one of clinical detachment. He'd gotten quite good at it over the years, but the tic pulling at the dark shadows under his left eye showed his feelings as much as the way he fidgeted with his cigar and brandy.

He'd not offered Albus or Gellert either of the vices, and they'd not asked.

They'd been directed to sit in the hard wooden chairs before his desk, meant to give the impression of supplicants before a god, meant to humble them.

It had been barely a thought and an inkling of power to transfigure them into thrones that made his own look pitiful.

"And you expect me to simply…ignore such a story?" He finally asked.

"Ideally," Albus nodded. "If you prefer, though I do not, you could throw in a few lines about claims of memory tampering with the witnesses."

"There've been no such claims!"

"The witnesses' memories were tampered with," Gellert said. "There you go." He leaned back after his pronouncement, and with barely a motion, conjured his own cigar and glass of brandy.

"And why on earth would I do such a thing? You hijacked my presses quite recently, and I am not forgiving about such things."

"Hijacked is a strong word," Albus said, "we merely added an article the public would be interested in."

"And I suppose journalistic integrity never crossed your mind?" Gellert added.

Barnabus must have drawn strength from being on his own ground. He blushed deeply and pointed at Gellert as if to stab him with his cigar.

"I will not be spoken to of integrity by a man such as yourself, sir!"

"At least you admit I am a man. I assume the Ministry took your balls when they put you under their thumb?"

"Get out!" Barnabus yelled, rising, "Both of you, get out!"

"I rescued your son from the grips of the Inferi," Albus said. Barnabus paused, half-standing, face bloodshot. "I burned their ripping claws away from him, tore their gnawing jaws from his lifeblood. There, in the entrance hall of his quaint home in Hogsmeade, I gave him a minor healing and sent him to St. Mungo's at once. I saved your son's life, Barnabus, and you dare ask me why you should do me a small favor?"

Barnabus dropped back into his seat, face twitching, a palpable war between his desire to not show emotion and the feelings that were thrusting their way forth.

"I believe old Tofty," Albus gestured at one of the photographs on the wall, "helped you out of a very tight spot. One and a half thousand galleons, wasn't it, that you owed Christina? And she ended up giving a ringing endorsement for your promotion? I understand you've always felt very indebted to the man, that you've looked up to him almost like a father, especially with him so understanding even when your paper disagrees with his very fundamental principles. I'm sure you're pleased that Gellert saved his life, aren't you?"

Finally, Barnabus looked away. He extinguished his cigar and glued his eyes to the thickly-carpeted floor.

"Can you even believe that we did what they are claiming? Can you rest easy, peddling such lies about the people who have protected that which you hold so dear?"

When he spoke, Barnabus' voice was a ghost of its previous self.

"What would you have me do, Albus? If I did as you suggest, I'd be as much as declaring allegiance to you."

Ah. An opening. The closest Barnabus could come to a plea.

"I could offer you protection."

"Like you protected Emmeline Vance and Dedalus Diggle? The Ministry might threaten to shut me down, or arrest me, but in a few days, they won't even need to do that . Between now and then, though, He Who Must Not Be Named will come for me."

"You will have my protection. Emmeline and Dedalus—" Albus sighed heavily. "Unfortunately, they were assumed to be safe, or capable of protecting themselves. You have my word, Barnabus. Voldemort will be too busy to worry himself with you, and if he or his minions come, I will meet them."

Barnabus' head rose, his eyes watery. He wanted to believe. He wanted to do the right thing, for once in his career.

"What's happening in a few days?" Gellert asked intently.

"What?"

"You said the Ministry won't need to do anything in a few days. What's happening in a few days?"

"Of course," Barnabus frowned, "you haven't heard. The Minister will be putting a formal vote on the table before the Wizengamot. He wants a return to Crouch's laws. And—and he wants to officially declare a state of war, and bring out all the powers on the books."

"All of them?"

"All of them," Barnabus said with a nod to Albus. "No need for warrants, arrests on suspicion, shut down the floo network at will, permission to search all post owls, tracking of Apparition, the works."

"And, of course…" Albus gestured toward the floor, from where they could feel the rhythm thumping of the printing press.

"Yes. Complete control over all press. Maybe people like Xenophilius will get away with it for a bit, he never officially registered, but we won't, nor will any of the registered wireless networks. Even if we want to print something against them—"

"The spells will prevent it. I suspect Gellert and I will be named enemies, as will Voldemort?"

"Or course. And they're beefing up law enforcement. Well, I say beefing up—they're taking anyone they can get. The draft will be a part of it, too."

Albus wasn't quite sure whether he wanted to weep or laugh. If he'd known it would have been this easy to marshall the Ministry, why, he might have acted years ago.

A vote like this would have to take place before the full Wizengamot, of course. No proxies, no absentees. They must have found a replacement for Amelia already, and poor Griselda. It could only begin once Tofty was released from St. Mungo's, but he was only being held under observation.

It would be a vote before the entire Wizengamot, assembled and sworn in according to the ancient statutes and laws…

What an opportunity. What foolish naivete had gripped Scrimgeour, to first make an enemy of Albus, and then hand him this golden chance?

A chance which could easily go to Voldemort, of course.

"Scrimgeour will put it to a vote when Tofty is released, I assume?"

"Tomorrow," Barnabus nodded.

"Who has taken Amelia's place?" Albus asked, wheels in his head spinning away.

"Her seat? One of Shafiq's lot. Her position in the Ministry though, that's currently being filled by Pius Thicknesse. Robards' position, on the other hand—"

Barnabus swirled the brandy around and gave Albus a sickly grin. "Alastor Moody is the acting head of the Auror Department, but Corban Yaxley is now head of the other Magical Law Enforcement squads."

That almost brought Albus to laughter; the mental image of Alastor having to work with Yaxley, one of the men they'd all known to be a Death Eater, Imperius claims or not.

"How wonderful. And still you will listen to their demands and print their lies?"

"A man has to survive," Barnabus said, shuffling the papers on his desk. "That's how it goes, Albus. If I throw my support behind you, they'll arrest me."

"You're a shriveled up spineless worm, a craven maggot whose only thought is where next he can find a piece of rotting meat."

Gellert stood as he spoke, his voice rising as he pointed at a now trembling Barnabus.

"They are going to seize your only source of power from beneath you, and like a worthless dog you will roll over and beg them for more. Did you sell them all of your dignity along with your soul?"

"I'm not asking you to throw your support behind me," Albus interjected, even as Barnabus prepared to yell, "I'm simply asking you to not mention my name in connection with the attacks that you know full well I did not commit."

Albus leaned back, comfortable in the long silence that followed. Several times, Barnabus opened his mouth as if to speak and then thought better of it.

"A man's got to stand for something," he finally said, "but a man's got to survive, Albus. I can't lose everything I've fought so hard to get."

"And you won't. I'm quite sure the Ministry will be too busy to worry about what you are not printing. After all, as you said, it's only a matter of days. As for Voldemort—he will not trouble you. He, too, will have bigger issues."

"You really think you'll win this," Barnabus mused, eyes full of wonder. "You really do."

"Of course we will," Gellert said. "Stop playing the fool."

"I do, Barnabus. And—this is not a threat, mind you, I prefer my threats to be more direct—but I will remember to whom I owe favours, once this is all over and done with."

Nodding, his face finally regaining colour, Barnabus stood and stretched out his hand. "I'll do it. I'll leave your name out. Hell, I've got enough clout with most of the wireless networks that I should be able to get them to do it too."

"Thank you, Barnabus. You are doing the right thing, my friend."

"I know. Why doesn't that make it easier?"

"Doing the right thing is never easy," Gellert said, his grin that of a skull. "I should know."

Moody eyed his companions warily, hating every minute of this.

It had all made more sense, at the beginning.

The passion of his righteous fury with Albus was beginning to ebb, now, and though there was still no hope for reconciliation—he'd pushed for this course, he'd started it—he was beginning to wish it had gone any other way.

"This would go easier if you let Shafiq stay in," Scrimgeour growled at him. "It's his bloc that's guaranteeing that it will pass."

"There's enough support without them, if it comes to it—"

"No there isn't, we need a two-thirds majority, we've gone over this a dozen times—"

"I don't give a shit, I'm not having that man in this room while we plan any more than necessary."

Kingsley, looking resigned as ever, tried to interject, tried to make some peace, but Alastor would not allow it.

"He's tried to eavesdrop on us twice. Yes, you say it's all politics and we must just smile and wave, but the man brought Yaxley—Corban fucking I was just under the Imperius Yaxley—into a position of power. How many of Yaxley's recruits do you trust, eh?"

He was doing it again, Alastor knew, finding comfort in the familiar, uncomfortable argument. Oh, it was all true, and he let Scrimgeour's counter-arguments wash over him like a restful blanket, but it didn't help.

His magical eye was focused on the door and hallway behind them, but he couldn't keep his regular one from twitching toward Thicknesse.

He had no way of proving anything, but he'd be willing to bet his remaining leg that the man was under the Imperius.

And put under it by a master, at that. None of that glassy-eyed thousand yard stare bullshit or any other tell-tale signs.

No, there was just something about him which felt wrong to Alastor.

Maybe slightly less emotional than usual, but Thicknesse had always been a stiff upper lip type.

Maybe a bit slower than usual, slightly dimmer? But Alastor hadn't interacted with him that much, and it fit his reputation.

Was it the way he leaped to defend Shafiq and Yaxley? So did Scrimgeour, and so had Amelia.

Whatever it was, it pulled at Alastor's tightly strung nerves, telling him to be exceptionally wary.

It just felt wrong, to have Thicknesse sitting there in Scrimgeour's office, with its large map of England and pins where He Who Must Not Be Named or Albus and his bastard friend had been seen; with its reams of top secret parchments full of plans and countermeasures; with its promise of safety.

Thicknesse felt wrong.

Perhaps it was the paranoia getting to him, but was it really paranoia when the three most powerful wizards in the world were against you?

Shacklebolt and Scrimgeour were both of the opinion that it was nothing more than paranoia. They said that Thicknesse was exactly as he'd always been, and besides, with him having taken Amelia's position, he needed to be brought on board.

A good argument. Nothing much Alastor could say to that besides have a fit, and that hadn't worked either.

His suspicions had kept Shafiq and Yaxley out of the well-decorated and comfortable Minister's office, but would not do the same for Thicknesse.

"Dumbledore will try to stop the vote," Thicknesse said. "We should prepare for a full attack on the Ministry."

Did nobody else notice it, the way his mouth twisted slightly as he spoke? He'd never done that before.

"Nothing more we can do on that front," Alastor said. "We've got every protection up we can." As well as a few that Thicknesse didn't know about, and one or two that even Scrimgeour and Shacklebolt didn't. "Not that they'll do any good if Albus and him come. Nothing will hold against them for long, unless we're extremely fucking lucky."

"Once the vote has begun, Albus won't be able to stop it." Kingsley said. "Once it is put on the table, the vote needs to take place. That's all we need."

"If only we knew what Albus was planning!" Scrimgeour slammed his fist on the table. "Once we've got that vote passed, we'll be able to arrest and interrogate his Order of the Phoenix—"

Scrimgeour didn't notice Shacklebolt's wince, but Alastor did. It turned his stomach too, especially when he thought about Molly and Arthur, and that poor bugger Sirius, with his name cleared only a few weeks earlier.

But what the fuck else were they meant to do? Let Albus just do whatever he wants because he was Albus? And with that monster by his side, whispering in his ear?

The Ministry desperately needed information on Albus' plans, and if that meant dosing Alastor's friends with Veritaserum—or worse, god help him—it needed to be done.

Alastor would die a thousand deaths before he allowed Albus to become the tyrant he'd originally formed the Order of the Phoenix to combat.

"What about the muggle?" Scrimgeour asked, "Have we had any luck there?"

"What muggle?" Thicknesse asked, frowning.

"Jeremy Watts," Kingsley said. "The private detective. Albus had him do a job shortly after he broke Grindelwald out. We haven't yet tracked him down, but Albus seemed to believe Jeremy's assistance to be of utmost importance."

"And someone waited as long as he could before telling us about that," Alastor snarled, acidic rage burning his throat along with the words.

"Our liaisons in the muggle world haven't had any success either," Kingsley continued, ignoring Alastor even as a blush crept up his neck. "The man's gone to ground."

"Like I said he would. He's not a fool, unlike some."

"If it's that important," Thicknesse said, rubbing his chin with a distant look in his eyes, "I could assign a squad to it. Get Yaxley to send some of his men too."

"We've got everyone we need on it," Alastor snapped. "Everyone else needs to be on call, and needs to be in the Ministry and around it tomorrow."

"It's not set for tomorrow yet. We don't have the official release from Tofty's healer that he'll be fit to attend. Might need another day or two."

"Doesn't matter," Alastor said, eyeing Thicknesse who still wore that distant look. "Because all Abus needs to do is prevent the vote. I don't even want to cement our plans for afterward until we've got the vote."

He wouldn't rest easy until Albus, the bastard, and He Who Must Not Be Named were all taken down.

As he watched Thicknesse's mouth twitch, though, Alastor was beginning to think that he would never rest easy.

Chapter Text

Chapter 17

Albus stalked through St. Mungo's, his mind whirring with plans, his heart jerking between giddiness and fury. Fawkes, perched on his shoulder, sang along with the torrent in his heart, a falsetto to the Wand's bass.

The lime-robed Healers he passed noticed him not, continuing merrily with their prattle as he walked amongst them.

Gellert had gone off to meet with and continue to train Nymphadora, mindful of the time and place of their planned meeting for that evening. Reluctant as Albus was to think of it, Gellert's method would work. She would be back to her abilities in no short time—the sooner the better—and would doubtless be far more dangerous.

He'd sent off a few messages too, before coming here. Sirius was well, on his way to Hogwarts to meet with Harry and his stalwart friends, to help them learn how to fight.

Having recovered from his own treatment at the Death Eaters' hands, Sturgis had joined Hestia in her fury over Emmeline and Dedalus. The two were now willing to follow Albus to the ends of the Earth.

Mundungus supposedly had promising news about Greyback's whereabouts, and Severus was to meet with the Dark Lord that evening.

He'd met with the Weasleys upon his arrival in St Mungo's, and made all the appropriate noises and gestures of joy at the news that Bill would be released the very next day, all the while his mind aflame.

The Ministry needed to fall. He'd given them a chance, and they had wasted it.

It was time to destroy it and rebuild from the ashes.

There could be no redemption for it, no restructuring. He would purge it from its illness, and though some would curse his name, he would bear a thousand curses for the inevitable purification.

No longer would he allow himself the sweet delusion of co-operation, the lovely lies that he could sway them with pretty words and heartfelt speeches.

His eyes were finally open. The entire system was iniquitous at the very core, and the only way to fix it would be to shatter it utterly first.

The Ministry themselves had proven it to him.

He'd vented his fury at Voldemort's minions in Hogsmeade and displayed his power, but it was not enough. He'd shown his ability and willingness to protect the citizens, and still they fought him.

They would never stop fighting him, not unless they had the choice stripped from them.

For too long he'd shied away from power, couching his cowardice in terms of his morals, allowing decay and corruption and rot to spread its tendrils throughout the country while he prattled to himself about his untrustworthiness.

No longer. No more mercy.

He'd said as much to the Death Eaters in Hogsmeade, but it seemed that it was time to show the Ministry just how much he meant those simple words.

Since he'd been so unceremoniously cast away from Hogwarts, since, in fact, he'd released Gellert, he'd been inching closer and closer to the edge of some unknowable precipice.

Now he was ready to leap over it, to baptize himself in the ocean of blood that awaited.

He could blame the injustices that he'd faced and tried, to no gain, to fight for decades; he could blame the Wand's urgings; he could blame Gellert's influence and the Ministry's newest assault.

In the end, such excuses were as meaningless as the promises Voldemort assured his followers. Albus had the power, the vision, and the will needed to run the country properly, and that was all that mattered.

It was all that had ever mattered.

He'd feared himself for years, and for what? That he would be subject to corruption? If anything, that fear made him better suited for rulership than anything else.

Even corrupt, he would be better suited for rulership than any of the other options.

He walked through the sterile white hallways of the fourth floor, the gently glowing crystals casting light over the portraits he passed.

The Ministry lay just within his grasp, though he would have to do unthinkable things to attain it. Then…

The Cup, in Bellatrix Lestrange's vault.

Nagini, with Voldemort or on his errands.

The Diadem—surely it was in Hogwarts. There were many places of import in Voldemort's life, places in the far north and Asia where he had delved into the Dark Arts, but had there been anywhere that held the same honour in his mind as Hogwarts? He'd even had the opportunity to hide it, when he had come to ask for a job.

Though the search had proven fruitless so far, Albus felt certain it was in Hogwarts. Hogwarts was, in Voldemort's mind, his birthright. To store a segment of his soul there? It would have been against all reason for him not to.

But where, that was the question. Another visit was due to Hogwarts, perhaps the very next day, and it would behove Albus to have Harry open the Chamber of Secrets once more, even though the elves and ghosts could now access the place and he himself had examined it three summers prior.

The Cup, the Snake, the Diadem, and…the Boy.

He would have to start moving soon, to arrange for the confrontation between Voldemort and Harry. It would require as much luck as strategic genius, but what more could Albus do?

And if it came down to it, what was the death of one boy, even one Albus loved, against the world?

Albus turned the corner, passing a gaggle of Healers, and found a straggler just exiting the Baffled Baruffio Observational Ward.

"Ah, Healer Lawrence! Just the man I've come to see."

The Elder Wand flashed, vanishing back into Albus' sleeve before the Confundus Charm could even take root.

"I understand that you were planning on releasing Professor Tofty tomorrow morning, correct?"

Utterly blank-faced, Lawrence nodded.

"It would be far better to keep him for, say, an additional week, don't you think? A heart attack at his age, even so easily cured, is never a good sign. He should stay longer."

"He should stay longer," Lawrence echoed. "A week more than planned."

"It's his life we're talking about, after all. Nothing is more important than that. You swore as a Healer to protect life at all costs. What is a matter of days in the grand scheme of things? You will not let him be released earlier."

Swaying gently on his heels, Lawrence repeated the message.

"I think that will be all. A pleasure seeing you, Lawrence."

With that, Albus ghosted into the ward, leaving Lawrence to stand puzzled for a few minutes before hurrying off to update the charts.

Laying in his hospital bed, Tofty looked older than Albus had ever seen him. The lines on his face were more prominent, those damned liver spots dotting his flaps of skin like cancers.

He was chuckling to himself, his eyes dancing with vitality.

"That," he said, "was a very powerful Confundus Charm."

"Moderately powerful," Albus replied, dropping into a freshly conjured chair and reaching out to clasp Tofty's hand. "I'm sure it will do no lasting damage."

*You don't know your own strength. Pass me the water, will you, please."

Albus did so. Tofty pushed himself up into a sitting position and took the glass with a hand trembling with age. He sipped and licked his weathered lips.

"Need time to prepare, eh? Can't blame you. This vote Scrimgeour wants to push is a disgrace. No miscarriage of justice, this is an abortion of justice. I assume you're here to ask if I'll support you?"

"Will you?" Albus asked quietly.

"I remember when you first contacted me. Of course I do!" he exclaimed, mistaking Albus' expression for surprise. "It's not often an accomplished, published expert receives a letter from a twelve year old saying that his recently published thesis on the origins of the water conjuration was wrong. Such a politely, comfortingly written letter too, as if the author was apologizing for pointing out my mistake. And a mistake it was."

"I remember that first correspondence as well," Albus said with a smile, "I still wish you hadn't named me in your retraction."

"And then all your other accomplishments. And your duel with Grindelwald, of course. And then there were those queer tales old Bathilda sometimes told about you and her great-nephew—oh yes, she didn't tell many of us, just the rest of the History Club. I'm the last one still living, besides her, of course. Is that the real reason you've come? To make sure your history doesn't spread?"

"I didn't even know she'd ever said a word," Albus said. "And I would never do you harm. Especially not simply for knowing something."

"We were calling her Batty even back then," Tofty continued, as if Albus hadn't spoken, lost in the mists of memory. "An absolute authority in history, but ask her about anything in her own life and like as not she'd make up what she didn't know. It seems that's one story that wasn't a lie."

Albus stayed silent. Tofty fixed him with a piercing look, and how could anyone ever have doubted the man's mind? He did not have the raw magical talent that people like Albus and Gellert and Voldemort had, but he had a mind to rival them.

"I see an opening for you when the vote is placed on the table. Or, rather, just before, once the Wizengamot in totality has been sworn in according to tradition and all Ministerial procedure. That's why you're here, isn't it?"

Albus nodded. Should he worry that others would figure it out?

No. They would need a mind like Tofty's, and an understanding of the powers that had been put in place with the formation of the Wizengamot, with the creation of the Ministry and its various offices, as well as a vast knowledge of Ministry procedure.

"I was greatly touched by the letter you published in the Prophet. I'm sure Barnabus was quite angry with you about it."

*He was mildly annoyed."

"Good, the man's had it easy for too long. But you are right. We need a cleansing, a national emetic. I would shed nary a tear to see our great structures aflame. You have my support, Albus. And whoever I can convince, though that list will be short. Griselda's daughter and Gamp are certainties, but who else…I will think on it, Albus. Leave me with some parchment and a quill, will you?"

"Of course."

"As for You Know Who—you will take care of him, won't you?"

"There is little that will give me greater pleasure."

Tofty nodded sharply, his eyes wet now.

"His animals killed my grandson-in-law. Thomas was a good husband and a good father, and a wonderful young man. I will give you every bit of support I can muster, and more, because it is right and needed. But I want to see that dirty bastard dead along with his followers."

"I will grant you that wish, my old friend. Thank you."

"God go with you, Albus."

Albus met Gellert in the park, just beyond sight of the little café. The reddish haze of the mid-spring sun setting caught the leaves in all their glory, its light making Albus' beard look almost as it had in his youth.

"Nymphadora's progress?"

"Excellent," Gellert said. "So full of fury, that one. Hatred and love and terrible, fiery rage. And such a quick learner! She will be a terror on the battlefield, I promise you."

Albus could imagine it, dear Nymphadora's innocence shattered and replaced with Gellert's training, dark magic adding to her auror training and setting her like a lion among sheep.

It was a hauntingly, horrifically beautiful image.

"And her other abilities?"

"Proceeding very well," Gellert preened. "Her conscious control is still limited, but she is gaining it at a speed I would not even have imagined. She is a marvel, Albus."

*Yes. But will she be ready in time?"

The perfect gentleman, Gellert doffed his hat, a small fedora, at a lovely Muggle woman walking with her husband through the park. Albus merely smiled at her as they passed. She seemed to find the pair of them amusing.

"At this rate," Gellert said, "she will be ready far earlier than necessary. If her progress tomorrow is slower than it was today, as I expect it shall be, she will still be ready early. She is gifted, Albus, a queen of Metamorphs. She will be ready."

Albus nodded as they crested the hill, coming into view of the unassuming café, and of perhaps the most politically powerful wizard in the world, though few were aware of it or even knew his name.

His skin was as beautiful as that of his bird's, as dark as coal but somehow seeming to shine. He wore a perfectly tailored dark pinstriped suit atop a finely woven bright white button down shirt, cufflinks glittering by his wrists.

He was as bald as the day he'd been born, but his neatly kept beard showed white amongst its black.

It was the only sign of his prodigious age. Though he had few of the wrinkles and folds that usually accompanied it, though he looked decades younger than even Albus and Gellert, Sobhuze Mbetwe had been alive for over three centuries.

He waved a greeting to them when they crossed the road, smiling widely as he gestured at the two empty seats at his table.

The few people inside the café who noticed him at all didn't give him more than a glance, and if they did, their thoughts were likely nothing more than how impeccably dressed he was.

The name Sobhuze Mbetwe meant nothing to them, just as it did to the majority of the Wizarding world, which was exactly as Sobhuze wanted it.

Albus and Gellert drew a few stares as they entered, but no calls or mockery as they had endured at the last Muggle watery they'd patronised.

Perhaps this was due to their dressing less—outlandishly, as the Muggles would see it. They both simply wore dark suits, nothing of note.

Just as likely, it was due to the nature of this café compared to the bar wherein they'd met Jeremy.

This was a slightly upmarket café, not catering to louts who spent their days engaged in drinking and the rejoicing of their successful petty crimes.

Sobhuze had ordered drinks for them. There was a delightful smelling hot chocolate awaiting Albus, and a mug of mead for Gellert that certainly was not on the menu.

"Albus, Gellert, it is so wonderful to see you both again, and in much better partnership than the last time I saw you." Sobhuze said as they took their seats.

His accent was rich and colourful, impossible to pin down directly. A base of Zulu and Swahili, a touch of a Berber tongue, melded with European emphases and topped with some Creole. He'd lived an interesting life, Sobhuze, although always in the shadows.

"That duel of yours," he continued, "why, it deserves the tones of awe they still use when they speak of it. I have seen very few displays of power, before and since, that even slightly compare."

"Thank you," Albus said, and took a sip of the hot chocolate. It was perfect. "It is an honour to meet with you, Sobhuze."

"Well," Sobhuze waved a hand, a single golden ring flashing on his index finger, "officially, we are not meeting."

"Do you ever officially meet with anyone?"

"Dear Gellert," Sobhuze chuckled, "you know that's not how one gets things done. But no, I will be arriving tomorrow, exhausted from all the international portkeys through the various officiating Confederation offices, and will require a good rest from that. The Aurors your Ministry will provide and my bodyguards will be able to account for my every movement from then on. I thought it best if we could have a little chat first."

Albus felt a tiny drop of pressure release itself from his shoulders. He and Gellert had checked for anyone watching, of course, and had satisfied themselves this was no trap—not that one was likely with Sobhuze—but it was good to have confirmation regardless.

"A little chat," Albus mused, "and what, Sobhuze, will we discuss?"

"I'd thought it would be obvious to you, you who have heard me ramble on my hobby-horse before. The future, Albus. The world's salvation. That is what we should discuss. And soon, for I need to be back in Alexandria in—" he pulled out his pocket watch and glanced at it for a moment. "Two hours."

"I know how this conversation goes," Gellert said sourly, for all that he had drained his mead with signs of great enjoyment. "You'll promise us vital aid, and when it's needed, you'll vanish, and your promises will be nothing but wisps in the wind."

Sobhuze's lips curled into a disapproving frown.

"That was entirely your fault, my friend."

"My fault?! You had promised—"

"I had given you contacts throughout Asia," Sobhuze hissed, leaning forward and baring his teeth in something that did not in the slightest resemble a smile. "I had assured you everything south of Ethiopia, and had laid the groundwork for the rest, and for Arabia. Europe was to be your work, as were the Americas."

"And your contacts refused me assistance," Gellert spat, "on your orders."

"Because you were meant to have taken Europe before reaching out to them! You were not meant to engage in the Muggle war, and certainly not in the way that you did! It was the perfect opportunity for us to step in as the saviours who could no longer bear to watch them kill one another, but you had to keep their fight going for your pride!"

A few heads turned, around the café. Sobhuze's calm had failed him and his voice had carried.

As Gellert and Sobhuze were too engrossed to do anything about it, Albus cast a few necessary charms and watched as the curious muggles went back to their plates.

That done, he settled back and continued enjoying the show, absent-mindedly refilling his hot chocolate.

It really was very good.

"It wasn't for my pride, you contemptible twirp, it was exactly what was needed!"

"Lies and more lies, your mouth drips with them. You lie so much you can't even tell the truth to yourself anymore, if ever you could. You wanted an excuse to prolong your hiding away from Britain and you were so enthralled by the way their Führer all but worshiped you—"

"Fine one to talk about enjoying being worshiped," Gellert said, fists curling, "I've seen your likeliness among the muggles from that place—Haiti, was it? Where's your top hat? And where did the Voodooists come up with their zombies, if not the Imperius?"

Sobhuze blinked, a reaction as telling as his own outburst. Then he smiled, all calm once more.

"I'm not sure what you could possibly be talking about. That was before my time, as you know."

Gellert leaned closer, his eyes barely more than slits.

"Three hundred years my ass. We all know in your community it was taboo for a son to be named for his living father. It was seen as terrible luck, wasn't it? Shall we talk about how you have kept your youth for so long, Sobhuze? I can reliably place you as far back as six hundred years, along with plenty of slaves of your own. Let's dispose of the secrecy in this conversation, old friend."

"My history is my own," Sobhuze said, his face entirely clear of any emotion. "And no matter what you think, there is absolutely nothing that can be proven. I dispose of that which would tarnish my reputation excellently, as you would do well to remember."

Gellert growled softly, his wand rising beneath the table.

Sobhuze's eyes widened and, with impossible speed, he slammed an open palm onto the table.

Lightning struck, brightening, for a moment, the newly birthed night as if it were noon.

A few of the cafés patrons shrieked, and an excited chatter broke out as some went to the plate glass windows to see what had happened.

How many, Albus wondered, noticed the bird that was now roosting on the largest tree in the park?

"Either of you could kill me, I have no doubt about that." Sobhuze said, calm once more. "But I would not be an easy victim. And once he joins the fray, it will all become so messy. Word will get back to the Confederation, and they will declare war on you. As will every signatory nation. Your attempt will end before it has truly begun."

The tension stretched out to a breaking point. Ever so gently, Albus dropped his wand into his hand and mentally prepared for the worst case scenario.

Then Gellert leaned back, smirking, and took a sip from his refilled mead, and the moment was over.

The ruckus in the café was dying down now, muggles returning to their seats, blinking frantically and complaining about strange weather patterns.

"Funny," Gellert said, "I was always under the impression the Confederation's main purpose was to preserve the Statute."

"That display?" Sobhuze waved a hand carelessly. "Come now, a stroke of lighting on a cloudless night? They've already convinced themselves it's just a freak occurrence. And if any ornithologists happen to notice my friend, they will doubtless think he's some rare species of eagle or vulture and wonder why his migratory pattern is so confused. Their blessed little minds will never once turn to matters beyond their ability to comprehend."

"Very astute," Albus said. "But now, I think, we should turn to the purpose of this meeting."

"Aha! He can speak. I was beginning to wonder how long you would remain content to simply watch, dearest Albus. For a moment, I thought your Ministry's propaganda about your senility had some truth to it."

"No you didn't," Albus said, "and I would appreciate you not attempting to rile me up so you can save face for your own show of fear. You have indicated your time is precious. Ours is as well. Why did you summon us?"

"Right to business, then. You know, Albus, your loss of Supreme Mugwumpship was avoidable—"

"Though I am sure you are very pleased with your acolyte's appointment."

Sobhuze stirred his coffee and shrugged.

"Babajide will do very well, but he is not you. You could have avoided it, simply by denying your Ministry's accusations. If you had just fought against them—with words, mind you—you would have retained it. But what could we do, when the representative of a country is being derided by his own Ministry as a senile, power-hungry fool seeking to disrupt the peace? When that wizard won't even defend himself? We had no choice but to remove you."

"I quite understand. I made my choices with full knowledge of what the repercussions would be."

Sobhuze nodded, those all-seeing eyes locked with Albus'.

"Of course you did. Could you confirm something for me, please? I believe that you did not fight back then because you feared that doing so would split your nation even more than Voldemort's return. Is that accurate?"

"Mostly."

There had also been the fear, then, his omnipresent fear of taking power, of seizing control.

"And what changed your mind was the knowledge that the current state of the nation was intolerable in its entirety? Don't look surprised, I saw that essay you snuck into the newspaper. There are few who matter who didn't see it."

"That," Gellert said, smacking his lips, "and it became personal for dear Albus. Kicked out of his own school, what a pity."

Albus nodded.

"Excellent. Excellent. Can you understand how happy that letter made me, Albus? Can you understand what a solution you handed me, to a problem I have been grappling with for centuries?"

"You wish me," Albus said slowly, "to complete Gellert's work. To unify the magical world under one government and then crush the Statute of Secrecy."

"I would prefer less genocide than his attempt, but essentially, yes. The corruption you so bemoan is not isolated to your shores, Albus. It has spread to every corner of the globe, infested every country."

Gellert was sipping his refilled mead, his eyes as bright as the day Albus had met him.

"The supremacy and hate can be found everywhere. Oh, the specifics vary, but it is always there. And the Muggle world is worse, even, than ours. Children starve to death in the dirt by the millions, while they war over oil and land and poison the very earth. We could fix all of that."

"Or, more likely, destroy ourselves and them in a foolish attempt. The Statute—"

"The Statute was a mistake from the beginning!" Here Sobhuze became agitated, his hand striking the table once more. "I remember the chaos left in its wake, the madness as we withdrew from their world. They relied on us for so much, diseases flourished unchecked, without our charms their crops did not yield as they had, famine and plague spread with war in their wake—you do not know the horrors. Perhaps in Europe it was a necessity, but your foolish ancestors forced the rest of us to go along with their lunacy, and now we must pay the price!"

"Be that as it may—"

But Sobhuze would not be stopped.

"That damned Non-Interference clause—we watched as war and slavery consumed our continent, we watched what happened in the Americas, but we were unable to affect the Muggle world because of the sanctity of the fucking Statute. Now it still stands, bloated beyond all reason by the crimes that watching it has forced upon us all, and even if we do nothing, it will fall."

"I've heard your theories on its inevitable fall before, Sobhuze. They are convincing, but—"

"The populations have only grown larger since then," Sobhuze interruption, "far larger, they've all but exploded. Both us and the muggles, and that means more muggleborns, which means more muggles who know about us. While we've been cloistered away, we've drifted from their fashions and culture—so many of us couldn't blend in if their lives depended on it."

"Very good point," Gellert said. "I was shocked when I saw how crowded the streets are these days. Of course, I'd been alone for so long that even a room with this many people would have shocked me."

"Sobhuze, with all due respect—"

"It will fall, Albus. There are more Obliviators in India than any other profession, by a very large margin, and they are constantly short handed. The improvements in muggle technology—they can carry a camera with ease now, they don't need the large operations they used to, they can send information quicker than they used to…We've managed to destroy any footage or pass it off as fake, but will we always? While their technology improves and the cultural gap widens, and the numbers grow larger? How long until another elected official reveals our existence on television? And next time, will we be able to salvage it like the last?"

Frowning, Albus shook his head.

"I do not necessarily disagree with your conclusions, my friend," he said. "You know this. We have had similar conversations in the past. But as for how to act based on them, that, I think, is where our paths diverge. I am not interested in conquering the Muggle world."

"Conquering?" Sobhuze asked, a look of genuine befuddlement ruffling his features. "Who said anything about conquering?"

"However you phrase it, that is what it will be, in essence. They are still people, Sobhuze, capable and deserving of governing themselves. Who am I to seize control of their world?"

"Is that your fear of crossing lines speaking," Gellert said quietly, "or is that what you really think?"

Sobhuze seemed not to have heard. He wore a sly grin now, and leaned closer to Albus.

"Could not the same be said about your Ministry? Wizarding Britain has chosen its representatives. Who are you to meddle with that?"

Idiot, Albus cursed himself. He'd walked right into it. And Gellert was clearly on Sobhuze's side in this.

"The Ministry only represents the most wealthy and influential members of the country," he said, knowing as he did that it was a terrible argument. "I have the power and will to change that."

"Exactly," Sobhuze said, his smile widening. "Do you think it is different anywhere in our world, in the Muggle world? It is exactly the same, Albus, and you know it. The only difference is the scale."

"Yes, but—"

"It could be glorious," Gellert said, his voice reverent, his eyes shining. "We'd come as their saviours, like you said. We can heal nearly all of their diseases with ease. What's the one that keeps taking them?"

"Cancer," Sobhuze said.

"Yes, that, nothing more than a round of potions and it's gone. We can transfigure and multiply food—it may lose its taste after several multiplications, but it will satiate—we can refill their oil, manipulate the weather…we can solve all their problems."

"No," Albus said. "We can't. Greed and malice and all the problems of the human condition would still exist. There is no changing human nature."

"Albus," said Sobhuze, "think of it. What will happen when the Statute falls and they discover all that we are capable of? Do you not think they will be furious, and justly so? We could have eased their lives so much, and we did not. They will demand answers, and we will be empty handed. There will be war, which we will undoubtedly win. But how many unprepared wizards and witches will die in the opening volleys? How many muggles will we have to kill before they see that they cannot win? And in the end, we will have to truly take control, have them under our fists so that they do not think of revolt. No, Albus. This way is better. We can create a veritable Eden. Imagine the possibilities, Muggles and Wizards living side by side like in the ancient days. Imagine their technology melded with magic. Imagine what their scientists could come up with, with magical researchers working alongside them."

"Weapons of mass destruction beyond any we have seen already," Albus said. "and regardless of when, or even how, we step in, we will still be viewed with suspicion. They will still want answers for our absence these past centuries."

"The longer we put it off, the more pointed those questions will become," Sobhuze replied. "They will be asked whether it is in fifty years or five hundred, and how our answers are taken depends solely on us."

Gellert started saying something, but Albus, suddenly furious with him, silenced him with a wave of his hand.

"Do you even see them as people, Sobhuze? Do you respect their hopes and dreams? Or have they just become mere playthings to you, after all your centuries? You and your political pawns, how much of this is about your dreams for the safety of the world and how much for your own glorification?"

"I could very easily ask you the same question," Sobhuze hissed. "For all your prattling, I see a man fighting to seize control of a tattered nation. How pure are your own motives, Albus Dumbledore?"

The Elder Wand was thrumming away in his pocket, merrily urging him to listen to them. It was said that Lucifer's voice was honeyed. Albus could testify to that.

"I ask myself that very question daily," Albus said softly. "And that is the difference between us. I do not think we can come to an agreement, Sobhuze. We are too unalike in terms of morality. Good evening."

"Think it through, Albus," Sobhuze said quickly, before Albus could even stand. "If you take Britain and mould it in your perfect image, what then? What happens after you die? The rest of the world will not have changed. The changes you make will not last. You know this."

"I am not looking to change the world. Not in the way you wish."

"Fucking—stop being so goddamned hardheaded! I'm willing to work with you here, but you need to face the facts! If you consign your changes to these shores, they will be gone within a decade of your death, if they even last that long."

"He's right," Gellert said quietly. "Hate us for it as you will, but he is right, Albus. And you know it."

For a moment, Albus entertained the idea of loosing his fury right then and there, simply to escape the cold logic of it all.

He'd known it to be true, ever since he had first met Gellert, all those years ago. It was, after all, why their plans to conquer the muggle world had started with them first taking the entire wizarding world.

This was it, the undeniable natural conclusion to his taking over Britain. This, at the heart of it, was what he had always feared.

Albus held his breath for a moment, trying to readjust himself.

"And how many innocents would need to be placed under the Imperius and have their will stolen? How many innocents would need to die to create this paradise?"

"As few as possible, I assure you of that. I have been laying the groundwork well." Sobhuze looked at Gellert and smiled slyly again. "And, after all, any sacrifices made would be for the—"

"If you finish that sentence the way you intend to," Albus said calmly, his eyes closed. "I will kill you."

There was a sharp intake of breath, the terrible tension from earlier returning.

"And your pet," Albus continued. "I do not fear you, Sobhuze. None from the Confederation know that you are here, as this is one of your clandestine trips. You left no trace that can be proven. There will be no grand response from the signatories, as they won't know what I have done, though some may guess. I will kill you and your beast and will obliviate the Muggle witnesses so thoroughly they won't remember what they ate. There will be no actionable evidence, and you will die with only your schemes for company. Do I make myself clear?"

Opening his eyes, he found Sobhuze had leaned back, terribly pale, while Gellert looked like Christmas had come early.

"Do I make myself clear?"

"You do. It is good to see you have bite in you, my friend."

"Did you doubt that?" Gellert demanded. "After everything we have been doing, did you doubt that?"

"It is always good to have confirmation in person. Listen to me, Albus. I have been waiting for an opportune moment for so long—Africa could be yours in a week, Persia and Arabia in a matter of months. Asia, all of it, we are less than ten years away. India and Japan are already with us, but the rest….With South America, we have a similar timeline. The United States is an entirely different beast, their famed individual spirit and the fallout of Rappaport's Law and all that. But Europe—Europe will have to come from you."

"And why is that?"

Sobhuze shook his head and clicked his tongue.

"Where Britain goes, Europe follows. You know this. It has been like this since Merlin. Beauxbatons and Durmstrang may bellow and beat their chests, but in their hearts they know Hogwarts is their better. Most importantly, Britain has you. Yes," he nodded at Albus' expression, "Britain has you. The European sentiment toward your Ministry has soured greatly since their assault on you. From your academic achievements, to the day you saved them all from the terrible scourge of our friend here—" he jerked his head at Gellert, who bowed his own, "They adored you. Goddamnit, Albus, it took you a single letter to stop the German Ministry from lending aid to the British. Does that tell you nothing? If you transform Britain into the utopia you promise, they will follow you in all ways. I assure you of this."

"You exaggerate my importance, but I will think on it," Albus said, though his mind was more concerned with his immediate plans.

"Think quickly." Sobhuze pulled out his pocket watch again and glared furiously at it. "I arrive tomorrow to conduct an evaluation for the Confederation, one requested by your idiot Ministry. The Statute is under great threat in Britain, with your war. Too much publicity, all of you. The dementors, leaving too many Kissed muggles. That hospital fire. Your Ministry says it does not believe itself capable of maintaining the Statute as it should under these circumstances."

"Well—"

"They are correct. Any other evaluator would demand sanctions and a Confederation force brought here immediately. The evaluation should take twenty four hours, but I can extend it to seventy two. I will report all clear, that there is no issue beyond the Ministry's power. And that will hold, for a week, perhaps two at the very most, if I pull all my influence. After that, if there are still reports on issues within Britain, a force will be sent. And you will not be able to handle them, Voldemort, and your Ministry at the same time. Even for you two, that will be too much."

"In essence, you are saying—"

"Make haste while I cover for you. But I want a promise from you, Albus. With you leading the charge, my dream can finally become a reality. Promise me that if you are successful with Britain, you will turn your vision to the world."

Gellert was beaming, prouder than Albus had ever seen him; the Wand's song reached a fever-pitch—

"I will make no promises. The future is a murky land and I am not convinced of your plan. If," Albus raised a finger, "you are good to your word, and you keep the Confederation out of this, then once I have destroyed Voldemort and remade Britain…then I will think on it. I will dwell on it and turn my mind toward the state of the rest of the world. That is the only promise I can give you. I cannot think of other problems when I am dealing with my own."

Sobhuze twitched, seeming to war with himself. After an eternity, he nodded.

"Very well. I will keep my word, Albus. And I will continue to lay the groundwork for your ascension."

They rose and shook hands, then walked out of the cafe.

"Just one more question, Sobhuze," Albus said. "Would you make Voldemort this offer, if you thought he would be amenable?"

Sobhuze gave a full-bellied laugh.

"Him, amenable? All my research indicates not, Albus."

Which was an answer that was no answer, as all present knew.

Albus and Gellert walked away. There was another flash of lightning, and neither needed to look to know that Sobhuze was gone.

"It will be glorious," Gellert whispered. "A true fulfillment of our original plans. Finally, Albus, we can do it."

"Look at what our plans led to," Albus said. "Is a reminder of that destruction truly your attempt to sway me?"

They were back in the cottage, Albus bent over the table, his nose inches away from a roll of parchment. He'd already written several, but he could foresee many, many more to be sent in the near future.

Gellert, meanwhile, was perched as usual on the couch, though he was not alone. Quite unlike him,

he was stroking Fawkes, his eyes misty and lost in a haze of ancient memories.

Fawkes was crooning, once again in harmony with the Wand. Its song was beginning to worm its way into Albus' mind; he'd caught himself humming to it earlier, found himself writing his letters in tune with it.

He would not allow himself to be concerned by such a thing. He was still entirely in control of himself, of that he was certain. He'd examined his actions and decisions repeatedly, and was as sure as he could be that they were his and his alone.

His choices were his own, and he would not allow himself the excuse of the influence of an artifact, even one as powerful as the Elder Wand.

"It will be different this time. You heard the man as well as I did. And we shall be together, we will be able to pull each other away from the brink."

"Or, more likely, nudge each other over it."

"Do you always have to be so pessimistic?"

"I generally consider myself an optimist," Albus said, adding a final stroke and his signature to the letter before drying the ink and rolling the parchment. "Yet it always pays to play the realist. Regardless of what Sobhuze says, he would have the muggles enslaved beneath us in all but name."

Gellert shrugged, looking not the least bit worried.

"I do not think that will be our concern. You frightened him, Albus. While I don't know what has happened in my absence, I believe it has been many a year since he has been threatened so boldly, especially by one who could actually act on it."

"I know. That was the purpose, after all."

"Regardless, at the end of the day, it will be you who will have led us all. He may have planted the seeds, but his habit of working from the shadows will work against him this time. You will be the face, and thy will be done." Gellert winked, dropping his voice into a completely unnecessary conspiratorial whisper.

"Perhaps by then," he continued, "you will have reunited the Hallows. You already have two, all that awaits is the Cloak, and you know who has it—"

"Harry will keep hold of it for many a year if I have anything to say about it," Albus said sharply. "The more I dwell on it, the more convinced I am that if Voldemort casts the curse, he can survive. Perhaps even if another casts it, but with Voldemort there is greater certainty. They are in uncharted territories, but I believe I can see a dim line mapping the path."

Gellert's mouth opened, no doubt with a suggestion that Albus 'borrow' Harry's cloak, but Albus raised a hand, cutting him off in his tracks.

"Enough pontification about the future, Gellert. We must first win the battle before us before we can think of future wars."

"Obviously," Gellert grumbled, pouting, "but dreaming can never hurt."

"But it can." Albus pulled another piece of parchment toward himself and rubbed the feathery tip of his quill across his cheek as he pondered how to begin this letter. "It can hurt, if we allow it to distract us from current events."

"I remember a time when you weren't quite so serious. You used to dream with me, Albus."

"Tomorrow," Albus said, ignoring Gellert's comment completely, "I must pay a visit to Hogwarts. I will have to have some meetings too, I suspect. You will continue with Nymphadora."

"And that will be a pleasure. What surprises do you think Voldemort will have for us?"

Albus stood and began to pace, leaving the letter aside, suddenly full of restlessness. God, but he needed some sleep. A night of true rest, that would do the trick.

"I suspect none, although the nature of a surprise is inherently predisposed to suspicion. I think he will wait and watch. He has set the fear again, and let known the price of standing by me. The Wizengamot vote—"

"Which you will not allow to happen."

"Which I will not allow to happen," Albus echoed, "he is involved with that. He has far more involvement in the Ministry than I, though that will cease to matter soon. I would not be surprised if he had fingers in the supplication to the Confederation as well."

"It affects him as much as you," Gellert said, "though you do tend to be less of a guerilla than he."

"Precisely!" Albus stopped in his tracks. "I have always been more of the visible sort, not striking from the shadows like Voldemort. Even if he was not involved in bringing in the Confederation, he will know that they are coming."

He thought for a moment, scanning through his memories and dissecting them, wandering deeply through the caverns of the long past.

"I do not think he knows of Sobhuze's leanings," Albus said, "but even if he does, Voldemort is not the sort to share power. He will not act in a public fashion, not while they are watching. No, a quiet coup from the darkness without the majority knowing for certain what has happened, that is his style."

"Are you talking about Voldemort or Sobhuze now?"

Albus favoured Gellert with his penetrating glare, the one that made all his students squirm, admit their guilt, and promise to do better.

"You used to be able to take a joke," Gellert muttered, looking away.

Which was when Fawkes leaped into the air aflame, trilling a warning and spinning around to face the window.

Gellert was on his feet immediately, prior levity forgotten. Like Albus, his wand was in his hand already, and he was prepared for anything to come.

"Voldemort?"

"He could have this location," Albus replied, watching the darkness outside warily, "but he would not choose to fight us on my ground, even with all the support he could muster. The same applies for the Ministry."

"Sobhuze wants revenge for your threat, then. No," Gellert immediately corrected himself, "he would not. So who—"

He cut off as they both felt the magic of Apparition cutting the air.

A loud crack sounded, and Severus Snape appeared, standing several feet behind the hedge.

He was holding what looked to be an intricately carved wooden box, and made no move to approach the cottage.

Summoning several large orbs of light, Albus lowered his wand and made to leave the cottage.

Gellert grabbed his arm. He had not lowered his wand, and his eyes were wide as saucers.

"Can you not feel it?" He asked urgently, "Albus, can you not sense it?"

"What are you talking about?"

"The box. This is a trap, Albus. Necromancy, I think, but twisted, different—it's hard to say, all your protective enchantments dim the senses, and you don't have enough experience with it to tell, but this is magic of the blackest, most beautiful sort. Do not let your guard down."

Albus nodded, his wand still lowered but within his hand.

"I won't. And I trust you will watch to ensure I don't, and inform me if you feel anything further?"

"Of course."

With Gellert behind him, Albus strode toward Severus.

The moon and stars were out in force tonight, though eclipsed by Albus' lights. As they drew closer, he could see how pale and wan Severus looked, he could easily make out the pleading in his eyes. Severus mouthed words at him, begging him not to speak too much.

"Well, Severus," he said, as he passed through the fence, and stopped dead in his tracks as it hit him.

A foul miasma surrounded the box, suffusing the air with its cursed presence. It was like being slapped in the face with a slab of rotting meat that had been left in the sun for days. For all that he'd lit up the night, Albus felt the darkness envelop him like a straitjacket.

Yes, Gellert had been right, not that Albus had doubted him. This was the noxious fumes of Voldemort's take on necromancy. No wonder poor Severus' hands were shaking.

Albus recovered quickly, shoving the sensations away as quickly as they had come. Fawkes appeared on his shoulder in a burst of cold golden flames, and Albus strode forward.

"Whatever could that be, Severus?" He asked.

Gellert, meanwhile, had not been taken by the same throe as Albus. The terrible aura emanating from the box seemed to invigorate him; he was all but dancing, his eyes wild with excitement. He muttered to himself as he ran his fingers through the air and inhaled deeply, then proceeded to cast several spells Albus did not recognize.

"The Dark Lord wishes to palaver," Severus said, his voice nearly shaking. "He swears that no harm will come to you, that he merely wishes to talk."

"I know the worth of his promises. Why should I trust him now?"

An unseasonably cold wind blew, tossing Albus' hair and beard back.

"Let it play out," Gellert whispered, "I know what this is. Brilliant, absolutely brilliant. We are not in danger."

"This is no trick, Albus," Severus said. "The Dark Lord honours his word, particularly when given in public, as this was, but even if you feel unable to trust him, surely you can trust me, can you not?"

The wind blew again, bringing with it the scent of death and decay.

With Gellert frantically nodding his assent, there was little Albus could say to disagree. He took the box from Severus, barely suppressing the shudder as that foulness passed into his hands.

"Not like this," Gellert said, and conjured a table and chairs. "There, perfection."

"Good evening, gentlemen," Severus said, mouthing the word 'tomorrow' at Albus before vanishing with another crack of Apparition.

Albus placed the box on the table, unable to resist the urge to rub his hands on his robes.

He and Gellert sat, Gellert jittering with excitement.

Then he waved his wand, and with one motion opened the box and levitated its contents onto the table.

Albus hissed through his teeth, though in some dark corner of his mind, he had expected this.

Emmeline's severed head had been treated roughly, with terrible sigils carved cruelly and with great precision into her cheeks and forehead. Her lips and nose had been brutally sliced away, and her hair had been pulled back so tight that the skin was taught against her skull. He could tell at once that her injuries had been inflicted before her death.

And yet, the head still possessed some mockery of life.

The eyelids—which Albus could now see had been tattooed, and desperately wished he did not know what had been used as ink—fluttered, and then remained open, revealing a scarlet gleam.

"Hello, Tom," Albus said quietly.

"Dumbledore," Voldemort hissed, the mouth of the abomination he'd created not moving. "And Lord Grindelwald—"

"What is with you people and this lord nonsense?" Grindewald said, jabbing a finger at Emmeline's eyes. "I never claimed that title. No one even called me that! My name was good enough for me, boy."

Voldemort seemed dumbstruck. The eyelids flickered faster, the intensity of his gaze blazing.

"But this is ingenious," Gellert said, poking the tip of his wand into Emmeline's ear. "Wonderfully creative. You have a gift for the art."

"I am honoured to receive such praise from a fellow craftsman as yourself," Voldemort said.

"Your spellwork is very shoddy though," Gellert continued. "And these symbols," he chuckled, "you used a silver knife? What, stone is beneath you? I can hardly believe it, you actually still think a finer cut matters more than the material used. What are they teaching these days?"

The stench of rot grew thicker, droplets of blood dripping from Emmeline's eyes.

Albus breathed deeply, clearing himself of the rage that so boiled at the sight, washing away everything that could interfere with his mind. The Wand was singing, oh so loudly, but he quashed it.

He needed a clear head for this.

"Tom," Albus said, "why don't we dispense with the pleasantries? I see little we have to discuss."

"On the contrary, Dumbledore. I think we have a great deal to talk about. You must be tired of all the needless muggle deaths you keep causing."

Gellert had moved his chair slightly, so that he was just out of Voldemort's sight, and was now sitting with his eyes closed, muttering to himself and waving his hand vaguely in the head's direction.

"I'm sure you will enlighten me as to how I cause the deaths of the people you murder."

"Those poor beasts," Voldemort hissed with a stolen tongue. "I tell you this now, Dumbledore. For every one of mine you take, I will claim a hundred of their meaningless lives. With interest, at that. Their blood will lie on your hands, at the end of the day."

Fawke squawked in outrage, and Voldemort's eyes spun toward it.

"Your paragon of justice mocks you," he said. "For all your prattling about their equality, you force my hand."

"Do not claim to understand justice, Tom," Albus said, "or mercy, or any human characteristics. Aren't you above such things?"

"And how pleasing to hear you finally admit it."

"Your logic, as you well know, is faulty. I am not forcing you to do anything. Unless, of course, you are afraid of losing face in the eyes of those you've beguiled into following you?"

Emmeline's face began to bleed, from the eyes, the nose, the ears. The wind blew again, cold as ice.

"Lord Voldemort fears nothing!"

"That," Albus said calmly, "we both know to be a lie. Or perhaps you have convinced yourself otherwise. Regardless, I will not cease my attempts to stop you, and if that is all you have to say then—"

But Gellert was gesturing to him, clear motions to indicate that he was to keep the conversation going for as long as he could.

"Then I am left to wonder as to the purpose of this conversation," he continued. "You know your threats do not faze me. You know that I will not simply stop in my tracks. What else can this be, I wonder, but a distraction? What are your Death Eaters doing while we talk?"

A long silence followed his question, broken only by a normal breeze rustling the grass and leaves, and Gellert's near silent murmurs.

As far as he could tell through Emmeline's broken visage—and how that hurt to see, how infuriated it made him to sit there with that despicable obscenity before him—Voldemort seemed pensive.

"This was no trap, no distraction," he finally said. "I am prepared to negotiate a truce."

Voldemort spat the last word as if it was a curse. In his mind, it surely was. Any truce was an admittance that he would need an ally.

And it went without saying that any truce with him would be a shaky business, one which would shatter at Voldemort's earliest opportunity.

"A truce," Albus mused, "why, Tom, you quite show your hand. You've never sought a truce with me before, though I gave you ample opportunities. Is it the fear of losing that motivates you, Tom?"

"I told you," Voldemort snarled, "I fear nothing, and that includes you."

The blood began to pour from Emmeline's face, now erupting from the neck as well. It spilled along the table and started to drip to the earth.

Voldemort's fury was palpable, even amongst the terrible stench of the sickening magic he had performed to possess Emmaline's head.

"Then why this obvious facade?"

"Perhaps," Voldemort replied, his voice a whip, "I have been forced to reconsider my opinion of you as a hidebound fool too chained by his ethical nonsensities to do what he needed. Perhaps I have seen a modicum of pragmatism that I find encouraging. Perhaps I would prefer to keep our dispute internal and not allow the Confederation to interfere where they do not belong. Pick your answer, Dumbledore, but do not question my honesty."

What were the chances, Albus wondered, that this was a legitimate attempt at reaching a peace? As close to zero as to make no difference.

Which left the question as to what it was. An attempt to gain more time, likely. Or a hope to gain more insight into Albus and Gellert, and perhaps Harry, too.

"Your honesty has been in question in my mind since the day I met you," Albus said, "and, if you were to look at matters objectively, you would not blame me for that. Putting that aside…I feel it more likely that you are simply pressed for time and do not believe you will take me or the Ministry before the Confederation reaches a decision and sends their forces in. They would trouble you as much as they would me."

The wind blew again, now hot as the fires of Hades. Emmeline's hair began to smoulder, the stench adding to the horror of the scene.

"Believe as you will, you always do. The Confederation's forces will trouble you far more than me, grandstanding fool that you are. Insult me though you do, I am gracious, Dumbledore. I will still make you an offer."

"Oh? And what is that?"

Gellert was doing something. What exactly it was, Albus had barely more than an idea, but its effects were readily apparent. A pocket of ice-cold air surrounded him, with frost having formed on his hair and eyelashes. His eyes were closed, his breathing extremely slow, and his right palm was inches away from Emmeline's head, streamers of dark light trailing away from his fingers.

"Leave the Ministry to me," Voldemort said. "Allow me to separate our world from the muggles in totality. Let us remove the mudbloods from and obliviate their animal parents the instant they show signs of magic. I will ensure there are no needless deaths, I will prevent my Death Eaters from sporting with the muggles. In return, I will eliminate many of the laws you so rally against; I will prevent discrimination against the mudbloods who have been raised in our ways, I will allow the werewolves the rights they are denied and free access to Wolfsbane. I will grant you Hogwarts, and will punish, to the greatest extent of my abilities, those who stand against you or your Order. In time, once my followers have been rewarded, you will be reinstated as Chief Warlock, and can begin your crusade against corruption. I will even work with you on this—it is in all our interests for the nation to function at its best. We could build a paradise."

Everyone wants me to build a paradise with them. Albus thought, hiding his laughter.

He settled his face into an expression that should make it seem as if he were considering it and leaned back in his chair, wishing that he had a pipe. It really was the perfect moment to fiddle with some tobacco and enrage Voldemort further.

He had to settle with twiddling his thumbs.

A seemingly decent proposal, on the face, but one which became more ludicrous with every instant of thought devoted to it. Obviously, his next proposal would be the one he truly wished Albus to take. Or there would be a third.

Or it was all a ploy to gather information, or an attempt to waste Albus' time, though he felt that possibility least likely of all.

"No, Tom," he said. "You misunderstand the purpose of my crusade, as you put it. Your continued existence, as well as that of your Death Eaters, is a large part of my crusade. Surely you jest with this offer? You are more intelligent than this."

Voldemort hissed and spat, undoubtedly cursing Dumbledore in Parseltongue.

Gellert was still at it. His face had a waxy, corpselike sheen to it, yet he looked exceptionally pleased. When he exhaled, infrequently, sigils not unlike those on Emmeline's face appeared in the vapour of his breath.

It was becoming clear to Albus what he intended to attempt, and that he would still need more time.

"Do you have another offer to make me, Tom?"

Voldemort's eyes found his, their crimson gaze burning with loathing.

"Give me the boy," he said. "And you will never see or hear from me again. My followers will likewise vanish. Give me Potter, Dumbledore, and you can keep this land."

Albus' blood froze. This was it, the opportunity he'd been hoping for to set Voldemort further on Harry's trail. He could not acquiesce, to be sure, it would be too suspicious, but he could work with this.

It was too early! Three other Horcruxes were still at bay, waiting to be destroyed, the Ministry still remained intact, it was too early! What if he caused Voldemort to act that very night, what if Voldemort chose to kidnap Harry and not kill him outright?

"Again," Albus said, "you ask of me something that you know I will never do."

"Won't you?" Voldemort's voice shifted now, adopting that ever so brilliant tone he'd perfected in Hogwarts. Not pleasing or cajoling, simply asking for something in a manner that made it seem so obviously the best decision. "What is one boy's life against the myriads I will otherwise claim? I will guarantee him a quick death, a painless one…I will even return his body to you so you can memorialize it. Would you not offer a sacrificial lamb for peace, true peace? Do with the Ministry and this nation what you will, just deliver me the boy."

The worst part was that Albus would happily do so, if he was guaranteed that Voldemort would simply kill Harry. If his suspicion was correct, Harry still had a chance of survival. Yet therein lay the problem, for Voldemort would discover his survival and would be quick enough to connect the dots.

But even if Harry were to be truly killed, Albus could, as a last resort, allow it. Sacrifices had to be made. But never a sacrifice which cost more than it gained.

Any hope of success relied, in the first place, on Voldemort immediately killing Harry, and not attempting to discover what, in his mind, Albus and Gellert had done to weaponize their connection. For Voldemort to discover that Harry had been a Horcrux would be beyond disastrous.

No, Albus could not risk it. But he could push Voldemort toward a confrontation.

"I do not blame you for your fear of Harry," he said, "Prophecy is quite powerful, isn't it?"

"I fear nothing, least of all a boy who has survived due to luck and the gifts of others."

Gellert suddenly focused on Albus and held up his left hand. After a second, he dropped one finger.

"He will destroy you," Albus said happily, as Gellert lowered a second finger.

"The child could not destroy a flea, least of all—"

"No, he is fated to destroy you," Albus said, eyeing Gellert. One second remaining. "It is all right for you to fear him."

"I FEAR NOTHING!"

At Lord Voldemort's shriek, Emmeline's head erupted with blood from every orifice. The eyes popped out of their sockets and the top of the head exploded in flames.

A whirlwind of mingled cold and heat spun around the table, full of malice and fury. Gloom covered all sources of light, and the terrible odor of dark magic thickened until Albus felt he would almost choke on it.

And Gellert, smiling beatifically, exhaled in a cloud of unknowable symbols and placed a hand against the blood and gore drenched head.

Gellert opened his eyes again, relishing the strange, monstrous sensation of possessing a dead body, and a woman's one at that.

She had been stripped naked, of course, and her corpse had been ritualistically burned and cut in various places to make more of those wonderful, enticing symbols.

A fucking silver knife. When will people learn?

A wooden plank had been put in place of a head, daubed with blood and other substances to make out a façade of facial features. As Gellert took possession, the plank ballooned into a shape more akin to that of a head, and the features became his.

Ah, the return of senses. He could see and hear and talk once more.

He was in a beautifully upkept living room in what seemed to be a mansion. The room was dim, lit only by several candles placed around the corpse, which had been seated in a hard wooden chair.

The terrible lighting made it difficult to see his surroundings as he'd have liked. He could just make out some portraits on the walls and a plush carpet, along with several marble-looking pillars curling up to the ceiling.

There were others in the room, of course.

Voldemort was sitting directly across him with his mouth agape and wand drawn, the snake around his shoulders reared up in fright. He made an impressive sight, in person, with his skeletal frame and noseless, hairless face. He was the image of nightmares, and he was already recovering from the surprise of Gellert's 'appearance'.

The bitch had clearly leapt to her feet, her chair toppled over behind her. Others, their faces too murky to be seen, had done the same.

"What is this?" The bitch cried, "How—"

"Hush, Bellatrix," Voldemort hissed. And it was a hiss, a sound more befitting to his pet than the human tongue. Then, with a nod toward Gellert, he said: "Grindelwald, I presume?"

"In the flesh," Gellert said, then raised a stolen hand to tap his wooden head, "in a manner of speaking."

The Death Eaters were huddling together, muttering, their fear filling the air. At least one of them had wet himself with fright. Bellatrix, however, was crouched beside her master, her wand drawn.

Voldemort, at least, did not disappoint. He showed no fear, only interest, and calmly stroked his snake and whispered to it in its speech until it uncoiled from him and slithered to the ground, where it lay at his feet.

"This is an incredible working," he said. "I am impressed."

"An honour," Gellert said with a smile, wood splintering as he twisted the lips, "to hear such praise from a craftsman like yourself."

Voldemort seemed to appreciate that. He gave what appeared to be the closest he could to a smile and leaned slightly forward on his throne.

"Of course," Gellert continued, "this was only possible because, as I said, your spellwork was shoddy. Creative, a marvelous application of principles, but clearly unpractised. And the silver knife nonsense—I tell you, stone will see you through the day better every time."

Voldemort's simple vanished, tightly compressed rage replacing it. The snake hissed in anger, the bitch by his side raised her wand, and the Death Eaters huddled in the back grew even more fearful.

"You see," Gellert chuckled, "you opened the door, but you didn't close it properly behind you. You couldn't, as you'd made too many mistakes. And now I am here, and free to act as I wish."

Voldemort laughed softly, a sound far more disturbing than his shrieks of rage had been.

"Yes, you are here. Wandless, outnumbered, and not in your own body. You are also unable to leave the chair, or did I err in that too?"

"No," Gellert said, not even bothering to try, "you didn't. That part you did quite well."

He shrugged, and in a sudden movement tore at one of the cuts on the corpse's left hand. Blood trickled down, and before even Voldemort could react, Gellert spat out a harsh, guttural syllable, and flicked the blood toward the mass of Death Eaters.

As they flew, each droplet of blood gained a silver corona and speed, hurtling forward far faster than should have been possible.

Again, Voldemort did not disappoint. His wand flashed as he spat, sending the saliva to intercept each drop of blood.

All but one, that is, which hit an unlucky Death Eater in the head and lit his entire body aflame. There was nothing but ash in seconds.

An emerald curse struck Emmaline in the chest.

Bellatrix was standing, her face twisted with mixed terror and hatred, her wand still outstretched.

"Silly girl," Gellert laughed, "you cannot kill that which is already dead."

"No," Voldemort said, eyes narrowed, "and we cannot harm you in this state. But I can, as you put it, close the door."

"Then why haven't you already?"

"You are no longer a threat," Voldemort said. "That trick was…impressive, but you will not be able to replicate it."

It was true. Gellert could already feel the enchantments Voldemort had quickly raised, so similar to those in Nurmengard that his heart skipped a beat, that early terror of being locked away from his power coming upon him once more.

His arms were bound, pinned to his sides, and he knew there was no more blood to be found in the body he was possessing.

Oh well. There was still more to be gained from this excursion.

"You really are quite gifted," Gellert said. "It's a pity I never took you under my wing, when you were beginning to learn."

"A pity for you, perhaps," Voldemort said. "I am sure even then there was much I could have taught you."

"I doubt it. You are far too small-minded. When I was at your stage, I had countries under my sway and people trembling at my name a continent away."

Bellatrix snarled at this insult to her master, but a raise of his hand silenced her. The other Death Eaters seemed caught between a desire to flee and the knowledge of the repercussions they would face for doing so.

"Yet you hid from Dumbledore," Voldemort said, still calmly stroking his snake. "you never even approached Britain for fear of facing him."

"And you hide from him at every opportunity," Gellert replied. "You have only faced him directly when no other options were available."

"And yet," Voldemort raised a long-fingered hand, "I have walked away from my bouts, none the worse for them. Can the same be said for you?"

Gellert was silent. His immediate retort shriveled in his throat, the memory of that terrible day, as he'd seen it after drinking the potion to access the fake horcrux, was still playing on his mind, as it had been since then.

"I wonder how it came to be that you so happily co-operate with a man like him," Voldemort said. "When our interests are so much more aligned. Whatever hold he has on you, I can break it. Together, we can achieve your goals. I believe that you do have much to teach me, as I have to teach you. Together, we will be unstoppable. The muggles will not even know what has befallen them until it is too late. I admit, I admired you and your vision, once. I would very much like to admire you again. Tell me how to free you from Dumbledore's spell, and you can be greater than ever you were. People will not only tremble at your name, they will be too frightened to even think of uttering it. Join me, Grindelwald. Or be prepared to be relegated to the history books, with nothing but failed conquest to your name."

For one wild moment, he considered it.

Just for a moment, he imagined casting all the remorse he'd suffered over the decades in Nurmengard aside, freeing himself from his conscience, and setting himself, once more, to terror for the sake of terror.

Then sanity reasserted itself.

There was so much he wanted to say to this man, so much this self-styled dark lord needed to hear.

Fifty years worth of self-loathing, true remorse that had left him wishing the earth had never been cursed with his birth, fifty years of facing the realization, day in and day out, that he had achieved nothing but to worsen the world.

But everything he could say would be meaningless to this wizard, this contorted mockery of humanity who had twisted himself through dark rituals and horrific acts into a creature barely even resembling a man.

"Whatever makes you think," Gellert said with a wink, "that he has a hold over me?"

He let that sink in for a moment, then continued.

"As for your offer, tempting though it is, I'm afraid I will have to decline. I have many reasons; your already noted small-mindedness, your lack of style, your leadership skills, to name a few."

He paused, just for a beat, while selecting the words that he knew would drive this monstrosity into a rage.

"Most importantly, however, is the fact that you are fated to die at the hands of a child."

Voldemort's eyes widened. He rose, Bellatrix shrinking away, the other Death Eaters shuffling toward the exit.

"You cannot stand in fate's way. I was a seer, once, you know. The visions were infrequent, even with the rituals to induce them, and came less and less over the years."

Voldemort was approaching now, his wand swirling through the air. Gellert had little time left.

"I Saw Dumbledore defeating me," he invented madly, "and so I stayed away from Britain. Yet when he came, he won, though by all rights he should not have. The prophecy has decreed that the boy will vanquish you, and I'm sorry to tell you, but you cannot avoid it. You are going to die an ignoble death, the great Lord Voldemort, falling to a mediocre teenager. What an epitaph to a wasted life that will make. You should think about how future historians will describe you."

Voldemort was nearly done. He was snarling, incantations starting to spill from his lips.

"For all intents and purposes, you are already dead," Gellert said with a wide grin. "You just don't know it yet."

"I will never die." Voldemort said, and slashed his wand, thrusting Gellert unceremoniously from Emmeline's corpse.

Gellert opened his eyes again.

He was laying on the couch inside the cottage, while Albus, Fawkes perched beside him, wrote an exceedingly long letter.

It was as if the last several hours hadn't happened.

"I was wondering when you'd return," Albus said without looking up. "That was longer than I expected. Did you know the head dissolved into dust?"

"Of course it did. And the dust burned?"

"Oh yes, very nicely. That's when I brought you in."

"Obviously. What was that, an hour ago?"

"Something like that. You know how I get while I'm writing."

"Yes," Gellert sat up and stretched, relishing the feel of his own body again. Say what you will about possession, but there was nothing like coming home.

"Well?" Albus asked, putting his quill down and looking at Gellert. "How did it go?"

"I killed one of his followers and annoyed the shit out of him, I think."

"Ah, jolly good. How did you do so?"

So Gellert regaled him with a blow-by-blow recap of his encounter with Voldemort.

By the end of it, Albus was shaking with laughter, those brilliant eyes alive and joyous.

"Oh yes, that will certainly do it. Gellert, my friend, you are as enchanting and exciting as the day I first met you."

"I really hope he goes with a stone knife, if he tries that again."

"What will happen?" Albus asked, the ghost of hilarity still shaking his frame.

"I'm almost certain he'd be able to contain the magical backlash, which would just mean a small explosion and a few wasted hours and a wasted corpse. If he doesn't contain it though…" he shrugged. "No real way of knowing. He'll either end up trapped in the head or trapped between bodies. I doubt he'll try it again soon, though."

"No, but it would be lovely if he did, and took your advice, wouldn't it?"

Albus stood, shaking his head.

"It's been a very long day, and these old bones are weary and in desperate need of rest. What say you we head to bed?"

"That," Geller said sincerely, "is the best idea I've heard since you rescued me from Nurmengard."

Chapter Text

Chapter 18

"Well, Harry," Albus said, "Sirius informs me that he believes you and your friends are making wonderful progress."

Harry grinned, looking heartened by this.

"We think so too. I actually wanted to ask if—I mean, I know you're very busy and everything, but…we thought maybe if you had a chance you could…"

The boy trailed off, looking at Albus with such hope in his eyes that it could have brought a stone to tears.

"If I would, perhaps, give you a few pointers?" Albus finished for him.

It was an utterly pointless idea. Any spells which Harry and his comrades would be capable of casting to any great effect would be best taught to them by Sirius, or even self-taught from a library book.

Albus did not traffic in mere Stunners and Hexes, and his particular brand of duelling would require them to spend decades learning the ins and outs of magic, becoming as familiar with it as with their own body parts.

It would be a total waste of his time, and theirs as well for that matter, and he had far more important things to do.

Even if they learned something from him, it would not aid them, not against Voldemort.

In fact, it would not serve Albus well—or the world, for that matter—for Harry to be able to survive an encounter with Voldemort.

And yet, what could it hurt for Albus to take a half hour and give them a display? It would only brighten up their days and give them more of that most dangerous gift, hope.

Harry's eyes plucked at his heartstrings. Soon, Albus knew, those eyes would most likely be blank, the life and energy utterly wiped from them.

Sometimes, reason had to give way to feeling.

He would do it, he decided, depending on how the rest of his visit to Hogwarts went. He could not spend all day at Hogwarts, to be sure, but if he had the time…

"Unless I am urgently summoned away from Hogwarts before I intend to leave today—which is a distinct possibility—I will do my utmost to, as it were, show you a few tricks."

Harry beamed. His innocence was astonishing; Albus had forgotten how simple it was to make the boy so happy.

"Professor-sir—What were you looking for, down in the Chamber of Secrets?"

Albus kept his silence for a moment as they took a staircase which immediately changed direction.

There were no other students around right then, all of them in classes, and he'd seen no ghosts this morning—a good sign, as they were surely about his business.

Hogwarts was as quiet as it ever was during term. Oh, there were the muted sounds of classes in session, the occasional student hurrying back from the bathrooms, and the constant conversations of the portraits, but Hogwarts was calm and peaceful, seemingly unaware of the war outside its walls.

But unaware it was not. It still greeted him as Headmaster, and he could feel the thrumming power of the raised protective enchantments, could sense the additional charms laid in place.

The professors had been hard at work to ensure the castle's safety.

How long would that imagined safety remain if a battle broke out with Voldemort for the school?

"It's sometimes useful to revisit the scene of a crime," Albus replied vaguely.

Not that it had been especially helpful.

The Diadem has not been in evidence there, nor had he found anything of use, other than a half-vial of basilisk venom he'd managed to distill. The rest of the basilisk's body parts had been stripped and sold, of course, although Severus probably still had some venom hidden away in his jars and beakers.

"Professor—I wanted to ask—with the Ministry—"

"Ah, yes. Tell me, Harry, what do you think of our illustrious Ministry of Magic?"

Harry looked at his shuffling feet.

"We've been researching it—mostly Hermione, to be honest, and, well, it's like you said, I guess. It's really bad."

"A point succinctly and well made," Albus said. "There are many types of evil in this world, Harry. You see, most people are neither villains nor saints. The average person—wizard or muggle, in this there is no difference—simply wants to live out their life in peace and happiness. I like to believe that they tend toward good, at least the small good—if they see someone drop a wallet, they will call and return it to them, but that may simply be my hope. But most people are generally neutral, prone to neither acts of horrific cruelty nor incredible kindness. They are not golems or automatons like these," he gestured toward a suit of armour. "They are simply people. Do you follow?"

Harry nodded, but his befuddled expression indicated otherwise.

"You see," Albus continued, unconsciously adopting a lecturing tone, "Voldemort's evil is extreme. The torture and murder of innocents, the terrorism and violence. It is too much for most people to abide. Unless," he raised a finger, "they have been primed and taught for years to see their enemies as subhuman, as history has taught us. Then many will go along with it, but even then, there will be exceptions, and a great number at that."

"Like in World War Two," Harry said, obviously eager to have some input.

"Indeed, or in Rwanda, or Cambodia, or far too many other locations throughout the past. Regardless, as it stands, that is an evil that can only in exceptional circumstances grip the common folk. The Ministry's evil, on the other hand…"

Albus shook his head.

"Banal and seemingly benign though it is, it corrupts. The Ministry's evil is one of selfishness, of encouraging each man to think only of himself and what benefits him. People, even those who are generally good, are far more susceptible to this influence. To return to a previous example, one exposed to the Ministry's influence will not call to the owner of a dropped wallet. The world revolves solely around him, and around what he can gain. And what does one need in order to gain the most that he can?"

He peered over his glasses at Harry as he asked the question.

"Power," Harry said softly.

"Precisely. You recall, I am sure, what you once told me Voldemort said when you faced him at the end of your first year?"

"There is no good and evil," Harry quoted, "only power and those too weak too seek it."

"And that," Albus said with a wave of his hand, "is the most extreme outcome of the Ministry's influence. It is, in fact, the natural outcome of selfishness, when taken to the extreme. No," he said to Harry's expression, "I do not blame the Ministry for Voldemort's crimes. The weight of his sins rest upon his shoulders. However, the Ministry has fostered an environment where he and his followers could flourish. Their influence must be purged away at the very roots, torn from the heart of the nation."

"But how do you do that?"

"How indeed?" Albus mused. "That is the question."

Harry obviously realized that no further explanation would be forthcoming. They walked in silence for several minutes, punctuated by the clangs of the suits of armour saluting Albus and the quiet whisperings of portraits.

Albus stopped in his tracks before one of the large windows that looked out onto the Hogwarts grounds.

He could see the trees of the Forbidden Forest, their branches waving merrily in the wind. The lake was serene, the Mermen happily living their lives beneath its surface.

The grounds were perfectly kept, not a blade of grass out of place. The magic and life of the students and castle itself suffused it all, giving an overall feeling of contentment and peace.

A flock of birds flew out of the Forest, startled, no doubt, by one of its denizens.

It was all so beautiful. So very beautiful.

It shamed him to admit it, but Gellert's snide comments were true; had Fudge not made it so personal, Albus would likely have remained content to stay as Headmaster and do nothing political other than battle Voldemort.

Had Fudge not pushed his hand, Albus would not have had to force himself to gaze at the beauty and remind himself what exactly it was he was fighting for.

It was for the boy, doomed to die and possibly live again, who stood beside Albus and fidgeted as he tried to compose a question but wasn't sure how.

It was for his friends and fellow schoolmates, for their future and the future of their souls.

It was for the peace and serenity of Hogwarts, and the dear hope that such peace could be spread across the entire nation.

It was not for his personal pride or gain, not to finally show his powers and why he deserved the title of the most powerful wizard in the world.

Not for that did he fight, no matter what the Wand and Gellert said, no matter what the darkest corners of his mind whispered, no matter how his conscience badgered him.

"I am quite pleased to hear that you are no longer suffering Voldemort's intrusions," Albus said, not taking his eyes from the window. He could just make out Hagrid's form in the distance, showing a class something near the Forest.

Hopefully it wasn't too dangerous a creature, whatever it was.

"Er, yeah. The last one was a few days ago. It was—it was the worst of them, I think."

"Yes," Albus said gravely, and with a last look outside, as if to burn the image into his heart, he turned to Harry. "But think of how it hurt Voldemort to do so. Agony the likes of which you, with a pure and innocent soul, cannot comprehend. He is now deploying Occlumency and other defences against you. He is afraid of you, Harry."

How Albus' heart broke at the sight of Harry's expression.

His fear was readily apparent, but so was his resolve.

He was no child.

"That means he'll be coming after me again, won't he?"

"Unfortunately, this is certainly the case. He sees this as the prophecy beginning to fulfill itself, and will not rest as long as you live."

Albus paused a moment to let those words sink in. Again, Harry impressed him, setting his jaw and nodding with a steely glint in his eye.

"I do not believe a confrontation can be eternally avoided," Albus continued, "but it need not be sought out—unless, that is, it is one that suits us well, if you understand me?"

"You think we should set a trap, with me as the bait," Harry said slowly, "like at the Department of Mysteries?"

"Never," Albus shook his head, "never, Harry. I will not place you in danger. But Voldemort will find you, at some point. It is up to us to ensure that you are not alone, and that the fight serves to destroy Voldemort."

Harry still looked mistrustful.

"I promise you, Harry, I swear to you on everything I hold dear," Albus said, the lie acid on his tongue, "I will protect you."

"I can't fight him," Harry whispered. "I've seen what he can do. I can't face him and survive."

"And yet how many times have you done so? Harry, Harry, you will not be alone. For once, when Voldemort chooses to attack you, you will not be alone. And in the end, when he is dead and dust, you will stand. I swear it."

A tinge of hope hit Harry's face like sunshine.

"However, I want you to be especially careful even in Hogwarts. You have your cloak on you, do you not?"

"Yes," Harry said.

"Please keep it with you at all times," Albus said, raising a finger. "Yes, I am aware that Mr Nott and his companions who sought to emulate their fathers have been expelled, and I understand that the school, though tense, seems safer than ever. Regardless, danger always lurks when one is most complacent. Keep it with you, and please, be on your guard."

"I will," Harry promised.

"Excellent. Well, I believe you will still be in time for the tail end of Transfiguration if you hurry—which I have full confidence you shall. I dearly hope to see you and your friends before I leave today, but if I do not, then till we meet again."

Once Harry had left, Albus calmly walked the hallways of his true home, desperately keeping his eyes from straying to the windows and their beautiful sights.

Eventually, he reached what was, only temporarily, not his office.

The gargoyles leaped aside at his approach, the spiraling staircase as welcome as it had ever been.

He breathed in the beauty of it.

There, his instruments, many of them handcrafted by him, used to further the study of magic, leading to discoveries in multiple fields as he stood by and let the world regress around him.

There, his private library, including the books he'd hidden away from the world for fear of the dangers within. What would have been if he had studied them in greater depth over the years and dedicated his energies to countering their malignancy?

He would never know.

There, the assembled portraits Headmasters and Headmistresses past. He'd long dreamed of joining their noble ranks.

Even Minerva's touches to the room did not disturb him. They were as temporary as her position.

He breathed in deeply once more, then took his seat and glanced at his watch. Another several minutes until Severus would arrive.

"Tipsy!" Albus called.

After a moment of silence, the senior elf appeared before him, wearing her Hogwarts tunic as if it were a royal robe.

"Hello, Tipsy," Albus said kindly, "how are you?"

"I'm sorry for disappointing you, Headmaster, sir," she said, tugging at her ears. "We haven't found the object you want yet. We is trying, but so far, nothing."

"Please, tell me about the search. And sit, if you'd like."

Predictably, Tipsy did not sit. But she did launch into speech as if she had prepared for it, which, knowing her, she likely had.

"We have searched the entire known castle, Headmaster, sir, as well as many of the hidden rooms. The ghosts have been helping, showing us old walled-in rooms and allowing us to access them. We is beginning already right after breakfast this morning to search the Come and Go Room. This is the last place we know of that we haven't searched."

"The Room of Requirement," Albus said, "Interesting. How has that search been proceeding?"

Tipsy's large eyes welled with tears, her hands tugging at her ears once more.

"We is searching the Room of Hidden Things first," she said sadly, "but it will be taking lots of time Headmaster, sir."

"Perhaps I will be able to assist," Albus said, "I believe I will join you shortly. Thank you, Tipsy. I greatly appreciate all your, and your team's, hard work over this past time."

Albus ignored the elf's boisterous expressions of gratitude, delving once more into his mind.

Could it work? To be sure, it depended on how well Voldemort had understood the Room of Requirement, and if, indeed, it had been placed there.

If his attempt was to no avail, he would have to leave the elves and ghosts to continue the search, while he researched further into Albania.

That would take a significant amount of time. Little record remained of Voldemort's time in the country.

In the meanwhile…

Voldemort could be reduced to a wraith once more, and possibly trapped, but how reliable could that possibly be?

As he trod down that train of thought, he heard the gargoyles at the entrance to his office open.

Finally, Severus had arrived.

Severus stalked into the office with his robes billowing around him, his face as dour as ever.

Unprompted, he took the seat across from Albus.

"Good morning, Severus. I trust you have recovered from your mission last night?"

Severus gave him a look the likes of which he usually reserved for his least-favorite students.

"Do you know," Albus said, "he offered me a truce? In full view of his Death Eaters. I give him Harry and he and his followers would vanish, he said. How frightened is he?"

"More than I, or any of the others, have ever seen him," Severus said. "He has grown obsessed with his connection to the boy. All of his spare time is spent contemplating it."

Albus steepled his fingers.

"And how close do you believe him to be to understanding the truth?"

Severus bit his lip, his hands forming into fists.

"I do not know," he admitted. "But the ancient tomes he is immersing himself in—his travels—I do not know, Albus. My value as a spy has dropped rapidly with his increased secrecy."

"But his secrecy is not aimed purely at you, correct?"

Severus shook his head.

"His obsession with secrecy has grown along with his obsession with Potter. He no longer informs anyone of his plans until the time has come to act on them. We know nothing of where he is going on his travels—Bellatrix claims he has visited the Far East, but that is neither here nor there."

"The Far East," Albus hummed, "Surely not—but—hmm—Does he believe I will take the Ministry?"

Severus' cheeks twitched.

"I think so. And he has plans for afterward. No," Snape spat, forestalling the question, "I do not know them. But there will be something big."

"What are his current orders regarding Harry?"

"He is to be killed on sight," Severus said, "all the better that Nott and his friends have been expelled and that Minerva has banned all further Hogsmeade visits. He even mused about having me simply kill the boy, but has since decided against it."

"He hasn't realized the truth, then," Albus said thankfully, "but it cannot be too far away. Severus, you recall the conversation we had regarding Nagini?"

Looking as if he had swallowed a lemon, Severus nodded.

"It should be left for last," Albus said, "excluding Harry, of course. However," he raised a finger, "if, at any point, Voldemort either understands the nature of their connection, or he learns what Gellert and I have been doing, then it must be done immediately."

"Is it so easy for you," Severus whispered, "to order me to my death?"

"I am deeply disturbed and frankly terrified of that possibility," Albus said, after a moment's pause, his eyes damp. "My heart bleeds at the very thought of it. I do not wish for your death in the slightest, and quite aside for my personal feelings toward you, it would be an incalculable loss."

Severus glared at him, not reassured in the least bit.

"Severus," Albus continued, voice softening. "You are one of the most resourceful and brilliant men I know. You have held your Occlumency against, as you say, the greatest Legilemens in the world and lied to his face. I have full faith in your ability to carry out this mission. It is essential to Voldemort's defeat, and to Harry's survival."

Severus opened his mouth, but Dumbledore spoke on, voice hardening once more.

"You remember why you joined me in the first place, do you not? You remember the shape and shade of Lily's eyes?"

"Enough, Albus," Severus spat, "I am no turncoat like some of your other Order members, and am no coward like Lupin to flee."

"Then you will do as necessary?"

"Have I ever done anything less?"

*No," Albus sighed, folding his hands again. "You have not, Severus. You have always done whatever you could, and my gratitude is immeasurable. How much basilisk venom do you have left?"

Severus took the apparent shift in subject in perfect stride.

"None. If you recall, you gave me permission to use it as I saw fit, and I crafted some beautiful potions from it and traded the rest."

"Then take this," Albus said, passing him the half empty vial he'd gathered. "I trust you are capable of imbuing a dagger with it?"

Severus favoured him with a withering glare.

"Good. You will know when to use it, I think, if I have not informed you in advance. If the snake is not killed, all is lost."

"A fact you have reminded me of at every opportunity," Severus said coldly, "as if to ensure I will do it. What of the boy, Albus? Or will all my service have been to have taken the last remainder of—of her to the grave?"

"Everything I am doing is to ensure Harry's survival," Albus said. "I believe it possible under the right circumstances, and am doing all in my power to arrange those."

Severus half-rose, his face contorting for an instant before he settled once more.

Like Albus, he was not satisfied with the situation. Also like Albus, he realized there was not much he could do about it.

"Voldemort must trust your ability as a spy," Albus said. "He already believes that I will take the Ministry. Tell him that though I have not shared the plans beyond Gellert, I will be taking it the day of the vote. Tell him that from the sound of it, we intend to seize control by force."

Severus nodded, then made as if to stand.

"A moment, Severus. I need you to do whatever you can to discover what he was doing abroad. I understand there is no love lost between Bellatrix and you—"

"If I try to glean information from her, she will try to gut me."

"As you say. She is also an accomplished Occlumens, as you well know. Perhaps some of her closest confidants may know something, if only rumours. I cannot impress the importance of this on you enough."

"What do you suspect he was doing?" Severus said, eyes narrowing.

"I don't wish to cloud any of your discoveries with my mere intuitive suspicions," Albus said, pausing for a moment to think before adding: "But I suspect he had importing on his mind."

When Severus left the office, Albus allowed himself a few minutes of simple meditation, sitting in his rightful place without even thinking.

He could almost pretend that nothing had happened, that even Voldemort's return had not occured. Here, in his stronghold, he could remember more pleasant times, days when everything was so simple. His decisions had been easy, though much had relied on them.

Life had been too pleasant.

He should have known, back then, that it would not last. He had fallen into a comfortable routine of bickering with the Wizengamot and the Governors, become too used to the banality of his daily life, forgetting the consequences to the nation and the world.

How could he ever have been so foolish as to believe that it would always be simple for a wizard of his stature?

Comfort and routine, those great enemies of progress, had laid a trap for him. More fool him, he had fallen into it.

He had allowed his greatness to lay fallow, when he should, by all rights, have been changing the world.

He opened his eyes once more.

Self-recriminations would achieve nothing. He had now moved past the inertia of times past, and was proceeding steadily forward.

It was still early, lunch break not yet having begun.

No more time wasting.

Albus left the office without a backward glance.

'Show me the place where Tom Riddle hid his Horcrux made from Rowena Ravenclaw's diadem. Show me the place where Tom Riddle hid his Horcrux made from Rowena Ravenclaw's diadem. Show me the place where Tom Riddle hid his Horcrux made from Rowena Ravenclaw's diadem.'

The door appeared once more.

Still hopeful, Albus opened it.

Once again, it was the cavernous room the elves referred to as the Room of Hidden Things.

Unless the Room took any request for hidden objects to reveal the Room of Hidden Things, this had to be it. Albus had phrased it in multiple ways, as specific as possible, and the Room of Hidden Things kept appearing.

It could be, of course, that Voldemort had enchanted the Room somehow to mislead potential searchers.

Albus doubted that. It would fit Voldemort to believe that none would search for it here of all places.

"I believe this is it," he told Tipsy and Dobby, who had been watching him with much anticipation. "Summon all the elves and the ghosts, please. Warn all the elves to proceed with the utmost caution. If they see the Diadem, they are not to approach it, but to call me or my companions at once."

"Your companions, sir?" Tipsy asked, as Dobby vanished to hurry the elves.

"Yes," Albus sighed. He didn't want to pull Gellert and Nymphadora away from their training—it was exceedingly urgent, after all—but he'd already seen the dangers Voldemort's Horcruxes could pose.

"I think it's best if I bring some friends along."

Chapter Text

Chapter 19

"This place is magnificent," Gellert said, running his finger lightly across the blood-stained blade of a cursed axe. "Albus, I take my hat off to you. Hogwarts well deserves its reputation."

"Few know of this room's existence," Albus said, "but Hogwarts has indeed earned its reputation."

Gellert looked around, still enthralled.

The size of this enormous place impressed him less than its contents.

From the looks of things, there should have been Hogwarts students expelled for far worse than he had committed in Durmstrang. Objects imbued with some of the darkest magic he'd seen were strewn around like sweets after a child's party.

There was no rhyme or reason to this place.

Failed experiments lay alongside ordinary schoolboy contraband. A cursed glittering ruby emanating malice sat beside a harmless pornographic magazine on a graffitied table.

The size alone would have made searching it difficult, but the nature of half of its contents amplified the difficulty greatly. It was complete chaos.

Gellert was in love again.

"Don't get distracted," Albus warned him, pointlessly. "We are here for a purpose, as you well know."

"Yes yes," Gellert said, hefting a blunt axe that was calling to him. "Purpose, yes, of course. Destroy a Horcrux and bring back anything that seems useful."

Albus eyed the axe.

"And that will be useful?"

"Probably not, but I want to hang it above your fireplace. You can feel it's curse, surely?"

"It shouldn't require any force to cleave a man in two. Why do I need it in my cottage?"

"It's a conversation piece, and no home is complete without a mounted blade."

Albus rolled his eyes and walked off through the heaps, eyes peeled in every direction.

Gellert eyed the axe once more before putting it down. It wasn't even goblin-forged, and he could enchant one far better.

But this place—intoxicating. All well and good for Albus to go on about keeping the eyes on the prize, but Gellert spotted a collection of Peruvian shrunken heads with actual Quechuan carvings in them.

Into the sack they went, along with some enchanted sapphires and an entire pickled human spine.

He spied something draped over a broken chair.

"How—" he mumbled, darting for it, his wand out and scanning.

"How could it—what—who on Earth—"

Lost for words, he lapsed into silence, running his hands over an empty Dementor's cloak.

Most definitely one for the sack.

He could hear house elves and ghosts calling to one another, Albus' strident voice ringing instructions and warnings above all others, but they did not disturb his private search.

He delved deeper into the room, looking around for the Horcrux as he passed, but his eyes were still darting around for more treasures.

There were plenty to be found.

It did not take long for Gellert to realize that he could happily spend years in this place and never run out of items to collect. He needed to return to the main search, but it was all so enticing…

I'll come back here, he promised himself. When Voldemort is dust, I will return and rescue more of these prizes.

His breath caught and he hurried forward, all but knocking over a house-elf in his haste.

There, stacked atop a pile of charred books, was a series of small plaques.

They looked like dominoes at first glance; at least, to one who did not know what such things were and could not feel their thrumming power.

By all the gods, how could they be here? Even in Durmstrang, even in the ancient lands, such were impossibly rare, the art of crafting them having been long lost in the haze of time and war.

The knowledge of using them could still be found, albeit with great difficulty, as Gellert could attest, but to actually craft them—

These, he could tell just by being so near, had been crafted perfectly. They must have been ancient, possibly dating back to near the founding of Hogwarts.

The bottommost one was a burned ruin, but the others—

Gellert's knees went weak as he reverently took the Runes, fondling them one by one, and placed them gently into the stack.

They would come in handy, and soon.

He let his senses drift wild as he walked, eyes focused on everything and nothing, feeling the cursed and half-formed things in the room sing to him.

Occasionally, he would pick something up to examine it. An athame and a glittering golden flower dropped into the sack, but nothing else piqued his interest.

A research project for decades, he thought, just to catalogue the contents.

He would make it happen, one day. The room would bustle even more than it currently was, and he was certain there were already more beings in there than ever before in its prodigious history.

Ghosts and house-elves floated and scurried, respectively, around the place by the hundreds; Albus was walking through the room, along with his tame death eater, Nymphadora, Black, and of course, Gellert himself, while above them all, Fawkes swept the air, searching from the sky.

If the Horcrux was indeed here, it was surprising they hadn't found it yet.

Gellert reached the end of the corridor and turned, coming face to face with the ghostly monk he'd spoken with previously.

"We meet again," the ghost said with a smile.

"So we do," Gellert said. "I'd have thought you'd make like the rest of your compatriots and avoid me."

"Then you clearly don't remember our conversation too well. I am not frightened of death, or even the pure agonizing nothingness of exorcism, no more now than the day I died."

The ghost glided closer to Gellert.

"Have you thought of our conversation? Are you still so content to view yourself a monster?"

"As I told you then," Gellert said, "I am what I am."

He waved a hand, forestalling the next question.

"But I know I am no monster. I had cause, recently, to see a true monster, as I was in my heyday, and I am no longer that man. What I am, I still do not know for certain, but I am no monster any longer, of that I am sure."

"That is all well and good," the monk replied," but shouldn't you spend some time to find out what you are?"

Gellert was spared the need to respond by a sudden shout which went out—a high-pitched whoop of glee.

Hurrying back toward the source of the commotion, it became readily apparent that the Diadem had been found. Albus was sending the house-elves and ghosts away, clearing away rubbish and treasure from a pile of crates.

And there it was. Tarnished and dimmed, not the headdress befitting the renowned Rowena Ravenclaw, but the Diadem of fame regardless.

It simply sat there, hidden in plain sight, inches away from a plaster head, no doubt made to look as if it had fallen from it.

Perhaps it even had.

Now it just sat, looking perfectly innocuous, undeserving of the fear and wary glances the few present were giving it.

This close, Gellert could feel the enchantments on the were the complete opposite of those on the Ring. While the Ring had called to any in sight, had enticed and compelled them to put it on, the Diadem had subtle charms which enhanced its shabby appearance to disguise its malevolence, prevented the eye from settling on it for too long, and made it simply meld into the background.

Brilliant. Were it not for Albus' constant reminders about what exactly they were searching for, and the presence of house-elves who saw more clearly than humans, they could easily have missed it.

"And here we are," Albus said softly. "Any traps that you can sense?"

"No," Gellert said. "This was simply not meant to be found at all."

"Indeed. Would you like to do the honours, my friend? Especially after all your babbling about blades?"

Albus had drawn the Sword of Godric Gryffindor from somewhere.

Gellert hefted it, grinning.

Then without warning he swung, Black and Nymphadora jumping back to join Snape a few feet away, and sliced through the Diadem as if it was nothing.

The Horcrux screamed as it died. A high-pitched wail echoed from the Diadem as tarry smoke dripped from its cut.

Then, as suddenly as it had come, it was over.

"Will someone explain what the bloody fuck that was?" Nymphadora shouted.

"Later," Black said, "you can ask Albus."

"That was great fun," Gellert said. "I would very much like the pleasure of the next."

"We shall see," Albus said. Then he pulled out his pocket watch and glanced at it.

"Hmmm. I promised Harry if I had the time I would meet with him and his friends, and it seems I do, in fact, have the time. Gellert, how would you feel about perhaps…describing how they should fight, maybe showing them a few tricks? Nymphadora, Sirius, you are both welcome to join, of course."

Gellert's grin grew fit to split his face.

Harry sat eagerly between Ron and Hermione, eyeing Dumbledore and and Grindewald as they walked into the Room of Requirement.

They'd been chatting merrily with Sirius and Tonks—Sirius more than Tonks, to be honest—for a while, waiting for the titans to appear.

Sirius and Tonks had both changed, though Tonks' differences were so much harsher that comparing her to Sirius was a sad joke.

Sirius was simply more, well, serious. He joked less, spent less time chatting with them than he had when they'd stayed at Grimmauld Place, and when he was at Hogwarts he was a slave driver when it came to duelling and the like.

He hadn't held back much, either. At first, he'd faced them three on one, and though he used no lethal spells, of course, they were all left bruised and bleeding at the end of every bout.

Still, day by day they'd been improving, especially since they continued training after Sirius would leave for the day.

Now, Sirius duelled them one on one, and even though he still won nine out of every ten fights, Harry, Ron, and Hermione were leaving them far less injured than in the past.

Sirius still joked a bit, but it was always with a guarded look, his hand never far from his wand, steel always in his eyes.

Tonks, on the other hand, seemed almost an entirely different woman to the one who had arrived at the Dursley's house to break Harry out.

She barely spoke, only making one comment to Harry that "this orphan shit sucks, right."

She'd joined Sirius for their training the day before the Hogsmeade attack, and even then Harry had noticed the changes in her.

They were only more pronounced since then.

It wasn't only her speech and sense of humour which seemed to have left her. She wasn't using her Metamorph abilities the way she had been previously.

Today, her hair was as black as his own, with a line of red through it, but every other time he'd seen her it had been a depressing brown. Also, though he'd never say it, especially where Hermione could hear, she looked far blander—she'd obviously been using her abilities to spice up her looks a bit in the past.

More than all that, she had a feeling about her, like a spring wound up and ready to burst. Her clumsiness was no longer evident; if anything, she seemed to ghost her way around objects as if they weren't there.

Beyond all that, there was just something about her, some aura that told Harry that she was dangerous, that if she was on the other side, she would be scary as hell.

Her presence had dulled the atmosphere somewhat, but they'd still been chatting animatedly with Sirius—who seemed more serious than ever, even while joking—while waiting for Dumbledore and Grindewald.

And now they had arrived, cutting off all conversation with their entry.

The Room was the same as the one they'd used for their DA meetings, and Grindelwald looked around with an expression as of he was unsure whether he was impressed or disappointed.

It was Harry's first real look at the man in person. He was shorter than Dumbledore and wore no beard, and the tufts of hair on his head were dazzlingly white. A scrawny man, at first glance he looked as if he would fall over in the wind, but then Harry really looked at his face.

Wrinkled as it was, strength was carved into it, strength and sheer brazenness. His eyes were alight like none Harry had ever seen before, seeming to glow from the inside. His crooked grin was as much a smile as a warning, and he took in everyone and everything in the room in an instant, clearly assessing and dismissing them as threats.

Dumbledore just smiled and opened his arms wide.

"Ah, perhaps Hogwarts' greatest secret," Dumbledore said. "The Room of Requirement. A great boon to our magnificent school."

"Very much so," Grindewald said. His voice surprised Harry—it was accented, but not as heavily as he would have expected, and more so, it was young and powerful.

"Indeed. Gellert, I think Sirius and Nymphadora need no introductions, but this is Harry—"

Grindelwald's eyes fixed on Harry for a moment, his face inscrutable.

"—Miss Hermione Granger, and Mr Ronald Weasley."

"Charmed," Grindelwald said with a wave of his hand.

"And this gentleman, as I'm sure you're all aware, is Gellert Grindelwald."

"Scourge of Europe," Grindelwald said, "Terror of the Wizarding World, MACUSA's most wanted, and more."

"I've invited Gellert to join us," Dumbledore said, "since I believe he will be of great assistance in helping you all to learn how to fight dark wizards. Unfortunately, matters outside of Hogwarts demand our attention, and so our time is limited, else I would say we could join Sirius on his daily forays, but alas, we cannot."

"We're more than grateful for anything," Harry said, after sharing a very excited look with Ron. "Really."

"I'm glad. I think it's best that the time we have is not spent teaching spells or the like, but learning the general methods you should be making use of. And with that, I will hand it over to you," Dumbledore said, gesturing to Grindelwald.

Grindelwald, grinning widely, paced before them, stroking his chin.

"Where to begin—Tell me, any of you, what is Dark Magic?"

"Magic made or used to hurt people," Ron said quickly.

That wasn't quite it, Harry knew. He thought of Voldemort rising from the cauldron, of the terrible feeling of being possessed, of seeing Tom Riddle's memory gloating in the Chamber of Secrets.

There was much more to Dark Magic than just hurting people.

Grindelwald shook his head.

"No. You, Granger—no need to raise your hand, girl, this isn't a regular lesson, what do you think Dark Magic is?"

Blushing, Hermione lowered her hand, but spoke in a voice as clear as she did in classes.

"The corruption of magic through intent and will, for example, twisting healing magic to cause pain."

Grindelwald's eyebrows rose along with the corners of his lips.

"That's a quote," he said, pointing a finger at her, "from Strangheim's introduction. You didn't happen to see the first or second editions, did you?"

Dumbledore was hiding a smile. Ron and Harry, meanwhile, both looked shell shocked. It was the first time in years Hermione had answered a question with a quote and received anything more positive than exasperated points for Gryffindor.

"No," Hermione said animatedly, "the restricted section only had the fifth edition, and it's the same as the one the Room brought me."

"A shame," Grindelwald said. "his work is still very instructive, but the uncensored early editions much more so. Regardless, you touch on the heart of the matter. Dark Magic, in its purest form, is about corrupting that which is good."

The adults looked engrossed, Tonks most of all.

Grindelwald continued to pace, his face wistful.

"You will not face much of this, I do not believe. A true master of the Dark Arts, one who uses them as they are intended, unchained and undefined, is a rare find—Voldemort is one, to be sure, but among his acolytes I would be surprised if there were more than one or perhaps two. Still, you should understand at least the theory. Corruption. Darkness where there should be light. The twisting of all that should be good and pure into obscene mockery."

Harry was mesmerised, unable to look away from Grindelwald's striding form.

"None of you can understand what it truly is, as you are simply too young, too inexperienced and untutored. The limits of magic are well beyond what you can be taught in school; the greatest books can only be a stepping stone. Magic is nigh unlimited, a force that cannot be measured or weighed, a force that can only be understood through deep usage of it at it's truest level. Ah," Grindelwald spun, pointing at the trio.

"You have been taught all sorts of theory, heaps of formulae and the requirements to make magic do as you bid, for your spells to be cast as you wish. These are all important, but they are not eternally important. They are not the sum of a magical education—"

"And, I hope, you all understand that this does not mean you can skip classes as you wish," Dumbledore added with a twinkle in his eyes.

"Yes yes, all that. All this is but the foundation, something you must come to know intimately—"

Fucking hell Harry thought savagely, though Hermione looked smug as anything.

"—but true mastery of magic comes when you progress beyond the chains, reaching an inherent understanding of its nature. Most do not reach this, but it is possible to stretch beyond simple pre-crafted spells and wand movements, to come to a place where all that matters is the magic itself, your intent and will, and your power."

"This does not only apply to Dark Magic," Dumbledore added. "Think of any of the spells you have learned. Someone went before you and spent quite a while researching how to harness that raw power into one which can be used by all in the same manner. But, as Gellert will explain, it is quite different with the Dark Arts."

"Yes, Albus," Grindewald said, peeved, "I haven't fallen into a rambling lecture yet. Be sure to remind me if I do."

Fawkes squawked something.

"Oh, shut up, you."

Harry could barely keep from laughing and Sirius wasn't even trying.

It was hard to believe that this man had literally murdered millions.

"Sidetracks aside," Grindelwald said, facing them once more, "think of a child performing accidental magic. He does not incant, does not use a specific motion or even a wand. He does not even think a spell. He thinks that he wants something to happen, and it does."

"But accidental magic—" Ron started, then cut himself off.

"No need to stop, boy. Carry on."

"Well," Ron said, his ears reddening, "accidental magic stops after a while, right. And it's a bad sign if it doesn't, isn't it?"

"Completely correct!" Grindelwald exclaimed, clapping his hands. "Accidental magic stops because as the child grows he learns more about himself and the world, and his instinctive reactions change to meet the world's expectations. Few wizards," here he looked at Dumbledore for a second, "are ever capable of regaining that instinctive response. But that is raw magic at its finest and most dangerous, and that is part of why magic and nature ensure that accidental magic stops. Magic must be constrained for the majority of wizards, else they will have no control over what they do in a moment of anger."

Harry thought of glass vanishing, of a giant snake escaping through a crowd of people and couldn't help but grin.

"And so we formalise magic. Researchers come up with the incantations and wand movements necessary to perform certain spells, and they become common usage. This is where the Dark Arts differ."

Grindelwald's smile looked a tad unhinged now. Harry leaned forward, barely noticing how, for the first time that day, Tonks seemed truly alive.

"As a rule, the Dark Arts are not formalised the way the magic you are familiar with is. Their very nature denies it. The act of corruption is personal, and will be different for every single wizard. There are, of course, exceptions."

He nodded pointedly at Harry.

"Like the Unforgivable Curses," Harry said.

"Yes. By the way, how does it feel to know that you are not only the only recorded survivor of the Killing Curse, but also the only person to have experienced all three and lived to tell the tale?"

Harry shared a dumbstruck look with Ron and Hermione, honestly having no idea how to respond to that.

"I know," Grindelwald said to Dumbledore, "tangent. The point is, part of why the Unforgivable Curses are so dangerous is that they have been formalised. They will work for any wizard of sufficient power with the right intent. For much of the Dark Arts, that is not the case. Tell me, what is the incantation for a Hovering Charm?"

An image of a club dropping on a troll's head flittered into Harry's head, as he was sure it did for Ron and Hermione.

"Wingardium Leviosa," they said in unison.

"Very good. How many other incantations for a Hovering Charm are there? Let's keep it located to Britain, shall we?"

Harry and Ron looked at Hermione, who was chewing her lip, deep in thought.

"Three," Dumbledore said, after several minutes of silence. "but none that have been in widespread use in the last century or so."

"Albus, this is a lesson for the children."

Dumbledore mimed zipping his mouth shut.

"Let us say there are no other incantations for it, which is effectively the truth. How many incantations exist, again, only within Britain, for the creation of an Inferus?"

When silence greeted him, Grindelwald sighed.

"What the hell are you teaching them, Albus? Go ahead, you can guess."

"Five," Ron said.

"Seven," Hermione said, making Grindelwald's eyes slit for a moment.

"Twelve," said Harry. "At least. That's what you're getting at, right? Everyone comes up with their own?"

"The Boy Who Lived wins the day. To my knowledge, there are twelve recorded incantations in British times for the creation of an Inferus. Personally, I use none of those, but one of my own creation. Are you all beginning to see? The Dark Arts in general are about creativity as much as anything else. That which works for me, based on my intent and desire to make a mockery of life, will not necessarily work for others; if it does, it will not serve them as well. Do you understand now, why the Dark Arts are so feared? With no true formalisation of curses, there can be no true formalisation of counter-curses or cures, only generalities. You must learn these regardless, but they will never be as effective as personally crafted counter-curse."

"So you're saying it's hopeless," Harry said, his stomach sinking. "We can't face them."

"Don't put words in my mouth," Grindelwald said with a sneer. "There is always hope. And as I've already mentioned, the only ones who would be using the Dark Arts as they are intended are likely to be Voldemort or perhaps that Lestrange bitch and that Unspeakable, what did you say his name was?"

"Augustus Rookwood," Dumbledore said.

Tonks' hands, Harry noticed, had curled into fists at the mention of Bellatrix, her face twisting with rage.

"Even Voldemort, I understand, prefers to use the Killing Curse when not facing someone on his level. And that is why you must learn to do what you can."

"I've been doing what I can to reach them," Sirius said, "and they're far above the average kid their age's skill level, but—"

"But indeed," Grindelwald interrupted. "They won't be facing children their age, will they? It will be those tacky Death Eaters or Aurors, and so you must have every ounce of assistance you can. Your age will assist you, in fact, as they will underestimate you—perhaps not you, Potter, as you've survived Voldemort too many times, but the others—yes, your age will help."

Grindelwald began to pace again, silent for a few minutes.

"Apparition," he said suddenly. "I assume none of you are capable of it?"

"We're underage," Hermione said.

Grindelwald stared at her as if she was insane.

"And? Your point is that it's illegal? So what? All the more reason for you to learn it, another surprise the Death Eaters and Aurors will not expect. Or you can have it carved on your tombstone that you obeyed the stupid law. We are not playing gobstones here, girl, and there's no reason to treat it as such."

"I just—"

"You just meant that you hadn't been taught it yet, I know," Grindelwald said harshly, "but that's no excuse. You are fighting for your lives, whether you realise it or not. You cannot hide behind stupidity—"

"Enough, Gellert," Dumbledore said, gaiety gone from his face and replaced with severity. "You are here to instruct, not to berate."

"Well—fine. Learn to Apparate. Perhaps this Room can create somewhere within the boundaries of Hogwarts where Apparition is possible. Otherwise, Black, can you take them to the village and teach them? Are you able to teach Apparition?"

"I can teach it," Sirius said. "I learned to do it when I was barely older than them, and we had to help one of our—former friends learn. The question is if McGonagall will allow it."

"I'm sure that Acting Headmistress McGonagall will not present an issue," Dumbledore said, smiling slightly. "Sirius Black, are you honestly claiming you can't find a way to sneak them out of the school if necessary?"

Sirius's face brightened.

"Well, since Harry has his father's cloak and our old map, I don't think it will be too much of an issue. Let's see first if the Room will help, though. With all the new security on Hogwarts, I'd rather not risk it."

"For all we know," Harry said, "the Room might be able to make a tunnel to Hogsmeade or something."

As he said it, an unassuming door appeared on the wall behind the training dummies.

Silence fell, a feeling of seriousness taking the room.

"That," Dumbledore said, "will need to be a carefully guarded secret. We may need to set up a rotation of house-elves for warning, once we have explored where it leads. For now…"

The door vanished.

"We could explore it now," Harry said, "wouldn't that be—"

Dumbledore was shaking his head.

"Unfortunately, Gellert's and my time here is truly limited. We will return to do so, I assure you. If it is a risk, appropriate measures will be taken. That I promise you."

"Enough of that. Once you have learned Apparition, you must make use of it. Staying still in a fight will lead to your death. Running from and attempting to dodge curses are foolish, but doing so is better than nothing. Apparition is the way. Now then, silent casting. Your wand motions will still give it away somewhat, and to a brilliant enough enemy, your very intention will do so, but casting silently gains you a few instants. You will learn to do so."

"Bloody hard, though, we've been trying—"

"And you will continue to try," Grindelwald interrupted Ron, sneering again. " I may not be here to berate you, but I am not here to listen to complaints either. You will learn to do as I say or you will learn to lie still for eternity. You can choose which you prefer."

Harry shifted uncomfortably. None of the other adults, not even Dumbledore, were saying anything to contradict Grindelwald. It gave it all a rather surreal feeling.

"Occlumency. I assume none of you are masters, but you should assume that every enemy you face is a Legilemens, whether or not they are. A basic necessity to learning Occlumency is learning to control your emotions, and that is also a necessity on the battlefield. You must be ruthless yet calm, every motion calculated without fear or fury interfering. Learn to control your emotions, at the very least, and assume that if you make eye contact with an enemy he will know your planned next move and you will be dead."

"Not asking too much, is he?" Ron whispered, so softly Harry barely could hear.

"I am telling you to do what is necessary for your survival," Grindelwald said. "If that is not to your taste, feel free to leave."

"I—"

"Master the spells you know," Grindelwald continued, with nothing but a glare at Ron to show for the interruption, "be capable of casting them as quickly and repeatedly as you can. Learn the Killing Curse, and do not hesitate to use it against your enemies, for they will not show you similar mercy. Shields…you can teach them a Protego Horribilis?" He asked Sirius.

"I can try," Sirius said, "but that's a tough one to cast properly."

"Even improperly cast, it is better than the next best option," Grindelwald said, turning back to Harry, Ron, and Hermione. "There are shield charms galore, many of which would better suit you against the Dark Arts, but the one you are most likely to be able to cast is Protego Horribilis. Obviously, especially from someone with your level of experience, it will not stop the most powerful curses, but it will be a far greater asset than anything you are using now. Which brings me to my final point."

He paused for a moment, glancing around the room again.

"Make use of your environment. Too many wizards are trapped in their thinking that a duel is simply casting spells against one another. It is not. Everything around you is a weapon, you simply have to make use of it. Transfiguration is your friend."

Harry grimaced. Transfiguration was far from his forte.

"I doubt any of you can conjure, and that is a great shame, but you need to make use of your environment. For example—"

Gellert waved his wand, and a rock appeared. It floated gently toward Dumbledore.

"Imagine we were outside somewhere, and I sent, not a spell, but a rock from the street careening toward my enemy."

The rock moved slower them a feather. Dumbledore watched it approach, smiling, his wand nowhere to be seen.

"Of course, in a real fight, it would be more like this—"

A second rock appeared in mid-air and shot off toward the training dummies, striking one so hard that it's arm fell off to Hermione's gasp and Harry and Ron's muttered swears.

"Now, I'm sure you're thinking about how easy that is to defend against."

Harry hadn't been, and from the looks of it, no-one except Tonks and Dumbledore had been either.

"The simplest shield charm or deflection would prevent an impact. But while your enemy is engrossed in that, you do this—"

A series of spells shot from Grindelwald's wand faster than Harry's eyes could track, all of them Stunners by the looks.

"You bombard them, overwhelm them with everything. Turn the very street against them and behead them as they fight against what was rock but is now mud. Turn dust into knives and attack, but keep firing your spells."

The rock he had conjured was now halfway between Grindelwald and Dumbledore.

With a sudden slash of his wand, the rock shot forward, splitting as it did so into a dozen or so.

"Profe—"

Harry's shout caught in his throat as Dumbledore, still smiling faintly, reacted.

The rocks reached him and spun around him for a moment, before flying back at Grindewald, changing as they did so; in their place flew birds, dozens of tiny sparrow with metal beaks.

Not done, Dumbledore cracked his wand like a whip. Something flew from the end of it, an incredible force so powerful it was almost visible.

The birds had shattered a foot away from Grindelwald, turned into a collection of motley parts which still hung in the air, but Dumbledore's spell forced him to react. His wand spun, and a thunderous boom rocked the room with its impact.

Then they were clashing truly, Grindelwald's lips peeled back from his teeth, Dumbledore still smiling calmly.

What Harry witnessed was like nothing he had seen before. This, he knew, was what a true duel between the most powerful of wizards looked like, and he could barely comprehend what it would have been if they were fighting in truth.

The pieces of birds had been reconstructed by Grindelwald with barely a wave of his wand. Half of them became rodent-like creatures with terrible fangs, scurrying off toward Dumbledore, while the rest grew red hot and melted into liquid balls of fire, which flew at different times and speeds at the Professor. All the while, Grindelwald was sending off curses and hexes, occasionally with flashes of light but almost all invisible.

Dumbledore's reaction was no less intense. Everything, from fire to rodent, that reached an arm's breadth from him shuddered and dissipated, while he simply countered each spell with one of his own, occasionally cracking his wand again and forcing Grindelwald to conjure another shield.

Then he attacked.

Fawkes flew at Grindelwald with a horrific shriek that made Harry clutch at his ears while hundreds of ropes and chains appeared around Grindelwald, thrusting themselves at him.

Not enough for Dumbledore, he continued. A ball of darkness so black it seemed to suck in light appeared before him, and it careened toward Grindelwald faster than a bludger. When it was a foot away from Grindelwald it suddenly shook, and tentacles erupted from it, too many to count, all of them with sharp suckers lining them, all grappling for Grindelwald.

Finally, Dumbledore shouted an incantation that was entirely foreign to Harry, and the room lit up so bright that he was blinded.

Then it was over.

Blinking spots out of his eyes, Harry ignored Ron's cursing and tried to make sense of what had happened.

Fawkes was perched on Dumbledore's shoulders, as if he had never left.

Grindelwald, meanwhile, was apparently the loser. There was a rope hanging loosely around his waist, but devastation surrounded him. A small army of dead critters were everywhere by his feet, and cut tentacles littered the floor around him. He held one of them, stroking it gently, an eyebrow raised as he looked at Dumbledore.

"That was an unexpected gambit," he said, and if he was annoyed about losing, he didn't sound it. "You'd never have done that if this was not for show, yes?"

"Of course not," Dumbledore replied. "I know how you could have used it against me. Of course, if it wasn't for show, this would all have been a lot more serious, wouldn't it?"

"Certainly. And that, ladies and gentlemen," Grindelwald said, turning back to Harry and Ron and Hermione, his eyes lingering uncomfortably on Harry, "is our lesson for today. Learn the spells I advised you, and learn them well. Most importantly, be creative! They do not expect it, and surprise is your greatest weapon."

"We will," Harry said loudly, Ron and Hermione echoing his promise. "We will!"

"I'm sure the Death Eaters won't know what hit them," Grindelwald said with a nasty grin.

"Let us hope, rather," Dumbledore said, "that you are not placed in a position where you will need to face them."

Harry, however, knew that it was just a matter of time before Voldemort and his followers sought him out.

And he had no intentions of going meekly to his death.

Chapter Text

Chapter 20

The days that passed from their visit to Hogwarts took on a most curious characteristic for Albus, as such times often do when one is both busy and eagerly awaiting a certain date.

Each day was full and hectic, with little time to simply relax and dwell on the world, and so the individual days passed quickly. Regardless, the week itself seemed to drag on like pulled taffy, with Albus waiting desperately for the following Tuesday when the Wizengamot vote was set to take place, once Tofty was released from St. Mungo's.

By Thursday, Albus was half-willing to swear someone had performed a time dilation curse on him, impossible as it would have been.

The real issue, Albus knew, was that though his days were full, they were rote and downright boring. Necessary tasks, certainly, but of the political sort which he so detested.

It was the meeting with Tiberius Ogden that had him particularly frustrated at the moment.

Not, to be sure, that Tiberius had been anything short of helpful. The man was nearly as willing as old Tofty to go along with Albus' plan.

With his seat newly reinstated after Voldemort's reveal, he had regained face in the Ministry as a man who was willing to stand on principle, seeing as how he'd resigned over their treatment of Albus and Harry. Of course, that did lead to some…mistrust of him, on behalf of other Wizengamot members.

Nevertheless, Tiberius was still high in Albus' esteem.

Rather, it was Tiberius' contacts who so pressed Albus to annoyance.

Gilead Wimpleton and Janice Cruxley, those two notorious fence-sitters, never having consistently chosen a side in their lives.

They had not, could not be trusted to be made aware of Albus' entire plan; he had merely entreated them to not vote to give the ministry such extensive powers. He'd given his best declamation on the matter, explaining how and why it would be a terrible decision, and why, particularly, it would be bad for the ministry to declare war on Albus.

He'd talked with them for well over an hour, listening to their counter-arguments, showing them, point by point, why he was correct.

After much humming and hawing, after much meaningless words, he may have reached them, or he may have achieved nothing.

They were weathervanes, he knew, and always had been. If he could simply make them see the wind was blowing his way, all would be well.

Unfortunately, Albus was not certain that he had managed that.

It had been the same with his other meetings throughout the week. By necessity, he'd been forced to meet with the neutral parties in the Wizengamot, those not aligned too strongly with the Ministry or with Shafiq and his master.

All he needed was to swing a few his way, so that when his plan came through, the others would be cowed into following.

It would work, of that he was certain. The letters he'd been writing and sending would play their part as well; some cajoling, some slightly threatening, some outright promising rewards.

His plan would work.

But that didn't end his frustration at making it work.

The sun beating on his back, he walked into the cottage and found Gellert in a now familiar position, cross-legged on the floor with lumps of clay and domino-sized pieces of wood before him.

Gellert was poking at the clay with his wand, while eyeing the wooden plaques intently.

"That bad, eh?" Gellert asked without looking up.

"No worse than the others," Albus sighed, throwing his coat on the rack before sitting on the couch. "Slightly worse, actually. I remember when Gilead first became a Wizengamot member. He was full of vim and vinegar, making impassioned speeches and thinking carefully before choosing where to cast his vote. Now he cares only for his reputation and coffers, the same as them all."

"That will change soon enough."

"Yes. When is Nymphadora expected back?"

"They agreed to meet at four. She said she'd wait until late in the conversation, until they were feeling good and relaxed, before dosing them."

Gellert's voice took on a slightly bitter tone at the end.

Albus sighed again, wordlessly summoning the parchment on which he'd outlined some blueprints, with Bill Weasley's uneasy assistance.

"I still don't understand why it upsets you so that she will use Veritaserum instead of Legilemency or torture. You yourself agreed that it was the wiser plan."

The clock's tick seemed to fill the room as Gellert summoned a beautifully carved box and carefully placed the lumps of clay and Runes within.

Finally, his task complete, he looked up and met Albus' eye, a sad smile tugging at his lips.

"Wiser? Certainly. Her Legilemency is nothing special, and the Aurors have rudimentary Occlumency skills and would notice her intrusion, leading to a fight. Torture always has that downside that you never know whether you will be receiving the truth, and even if she were to Obliviate them afterward, there would be signs. A Confundus Charm and Veritaserum followed by Obliviation is the wisest choice, undoubtedly."

"And yet…" Albus prompted.

"And yet," Gellert said, rising and drawing his wand, spinning it through his fingers.

"And yet, if the girl were forced into one of the other options, it would serve well to increase her ruthlessness. To harm one's own friends in the name of the greater good? It would bind her to her path tighter than she already is, and would force her to face the bleak reality of war."

"It would," Albus agreed, "but it would still not be the wisest move."

"No. She is ready for her task, Albus. Why must we wait?"

Albus stared at the parchment for a moment before dropping it and standing, drawing his own wand.

"I have seen how your teachings have excelled, and agree with your estimations. Still, one more day of preparations cannot harm, Gellert. Tomorrow, we shall put her through the gauntlet, and then on Saturday she will excel."

It was not simply empty words, their talk of Nymphadora's improvements. Just yesterday, Albus had returned to the cottage from a meeting with Mundungus to find Gellert duelling him.

The two of them had planned it, of course, waiting for his arrival before Nymphadora's transformation, but it was still an incredible success, far beyond Albus' wildest dreams. He quite thought Gellert had never looked so chuffed.

And it had been quite remarkable to see himself from the outside. Oh, Nymphadora had none of his style or power, none of the amazing, inborn talent and brilliance which placed Albus—like Gellert and Voldemort—so far above regular wizards and witches. And she'd got his beard wrong, if only slightly.

But it had been mind boggling to see. Albus had been, for the first time in a very long time, completely dumbstruck, standing there with his mouth hanging open, a fine target for any of his many enemies.

Gellert had not spoken in jest when he had referred to Nymphadora as a queen among Metamorphs. Her ability was incredible, but the speed in which she had regained it after its sudden loss, and not only to regain it but to reach new heights with it—simply astounding.

While Gellert deserved—and took, at any chance he could—most of the credit for her success, Albus had played some part in it.

Though he knew little about Metamorpmagi compared to Gellert, he had first been famed for his mastery of Transfiguration. To be sure, the magic of a Metamorphmagus transfiguration was entirely different to regular transfiguration, but Albus was certain that his tutoring had assisted Nymphadora in reaching the heights she had.

That was not all he had been teaching Nymphadora, not in the slightest.

In between his meetings, letters, and solidification of plans, he and Gellert had set to duelling once more.

They had shown Nymphadora, to her awe, what a duel between them would have looked like, not a pathetic pantomime like they had performed at Hogwarts.

Well, not quite a true duel. Besides for the obvious lack of lethal spells, having an audience who they had to slow down for and occasionally explain things to changed matters somewhat.

Still, it was exhilarating to be matching his might against someone like him once more.

Then they had set themselves to teaching her, along with Sirius, Hestia, Sturgis, Bill, Arthur, and Molly when they came.

None of the Order would ever be able to achieve what Albus and Gellert had, but they had already been a deadly force, and were now all the more so, with Nymphadora leading the pack by miles.

Outnumbered by the Death Eaters, they were without question. But Albus was quite certain that they could still extract their pound of flesh.

"Shall we?" Gellert asked, gesturing to the meadow with his wand. "No audience this time."

Albus glanced over at Fawkes' perch. The Phoenix's latest Burning Day had been three days prior, and even with his prodigious healing and growth, Fawkes still required much rest to return to full size.

Another reason to delay Nymphadora's task until Saturday.

"You had me at shall we," Albus said. "But I hope we shall be interrupted by a message. Mundungus still believes he will be able to find out where Greyback will be tonight."

"The feral werewolf?"

"The very same. I would like to end him before I send a letter to a friend of mine. Come, Gellert. Let's enjoy our privacy while still we can."

Albus finally lowered his wand as the sun began to set, sweat dripping down his face, exuberant and relaxed at once.

That had been exhilarating.

It had been so long since he'd been truly challenged in a friendly duel that he'd forgotten how enjoyable it could be.

Even after Nurmengard, Gellert was still as close to a challenge as Albus would ever find, bar Voldemort.

Gellert's style was as unique as he was; a mixture of every sort of magic thrown together seemingly at random, harsh curses and horrific transfiguration melding with gentle charms, a chaotic medley that threatened to overwhelm the mind simply with its variety.

From that chaos, however, an elegantly beautiful symphony arose. There were traps within traps hidden by feints and conjured counterstrikes, curses nestling like Russian dolls, all leading to a majestic crescendo that would have swept Albus away had he not seen the shape of it forming.

Gellert picked up his wand from the ground, running it along his arm as he stood and instantly healing the deep gash that had erupted from his wrist to his elbow.

He had been as enthralled as Albus, that was readily apparent just from his expression. His eyes were bright, his smile hungry.

"You see, Albus? You see what we are? We are nothing like the others, and never have been."

"No," Albus agreed. "We aren't. And soon none shall be able to hide from that fact. You can come out now, Nymphadora."

The air rippled and Nymphadora's Disillusionment Charm fell away to reveal her standing, mouth agape, a god fifty feet away within the hedge boundary of Albus' cottage.

He'd sensed her arrival near the tail end of their duel, but had been too engrossed and far beyond the point of caring to stop or greet her.

Now he saw her, and his heart gave a painful tug. Her hair was a shock of pink, her eyes alight with joy—she looked, in fact, as she so often had before her parents had been killed.

"Wow," she whispered, gazing at them with new eyes, taking in the destruction their duel had caused. "Wow!"

"Yes, yes," Gellert said. "We are amazing. Do you want to assist in fixing this place?"

Judging by Nymphadora's spellbound stare, she would not take part.

Albus and Gellert acted as one, waving their wands and returning the meadow to its prior state.

Trees pulled themselves up from the earth and reattached to their roots; smouldering flames all over the place extinguished themselves, while the large furrows and craters flattened and grew level with the rest of the ground. The large piles of char and ash vanished, the torrential mudflow sunk into the earth, the lake resumed its calm surface once more, whirlpools nowhere to be seen.

It took but seconds for the regular pastoral scene to reassert itself. A bird chirped once, as if testing the waters, and then the trees erupted with song.

"You've never shown me anything like that before," Tonks said, her accusatory tone quite betrayed by the amazement ringing in her voice. "You've been holding back because I was there, haven't you?"

"Of course we have," Gellert said before Albus could respond. "and if you think about it, you'd understand why. We wanted to make sure you'd know what we were doing, so that meant slowing down. We couldn't unleash widespread power for fear of harming you or the others. And we are, somewhat human too. We perform better when it is not a performance and simply for the enjoyment of it."

"Or for a matter of life and death," Albus added.

"Or that," Gellert nodded, before dropping a saucy wink and lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Now, if you want to see something truly impressive, you should sneak into our bedroom at night and—"

Nymphadora choked on something between a laugh and a retch.

"Don't let Gellert mislead you," Albus said, his cheeks reddening, "you would find nothing entertaining there, unless you enjoy the sound of snores. That aside, I hope you have some reports for us?"

"Yeah," Nymphadora said, the last embers of joy dropping from her face. "I do, and its not good. But based on what I just saw—" she shrugged. "It might not be too bad."

"Inside, then," Albus said.

"But they do not trust each other?"

"No," Nymphadora repeated. "They don't, I told you, the real Aurors think all these new ones and new hit-wizards are plants, which they are. But they'll still work together until something changes."

"But will what happens on Tuesday be enough of a change?"

Nymphadora shook her head emphatically.

"Only after the Ministry has fallen. As long as the Ministry is as it is and the Aurors and older hit-wizards aren't seeing real signs of treason, they'll work with each other."

Albus sighed and tugged at his beard slightly.

The odds were far from terrible, but a hundred witches and wizards standing against him was not good news.

The destruction he and Gellert would be forced to wreak would not, could not be precise. There would be good people killed in their attack, people who Albus would otherwise happily fight alongside.

His hands were tied. The Ministry had chosen their path and he, his.

"And with all that in mind, their feelings toward me, toward us, haven't changed?"

She looked down at her hands, clasped around her mug.

"They're scared, Albus. They don't know what to believe anymore. Jordy and Helena, they're willing to trust that you're actually looking out for the people. But all that propaganda the Ministry was spreading—its done a number on them all. Once you've taken control, it'll be a moot point. It'll be you or Voldemort, and they were sure that the majority of people who were actually with the Ministry would choose you over Voldemort. But until then…it's all up in the air, Albus."

"Not quite," Gellert said. "It's a matter of days, and after seeing what you saw today, do you believe the Ministry can stand against the two of us?"

"No," she said. "I can't believe Voldemort could stand up to you either. Why—"

"Jordy and Helena," Albus interrupted, "What will they do on Tuesday?"

"They'll be at home," Nymphadora said unrepentantly. "If they go in—they'd stand aside."

Gellert looked at Albus with an eyebrow raised. Albus could all but hear him talking about how Nymphadora needed to learn ruthlessness.

"That is heartening," he said. "Unfortunately, Nymphadora, when the time comes, we will not have the luxury of examining the motives of each who stands against us, even of those who are trying to stand aside. We will be forced to be imprecise in our strikes, to cause damage on as large a scale as we can. You understand?"

"Some of my friends will die," she said grimly. "I know. But you have to do it. There's no other way. The enchantments they've raised—"

"Would make it more difficult for us to enter the Ministry," Albus said, "but will in fact, present no issue. Once we are in, it will be but a matter of moments to destroy them. They had no idea what Alastor has up his sleeve, correct?"

"No one knows, Albus!" Nymphadora said, throwing him an exasperated glare, "it's bloody Mad-Eye, he's keeping his own secrets. We know about the security trolls-"

Gellert threw back his hair and chuckled, twirling his wand once more through his fingers.

"As if they would pose any more a threat to us than the Aurors. Pathetic."

"And we know about the enchantments and extra security, but otherwise, no-one knows shit."

Albus leaned back, thinking it through. Knowing the man as he did, he had some ideas as to the sort of traps Alastor would have set for them.

It was extremely unlikely that they would fall into any of them.

But of course, Alastor knew how well Albus knew him, and would be planning for that, and would stray outside his usual forte.

Albus and Gellert were mighty well beyond the imagination of other witches and wizards, but they were not gods, no matter how tempting it was to believe so.

They could be defeated. And if Alastor was crafty enough, tricky enough, he might slow them down so much that Albus would not be able to stop the vote; he might, in fact, be able to stun Albus or the like.

Extremely unlikely, but possible.

He had planned as much as possible for that eventuality. If necessary, Nymphadora, Sirius, Hestia, Sturgis, and Bill would create enough of a diversion for he and Gellert to free themselves.

But that will not be necessary, he told himself.

"Thank you, Nymphadora," he said. "We will do well with this information. As for Mundungus…how certain was he that this is the correct address, and that we shall find Greyback and his pack there tonight?"

"He was completely certain," she said. "He'd heard one of them inviting a newbie, saying they absolutely had to hear Fenrir talk. And by the way, how hard could it be for you to call me Tonks?"

Smiling, Albus sipped his hot chocolate before answering.

"Please forgive an old teacher his foibles, Tonks," he said. "And again, thank you. I believe you may join us tonight."

"But not as yourself," Gellert said.

"As her?" Tonks asked, a look of disgust marring her pretty features.

"No," Albus said. "Stretch your talents. Gellert is right. You should make yourself appear as—an older wizard, one of our age. Someone who fits in with Gellert and I. If word gets out about our adventure tonight, I would quite like Voldemort to drive himself mad in figuring out the identity of this mysterious wizard who fits in with us."

"There isn't anyone like that," Tonks said.

"Then use your imagination, girl," Gellert said sharply. "We've got one more day to make sure you're ready, and we will have to be certain."

Tonks gritted her teeth but nodded, putting her mug down hard on the table.

"Fine. But once we're done on Saturday, you're explaining, right? What that headdress thing was, what I'm going down there for—you're explaining."

"Of course we will," Gellert said. "Did I not give you my word? Now go, prepare yourself. Grab your silver. It's time to hunt."

The house in Middlesbrough had seen better days.

The houses all along the one way street were decrepit and abandoned, some with police tape around them, but this, the last on the road, was the worst of the lot.

It's lawn was a fright, a mess of overgrown weeds and dead grass, with bones—some of which most definitely were not animal, scattered around the place.

The house itself reeked of death. Not physically, that is, but the aura it gave off was one of bestial cruelty, of pain and death. It must have kept the muggles away from the whole end of the street.

There wasn't a single whole window. They all bore at the very least cracks, with most of them simply lacking the glass entirely. The roof listed to one side, and the dented walls had long, claw shaped gauges torn through the paint.

The front door had clearly been torn off of its hinges—repeatedly, by Albus' estimation—and had been shoddily repaired. The knocker was missing, though a tiny metal piece was still embedded in the door.

Interestingly, the house had a basement, a cracked window barely visible above the grass.

Unlike the rest of the houses on this street, this house bore no graffiti. No Muggle hoodlums ventured here, however they excused it to themselves.

The stars shone above through the cloudless night, the half-moon glowing brightest among the heavens.

Perfect.

"Ready?" Albus asked, aiming his question at Nymphadora.

She'd chosen an interesting appearance for tonight; she looked like an ancient, potbellied wizard slightly shorter than Albus, with a brownish-red beard and the most shockingly purple eyes Albus had ever seen.

"I'm ready," she said. Her voice was deep and coarse.

Gellert marched forward and the door shot off its hinges at his approach, shattering into a million splinters that flung themselves through the open doorway into the house at incredible speed.

Immediately, a chorus of voices erupted in screams and strange noises—it took Albus a moment to understand, but he quickly realized it was an attempt for human vocal chords to emit wolves howls.

The interior of the house was no better than the outside. Directly in front of the door was a staircase, and slightly to the side Albus could see a torn apart kitchen. The yellow wallpaper had been ripped almost entirely away, cupboard doors had been torn off, and the refrigerator was lying on its side.

A screech rose as an absolutely filthy man ran toward them up the stairwell. His clothes were ripped and torn, his long fingernails were caked with mud and blood, as was his hair, and his teeth were an unflattering yellow-brown.

He brandished a long, crooked wand that hadn't seen much use in his left hand, and in his right, a rusted bronze knife that had.

Gellert gestured curtly, and the wand snapped upward, breaking the werewolf's arm at the elbow with the sudden shock of its force. It jabbed straight up and impaled him through the mouth, the very tip poking through the hair of his head.

His mouth opened soundlessly, eyes wide, the knife dropping from his hand with a great clang.

Then Gellert sprung, crossing the distance between them in the blink of an eye, the silver dagger in his hand flashing.

Gellert opened the werewolf's throat in a Cheshire grin from ear to ear, and before the cut even began to bleed, Gellert had buried the dagger up to the hilt in its heart.

Blood and black smoke spurted from the wounds, the werewolf's eyes turning entirely black as death took him.

Gellert jabbed his wand, and the werewolf careened down the stairs, ending with a thump and such a loud symphony of those inhuman shrieks that the house seemed to shake on its foundations.

"Steady," Albus whispered to Nymphadora, "you have nothing to fear."

"It is them who will taste fear," Gellert added, turning a blood covered face toward her. "They will gorge on it tonight til they have more than had their fill. Now we go."

"Not yet," Albus said, raising his wand.

He snapped it forward. An enormous force emblazoned with blindingly bright light rushed forth from it, careening down the stars like a locomotive.

"Now we go," Albus said.

There were a good dozen or so werewolves in the basement, of all ages and sexes. They kept their backs to the walls, looking as if they wanted nothing more than for the earth to swallow them.

They had been living on the outskirts of society, that much was apparent from a single glance. The mismatched and too-worn clothes, the filth and stench of unbathed bodies. The cleanest of them all was a child, no older than ten, who clutched a knife and stood before what was undoubtedly his mother with tears streaming down his face.

That was a painful sight, but Albus could not allow it to halt his mission. The boy had undoubtedly seen and partaken in worse horrors than anything Albus would unleash.

They were all armed, carrying knives or the like; very few had wands to accompany their blades.

And they all were stridently not looking at the body that lay in a crumpled heap at the foot of the stairs, in its own pool of blood. No, their attention was focused solely on Albus, Gellert, and Tonks.

Fenrir Greyback stood shirtless at the head of the room, beneath a flickering light-bulb that hung from the ceiling. His lips were peeled back in a snarl, baring his disgustingly gruesome teeth. His fingernails were long and sharp, each coming to a point, and his muscular arms and chest were criss-crossed with scars.

"KILL THEM!" He roared.

Albus was expecting something of that sort. As soon as Fenrir began to speak, he thrust his wand toward the floor as if he were stabbing the earth with a sword and whispered an incantation.

At his word, a wave of explosively concussive force shot outward in a concentric circle from him, throwing everyone except Gellert and Nymphadora against the walls to tumble to the ground.

Almost everyone, that is.

Five werewolves had already made their move before Albus' spell; three of them leaping through the air toward him with the other two simply running forward.

Those two were lucky.

Nymphadora cast the Killing Curse swifter than Albus would have believed her capable; swifter by orders of magnitude, indeed, than she would have been able to without Gellert's tutelage.

Two jets of emerald light shot from her wand and hit their targets, and the werewolves fell.

They were the lucky ones.

The other three were met by Gellert.

He snapped his wand upward and their leaps forward were stopped as if they had jumped straight into an invisible wall. There they hung, arms and legs splayed, faces battered and bruised.

Fenrir shrieked and made to move—

"No," Albus said quietly.

Fenrir slammed back into the wall. As he did so, a portion of the ceiling fell in, stopping to hover in mid-air just beside Albus.

Albus waved his wand and concentrated for an instant, focusing his will, forcing the moment of change.

The wood and plaster were no more. In their place hovered a glowing ball of liquid silver, its surface shimmering and dripping.

Albus sent globules of it toward Greyback before he could rise. As they flew, they reconfigured themselves into shackles.

Greyback stood up, shaking himself off, and was immediately hit by the shackles, one of each attached to a wrist and snaked out into the floor, deep into the bedrock.

The third encircled his neck, tightening.

Where silver met flesh, his skin blistered, motes of black smoke flickering up.

While this was taking place, Albus had twirled his wand, and the basement responded.

The walls and floor grew arms, seizing every werewolf within reach and tugging them close with iron grips.

The mother and child were gripped by one arm, and perhaps slightly less intensely than the others.

Albus was here on a mission of mercy, after all.

They all began to scream, but none as loud as Greyback.

"SILENCE!" Gellert roared, slashing his wand across the room.

Absolute silence fell, the pack opening and closing their mouths soundlessly. Fenrir struggled against his bonds, blood now dripping freely down his arms and mingling with that black smoke before realizing—with a look of panic in his eyes that quite delighted Albus, to his own disgust—that the harder he struggled, the more the brace tightened around his throat.

"We came purely for Greyback," Gellert said. "With no intention of causing harm to any but him. However," his voice became a purr, "those who attack us, well, they are free game, as they say."

He gestured to one of the floating werewolves and twisted his wand through the air.

Against his will, the werewolf's head began to turn, bones in his neck creaking and shattering, breaking and tearing the skin as it did a full about turn and returned to face Gellert once more.

Blood poured from the werewolf's nose, his mouth, the gashes in his throat, his ears.

Gellert's arm whipped out, and he buried the silver dagger in the werewolf's forehead.

Gellert laughed like a loon as the crimson ichor fountained out and drenched him, more of that black fog leaking from the wound.

Gellert released his spell, letting the corpse drop to the floor.

"I'm not done," Gellert cackled, "watch, all of you, and learn the price of not knowing your place!"

The mother was hugging her child close to her, his face buried in her chest. She rubbed his back and tried to speak to him, doubtless to calm him, but no words left her lips.

Albus forced his heart to remain as stone.

The werewolves stared, horrified, as Gellert went to work.

Albus did not stop him.

He cut the still beating heart out of the second werewolf and tore it to bits, and Albus did not stop him.

With exaggerated slowness, he beheaded the final attacker, sawing away at his neck for what felt like hours, and Albus did not stop him.

Gellert stood back as the final corpse dropped to the ground, his face and robes drenched in drying blood, looking as if he was wearing elbow length red gloves.

"Do not attack us," he warned, "and you will not suffer harm. We came not for you, but for him," he said, pointing at Greyback.

Gellert flicked his wand.

A nearly unfelt pressure was lifted from the room along with his Silencing Charm.

The werewolves began to cry and scream, begging for their lives.

"You have nothing to fear," Albus said, "we are here only for Greyback."

That did not seem to calm them much, though they quietened somewhat, enough for Albus to hear Greyback's raspy laugh, racked with agony.

"Come to kill me, Dumbledore? And you had to bring your friends? Shows what a danger a free werewolf is."

Few cheered at his words, most of them too frightened to do more than beg.

"I have come to show you mercy," Albus said, walking forward toward his trapped foe. "Something of which you know little."

That made Greyback laugh even harder, but the other werewolves, perhaps sensing Albus' energy, fell silent, no longer even begging.

"What, you're going to come here, tie me up, kill some of my pack, and then offer for me to change my ways and work for you like some tame pet?"

Greyback's rage overtook both his his pain and the humour he had found in the situation. His face contorted in fury and he surged forward, the cuffs dragging him back to the wall and the brace tightening around his throat.

"Kill me," he rasped, his face purpling, "I'll never serve you. Only the Dark Lord will give us our freedom."

"So this is what you call freedom?" Albus asked, looking around the room. Few of the pack met his eyes. "Hiding in a shoddy house, living on the outskirts of society, knowing that as soon as you have served Voldemort's purpose he will kill you. If this is your idea of freedom, my pity for you all only grows."

"We don't want your fucking pity!" One of them shouted, a broad shouldered man with a nose broken worse than Albus'. "It's not like you or the Ministry let's us do anything other than hide on the fucking outskirts, is it? We've got no choice!"

"He's right," Greyback wheezed, trying to raise his hands to his now bleeding throat, "we have no choice."

"You're only strangling yourself," Albus said, loosening the neckbrace slightly with a wave of his wand.

It wouldn't do for Greyback to strangle himself to death.

"You are right, in that your choices have been vastly minimised," Albus said to the angry werewolf, "but I am not the author of your misery. Whatever he claims, Fenrir has done nothing but push back the fight for werewolf rights by decades."

"Lies," the man said, "he's been—"

"A perfect example for the Ministry to point to whenever they want to show what terrible beasts you are," Albus interrupted. "The Ministry has shunted you aside and made your lives difficult, but Fenrir has been their greatest asset."

"You think I work for—"

"No," Albus called, a wave of his wand pulling Fenrir back against the wall and silencing him. "You have not been co-operating with the Ministry, not purposely. But every time I, and others allied with me, have tried to fight the Ministry's bigotry and cruel hatred, you have shown them the depths of evil that you claim all werewolves should aspire to. You purposely target children, purposely target innocents who you believe will survive the bite, so that you can brainwash them into following you, knowing all the while that you care nought for them. All you care for, Fenrir Greyback, liar and creature of evil, is your own name."

Albus turned to the rest of the room, looking at them one by one.

"You know that I speak the truth. You are forced to join Fenrir because that is the only path available to you, but that is only the case because he has helped make it so. I have personally tried dozens of times to pass laws aiding werewolves, I have fought against the laws which pushed you away, but every time I did so, another atrocity committed by Fenrir—or his pack, for that matter—came to light and swayed the vote. You allied with Voldemort at the height of his rise, and you have done so again, and what do you think that did for the public opinion of werewolves?"

"The Ministry—"

"Forget about the Ministry," Albus roared. "Soon it shall be history. But you, Fenrir— I had everything lined up, enough support to guarantee my proposal for free Wolfsbane supplied by St. Mungo's, the law would have passed! And you had to murder the entire Macfinn family, all because of Harley's editorial against the proposed bill. You singlehandedly shot it down."

Some of the werewolves, the mother most prominently, were glaring at Fenrir.

"And you," Albus said, turning on the burly werewolf who had first yelled at him, "you accuse me of pushing werewolves away? I, who have tried to pass more bills to advance your rights than anyone else? I, who was the first Headmaster in history to admit a werewolf student to Hogwarts? I who employed a werewolf? You accuse me?"

"Who says Wolfsbane is what we want?" The mother asked. Her son, however, seemed to have perked up at the mention of Hogwarts. "Maybe we've accepted what we are, and want to run free. Maybe we enjoy losing ourselves in the beast."

It was an argument that Albus had heard many times before, albeit usually with accusatory and inflammatory wording. He had not been expecting it from her, of all of them.

"That is a fair point," he said, "and one that I have considered as well. A solution can be found that fits each individual. You must know how many wild areas there still are that the muggles are unaware of. Some could be set aside, during the full moon at least, as sanctuaries, cleared of all human and other sentient life. You could run, you could hunt, but no being that knows love and fear need be harmed."

"The Ministry would never agree to that," she said, looking dubious.

"Fuck the Ministry!"

Gellert stormed forward, and all the werewolves cringed as he took stage.

"The Ministry is history," he yelled, "how can you not understand this?"

"It is true," Albus said. "In a matter of days, it will be my decisions that rule the day, and not those of the Wizengamot."

"We've heard those promises before," someone muttered. "And the Dark Lord—"

"Do not compare me to him," Albus said, the tip of his wand brightening dangerously. "I come here to make you an offer that will improve your lives dramatically. Wouldn't you like to have the option of attending Hogwarts?" He asked, looking at the boy.

"Wouldn't you like to join society, not as outcasts, but as regular members? To have gainful employment, and to have the choice on the full moon, to take freely given Wolfsbane or to hunt and run free in a sanctioned zone without posing a threat to others?"

"We'd never be accepted." A waspish woman said. "No-one would ever accept us."

"You would be surprised," Albus said. "but yes, there could be comments. You could face mockery and even hatred from your fellows. But that would be infinitely better than living as you are. You may be cursed with lycanthropy, but you are not beasts. You have morals. You have desires and dreams and goals. You will never be able to fulfill them as you are. I offer you change, while Fenrir offers only to drag you further in the name of his own hatred and ego."

"The Dark Lord—"

"Good God," Gellert interrupted, "are you truly so foolish as to not realize that he despises you? He hates you, fool. He thinks you a useful tool, and will dispose of you the instant you are no longer needed."

"He doesn't tolerate half-bloods," Albus said, "despite being one himself. He caters to none other than the powerful and important purebloods. Your existence is only as meaningful to him as your service to him. You will gain to reward for that service but death."

"I just said that," Gellert muttered.

"And what do you want from us?" The broken-nosed werewolf demanded. "If you're promising us all this incredible shit—and I don't for a second buy it—what, you want us to fight for you? Is that it?"

"All I want from you," said Albus, "is that you no longer cater to Fenrir's whims, that you no longer pledge your allegiance to the Dark Lord. I want you to try and work with me and my ambassador once I have taken the Ministry, to solve the issues society has foisted upon you. I do not ask you to fight in this war, though I would not say no if you asked to join me."

"What, we're that much of a threat to you that you're going to all this trouble just to get us out of your way?"

Albus made a small gesture with his wand.

The ball of boiling liquid silver shot around the room, coming within an inch of every werewolf's head. As it passed the broken-nosed one, a tiny drop flew off, landing on his cheek.

The sound of sizzling flesh was all that could be heard for an instant, until he started to shriek.

The silver was burning a hole in his cheek, his skin running like melting wax. Black fog erupted from that hole, and screaming in agony he sagged, upright only due to the arms Albus had formed from the walls and floor.

"Gellert, would you mind?"

Gellert sighed, but walked over to the man and seized his chin in one hand. Then, with a soft, sing-song incantation, ran his wand over the wound.

When Gellert stepped back, there was nothing but a burn mark the size of a Knut.

"I could have left you unblemished," Gellert said, "but I think this will serve as a reminder."

"A threat?" Albus asked, his voice ice. "No. If I so desired, I could kill every one of you in but a moment, and there would be nothing you could do to stop me. I am here to help you. If you stand against me, however, I will end you."

Nothing but silence.

"Fenrir Greyback," Albus said, stepping toward him and removing the Silencing Charm, "Do you have any last words?"

Gellert and Nymphadora had followed Albus. Very good.

"I thought you—you said you were coming to give me mercy!"

Fenrir's eyes, as yellow as his teeth, were wide and terrified. He'd seen his pack destroyed before him, knew that even if he survived this he would have to start again, and perhaps worst of all, would have to explain to Voldemort what had happened.

"Yes," Albus said softly, "mercy. If I were to dispense justice, I would see you removed from society for a while. During that time, I would have you feel the pain you have caused to so many, I would have you understand the loss and heartbreak you created. I would ensure that you understood how you have done nothing but to hurt your fellows. I would watch as you experienced the soul burning shame of remorse, and only when I judged you rehabilitated, then I would decide on whether to execute you or give you another chance. I could do this, Fenrir. But I am merciful. A quick death. Far better than you deserve."

"Personally," Gellert butted in, "I'm all for keeping you for a while. I've heard interesting things about how you act while transformed, quite unlike most werewolves. You and your wolf have come to some agreement, and you both are full of such delicious hate." Gellert chuckled, unnerving in its innocence. "Oh, I would know you inside and out. I would, I think, dissect your brain…eventually. But alas, this is Albus' town, after all."

"And what about you?" Fenrir asked Tonks, aiming for bravado but not quite achieving it. "Who the fuck even are you? Not saying a single word…what do you want with me?"

Albus watched carefully as Tonks, in her interesting disguise, eyed Fenrir with a sneer.

"If you do not recognize me," she said, her assumed voice taking on a tad of a foreign accent, "then you do not deserve to be enlightened. I have been silent because wisdom often holds its tongue, something I have been told you are incapable of doing. I would like to keep you as you are, though chained at my feet. Perhaps a nice silver muzzle to go with your ensemble. I would force-feed you Wolfsbane and keep you chained at all times. You would be my very own pet tame werewolf. But I agree with Gellert. This is Albus' land, and his decision."

"And so I decide," Albus said. "Watch," he called, to all the werewolves in the room. "And see the end of those who stand against me and ally with Voldemort."

He thrust his wand forward and the ball of molten silver engulfed Fenrir's head, covering it from the tips of his hair to his neck.

Fenrir's screams were agonizing, nothing more than pure suffering and torment given voice.

His body seized, surging up against his bindings, the brace around his neck tightening until it was cutting the skin deeply, and still he roared.

Silver dripped from his head, landing on his shoulders, his chest, his feet, burning and melting wherever it touched.

His skin began to melt, dripping away with the silver and revealing the bloody flesh beneath which too started to collapse. Veins and capillaries were momentarily visible through his silver mask, nerves and muscles and bones exposed for all to see.

Fenrir's screams turned to hoots as the silver ate his tongue and then he fell silent as his vocal chords were destroyed.

It was a merciful act.

No matter how terribly painful it was, it did not last long.

It was less than a minute before the silver moved away from Fenrir's head and began to devour the rest of his corpse; his skull had been stripped entirely of skin and flesh and hair, even the bones were dissolving to black dust.

Albus turned away from the gruesome specter, releasing the handcuffs from the corpse which fell to the floor with a final thud.

The werewolves were staring at him, their expressions mixed; some looked terrified and confused, others hopeful, yet others furious.

"I give you the greatest gift of all," Albus said, releasing their bindings with a wave of his wand. "I give you the ability to choose. I only ask that you choose wisely, that you choose life instead of death. Good evening."

With that, he left the house in a stunned silence, Gellert and Nymphadora hot on his heels.

Chapter Text

Chapter 21

Dear Remus, Albus wrote, the sound of his quill scratching across the parchment making a wonderful accompaniment to Fawkes' and the Wand's soft songs.

Firstly, I want you to know that I do not blame you for leaving in the slightest. I can't imagine the effect Aberforth's tale had on you.

I deny not a word of it. Gellert and I had a history. I know that this has changed your view of me. I'm sure you look at the years in which I did not go after Gellert with a different attitude now.

I'm sure you believe I had different intentions with my release of him than I expressed.

Let me assure you, I freed him for the reasons I told you and nothing more.

My history with him gives me a unique understanding of his mind. I know that he is not manipulating me in any way.

Difficult as it may seem to believe, Gellert achieved true remorse in Nurmengard. Imagine that, Remus. Fifty years with nothing but memories of your crimes and the burgeoning sorrow of realization, a guilt weightier than any of us can imagine dawning.

I knew this ten years ago, through my communications with him.

It was corroborated by responses he sent to his former followers, responses that neither they nor he knew I had seen.

It was corroborated by the guards of Nurmengard, their whispers of Grindelwald weeping in the night and self-flagellating, begging forgiveness from ghosts who haunted naught but his mind.

I'm sure you believe that I cannot see clearly. It is always possible that you are right.

Love, that most powerful magic of all, makes fools of us all.

You experienced this yourself two years ago. Though your love for Sirius was never anything but platonic, you neglected to inform me that he was an Animagus. When you discovered that he was on Hogwarts' premises, you did not immediately inform me, because you wanted to believe (and were in fact correct to do so) that he was innocent.

I understand why you left, Remus, and as I said, I do not blame you. Regardless of your response to this letter, there will be no reprisals against you.

With all that said, I would like you to return.

I have avenged you, to some degree.

Fenrir Greyback is dead. The pack he drew to him has been scattered. Some will return to Voldemort, but the vast majority, I believe, will stand aside during the fight or will stand by my side.

I am sure that you have been following the news quite closely even from your haven in Iceland. I have no doubt that you've seen reports of the upcoming vote.

It will not take place, Remus. Instead, I will take control of the Ministry.

You may doubt me, and may wish to wait until you have received confirmation of this. By all means, with my blessing, please do so. It will be public knowledge in several days.

I have grand dreams for the integration of werewolves into Wizarding society, and would dearly like to see them actualised. You know that I have fought for this over the years.

However, I am no werewolf. While I may understand as well as possible the struggles that integration poses, I only understand from the outside. I need the guidance and advice of one who has learned through experience, who has lived both as an unfortunate, typical werewolf, as well as one who has been trying to fit into society.

I know of none else who fits those requirements.

I need you, Remus. Your fellows need you. I do not exaggerate when I say that the type of future werewolves have in England may rest, in part, in your hands.

It is not only I and your country who needs you.

Sirius is in desperate need of you, a friend who can help him and perhaps lift his spirits through his struggles.

Nymphadora needs you. You cannot know the effect the loss of her parents has had on her. She is not the same woman she was. But with your help, she may be able to regain her ability to laugh and love once more.

We need you, Remus. It is entirely your choice, and entirely up to you as to what you will do, but the change you can bring in England may be immeasurable.

I know your perception of me has changed, but I am still the same man who did everything he could to allow you to attend Hogwarts. I am still the same man who gave you a teaching position, and who fought Umbridge and her laws with everything in my power.

Attached are letters from Sirius and Nymphadora.

They ask as I do:

Please come home.

Albus.

Albus signed the letter with a flourish, tapping his wand to it and adding some subtle charms—subtle enough that Remus, clever as he was, would not discover them.

A minor Compulsion Charm, one that would make the ideas presented in the letter seem as appealing as possible to Remus. A small enchantment to ensure that none but Remus would be able to read the letter. And most importantly, a Tongue-Tying Curse, to make sure that Remus would never be able to tell anyone a word of the letter's contents.

None would hear Aberforth's tale from Remus.

"Are you certain you're up for this so soon after your rebirth, my friend?" Albus asked.

Fawkes ruffled his feathers and trilled angrily.

"No, it's not that I doubt you," Albus said, "merely that we have so much large-scale work ahead of us. But of course, I trust your word. Please, take this to Remus and return as soon as you can. You know what lies ahead."

Fawkes gripped the feather in his talons and vanished in a burst of golden flame and song.

Nymphadora wore Bellatrix so perfectly it was a tad eerie.

She twisted into apparition with a feral screech, appearing several feet behind Gellert, a curse exploding from her wand.

Gellert swatted it aside with a sneer and swept his wand at her. A harsh, hot wind blew, sweeping up dust and small stones and storming toward her.

"Come on, girl," Gellert cried, "do something!"

Nymphadora had all but vanished from view in the torrent that threatened to engulf her.

Albus peered closely, his gaze piercing the haze, allowing him to see her. Her form had not changed in the least, no ripples or anything of the sort that could give away that she was not the true Bellatrix.

Sweat ran down her face in thick rivulets, undoubtedly pricking at her eyes and harming her vision, yet she was still performing exceptionally well. Her breaths were more like gasps at this point, and she was bleeding quite profusely from a large gash in her side.

They'd been at it for several hours now, testing Nymphadora well beyond what Albus thought was a reasonable point to ascertain

First, Albus had pitted himself against her while Gellert judged. He'd gone easy on her, easier than Gellert, at least.

Then they'd had her traverse an obstacle course, one which Gellert had taken obscene pleasure in creating.

A maze—which immediately drew Albus' mind to that terrible evening when Voldemort had returned—it had featured traps galore, areas enchanted heavily to force Nymphadora to run and perform acrobatic feats, spells that would test her physical and psychological strength, even golems of various forms enchanted to surprise her and test her reactions.

It had taken a heavy toll on Nymphadora, to Albus' consternation, particularly the area which had been made to look like her family's home.

Yet still her impersonation of Bellatrix had not flagged.

Even so, Albus would have wanted to put a stop to it. She had proven above and beyond that she was more than capable of maintaining her transformation under all sorts of pressure.

But she was Gellert's student, and she seemed to be enjoying it, truly releasing all the pent up emotions within.

She seemed to have gone a step beyond merely imitating Bellatrix; over the course of the day, Nymphadora had started becoming her.

The wildness in her eyes, the chaotic nature of her movements and spells, the insane laughter she spouted; it was beyond eerie, in fact. It was quite distressing.

She swore loudly in Bellatrix's shrill voice and cast a spell, her wand spinning intricately as she incanted.

The tornado around her burst into flame and gained speed, spinning faster and faster, pulling up debris and growing larger. With another shout, she hurled it at Gellert, following up with several hexes and curses.

Cackling wildly, Gellert swung his wand like a golf club. The flaming vortex hurled upward and began to swirl around his head, gaining speed immensely and taking on a blueish-black hue. The curses and hexes she'd flung at him vanished, seeming to have been drawn into the maelstrom's gaping maw.

Screeching, Nymphadora continued sending curse after curse at Gellert, her incantations lost in rage.

Gellert merely stood there, the grass withering and dying at his feet as each spell was sucked into the malevolent vacuum above him.

Then he made his move.

The wind stopped suddenly and changed course toward Nymphadora as Gellert attacked with shocking ferocity, all the trees bending as if a giant was leaning on them. Some of them broke, limbs and leaves shooting into the distance.

With a whip-crack wave of his wand, he shot the whirling flames toward her.

They changed shape as they flew. Where there had been one formless mass there were now dozens—hundreds of flaming spears, flying toward Nymphadora as if a small army had hidden in the clouds.

Tonks crouched, an oval semitransparent turquoise shield rose around her, making her appear to Albus like nothing so much as Atlas hoisting the sky.

The spears shattered against her shield, but it wouldn't be strong enough to last. It was already shimmering where each spear struck it, losing its hazy colour at a tremendous rate.

Tonks fell to both knees, her wand shaking, her face knotted in concentration. Still the spears came, an endless deluge raining from the heavens

Her shield would break soon. And what was more, she knew it.

With a scream, she jabbed her wand upward, and in the moment her shield vanished, the lake erupted. A giant watery hand exploded out and caught the spears, dissolving them in its grasp.

Nymphadora yelled in triumph and Gellert's Stunner caught her just between the ribs.

She dropped to the earth, falling still in the clods of mud, dirt, and rocks that had formed around her.

Even unconscious, she still bore Bellatrix's form.

"Even when Stunned," Albus whistled. "You must agree that she is completely ready. Far beyond our expectations."

"She is brilliant," Gellert whispered. "One more test, I think."

Gellert was staring at her with a distant look, fingering a small rock. With a start, Albus recognized it as the Resurrection Stone and understood what the test would be.

"No! Gellert, I forbid you!"

"She must be—"

"Gellert! You will not call her parents and make her face them like this." Albus' wand dropped into his hand. "I will not allow it."

"It is to her ultimate benefit," Gellert said softly. "And that of us all. She will grow stronger from it."

"No, Gellert. You begged me, begged me to tell you when you are drawing near to crossing lines. You are doing so now. You will not do this."

"And if she agrees?" Gellert asked, the wind spinning dust around his feet.

The idea was inane, utterly laughable.

"If she agrees? Even then, you will not use the Stone. It is as much mine as it is yours. You will not use it, not in this manner."

"Very well," Gellert nodded, "let us see what she has to say about the matter."

He waved his wand carelessly, and Nymphadora awoke.

She leapt straight to her feet, wand in hand once more, and blinked a few times before understanding what had happened.

"You got me while I was distracted, didn't you?" She asked, her half-smile extremely odd on Bellatrix's face. "Well? I did pretty well, didn't I?"

"I did," Gellert said, "and you performed magnificently. Girl, there were those who studied under and fought with me for years who could not have achieved what you did today. You are truly a queen of Metamorphmagi. I will have a crown made for you, one day."

"You were excellent," Albus added. "Far beyond my or Gellert's expectations—I am exceedingly proud of you, Tonks. You are more than ready."

"Almost, I would say." Gellert said. "I think there is still one more test for you, but Albus would prefer—"

"Let's do it," Tonks said immediately, stretching her arms and standing a bit straighter.

"I believe it's barbaric, cruel, and entirely unnecessary," Albus said. "Nymphadora—Tonks, you have no idea—"

"Which is part of the point, isn't it?" Tonks asked. "He wants to surprise me with something horrific, right? Something I'm not prepared for. That's what today's all been about, seeing if I can still stay like this—" she gestured to her body and face, "when I'm being overwhelmed by other shit. Okay. Bring it. I'm ready."

"I don't think—"

"You heard the girl, Albus," Gellert interrupted. "She's ready."

Albus could have—should have—stopped him, even with Nymphadora's assent.

He did not.

The earth fountained upward at Gellert's call, flowers and dust vanishing, layers of transfiguration and illusory magic taking their place.

It took but moments, and Ted and Andromeda Tonks were standing before their disguised daughter.

Nymphadora went stock-still, Bellatrix's face that of a statue, every limb and muscle taunt.

"Oh, you bastard," she muttered, barely audible, her lips not moving. "You utter fucking bastard."

"It's Bellatrix!" The false Ted cried. "Run, Andromeda!"

"Leave us alone," golem Andromeda shrieked, "Bellatrix, leave us be!"

The voices and mannerisms were perfect, plucked, no doubt, from Nymphadora's mind during one of Gellert's Occlumency training sessions.

"YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE!" Nymphadora roared, her shaking wand rising toward Gellert. "HOW DARE YOU?"

A heaving darkness began to cluster at the tip of her wand, the air itself sucking toward it.

"Is that what Bellatrix would do in this situation?" Gellert asked, his voice hard. "You said you were ready for whatever horrors I could bring to bear. What would Bellatrix do?"

"Monster," Nymphadora said, tears streaming down her face. "I thought—"

Ted suddenly lurched toward her. As much out of surprise as willingness to prove herself, Nymphadora reacted.

Her spell took the crafted mockery of her father in its chest, shattering it and dismantling the illusion in one swift blow, leaving behind nothing but a soft rain of dirt and grass.

"No!"

"TED!" Andromeda shrieked, stumbling forward. "NO! YOU BITCH, I'LL KILL YOU!"

"Fucking bastard," Nymphadora sobbed, falling to her knees once more. "Stop it."

"End it, Gellert," Albus demanded. "Now."

Gellert, of course, ignored him.

"Only you can end it," he called to Nymphadora. "What would Bellatrix do?"

For the briefest fraction of an instant, so quick that Albus wasn't sure if he had even truly seen it, Nymphadora's grief-stricken face peeked through Bellatrix's wild locks of hair.

Than she rose, appearing entirely as Bellatrix, her tears gone, her sorrow and pain replaced with an expression Bellatrix wore all too often; that of pure hatred and fury.

Purple flames exploded from her wand; for a moment, the golem of her mother was lit up like a Christmas tree.

Then it too was gone, leaving not even ash behind.

A dark, unsettling silence fell as a cloud passed over the sun, even the birds in the trees unwilling to break it.

Tossing her wand aside, Nymphadora fell to her knees once more and clasped her hands to her face—still Bellatrix's face—and began to weep, her entire body shaking with the force of her sobs.

"I hate you," she wept. "Gellert—you—why? Why?!"

"A final test," Gellert said softly. He looked….strange. Pleased, and yet deeply disappointed, as if he was suffering greatly.

Albus hoped he was. Albus' heart was pounding with righteous fury, the Wand calling to him, bile rising in his throat.

He'd stood there and done nothing.

He'd stood there and done nothing but watch as this abomination had taken place.

Gellert's eyes shot toward him, narrowing, his muscles tightening.

Albus glanced down. The flowers at his feet had begun to wither, their petals falling away and their stems darkening as they crumbled.

Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes and forced the Wand's song from his mind.

Later, he promised himself, I will discuss this with Gellert. This should never have happened, but he must fix what he has broken.

"How many t-tests do I need? What else do I need to do to fucking prove myself to you?"

"No more," Gellert said, walking toward her. "None more. You have more than proven yourself, my dear. I just wanted to be as certain as possible. We are beyond tests, now."

He knelt beside her, gently clasping the sides of her head and kissed her forehead.

She shivered, whether with revulsion or from her tears, Albus could not be sure.

"You have proven yourself in every way that you could. You have learned more from me than any other ever has. You will be renowned, and soon you will achieve your vengeance. Your heart will heal, previous one. Sometimes I think it tragic, but it is the way of the world. Our deepest pains scar over and we learn to live with them. But I felt it was necessary to test you now, while it was yet raw. And you may hate me for it, but know that I too hate myself for it. I would not have done it if I hadn't thought it necessary. I swear to you. I do not want to see you suffer."

"That's rich," Nymphadora sniffled. "Fucking rich. Fine. You say I'm done with the tests. I say I'm not. You want to be absolutely sure that no matter what, I can keep my form?"

A terrible suspicion arose in Albus' mind. Surely she wouldn't—would she?

"Tonks," he said urgently, "you have proven that, over and above what was necessary. I do not think the last test was even called for in any way. You have my absolute faith."

She ignored him as he thought she might, just continued staring at Gellert.

"Yes," Gellert whispered. "That's what today has been entirely about."

"And you—" she aimed at Dumbledore, "you said this is all vital to defeating Voldemort. Didn't you?"

"I did, but—"

"Then there's one more test you can do. One way to see if I can keep it even under torture."

"No," Albus said. "Nymphadora, no. There is no need—"

"There was no need for the last one, you said," she interrupted, colour blooming in her cheeks. "And I thought that would be what I'm asking for now. I want this. Do it. Let's fucking do it. Do it already. I need to see what it's like. DO IT!"

As she shouted, Gellert cast the Cruciatus.

She dropped entirely to the ground and began to writhe, shaking as if having a seizure and vomiting.

Her screams shredded what remained of Albus' heart.

"Enough!"

By the time Albus had begun speaking, Gellert had lifted the curse.

Slowly, Nymphadora's writhings ended. Shaking, she got to her feet and looked down at herself.

She still bore Bellatrix's form.

Her body rippled and her own image returned as she raised her arms above her head in a Y and screamed her inarticulate triumph to the uncaring sky.

"—utterly despicable, and completely irresponsible! Gellert, how could you put her through that? How? You leapt right across all the lines, that was nothing short of psychological warfare you waged on her! How could you, Gellert?"

"I did what I felt I needed to do," Gellert said. "and it was not easy for me."

It didn't look like it had been, now. Gellert looked haggard, more than exhausted, his age truly showing.

"I—we needed to be sure that she can face anything," Gellert said. "and I did what I had to."

"So it was for the greater good?" Albus asked, as scornfully as he could manage.

Gellert flinched.

"Yes," he said, a moment later. "It was. Her part in our story will not end when she leaves Gringott's, Albus. Think about it. Her abilities—"

"Goddamnit, Gellert!" Albus slammed his fist onto the kitchen table. "She is more than just her abilities! Can you not see that? Can you not recognize the damage you are causing to the person behind them? I am allowing you to train her, allowing you to make her into a dark witch, but what you have done threatens to destroy her!"

"I know," Gellert said, wretchedly. "But it had to be done. Albus, I know she is more than her abilities. I know of her dreams, her ambitions. Right now, she wants nothing more than vengeance. I wish she wanted more than that. But Albus—She could do more than simply fetch the Cup. We have discussed some possibilities, but there are so many others, especially in the long term."

The Wand was screaming to him, begging to be used.

How dare this man, who he had rescued, defy him?

How dare he destroy Nymphadora while Albus watched?

Albus thrust the Wand's voice from his mind.

"Stop thinking about the long term," Albus snapped, "and focus on now. Did it occur to you that I might have considered the possibilities she offers in the long term? That I may have thought about her in conjunction with Sobhuze's plan? Of course I have! But she needs more than just vengeance to reach that point!"

"I know!" Gellert jumped to his feet, abandoning his spot of misery in the corner and shouted, gesticulating wildly. "I am no fool, Albus! But it still needed to be done! She needs to be able to face anything! I have seen spells that would make her imagine just the scene I made her play out today, I have crafted some akin to them! She needs to be able to face anything, and it is my job to ensure that she is, no matter how distasteful or disgusting I find that job. And that is what I have done today. So yes, it was for the greater good, Albus, because it will keep her alive and in best shape to fight on come what may."

Gellert seemed to have used all his anger in his speech. The defiance left his face and he slumped, suddenly more miserable than anytime Albus had seen him since Nurmengard.

"Judge me as you wish, Albus," Gellert said. "It cannot be harsher than my judgment of myself."

"And the Cruciatus? Why did you agree with it?"

"She asked—"

"And you could have denied. Why, Gellert?"

Gellert sat again, looking pensive.

"You've never had it cast on you, have you?"

"No."

"No," Gellert echoed. "Who could have managed such a feat, after all? Well, I have experienced it. I wanted to know what it was like. I had one of my most trusted lieutenants cast it on me, and many safeguards in place to ensure that it was only held for the amount of time I wanted. Words do not describe its exquisite agony. I can well relate to wanting to know what it is like."

He met Albus' eyes, Fawkes' flames reflecting in them. The entire room dwindled away in that fiery gaze.

"Knowledge is not the whole reason she wanted it," Gellert said, "nor to test herself. She knows—or thinks she does, and it makes no difference—that her mother was tortured before death. She burns with guilt over her parents' deaths, her mother's most of all. She wanted, in her own way, to make it up to her. She is obsessed over their deaths, Albus."

"They were her parents," Albus said. "She loved them dearly, and they, her. I know the concept is foreign to you, but she was extremely close with them."

"Her obsession is unhealthy. My method of having her deal with it—having her kill the past—may not have been healthy either, but it needed to be done. That was the other reason I did it all, beyond simply testing her. Hell may await me for it, but I did what needed to be done. And that, Albus, is the end of it."

"No," Albus said. "You're not getting out of this so easily. What you did was monstrous, but I can understand why you thought it necessary, even if I disagree. But you need to make up for it."

"And how the fuck do you propose I do that?"

Albus rubbed his forehead, trying to simply wish away his oncoming migraine.

"You've told me before," he said, taking a seat, "of how you always found Dark Magic paradoxical."

"That was for me personally," Gellert said. "Others, like your Voldemort, do not seem to feel the same."

"Regardless, you said that for you, you were best able to use Dark Magic effectively due to your appreciation for life and all the beauty it holds. Your appreciation for love, and kindness, and all good things. You must show her that as well."

"And how," Gellert repeated, "do you propose I do that?"

"I don't know," Albus said. "But I'm sure you can think of something. Your training with her is now stepping into a different stage, and you need to incorporate this. You must!"

"I will."

"Hopefully, Remus will return. I fear their love is lost, but they may remain friends. I will impress upon Sirius the importance of being her friend at this time. And you will impress upon her the importance of her friendships and love."

"I will."

"Yes. You will. And only time will tell if it will be enough."

"But you are going ahead with the plan, tomorrow?"

"Yes. And so I'm going to bed. I'd advise you to do the same, at some point."

The great entry hall of Gringotts was emptier than usual, the only sign of the burgeoning chaos outside its fortress-like walls.

The goblins at the entryway had bowed and greeted Albus as usual, the gleaming marble floors and towering pillars still shone as always.

There were fewer tellers on duty than usual, and many of those that were present did not have clients before them. Most of those were engrossed in ledgers, numbers and figures dancing beneath their long fingers.

The wizards and witches who were there looked as if they simply wanted to have their business done as quickly as possible and to return to the imagined safety of their homes. Albus caught snatches of their hurried questions, while the goblins responded in their usual manner, uncaring of human concerns.

His timing was impeccable. Albus spotted her immediately upon his entry, just as she, with a goblin by her side, was about to enter the tunnels and descend to her vault.

Perfect.

"LESTRANGE," He bellowed, his voice roaring across the hall with his power. It swept the room like a hurricane, whirling the papers from all the goblins' desks, even knocking over an extremely elderly and frail witch.

Nymphadora spun around, her wand rising, but Albus' was already aimed.

"STOP!"

A goblin had run right into line of fire and skidded to a halt, his arms outstretched. He was taller than the norm, his clothes finer, and he was bedecked with enough rings and gold necklaces to pay a king's ransom.

"What is the meaning of this?" He demanded, looking at both Albus and Nymphadora in turn. "Have you forgotten the Peace of Gringotts? Take your squabbles elsewhere, your wizarding rivalries are taboo here."

Other goblins were emerging now, most of them armed with all sorts of bladed instruments. Gellert would have been salivating.

"She is a wanted criminal," Albus said, not lowering his wand. "A Death Eater and a plague upon the earth."

Nymphadora played her part perfectly. She began to yell at Albus, shrieking obscenities and threats, her own wand still raised.

"I believe you are wanted by the Ministry as well," the goblin said. "And yet you, like her, are permitted entry. The internal affairs of wizardkind end at our doorways. Such is and has always been the case. You will cease this nonsense or you will both be ejected."

Albus made it seem as if he was weighing the decision.

Everyone in the room seemed to be holding their breath, the tension thick and palpable.

"I have no doubt you could turn this into a charnel house," the goblin whispered. "But would you? That is what you will be forced to do if you do not stop this idiocy. I expected better of you, Albus."

"And I you, Ragnok."

Albus lowered his wand to a great collective exhale. Across the room, Nymphadora did the same, her face and body language still full of hate and readiness for a fight.

"May we still speak?"

"In my office," Ragnok said. "Come."

Nymphadora disappeared into the labyrinthine tunnels beneath Gringotts, and Albus followed Ragnok, just keeping his smile at bay.

Ragnok's office lied with its simplicity. It looked no different than the rest of Gringotts' aboveground complex; the same marble floors and pillars, the same windows looking out at Diagon Alley, the same doors, even, as those that led to any other office.

His desk was slightly more ornate, true, and he had a quill holder carved from a large diamond, but there was no indication to be found that he was the most powerful goblin in Gringotts.

Even the various plaques on the walls, written in Gobbledygook, did not show that fact. They were simply various degrees bestowed upon him, proclaiming his mastery in smithing and the like.

"So, Albus Dumbledore," he said. "What has brought you here today? Bear in mind that you are lucky I have not canceled our meeting in light of your disgusting and offensive display."

"I apologize for that," Albus replied in perfect Gobbledygook, "I allowed my emotions to overrule my thought. You shall not see the like again within your hallowed halls."

Ragnok sighed and templed his fingers. It was quite odd for Albus to be on the receiving end of that.

"Why must you persist in speaking our tongue to me as if it will gain you esteem?"

"I always speak with someone in their mother tongue when I am able," Albus said. "It is not a matter of gaining esteem, but of showing respect. I have much respect for you and the rest of your people, as you know."

"What do you want, Dumbledore?"

Dumbledore kept his sigh internal. He'd known from the get-go that his partnership with Gellert would make things more difficult here, but his relationship with Ragnok had previously been much warmer.

"While I know that you cannot speak on behalf of the entire goblin people and would need to meet with the council, what I would like is goblin support in the new world I will create."

Ragnok arched an eyebrow and drummed his fingers on the table but said nothing.

Outside, Albus could see the shoppers in Diagon Alley on their daily routine. There too, there was fewer than usual, all of them hurried and rushing around.

Soon he would grant them peace. They would not need to live in such fear.

"Neither the Ministry or Voldemort have ever treated you and yours with anything even remotely resembling respect. Under the Ministry, the status quo will continue, and you will gain nothing. Under Voldemort, Gringotts will be controlled in all but name by wizards. But with me—with me, goblin rights could be advanced beyond any of our dreams."

"It is a bold move," Ragnok said, "To bargain with empty hands. You wish us to lend support to you? How? We have no political power, as your kind have long seen to. We have not the military might of yore, as, again, your kind have seen to."

"But you have gold. You also have our gold, kept where it is safest—in your hands. The support I would ask would be for you to confiscate the contents of Death Eater's and their allies' vaults."

Ragnok let out a hiss, his hands going straight on the desk as he leaned back, looking as if he had been slapped.

"You would have us betray our deepest principles? You, who claims to understand us?"

Albus leaned forward, idly wondering how Nymphadora was faring. Had they entered the Lestrange vault yet?

Would he be required to rescue her? For that was his true purpose here, much as he wished for his plan with the goblins to proceed.

"A transaction," Albus said, "for something or greater value. Goblin representation in the Ministry. True representation, not the pathetic token they currently permit you. The inheritance tax on Goblin forged items being raised, and that money being paid to the crafter or his descendants."

"You do not have the right to grant us any of that," Ragnok said. With sudden swiftness, he pulled a dagger from his desk and began cleaning his nails. "And you still leave out the most important right of all."

"Wands and a magical education will be off the table until such time as you share your secrets with us. You have your own magic, and if we are to trust you with ours, it is only fair that you trust us with yours."

"Do you know what I absolutely loathe?" Ragnok said. "It's when a wizard talks to me of fairness. But I will allow it to pass from you, Albus, as you have shown well over the years that you have had interest in mending the rifts between our communities."

"I quite understand, and I appreciate it." Albus said, noting the change in address. He was Albus once more, no longer merely Dumbledore.

"You still ignore the fact that as matters stand, you cannot grant us these rights."

"Perhaps matters will change," Albus said lightly. "Perhaps in a few days the world will be an entirely different place."

Ragnok eyed Albus carefully, searching deeply.

"What you ask is impossible," he finally said. "It would be an utter betrayal of who we are. The closest possibility would be to bar the current owners from accessing their vaults. We are not thieves, Albus, no matter what we have been accused of in the past. We will not take what is not rightfully ours. But barring specific individuals from Gringotts—individuals who we feel may be a threat to our security—and keeping their vaults in state until such time as they can be inherited…that could, perhaps, be doable."

Albus wondered if Nymphadora had found the cup already. Ideally, she would already have found it and left before he concluded his meeting with Ragnok.

"That would be acceptable," Albus said.

"We still return to the fact that you are unable to grant us any of what you promise," Ragnok said.

"Assume that I will be," Albus replied. "Very soon."

"Then you should assume that no true negotiations can take place until such a time, Albus. Regardless, I will bring your proposition before the council."

"Thank you, my friend."

Ragnok sighed and walked over to the great plate glass window behind him where he stood, hands clasped behind his back.

"Join me, Albus."

Albus did. Diagon Alley was bustling more so than earlier, but still a far cry from its usual fare. He could barely see anyone stopping to chat with one another, or indeed, doing more than sharing a simple nod of acknowledgement as they passed.

"Look at them," Ragnok said. "So many of them loathe and fear us, because we are different. Yet they still entrust us with what is most precious to them. Do you think giving us the rights we have been so long denied will end that hatred? Or will we be seen as uppity beasts?"

"You will still face prejudice," Albus said. It was best to be frank and true with Ragnok, he had long since learned. "But with time, that will fade. The next generation will be born into a different reality, and eventually, the hatred will become a thing of the past. Change has to begin somewhere. I propose it begins now."

Ragnok hummed non-committedly, still gazing out the window.

"Are we so different?" He said softly. "Look at them. All they want is safety and prosperity, to be left to love their families and raise their children as best they can. Do they truly believe we are any different?"

"If you prick us, do we not bleed?" Albus quoted, matching Ragnok's quiet tone.

Ragnok smiled and turned to face Albus.

"Indeed. I will bring your proposal to the council, Dumbledore—"

Back to Dumbledore, Albus noted.

"—and it will be rejected. Even if you threw in wand rights without a corresponding demand, it would be rejected. Even if you had the power to make it all happen, it would be rejected."

"Because?" Albus asked, though he knew the answer.

"Your quote," Ragnok said, his smile revealing gleaming incisors. "Continue it, why don't you? 'If you wrong us, shall we not revenge?' We have long memories of the atrocities wizards have committed against us, but long memories are not required when it comes to your ally, the man you willingly freed from his prison. Our populations on the continent still have not reached their numbers prior to his war, and it was only four years ago that our final branch reopened. Grindelwald—" the goblin spat, "—his continued existence is a crime against us. And the fact that you are happily working with him is a slap in the face to our people. You have thrown away the decades of our work together, Dumbledore."

"Our partnership—"

"Do not try to defend yourself," Ragnok snarled. "Our history together is the only reason that you are even permitted into Gringotts, and that the Peace still protects you. A kill on sight order could have been issued—"

"And all the goblins of Gringotts would not have been able to achieve that feat, as you know."

"Yes," Ragnok said, "I do know. Our unwillingness to lose more of our people to your friend is why you and he have not been subject to such orders, but the Peace will not protect him if he steps foot here, no matter how many we lose. And you, Dumbledore—our past is in the past now, where it belongs. You will not make any agreements with Gringotts or the council, even if you were to bring Grindelwald to us in chains for immediate justice. You have shown us that you can push aside our greatest tragedy when it suits you. If you do seize control of the godforsaken land, we will deal with you as we do with any Minister. And that is all."

Albus heaved a great sigh. It was disappointing, to be sure, but not entirely unexpected.

He debated prolonging the conversation, but by now Nymphadora had undoubtedly left the building with Cup in tow. There'd been no alarms to indicate a theft; if there had been any sign that Nymphadora was not Bellatrix, Ragnok would have been informed immediately, regardless of who he was meeting with.

"I understand," Albus said, reverting to English. "I am sorry we could not reach an accord, but I understand. One day, there will be peace between our people. I hope on that day, we can enjoy a drink together once more. Until then, old friend."

"Just leave, Dumbledore," Ragnok said, turning back to face the window, his deep voice shaking and rougher than usual. "And in the future, it would save us all much heartache if you would conduct your Gringotts business through the post."

"Today, Tonks, you became the first person—that we know of, at least—to steal from Gringotts without the goblins realizing. How does it feel to accomplish the impossible?"

Tonks, still looking subdued, managed a smile.

Her hair was purple once more, her eyes jet black. Her face had returned to a gaunter version of its norm, cheekbones jutting as if to cut through the skin.

They were outside the cottage, beyond the protective boundaries. The grass and flowers rustled in the gentle breeze, the sunlight strong above them.

It was a picturesque scene, marred only by Albus' knowledge that the cup sitting on the lovely stone table Gellert had created was a crime against nature and magic.

They were gathered around the table, the Sword of Gryffindor hefted on Albus' shoulder.

"Pretty good," Tonks said, "but damn, Albus, you really scared me in there."

"I think both of our acting was quite superb," Albus said. "It's a pity you missed it, Gellert."

"I still say I could have snuck in under a Disillusionment," Gellert grumbled and kicked at a stone. "Those gold hoarding little cretins—"

"Might have discovered you," Albus said, "and who knows what might have happened? But come, let us turn to the matter at hand."

He faced the Cup, feeling its aura of terrible malevolence. It hated him, hated the sunlight, hated the presence of others.

And it drew him at the same time, made him want to fill it and take his sup. It was extremely subtle, but he could almost hear its whispers, promises of eternal glory and victory, even eternal life, if he would just drink from it.

Tonks was staring at it, transfixed.

"You hear it?" Gellert asked. "Do you feel it?"

"I—" she reached out a hand, stopping with her fingertips inches away from the Cup.

"Yes," she said. "It's horrible. And beautiful. What would happen if I drank from it? I feel—I feel like I would be able to do anything. It's telling me I could even raise the dead, if I wanted to."

"You would die in terrible agony," Gellert said, "And it would not be quick. Forgive my harshness, but raising the dead truly, beyond Inferi and the like, is impossible. There are some limits to magic."

Tonks nodded as if she'd been expecting that answer, but did not remove her gaze from the Cup. Still not touching it, she traced the outline of the badger embossed on it.

"What is it?"

"That, my dear, is a Horcrux." Gellert said.

"What's a Horcrux?"

The wind blew faster, all their cloaks flying back momentarily.

"I'll tell you shortly," Gellert said. "This will require a long lesson, I think."

Finally she tore her eyes from the cup, fixing Gellert with a withering glare.

"Aren't we done with lessons?" She asked sharply.

"Not in the slightest," Gellert said. "Unless you wish to learn no more. I will do nothing to cause you any pain, of that I swear."

For a long moment, she did nothing but glare. Then she nodded.

"Nymphadora," Albus said, passing her the Sword, "here. You deserve to destroy this one."

"This was Helga Hufflepuff's, wasn't it? I don't know how I feel about destroying something of hers. I am—I was a Hufflepuff, for whatever it's worth."

Albus clasped his hand around hers, for a moment both of them gripping the sword.

"Helga would want this monstrosity destroyed," he said, "I am absolutely certain of that."

She stared into his eyes as if searching for the truth.

"Fine," she said. "I guess—I brought this thing out of her vault. Maybe it should be me."

She swung the sword, slicing vertically through the cup as if it were formed of nothing more substantial than mist.