Divided and Entwined (Harry Potter AU) (Complete)

Chapter 23: Red Holidays

‘The attack on ‘Haley's Hats’ in Diagon Alley would have been a rather unremarkable event, despite the relatively high casualties on both sides, if not for two things: The arrest and the subsequent escape of two muggleborn attackers. It had been the first time since Martin Cokes that the Ministry had managed to arrest a muggleborn who had been fighting them as part of an organised group, which was a feather in the cap of the arresting Aurors and did improve Ministry morale - if only for a short time. It can also be seen as the main cause for the Resistance’s subsequent change of policy towards muggleborn supporters, as their broadcasts started to focus on actual advice for fighting their enemies instead of more general propaganda, in an obvious attempt to avoid another such defeat.
More important, though, was the fact that the attack also demonstrated a significant change among the muggleborn population. More and more muggleborns, especially but not exclusively the younger generations, were willing to take up wands - and were not particularly concerned whether they were raised against the supporters of the Dark Lord, the Ministry, or just purebloods in general. The Second Blood War was entering a new phase.’
- Excerpt from ‘Wizarding Britain in the 20th Century’ by Albert Runcorn

*****​

London, Ministry of Magic, December 19th, 1996

When she heard the alarm, Brenda Brocktuckle jerked. Ever since she had helped plan and organise the escape of the two mudbloods, she had been nervous. Other than her team, no one but Bones and Scrimgeour knew about the undercover mission. If she had made a mistake, and left some evidence, then she would be seen as a traitor by the investigating team. Normally, that wouldn’t worry her too much. At worst she’d spend a short time in a cell, until Bones intervened. But tempers had been on edge for weeks now, and Dawlish’s people were so angry about the escape, if they thought she was a blood traitor, Brenda might very well not survive the arrest.

Martin was already at the door to their office and peered out, wand drawn. No one tried to hex him, and Brenda joined him at the door. Outside, a dozen Aurors were rushing towards the exit. Shacklebolt’s team, she realised.

Brenda looked at Peter Flint, who was filling out forms at his desk. “What has them rushing out?” she asked.

The man who hadn’t been out in the field in a decade or longer looked at her, shrugging. “Death Eaters are attacking a family in East Sussex. Shacklebolt’s on the case.”

Death Eaters were not their problem, Brenda thought. She nodded at Flint and returned to her office. Parkinson had taken the evening off, earlier, and for a moment she wondered… then she shook her head. He wouldn’t be that stupid. Or at least he’d be too smart to get caught.

*****​

Outskirts of Peacehaven, East Sussex, Britain, December 19th, 1996

The Dark Lord Voldemort waited patiently, watching the lone house through his omnioculars. Given the average response time, Shacklebolt should have arrived by now, but Dumbledore’s chief spy in the Ministry was cagey, and would not rush in, despite the ongoing attack on the Pinsey family’s home. He might even suspect a trap.

But would he suspect that the attack had already happened this afternoon, without any alert leaving the house, thanks to a well-placed Imperius? Voldemort didn’t think so. Patrick Pinsey had been a thorn in his side in the last war, until his death, and while the rest of the family hadn’t lifted a wand against his men, they were still blood traitors. Which was why he had picked them out for his plan. And had them stunned and bound in the basement of the muggle house he was occupying. Outside their own home, at the very edge of the town, a few of his followers were attacking the wards. They didn’t know the house was empty, of course - the attack had to look genuine, after all. And his more expendable followers, hoping to earn a Dark Mark tonight, were not the best actors.

He studied them through the enchanted drapes. They were doing better than he had expected. He might have to intervene to slow them down, if Dumbledore’s pet Auror dragged his feet any longer. Shacklebolt was no coward, and he was no seer. He shouldn’t be able to spot the trap at all. And a family under attack was the perfect lure. Or, Voldemort thought, had Dumbledore’s men become so ruthless as to be willing to sacrifice innocents at the mere suspicion of a trap? Maybe he should have left one of the Pinseys inside the house, imperiused to scream for help… but no. His followers had interrupted the Floo Network, and the yells wouldn’t carry far. More importantly, it would endanger his plan.

Suddenly, spells hit the Death Eaters watching the rear of their group. Or not watching the rear, as it seemed - the Aurors had managed to sneak up on them. Voldemort sneered. He had chosen his followers for this mission well indeed.

He watched dispassionately as the half a dozen Death Eater recruits were cut down by spells - just a few of them Stunners - while wounding one, possibly two Aurors in return. Granted, they were surprised and outnumbered, but the Dark Lord had higher standards for his followers, even discounting the fact that had they been sufficiently attentive, they wouldn’t have been surprised. And none of them even thought of fleeing by broom, or doing anything more creative than slinging curses at the enemies. No walls, no transfigured or conjured creatures… He sighed.

The uneven combat was over within five minutes, and the Aurors started securing the few prisoners. Voldemort watched as a tall, dark-skinned Auror walked up to the wardline. He held his hands up, facing the house. Voldemort smiled. That no one was coming out right then wouldn't make him suspicious - not after the trick the Dark Lord had played on Augusta Longbottom.

All of the Aurors were close enough now. Voldemort picked up the small remote and pushed a button. The Pinseys’ home and surrounding area vanished in an explosion. The shock wave from a ton of explosives going off cracked the fragile muggle glass of the window the Dark Lord was standing behind, and fragments from the bomb’s casing flew every which way. When the dust started to settle, he saw that the house had been destroyed as well. As planned.

Dumbledore’s main contact to the Aurors, dead. A dozen blood traitors in the Ministry gone with him. All killed by a muggle bomb. And since it had been an old German aerial bomb, the Statute of Secrecy would not be in danger. He shook his head, briefly remembering the Blitz.

There was just one thing left to do. He walked to the entrance to the basement, where he had put the Pinseys. They were awake by now, but still held by his spells. He could see their eyes move in panic when they saw him enter, wearing a mask and dark clothes.

He smiled, and crouched down in front of them. “Hello. You’ve probably heard the explosion. I’m sorry to say that your house was destroyed, but it was necessary - we killed dozens of Death Eaters and lackeys of the fascist Ministry today! Your wands are upstairs. Please do not do anything foolish after I end the spells holding you, alright?”

He stood up and flicked his borrowed wand, dispelling the full Body-Bind Curses on the family. While they hugged each other, he apparated away. Dumbledore would have a devil of a time trying to clear this up.

*****​

Outskirts of Peacehaven, East Sussex, Britain, December 19th, 1996

Albus Dumbledore stared at the crater that had swallowed half of the Pinseys’ house. And Kingsley together with his entire team. And it was his fault. Albus had asked his friend to serve as bait. To lure the Death Eaters out in the open. He had been convinced he had the Dark Lord’s measure. Kingsley had trusted him, had been depending on him. And he had let him down. Him and all his Aurors.

Albus had known that Tom had been raised as a muggle orphan. That he would have known about muggle weapons. And yet he had utterly failed to predict this trap. In his arrogance, he had assumed that the Dark Lord wouldn’t stoop to using muggle bombs. Not when he had claimed for decades to fight for pureblood culture and values. Kingsley had been expecting magical traps and ambushes, not… this.

Aurors were sifting through the rubble and ruins, recovering bodies. And parts of bodies. Hit-Wizards secured the area, wands out. Muggle-Repelling Charms kept witnesses away, and a Confundus Spell had dealt with the muggle police already.

He saw that Amelia was walking towards him, a scowl on her face. He knew what she’d say. The setup was obvious, but he doubted she’d understand.

“Albus.” She was curt, controlled, hiding her anger. For now.

“Amelia.” He nodded at her. “It’s a tragedy. I heard the Pinseys were unharmed though. A small consolation.”

“A tragedy?” She scoffed. “A crime, Albus. Committed by muggleborns. The same muggleborns you went to such great lengths to protect!”

“I honestly doubt that this was the work of the Resistance.” Theoretically, it was possible that another muggleborn group had done this, of course. A more radical one. But Albus doubted that. They would have had to know about a Death Eater attack in advance. And not even Albus’s best spy had access to that knowledge.

“Who else would use a muggle bomb? We’ve investigated: No magic was used to do this.” She pointed at the crater. “Don’t try to blame the Death Eaters for this, Albus. We’ve recovered several bodies wearing their robes and masks.”

“The Dark Lord is not above sacrificing his own for a plot,” Albus said.

“And would he leave a family of blood traitors alive? I’ve spoken to them. They were overpowered by a wizard wearing muggle clothes and a muggle mask.” Amelia shook her head. “Your theories aside, all of the evidence points at muggleborn culprits.”

“But why was the Ministry alerted then? Generally, Death Eaters are not that sloppy. Why did the Pinseys have enough time to use the Floo connection, but not to flee?”

The witch frowned. “The Pinseys did not alert the Ministry. They were attacked and stunned in the afternoon.”

“I see. So, the Ministry was deliberately alerted to lure the Aurors into this trap.” Had Tom missed that? Albus wondered.

“Yes.” Amelia was narrowing her eyes.

“That does not sound like muggleborns. They would know that the Aurors responding were not followers of the Dark Lord.” Albus smiled.

“The muggleborns hate the Ministry as much as the Death Eaters,” Amelia said. “They probably wanted to kill two nifflers with one spell.”

“They are aware that not everyone at the Ministry shares the bigoted views of the Wizengamot’s majority.” Albus met her eyes.

“I doubt they care. The two we arrested recently simply wanted to strike at purebloods they blamed for taking advantage of them.” Amelia sniffed.

“I do not think so,” Albus said. But he knew many would - even among his allies. And even some among his Order. Which would make what he needed to do even more difficult. But with Kingsley and many of his hand-picked Aurors dead, Albus had to act swiftly before the Dark Lord exploited this.

Amelia shook her head, no longer hiding her disgust. “You still defend them? Even after they killed your pet Auror? I didn’t think you’d go that far, Albus.”

“If you expected me to fall for the Dark Lord’s lies like a naive youth, then you might not know me as well as you think.” Albus smiled gently - as if he was talking to a student.

Amelia clenched her jaws together before answering. “If you’re convinced that you’re always right, then you’re not nearly as smart as you think you are.”

He inclined his head towards her. “I know that I am not always right.” He looked at the crater again. “This tragedy would prove that, even if I had forgotten.”

“How so?” Amelia stared at him.

“I should have expected the Dark Lord to use such means, and I should have warned against it.”

She scoffed again. “You’ll never change, will you?”

He sighed. “I have changed a great deal during my life.” Often painfully, too.

Amelia’s expression showed that she didn’t believe him. Unfortunately, there was nothing he could do about that. “I’ve work to do.” She turned on her heel and strode away, leaving Albus to stare at the grisly scene again. And ponder how he could handle the repercussions of this.

*****​

London, No. 12 Grimmauld Place, December 20th, 1996

“Good evening, Sirius,” Albus Dumbledore said, stepping out of the fireplace in Grimmauld Place. “Have you heard about the attack in Peacehaven?”

“Nymphadora arrived half an hour ago.” Sirius sighed. “She looked rather shocked.”

With good reason, Albus thought. She had wanted to join Kingsley’s group for some time, but as a metamorphmagus, her talents had been in such high demand, she had not been assigned to any permanent team or task force. Which, in hindsight, had saved her life. “I have to talk to her.”

“No one else left at the Ministry?” Sirius asked, opening the door for him.

“No one as well-placed among the Aurors,” Albus corrected him. Even before this tragedy, he hadn’t had enough supporters in the Ministry, in case things turned violent.

“She’s my cousin. Practically my niece, Albus. Despite her… doubts.” Sirius said, without looking at the Headmaster.

“I know.” Albus understood what his friend was telling him. But this would have to be Nymphadora’s own decision.

“I’ll ask her to join us in the living room.”

Albus had barely taken a seat when Sirius arrived with the young auror in tow. Nymphadora looked rather agitated indeed, in the Headmaster’s opinion. And angry.

“Good evening, Nymphadora.” He stood up and nodded at her.

“Headmaster,” she said, curtly. She didn’t tell him to call her ‘Tonks’, and her expression - exaggerated by her metamorphmagus talent - looked grim.

“You have heard about Kingsley’s death,” Albus said.

“Killed by muggleborns, according to the Aurors investigating it.” The young witch folded her arms and glared at him.

The old wizard nodded. “I’m afraid to say that they are wrong. This was a trap by the Dark Lord’s forces.”

“Bones told us you’d claim that.”

He sighed. He had expected Amelia to spread her view of the situation in her department, but to go as far as to discredit him? “Amelia is blind when it concerns muggleborns. Of course she’d jump to conclusions without considering the evidence.”

“There is plenty of evidence!” the Auror said with a rather mulish expression.

“But no proof of muggleborn involvement.” He held up a hand to stop another passionate counter-argument. “I can assure you though that this was not the work of the Muggleborn Resistance. They use different bombs. Something which should have been mentioned in the reports you heard - provided they detected that.”

“They only mentioned muggle explosives.”

Sirius snorted. “Typical of them.” The wizard had, Albus knew, a rather poor opinion of the department that had sent him to Azkaban without trial or proof of a crime. “They don’t jump to conclusions, they apparate to them.” When the Headmaster raised an eyebrow and Nymphadora looked confused, Sirius added: “Well, you know what I mean.”

“I do,” Albus agreed. “And I also know that for quite a number of Aurors, facts are not as important as personal beliefs. Or orders from their master.”

“Bones isn’t the type to follow anyone’s orders. Not even the Minister’s!” Nymphadora huffed.

“Amelia follows the orders of the Wizengamot, in the form of the laws they pass. It would be an admirable trait in a Ministry employee, if not for the fact that the Wizengamot is riddled with Death Eaters and their sometimes unwitting allies.”

Nymphadora didn’t meet his eyes when she mumbled: “I’ve read up on the Nazis. The Ministry wasn’t going that far. Werewolves have had to register for decades, and they were not killed.”

Sirius snorted. “In the 70s, there were three different bills that proposed to imprison all werewolves so they could not fight for the Dark Lord. Two of them proposed to hunt down and kill those who were not surrendering themselves.”

“What?” Nymphadora stared the wizard.

“I was with Remus at Hogwarts. I paid attention to such things.” Sirius stared back until she looked away.

“To be fair,” Albus added, “the bills were all defeated soundly in the Wizengamot.” Because those who sympathised with the plight of werewolves, those who supported the Dark Lord, and those who knew that it would push more werewolves into the arms of Voldemort all voted against it.

“And they wouldn’t have been defeated if there had been a handy atrocity depicted in the Prophet.” Sirius shrugged.

“You don’t know that!”

“Please,” Albus interrupted the beginning row, “there is an important matter to discuss.” When both looked at him, he continued. “No matter who was behind the trap that killed Kingsley and his team, the Dark Lord will not hesitate to exploit the opportunity this has created. Almost all of the prominent and skilled Aurors sympathetic to our cause have just been eliminated. And as Nymphadora proves, many of the remaining Ministry employees who oppose the Dark Lord have developed doubts about supporting muggleborns. The Ministry has been rendered vulnerable to a coup.”

Nymphadora gasped. “You expect a takeover of the Ministry by Death Eaters?”

“Half of it already answers to him,” Sirius said. “Bunch of scum.”

“I expect him to make the attempt,” Albus corrected the young Auror. “But, with your help, and the help of friends of mine, we can prevent him from succeeding.” It wouldn’t be prudent to mention that among those friends he counted the Muggleborn Resistance. Sirius already knew that, of course - or expected it.

“My help? What do I have to do?” Nymphadora asked, and Albus was pleased to discover that she was as eager to fight the Death Eaters as before. Of course, she knew that her entire family would be killed if the Dark Lord won.

“Thanks to your special talent, you can pass for any Ministry employee, allowing you to visit every department without raising suspicion - with the exception of the Department of Mysteries,” the Headmaster started to explain. “There are a number of devices that I need you to hide at key locations.”

Not many knew that among the trinkets Albus had collected over the years and stored in his office were quite a number of very exotic and often very lethal items.

“Of course, Headmaster!” Nymphadora nodded eagerly. Albus wondered if she realised that those devices might very well cause collateral damage. Especially if the Death Eaters used the Imperius Curse.

*****​

Hogwarts, December 21st, 1996

Harry Potter sighed when he saw the owls arrive during breakfast in the Great Hall. He knew what was coming - Sirius had informed him the day before about Shacklebolt’s death. The other students though, many of whom would be taking the Hogwarts Express later, to return to their families for Christmas, or Yuletide, as some purebloods called it, didn’t.

He unrolled his own copy of the Prophet and stared at the headlines while the noise in the Great Hall grew so loud, he had trouble understanding Ron’s comments.

‘Muggleborns bomb Aurors! A dozen killed in bloody ambush!’

“Look at the size of that crater!” Ron said, directly into his ear.

At least the article hadn’t been written by Skeeter, Harry thought. Still, the gist of it was clear: Evil muggleborns - at least the Prophet didn’t call them mudbloods in print yet - had attacked both Death Eaters and Aurors, killing all of them with a bomb. Although the author didn’t quite call for all purebloods to close ranks, no matter their political views, until this threat was dealt with. He just hinted at such an ‘obvious decision’. Harry shook his head. “The Dark Lord’s using muggle bombs now...“ He turned to look at Ron, casting a privacy spell before continuing: “What are the odds Sirius and everyone else will try to sit on us during the holidays so we’re not at risk from a similar trap?”

“Blimey!” Ron shook his head. “They won’t let us do anything.”

Harry nodded grimly. He was aware of the danger, but he loathed being safe and hidden while everyone else was risking their lives. Wouldn’t him staying hidden risk Voldemort discovering the Headmaster’s real plan to defeat Voldemort?

“Potter!” A loud voice interrupted his thoughts.

He looked up and saw Dan Fawley, a seventh year Gryffindor, was glaring at him. Harry dropped the privacy spell. “Yes?”

“Why did your muggleborn friends kill my aunt? She was an Auror, not a Death Eater!” Fawley was shaking.

Harry took a deep breath as the table fell silent. “That wasn’t done by muggleborns, but by Death Eaters.”

“Are you dumb, Potter?” MacLaggen cut in. “The Death Eaters don’t use muggle weapons!”

Harry glared at the bigot. Of course the arse would try to capitalise on this opportunity.

Ron snorted. “The Death Eaters will use anything and anyone. Have you forgotten how they claim to protect purebloods, and yet attacked far more purebloods than muggleborns?”

“Purebloods who helped the muggleborns,” MacLaggen spat.

“Really?” Ron scoffed. “Neville’s grandmother helped muggleborns then? Do you know her voting history?”

“Don’t drag my family into this!” Neville had stood up and was glaring at the redhead.

For a moment, no one said anything, then Ron muttered: “Sorry, Neville.”

Harry used the brief silence to address Fawley. “Your aunt worked with Shacklebolt, didn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“She was hunting Death Eaters then. Why would the muggleborns go after Shacklebolt’s team?” Harry shook his head. “They’re not dumb.” Everyone knew who he meant with ‘they’.

“It could have been an accident,” Fawley said. “They wanted to kill Death Eaters, but the Aurors arrived too quickly.”

“Do you honestly think the muggleborns have spies among the Death Eaters that let them know of planned attacks?” Harry shook his head emphatically.

“And the Dark Lord would sacrifice his own men for such a trap?” MacLaggen wasn’t finished.

Ron shrugged. “Who says those were his men? An Imperius, and you’d wear the robe and mask happily. Maybe even without an Imperius.” Harry’s friend sneered at MacLaggen, who had gone pale with anger and shock.

“You… you…”

“Yes, I said it.” Ron scoffed. “If you’re spewing the Dark Lord’s drivel here, then I’m calling you out for it.” He turned to look at the rest. “You, and anyone else.”

The Gryffindors seemed to accept that, though with some hesitation, as far as Harry could tell, and started to settle down again. He saw that the other tables were still quite agitated. Several Ravenclaws were yelling at Luna, until Flitwick intervened. Sprout had sat down at the Hufflepuff table, right in the middle.

“I’m glad most of us are heading home today,” Ron said. “Gives them time to cool down.” He sighed. “Even if, you know, it’s not home.”

Harry nodded. The destruction of the Burrow had been a blow to the Weasleys, and to himself as well. “We’ll have lessons anyway. And training.”

“Don’t remind me! Moody will be able to be even nastier!” Ron said, but Harry thought his friend sounded more eager than apprehensive - just like Harry himself felt.

They wanted to do their part in the war. And it would hopefully be easier to meet Hermione during the holidays.

*****​

London, Ministry of Magic, December 21st, 1996

Shacklebolt was dead. Killed in a mudblood trap, together with his entire team. Brenda Brocktuckle felt like shaking her head each time she saw the empty desks in the offices when walking past. He should have known better, the damn muggle-loving fool! You couldn’t trust those animals!

The sound of a few scrolls hitting the floor and a muffled yelp made her turn around. The rookie, Tonks, had apparently stubbed her toe on a desk. Brenda snorted. If the half-blood were not a metamorphmagus, she’d have never made it into the Corps. Too clumsy. And, she added, too much of a muggle-lover. One of the last well-known muggle-lovers in the Ministry, after Shacklebolt’s team had been wiped out. The rest of the Corps either knew just how dangerous mudbloods were, or at least didn’t voice their opinions. But Brenda thought that even those who were on the sidelines of the conflict would not stand mudbloods killing their fellow Aurors.

She watched the witch fumble around for the scrolls that had fallen to the floor, and returned to her own office. Parkinson was sitting on his chair, reading the Prophet. Her earlier suspicion that the Auror might have been involved in the attack had obviously been wrong, seeing as he had not been killed.

Martin was there as well, reading a report. Brenda craned her neck and caught the title - it was a copy of the Peacehaven incident report.

“Do we have that report officially?” she asked, mildly curious - everyone knew that such information spread through the Corps like Fiendfyre through a forest, despite regulations. As long as you didn’t flaunt your knowledge too openly, no one cared. It was a miracle that the secrecy surrounding her own mission had held up so far. Of course, she added with a slight amount of guilt, with Shacklebolt’s team dead, the odds of the mudbloods getting a warning were much reduced.

Martin nodded. “I received it from Scrimgeour, so we are kept aware of the latest mudblood tactics.”

Parkinson snorted, and Brenda turned towards him. “Hm?”

“Nothing,” the Auror said, folding the Prophet up. “I’ve just had an amusing thought.”

Brenda didn’t think there was anything amusing about the news - unless you were a follower of the Dark Lord. But even if that was the case, half a dozen Death Eaters had been killed in that trap as well. Parkinson was an odd one, indeed. He was also one of the few experienced and smart Aurors left in the Ministry though. Pushing him on this wouldn’t serve any purpose. Nor, Brenda added, would it be smart, given that the balance of power inside the Corps had shifted decisively with Shacklebolt’s demise. She had a career to think of.

Martin put the report down and slid it over to her. She skimmed it - there was nothing new. “More and bigger metal splinters,” she noted aloud, “than with earlier bombs. That’ll be a bigger strain on Shield Charms.” Shock waves were easier to deflect than such projectiles.

“Given the size of the blast, no Shield Charm would have been able to stand up to it anyway,” Martin said.

“What a comforting thought!” Parkinson shook his head. “Incidentally, what’s the status of our mission?”

Brenda checked that the privacy spells were working, before answering: “I just received a note. They are trying to make contact with the Resistance through some new sort of muggle mail.”

“Tracking charms on the envelope? I’d think the mudbloods would expect that,” Martin said.

“Not if they are confident that we’d not use muggle means. But it doesn’t matter if you simply track the muggle delivering the mail.” Parkinson grinned. “Even if they have a dropbox somewhere, someone has to fetch the mail.”

Brenda shook her head. “Apparently, this sort of mail cannot be tracked by magic.”

“What?” Martin looked up. “How is that possible?”

“It’s a sort of wireless broadcast.” At least that was what Brenda had understood. “Probably related to that television they have so much trouble with.” Their neighbours still hadn’t found whatever mistake the muggles had made with their construction.

“Ah.” Martin nodded. “We’ll have to trust that the two decoys will follow orders then.”

Parkinson chuckled. “Not like they can resist those kind of orders.”

“Not unless they are the Boy-Who-Lived,” Martin added.

The older Auror scoffed. “That’s some stupid rumour. A mere boy cannot resist the Imperius. Especially not one cast by the Dark Lord.”

“He defeated him as a baby. It’s quite possible that he can resist all the Dark Lord’s spells,” Martin, ever the Ravenclaw, retorted.

“They are not the Boy-Who-Lived,” Brenda cut in before an argument could start, “They are just some mudblood scum. They’ll do what they have been ordered to.”

They had to - a lot was riding on this mission. Such as Brenda’s career.

*****​

London, East End, December 21st, 1996

“Wow! Half a dozen Death Eaters and a dozen Aurors, with one bomb!” Dean said, half-hidden behind the latest Daily Prophet.

“We got more of them at Malfoy Manor,” Seamus said, reading over his friend’s shoulder.

Hermione Granger pursed her lips. She had read the article already. And she had talked to Harry and Ron last night. “It’s very likely that this was done by Death Eaters,” she said, trying, but failing, to avoid glaring at the two wizards.

“What?” Seamus stared at her.

“The Aurors killed were the ones hunting Death Eaters,” Hermione pointed out. “With them gone, the risk of the Dark Lord taking over the Ministry has grown considerably.”

“He already controls most of it,” Dean said. “And the rest would rather follow him than risk their lives - or their positions.”

“Bloody Aurors deserved it anyway. They were hunting us as well,” Seamus added. “If they and the Death Eaters kill each other off, we win.”

Hermione frowned when the Creeveys nodded at that with eager expressions. At least Louise and Jeremy seemed to share her opinion - but then, they probably knew decent Hit-Wizards as well. No matter how tiring and repetitive it was, she had to step in again. The Resistance would not start to treat all purebloods and Ministry employees as Death Eaters. Not as long as she had anything to say about it. “The purebloods and half-bloods fighting the Death Eaters are not our enemies.”

“They work for the Ministry, which is hunting us,” John said.

“And those responsible will pay, once the Dark Lord is dead. But the Aurors who died haven’t been hunting us. Shacklebolt was working for Dumbledore,” Hermione said.

“The Headmaster hasn’t done that much for us,” Seamus said. “He talks well, but what has he done?”

“He keeps the Ministry and the Dark Lord in check.” Hermione wished she could tell them everything Dumbledore was doing in the war. What she knew about, at least. “Without him, the Dark Lord would be far more active. And I’m certain that he’s doing more than just talking.”

“Is that a guess, or do you know that?” Dean asked.

“I heard some things from my friends.” The Resistance already knew that Hermione was regularly talking to and meeting Harry and Ron.

“What kind of things?” Dean leaned forward slightly, handing the Daily Prophet over to Seamus.

“Private things. I don’t tell them what you’re doing either.” Hermione glanced at the frowning wizard.

“You better not be telling them,” Seamus mumbled.

Dean held her gaze for a moment longer, then shrugged. “It’s up to Dumbledore, then, to keep his people from getting killed. It’s not our problem.”

Hermione was about to retort, when Justin arrived, followed by Sally-Anne. Seamus made a crack about being busy in bed, which earned him a glare from Sally-Anne. Justin, though, ignored it. “I’ve received an email from the Avengers,” he announced. “Or from people who claim to be the Avengers. They want to meet us, to coordinate attacks.”

While everyone seemed to be talking over each other, Hermione was already pondering how to meet the other group safely. The Avengers appeared to be both skilled and resourceful - the kind of allies the Resistance needed.

*****​

Outside Rawtenstall, Lancashire, Britain, December 21st, 1996

Daphne Greengrass woke up with a start. For a moment, she was confused, staring at a plain grey ceiling. That wasn’t her room. Then she remembered. The attack on Draco’s house. The flight. The interrogation. And the potion… Draught of Living Death. She was a prisoner of the blood traitors.

“Good morning. Or rather, good evening.”

She turned her head and glared at the smirking Weasleys - Fred and George - standing in the door of her cell. For a moment, she wanted to say nothing. Ignore the blood traitors until they left. Face their mocking with the dignity of a true pureblood.

But she wanted to know how long she had been dead to the world. How much time had passed. Fred didn’t look older, so it couldn’t have been that long, could it? She ground her teeth. “What date is it?”

“Winter Solstice,” George said.

Ten days then. If he was telling the truth. There was no point in trying to remain silent after she had already started to talk to the traitor. “Why did you wake me up?” They had already forced her to sign over as many assets of her family fortune as she could control without her guardian.

“There’s a new bill being discussed in the Wizengamot,” Fred answered her. “Harsher punishments depending on your blood status. You know, things the Dark Lord demands. We want you to write a letter to your uncle, asking him to abstain from the vote.”

She snorted. “That sounds familiar. Will you torture me as well, if I refuse?” She hoped that she sounded braver than she felt - they could do anything to her. She was their prisoner, bereft of her wand. And she dreaded what tortures the twins could think of, after she had seen and experienced their pranks.

“If you do write the letter, you’ll be able to celebrate the Winter Solstice,” Fred said. “Within certain limits, of course.”

Daphne could imagine those limits. “A burning candle, placed in my cell?” She scoffed. Although a letter would let her family know that she was still alive. Give some hope to Astoria. And she would not have to drink that draught again, and be dead to the world. She shuddered at that thought, despite her efforts to show no emotion to her captors.

George must have noticed, since he grinned. “A bit more than that. If you write the letter convincingly, you and Davis get to celebrate together, under the open sky.”

Daphne hissed. “For blood traitors, you know our culture well.”

They shrugged, at the same time. Eerie. “We were taught the traditions. We just don’t follow them.” George said.

“Why?”

“Hm?”

“Why don’t you follow our traditions? What made you turn your back on your own culture?” Daphne asked. This was more than just stalling for time, now.

“It’s simple: It’s not our culture,” Fred said, shrugging.

“What? Your family is a pureblood family!” Daphne stared at them.

“That’s just coincidence,” George said. “We married half-bloods and muggleborns in the past.”

“That happens if you marry for love, instead of for gold,” Fred added sneering at her.

She glared at him.

George sighed. “Anyway - once one of our ancestors married a muggleborn, the Weasleys were excluded from the celebrations held by the Old Families. And of course that meant we were not marriageable for those families either.”

“There were exceptions, of course. Gran was a Black, but she was cast out of the family when she married Grandfather.” Fred spread his hands. “Pureblood bigots, you know.”

Daphne had heard about that scandal - Cedrella Black had married Septimus Weasley. Her parents had sworn that no daughter of theirs would ever make such a mistake.

George cleared his throat. “So, the Weasleys mingled with the half-bloods and the muggleborns. And they were not exactly into the Old Gods. Especially not the muggleborns. Which meant we grew up with Christmas, Easter, and Halloween.”

“For generations,” Fred cut in. “I think without Gran we wouldn’t really know much about the traditions either.”

“And,” George said, sounding slightly annoyed, “We’re not the only family. Many other families were excluded in the past for marrying a muggleborn or half-bloods, and then they turned away from the traditions. And we’re not the only family that didn’t return to the old ways, once we happened to be a pureblood family again for a generation or two.”

“But why didn’t you return? Others did!” Daphne had met new pureblood families at the celebrations.

“We’re not suck-ups,” Fred said. “And we’d have been cast out anyway as soon as we married a muggleborn. So, why bother?”

“Apart from that, it’s as I said: It’s not our culture.” George shrugged. “No one but a few stuck-up families takes it seriously any more. For the rest, even if they attend a celebration, it’s just a party.”

“What?” That couldn’t be! The others had to have their own celebrations, Daphne knew. Just because they didn’t attend the exclusive gatherings didn’t mean...

“Why do you think we celebrate Halloween and not Samhain at Hogwarts? Christmas, and not Winter Solstice?” Fred grinned. “Dumbledore knows the majority of the students don’t care about the old celebrations.”

“That’s the mudbloods’ fault!” Daphne yelled. “They want to destroy our culture!”

The twins glanced at each other.

“I’ll fetch the letter,” Fred said. “Keep an eye on her.”

George nodded. Once his brother had gone, he shook his head. “Your culture’s already dead. It’s tainted by bigotry, and associated with the Dark Lord. Once he’s dead, people will drop the traditions in droves, just so they’ll not be mistaken for Death Eaters.”

“No!” Daphne shook her head wildly. She didn’t want to hear such lies. Purebloods wouldn’t do that. They would prevail. They would win this war! They had to!

*****​

Daphne looked up at the night sky, craning her neck. The stars shone brightly above her, and she could feel the bonfire’s warmth in front of her. And if she kept looking up, she wouldn’t see the walls of her prison.

Next to her, Tracey took a deep breath. “If only Theo had written the letter as well… it’s not as if they would listen to us. They know we’re prisoners, and writing under duress.”

“Yes.” They had spoken the prayers and wishes together. It had been the smallest Winter Solstice celebration Daphne had ever seen or heard of. And they didn’t have their wands, so they hadn’t been able to properly pray. But it had been moving anyway. Now they would wait until the fire had burned down. Then they would be taken back to their cells, and drink that draught again.

“Did they talk to you about our traditions?” Daphne asked.

“Hm? No. They just said what they’d let us do,” her friend answered.

“Do… do you think we should let mudbloods celebrate with us? Should have, I mean.” Daphne kept looking up.

“What?” Tracey scoffed. “They don’t care for our traditions. They don’t understand us either. They should stick with their muggle rituals, and leave us to celebrate our traditions properly.”

Daphne closed her eyes and mumbled some agreement.

“Did the twins offer to attend? To mock us? They’re blood traitors.” Tracey sounded angry.

Daphne was still not looking at her friend. “No, they didn’t. They don’t celebrate Winter Solstice.”

“That’s why they are blood traitors!”

Daphne didn’t answer, but kept staring at the sky.

*****​

London, Soho, December 22nd, 1996

Just about all shops and most cafés were decked out in Christmas decorations. The waiters in the café Hermione Granger was sitting in even wore hats like Santa Claus’. But the hot chocolate they served was very good. Which was why the witch was meeting Dumbledore here - he’d appreciate the treat. And so did she.

An old, distinguished looking clean-shaven gentleman with a bowler hat and an umbrella, wearing a thick but elegant coat, approached her table. She had her wand out and pointed at him under the table, even though he was wearing a bright red pin on his tie - the agreed-upon sign.

He didn’t comment, simply sat down and smiled at her. “Good afternoon, Miss.”

“Good afternoon, sir.” Her wand flashed, casting privacy spells. “I’ve taken the liberty to order for you already,” she said when his eyebrows rose.

“Efficient as always, Miss Granger.” He smiled. “You might wonder why I asked to meet you while everyone should be with their families, celebrating.”

Everyone should, indeed. But not everyone was. The Creeveys didn’t want to have their parents see them in their current state. Justin thought his parents might be too well-known to risk visiting them. Sally-Anne thought he might not want to present her as his girlfriend, as she had told Hermione, who had been forced to spend an hour assuring the girl that Justin wasn’t like that. And Hermione would be feeling guilty for meeting her own parents while others couldn’t meet theirs. Some holiday!

She didn’t say that though, but nodded, smiling. “I assume it’s about the death of your Aurors.”

“Perceptive as expected.” He smiled, as if she had just answered a question at school. “Indeed. Their loss is not just a personal tragedy - many of them were dear friends - but they also weaken the Ministry’s capability to resist the Dark Lord.”

Hermione took a sip from her chocolate, to mask her expression. Did he intend to…?

The waitress arrived with a tray full of hot chocolate and cakes. The old wizard smiled at the woman, then at Hermione. When he took a sip from his cup, his smile widened. “Delicious. I shall make certain to revisit this café.”

“What is your plan to prevent a takeover of the Ministry?” Hermione asked.

He set the cup down. “I’ve taken certain precautions. Items have been placed in concealed locations, certain goblin-made ones among them.” He smiled. “The gold donated by our prisoners is being put to good use. I’ve informed my friends and cautioned them to be alert. But Kingsley and his friends were among the most experienced combatants of the Order.”

He intended to. Hermione pressed her lips together, preventing her first thought from being voiced. A bit calmer, she said: “Do you plan to have the Resistance fight in the Ministry, should Death Eaters attempt a violent takeover?”

“As reserves, to deal with, shall we say, concentrations of Death Eaters, and prominent leaders. There are still Aurors and especially Hit-Wizards loyal to the Ministry.” Dumbledore smiled.

“Which means they’ll attack us as well,” Hermione said in a flat voice.

“That is a risk, yes. But I believe that should you be needed, gratitude for your help will outweigh other orders. Gratitude, and a healthy dose of fear.”

Hermione snorted at that. “Even if that works, there are my friends to consider. A number of them are not fond of the Ministry.”

“I am aware of that, Miss Granger. But should the Dark Lord take over the Ministry, the consequences would be far worse, and many more Ministry employees would die - at the hands of Death Eaters, or as curse-fodder sent against you and your friends.” He sighed. “That the Wizengamot has granted the Aurors and Hit-Wizards permission to use the Imperius Curse in the line of duty makes such ploys even easier for the Dark Lord’s followers. Both your friends as well as mine are in danger of being put under that vile spell, and forced to betray their allies.”

She had taken precautions against that - some at least - but his points were valid. She slowly nodded. “I will need to discuss this with my friends, sir. The matter is… delicate.”

He smiled. “Of course. With some luck, you’ll not be needed anyway - I am working on both increasing the training for my remaining friends in the Ministry, as well as hiring more Hit-Wizards.”

“That would be preferable,” Hermione said. She didn’t think it would work, of course - if the Headmaster had enough friends in the Ministry to beat the Death Eaters back, the war would have gone far, far differently. And he knew that as well.

She sighed. “There is another thing. I know you are busy, but I wondered if you had made any progress finding a counter-curse for the Withering Curse.”

Dumbledore’s expression grew sad. “I’m sorry, but with the recent events, I have had no time to dedicate to that research.”

She nodded. She hadn’t expected anything else. This was turning out to be a rather sombre holiday.

*****​

London, No. 12 Grimmauld Place, December 23rd, 1996

Ron Weasley was feeling a tad nervous when he entered the ‘Eastern Salon’, as Sirius called the room on the first floor, facing - as evident - east. He and Harry would have their first Legilimency lesson. The first of many - the Headmaster had told them that contrary to earlier plans, he’d teach them over the holidays.

It didn’t take a genius to realise that Dumbledore was stepping up their training because he was worried about the Dark Lord’s next step. And that meant things were not going at all well in the war. At least the Weasleys staying with Sirius and Harry for the holidays meant that Ron’s mum had taken over the kitchen, and the food was, everyone agreed, far better than the usual fare.

Dumbledore hadn’t arrived yet. Sirius wasn’t home either - the Wizengamot was busy debating the latest ‘travesty of justice the Death Eater scum’ among the body were proposing, as Harry’s godfather had put it this morning. Ron sighed.

“Having second thoughts?” Harry asked.

“No. Just wishing we were not at war.”

“Don’t we all!” Harry snorted. “We sound like old men.”

Ron chuckled, but it wasn’t funny. He sighed again. “Remember last Christmas?”

Harry nodded. “Things had started back then.”

“But it wasn’t that bad, yet.” Ron shook his head. “Hermione saw it coming. If we had joined her…”

“She didn’t want us to join her. She wanted us to finish our education,” Harry pointed out.

“She didn’t want us to risk our lives, you mean.” Ron knew their friend. “We’d have done the same, in her place.”

“But would she have gone along with it?”

Ron winced. “She’d have come with us, no matter what we thought about it.”

Harry nodded. “Yeah, she would have.”

“We should have done the same,” Ron said. “No matter what she wanted us to do.”

“Yes, we should have.”

Ron sat down on the floor, his back against the wall, and closed his eyes. They should have. He should have. They hadn’t, though. He hadn’t. And now it was too late. They hadn’t the sort of training the Resistance had gone through. Moody was a great and evil teacher, but they didn’t cover guns. Or bombs. And Ron was quite certain that Dumbledore wouldn’t let Harry join the Resistance anyway. Not when he needed to learn how to defeat Voldemort with his mind. Ron might be able to join the Resistance, but that would leave Harry without either of his best friends. And Ron had sworn, two years ago, to never let Harry face such trials alone again. And he’d keep that vow.

The door opened before either of them said anything else, and Dumbledore entered.

“Good evening, Headmaster,” both boys chorused, jumping to their feet.

“Good evening, Harry, Mister Weasley. Or maybe that should be ‘Ron’, seeing as you will be rummaging through my mind, if all goes well,” Dumbledore added with a smile. “You cannot get any more familiar than that.”

Ron, in the process of sitting down himself, blinked. Having the Headmaster call him by his first name, like Harry, was… he nodded quickly. “Of course!”

“Very well, Ron.” The old wizard smiled again, and took a seat in one of the old armchairs. “Now, before we start, is there anything else you would like to discuss? You might not be in a state to do so once we finish.”

That sounded ominous. For a moment, Ron had second thoughts again. Then he sat up straighter. He was a Gryffindor. Harry needed him. He’d do this.

Harry nodded. “Yes, sir. We were wondering if we could ask Moody about his prosthetics. Without, you know, revealing that we are in close contact with Hermione.”

“Ah.” The Headmaster slightly shook his head. “Alastor certainly suspects that already. But there is no need to prove his suspicion - I know who made his eye and leg for him. Although I do hope that the two Creevey brothers are not actually planning such drastic measures.”

Ron winced. Harry didn’t say anything, but the old wizard sighed. “I see. I have an address in my office, I will send it to you later. It’s a foreign specialist, and apolitical.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“It’s the least I can do. Though I reckon I might also help enchant the prosthetics, once they are made. I did so for Alastor as well.”

Ron smiled. That would certainly help a lot. But to have a wooden leg or arm, enchanted or not… he shuddered.

Harry cleared his throat. “I was also wondering if we will still be hunting Horcruxes. With the Dark Lord using bombs, I mean.”

“I think it is impossible for the Dark Lord to hide bombs in the places he could hide a Horcrux in. Not only are they heavily warded, usually, but an explosion would likely destroy the Horcrux as well, rendering the protection moot.”

That made sense to Ron. “So...we’d be safe enough?”

“I think so, but further studies of potential locations will be needed, to avoid undue risk.”

Ron smiled, and glanced at Harry. It was dangerous, but they’d be doing something concrete, soon enough.

The Headmaster nodded and continued. “Now, Legilimency. Many think it is the art of reading someone’s mind, though that is not entirely correct. It’s far more akin to navigating a strong current, in the night, with only your skill in Legilimency to act as a lantern. Or to fit together a puzzle made with dozens of pieces which do not connect easily with each other. Your training in Divination will help there - you have learned to interpret and deduce from small clues.”

Ron’s smile grew strained. Neither he nor Harry had learned much in that class.

Dumbledore continued, as if he hadn’t noticed their reaction. “But the connection is rather loose. Legilimency is a unique skill, and few ever learn it. The mind is not organised as a library - not even Miss Granger’s. It’s more a maelstrom of thoughts and memories, real and imagined. And for a beginner, both will look alike. We will cover that later, for now, you’ll learn how to cast the spell, and enter a mind. Or in my case, a part of my mind I deliberately left open for you to practise on.” The Headmaster raised his wand. “The movements and incantation are rather simple. Let me demonstrate.”

*****​

Ron saw Harry collapse, holding his head after his attempt to enter Dumbledore’s mind. “That looks like someone entered his mind, not the other way around.”

“In a way, it is - the minds are touching. It is not unheard of for a strong mind to push back, and invade the invader’s mind.” Dumbledore nodded at him. “Your turn, Ron.”

Ron took a deep breath and raised his wand, aiming it at the Headmaster’s forehead, then focused his mind, as instructed, as his wand flashed. “Legilimens!”

For a moment, his field of view narrowed so much, he thought he had gone blind, then it expanded, and he felt like falling through a tunnel covered with walking, talking life-like portraits. Dozens of snippets of talks assaulted his ears at the same time and hundreds of people seemed to surround him, talking to him, staring at him, talking about him, or ignoring him… and he kept falling.

He flailed his arms, trying to stop his fall - it worked in dreams - and he slowly started to float. Shaking his head, he began to focus on one picture. It was Hermione, he realised, sipping tea in a café. He couldn’t hear what she was saying though, the noise from the other scenes was too loud. And growing louder. He turned his head, shouting “shut up!”, to no avail. And when he tried to focus on the café scene again, it was gone, replaced with some unknown teacher at Hogwarts, yelling at him and waving his wand wildly.

Ron recoiled, and the scenes started to whirl around him while the noise grew louder and louder. His ears started to hurt, and dozens of scenes flitting this way and that flashed before his eyes. He was starting to grow dizzy from all the movement. And his ears. Merlin, his ears!

He came to kneeling on the floor, hands clamped over his ears, panting. That had been… horrible. He looked up, exchanging a wry smile with Harry, who was sitting in an armchair.

Dumbledore sounded pleased. “Very good, Ron. That was rather smooth and relatively painless for a beginner.”

Ron blinked, then gaped. That had been ‘relatively painless’? He was not so certain any more if he wanted to find out what the Headmaster considered ‘painful’.

*****​

London, No. 12 Grimmauld Place, December 24th, 1996

Harry Potter was in a good mood when he descended the stairs towards the kitchen in Sirius’s and his home the morning after his first Legilimency lesson. It was Christmas Eve, his head didn’t hurt any more, he was making good progress according to the Headmaster, and he’d do something useful in the war soon.

His good mood lasted until he entered the kitchen, and saw Sirius standing at the table, staring at a note. His godfather looked grim, no trace of humour visible. Molly was at the stove, and wiping her eyes, mumbling under her breath. And Ginny looked pale and sad.

“What happened?” Harry asked, instead of a greeting.

Sirius turned towards him. “Tonks send me a note. Voldemort murdered Augusta Longbottom. Her head was found in the Wizengamot Chamber this morning.”

“Before we left Hogwarts, Neville told me he’d do the right thing, what his parents and gran would expect him to,” Ginny said, sniffling. “He knew this would happen.”

“The poor boy!” Molly exclaimed, tears filling her eyes again.

Harry felt like he had been punched in the gut. Neville’s last family, gone. And he had treated the boy like… he shook his head. He’d have to apologise.

“His proxy voted against the new blood laws in the Wizengamot. They were passed anyway, but the Dark Lord probably wanted to make an example out of her,” Sirius said.

Harry hissed through his clenched teeth. To sacrifice his own grandmother like that… he didn’t know if he could do this. What if Sirius was taken hostage? Or Ron? Or Hermione? If that happened… he didn’t know what he’d do, but… he had a sudden thought. “Someone needs to keep an eye on Neville. He might try to get revenge.”

“Against the Dark Lord?” Sirius asked.

“Against anyone he thinks is following the Dark Lord,” Harry said. He didn’t add ‘It’s what I’d do’, but judging by the sharp look he received from his godfather, Sirius had caught that anyway.

“I’ll inform Albus. He is close to a few of the Longbottoms’ relatives,” the Wizard said.

While Sirius scribbled a hasty letter, Harry sat down at the kitchen table. He wasn’t hungry anymore, but he forced himself to eat something, if only to not worry Molly any further. He suddenly snorted, startling Ginny who had been sitting there, hunched over, and nibbling listlessly on a toast. “Sorry,” he said, forcing a smile on his face. “I just thought that just as I can’t really celebrate Halloween without remembering my parents’ deaths, Neville will not be able to celebrate Christmas without remembering his gran’s murder.”

“If he’s celebrating Christmas anyway, and not Yuletide and the Winter Solstice,” Sirius said. “The Longbottoms are an Old Family.”

Harry rolled his eyes at his godfather. “Then he will not be able to celebrate Yuletide without remembering her murder.” Then he realised that Sirius’s words were exactly what Hermione would have said, and sighed. Some holiday this was turning out to be!

*****​

The mood had improved somewhat by the evening. Molly’s excellent meals - she had cooked a veritable feast for dinner - and Sirius’s antics with Remus and the twins were mostly responsible for that. Tonks was late, but added her own brand of humour, despite being exhausted - she had been pushing herself, according to her mum, accumulating overtime.

Still, it was a rather subdued affair, in Harry’s opinion. At least compared to last Christmas. He had to admit he was biased, though - that Christmas had been the first he had celebrated at Sirius’s, and now his, home. He had slipped out of the living room, unnoticed, and was now sitting on the couch in the library. He imagined Hermione sitting at the desk, stacks of books on both sides, scribbling furiously as she took notes from two or three tomes at once. She should be here, he thought. Here with him. Not hiding in muggle London, hunted by Aurors and Death Eaters.

Suddenly, his side was hit by a Stinging Hex. He was halfway off the couch and had his wand drawn before he realised Sirius had cast it. “Whoa!” his godfather said. “Moody’s been training you well. Apart from you not noticing me stepping into the room, and not reacting until I hexed you.”

Harry scoffed, and sat down on the couch again. “We still can hardly hit him in practice.”

“Even the Headmaster might have trouble, despite Moody’s peg leg.” Sirius sat down next to him - or rather, let himself fall on to the couch in an almost sitting position, then wrapped an arm around Harry’s shoulder.

They sat like this for a while, not saying anything. Sirius looked around, then suddenly stood up. “I’ve got it!”

“What?” Harry said, startled by the sudden movement.

“Your last present! I’ll fetch it at once! It’ll be a surprise!”

And his godfather left the library in a hurry, leaving Harry to shake his head in confusion. Then he chuckled. That had been so like Sirius, or like he should be. Although… would Sirius prank him on Christmas Day?

Harry groaned. Of course he would.

*****​

London, No. 12 Grimmauld Place, December 25th, 1996

For a present for which Sirius had dragged Harry Potter out of bed at an ungodly hour - he, Ron and Sirius himself were the only ones currently up - the thing his godfather had pressed into his hands looked decidedly unremarkable.

“A sock?” Harry asked, bewildered, holding up the colorful garment, trying to make sense of it. “All that to give me a sock? A single sock?”

“It’s a very special sock, and it’s for you two!” Sirius grinned, showing so many teeth, Harry was reminded of his godfather’s animagus form.

“What?” Harry blinked. Had Sirius gone around the bend? He glanced at Ron, who was staring at the sock with his mouth half-open.

Sirius nodded. “You have to both be touching it together. The activation phrase is … I’ll tell you once you are touching it. It looks like you’d blurt it out otherwise.”

“What?” Harry repeated himself. It was too early to think clearly.

“Blimey! It’s a portkey!” Ron exclaimed.

“A portkey?” Harry’s eyes widened. “You’re sending us away?”

“Not far, and not for long - I’ll expect you back … tomorrow morning, at the very latest.” Sirius grinned widely, then handed Ron a flat box. “I don’t think you’ll need all of it, but it’s better to have it and not need it than the other way around.” He grabbed Ron’s hand and put it on the sock. “Now grab it. If you say “Padfoot!” it’ll activate - both to get you there and back.”

“Those are… contraceptive potions!” Ron said. “And muggle money!”

Harry blinked. Was his godfather sending him to some brothel? He saw the wizard transform into a dog so dark, it looked like a Grim, and took a deep breath. “Padfoot…”

And then the portkey activated.

The room Harry and Ron landed in didn’t look like the entrance hall of a brothel, to Harry’s relief. It looked like a muggle hotel room. An expensive muggle hotel room. What had his godfather been thinking?

“Harry! Ron!”

A very familiar voice interrupted his thoughts, shortly before he found himself in a hug, and short brown hair in his face. Then Hermione released him, and hugged Ron.

“Sirius called me last night, interrupting my evening with my parents - I met them in the hotel here, you know, on Christmas Eve, under a fake name - and he said I’d better not have plans for today, he’d send me something in the morning. But I’d have never thought…”

While their best friend told them her story in rapid-fire sentences, Harry exchanged a smile with Ron. This time, Sirius had found the ideal gift.

*****​

 

Chapter 24: Ambush

‘While some historians consider the attack on ‘Haley’s Hats’ the most important event in the week before Christmas 1996, citing its importance for the following developments among the muggleborn population, it is my opinion that the death of an entire Auror team assigned to track down and arrest the followers of the Dark Lord is far more important. The attack on the shop in Diagon Alley was merely the first visible sign of the changes happening among muggleborns while the loss of so many enemies of the Death Eaters in the Ministry was the direct cause of several events that shaped the war.
It is thus with some puzzlement that we find that, even now, there remains doubt among historians about who exactly was responsible for the bomb that took the Aurors’ lives. While I have to admit that both the Muggleborn Resistance and the Dark Lord had good reasons to deny their culpability, and their denials therefore can not be trusted implicitly, the details of the bombing show several key differences to other attacks by the Muggleborn Resistance. And while, as one colleague of mine postulates, this could theoretically be a deliberate act to cover up their involvement, this would also require the attack to have been deliberately aimed at the Aurors - a decision that, frankly, lacks any sense and for which there is no supporting evidence. It is my conclusion that the attack was a well-planned and executed so-called ‘false-flag’ operation by the Dark Lord’s forces - possibly with the help, willing or not, of a half-blood or even muggleborn familiar with muggle explosives.’
- Excerpt from ‘The Second Blood War’ by Hyacinth Selwyn

*****​

London, City of Westminster, December 25th, 1996

“And that’s Trafalgar Square.” Hermione Granger pointed at the famous Nelson’s Column. “It was named in honour of the Battle of Trafalgar in 1805, where Britain defeated the combined fleets of Spain and France. Admiral Nelson was mortally wounded during his victorious battle.”

Harry looked impressed while Ron looked slightly confused. “Did the muggles fight everyone on the world? That’s yet another war they fought. I thought we had a lot of goblin rebellions, but this… was there a year the muggles weren’t fighting a war anywhere?”

Hermione sighed. “Unfortunately, I don’t think so. Though Britain has been at peace for a long time now - mostly.” To change the topic - they had been taking care not to talk about their own war, and this was straying a bit too close - she pointed at the giant Christmas tree on the square. “A tree has been donated by Norway every year since 1947.” She looked at the birds occupying a lot of the square and frowned. “The pigeons are a plague. People keep feeding them, which makes their numbers grow, even though everyone should know how damaging they are to the area, especially the statues.”

“I could eat a whole flock of them right now,” Ron said.

Hermione blushed in slight embarrassment - she had been more or less dragging the boys around since morning. “We can take a break in one of the cafés nearby.”

Ron didn’t quite sigh in relief, but his smile said enough. Harry’s slightly too eager nod didn’t help her bout of guilt either. “My treat,” she quickly added. Which set off a short discussion about who had the right to invite the others that lasted until their orders arrived, and eating took precedence over talking - for Hermione as well, as she found herself quite hungry.

“So, where will we be going next?” Ron asked, breaking the silence.

“I’ve ordered you around long enough,” Hermione said, only half-jokingly. “What would you like to do?” That seemed to surprise both of them, so she quickly added: “I mean it. Let’s do what you want to do, not what you think I want to do.”

“Well… I don’t know that much about muggle London,” Ron said. “What about watching a movie?”

“Sounds good,” Harry quickly agreed.

“Alright. Let’s get a newspaper and see what movies are currently being shown.” Hermione flagged down the waiter. She couldn’t help noticing that this looked like a date - movie, then dinner. Not that any of the three of them had mentioned anything about the dates they were planning so far.

She didn’t know if that should worry her or not.

*****​

London, East End, December 26th, 1996

It was a very happy Hermione Granger who returned to the Resistance headquarters in the morning. She entered the kitchen, and waved at Sally-Anne, who was brewing tea. “Good morning!”

Her friend looked surprised. “Welcome back, Hermione.” In a slightly amused tone, she added: “You must have really missed your parents.”

Hermione nodded. “It felt good to forget the war for a day or two.” They had had a very enjoyable evening, playing a few muggle board and card games after dinner, but mostly talking. About anything but the war and dating.

The other witch shook her head. “Did you actually not even think about it?”

“Well…” Hermione grinned. “Not as much as usual.” Which was true.

Sally-Anne chuckled. “Good for you. You had me worried there.” She sighed. ”Justin’s been busy mailing those ‘Avengers’. They seem to really want to meet us. Or rather, the two muggleborns they saved want to join us.”

Hermione frowned. On one hand, it was understandable that the two survivors wanted to join the Resistance - it was their best option to take revenge, or so it would seem. On the other hand, why wouldn’t they want to stick with the Avengers? Or why wouldn’t the Avengers want to recruit them? They had saved them, after all. There could be plausible reasons for that, of course - but she didn’t like it. And since the Ministry was now authorised to cast the Imperius Curse… “We’ll have to be very careful when meeting them. It sounds a bit… odd.”

“Yes!” Sally-Anne said, nodding emphatically. “Justin said so as well, and he’s been the one mailing them.”

“We’ll have to decide if we want to meet with them in London, where they can’t start too much trouble, if it turns out to be a trap, or in some out of the way safe house, where we have more options.” Hermione rubbed her chin. She’d usually favour the second option, but after Shacklebolt, they might expect that. It would be a hard decision.

Sally-Anne chuckled again. “You’re already planning, before taking your coat off.”

Hermione chuckled herself, though if she was honest, it wasn’t a good thing how easily she fell back into the role of a guerilla leader.

*****​

Young’s Ram Brewery, Borough of Wandsworth, London, December 28th, 1996

Hermione Granger sipped from her tea cup, sitting on a conjured chair in the middle of a decrepit room that looked like it had been pillaged by vikings a few times, or used as a spot to hang out by teenagers. Not that the rest of the building, and its neighbours, looked any better.

After some thinking, she had decided to meet the Avengers and the survivors of the other muggleborn group in London, in a derelict brewery. It provided enough cover and advantages for them to set up a tight perimeter, and a few surprises. There were no muggles nearby who’d be in danger should it come to a battle, but it was in London proper, which meant any wizards attacking would have to be careful lest they endanger the Statute of Secrecy. And since it had been a brewery, there were well-sized sewers, making it easy to arrange a few escape routes. Just in case.

Every member of the Resistance but the Creeveys were present, most of them hidden and spread out. Colin and Denis had begged to be allowed to come as well, but she had not given in - although they were monitoring communications within the group. Hermione didn’t think that would be needed, but it gave them something to do that would hopefully not let them feel useless.

Next to her, Justin, standing and looking out of the small window, sighed.

“Please don’t start again,” Hermione said.

He turned to frown at her, but didn’t say what he had been about to say.

Justin had wanted to take up a position on top of the chimney towering over the area with his rifle, but Hermione had vetoed that. It was too exposed, in her opinion. And he had been the primary contact with the Avengers, so he should be present for the meeting. Instead, John was on a muggle building overlooking the area, disillusioned and with a light machine gun. Dean would be acting as his spotter, bodyguard and broom rider if needed. The boys wanting to play sniper had grumbled at that, but even they had had to admit that a sniper wouldn’t do much against enemy brooms.

Her friend knocked on the conjured steel plate that they had stuck to the wall so it covered the empty window looking into the main hall, then disillusioned it - an innovation born from John’s continuing attempts to disillusion their broadcasting van. “Do you think it’s a trap?”

Hermione shrugged. “I hope not, but I’d rather be safe than sorry.” She had read the e-mails several times, and they were just a bit too pushy. In the Avengers’ place, Hermione would have been a bit more cautious - and a bit more respectful too. Although the Avengers had been rather reckless in their actions. Breaking into the Ministry to free arrested muggleborns? That was impressive. And yet… why hadn’t they done anything else at the same time? Even if she had been determined not to kill people, Hermione would have used the opportunity to leave a few surprises for the Minister, and his employees, and embarrass them so much, they’d be busy dealing with internal rivals for a while.

Seamus arrived. “Everything’s set.” He grinned. “The old brewing tanks will work perfectly for this!”

She smiled at him. “Good work.”

“I’m almost hoping this turns out to be a trap,” he said. “Just to see what happens.”

She rolled her eyes at him.

He frowned at her cup. “Drinking tea in a brewery?”

“It’s a former brewery,” she retorted.

“Even worse. No respect for the dead!” He grinned, and even Justin chuckled.

Boys! She finished her tea and vanished the cup. According to her watch, it was about time for the meeting.

As if he had heard her thoughts, Dean reported over the radio: “Four people are walking towards the gate. I don’t see anyone else, so far.”

“Four people, as they said and we agreed upon,” Justin said.

Hermione pushed the button of her headset. “Sally-Anne?”

“Nothing on this side,” the witch answered. She was with Mary and Tania, hiding on the other side of the building. “The jinxes are still up as well.”

Which meant no one could be sneaking up on them while disillusioned, or apparating right on top of them. Brooms of course were not hindered, and could stay out of range of the jinxes and still be at the brewery in a very short time. They had reinforced the walls and roofs as well - just in case someone decided to drop a bomb on them. And to contain Seamus’s surprise, just in case.

“They’re entering the area now,” Dean reported.

Hermione fought the urge to bite her lower lip and tapped her radio button again. “Louise, lead them inside.” If this was a trap, then the two former Hit-Wizards would be facing four enemies. But if it was a trap, they’d likely not spring it right now. They’d want to wait until they met her. Hermione knew that she was the one the Ministry wanted more than anyone else in the Resistance.

“Bubble-Head Charms.” She said, standing up and casting one herself, before leaving the room. Justin and Seamus followed her, the Irish wizard splitting off as soon as they were in the hall - He’d be watching from the side, with his rifle ready.

Justin remained at her side, though they were far enough apart so they’d be able to move freely. And there was cover close by. Contrary to where their visitors would be standing. Hermione’s hand dipped into her pocket, gripping the small remote control.

They had done all that was possible to prepare, she told herself as the door at the other end was opened, and two wizards and two witches, all wearing common muggle clothes, entered, with Louise and Jeremy at their back. Their visitors looked nervous, or so Hermione thought - but then again, they would likely be nervous as well if this wasn’t a trap.

She frowned when she realised that she was now convinced that this was a trap. Such assumptions could ruin a lot if she was wrong, she told herself. And yet…

She kept her hand in her pocket and raised the other when the four were about ten yards away. Within the range of her privacy spells. “Hello. The Avengers, I presume?”

They stopped walking, and the man on the right nodded. “Indeed. I’m Daniel, she is Doris.” He pointed at the other two. “Those are the ones we saved from the Ministry’s cell. Mary-Jane and Brad.”

Hermione nodded at them. “I’m Hermione Granger. This is Justin Finch-Fetchley. You wanted to meet us.”

She saw Daniel’s eyes widen when she introduced herself, and how he glanced at Doris, for just a second. Either they were not quite so confident any more, or…

“Ah, yes. Brad and Mary-Jane wanted to meet you, to join you,” Daniel said. “We wanted to meet you so we can coordinate our attacks. It would be heavy if we wrecked each other’s plans accidentally.”

Before Hermione could answer, Dean’s voice rang in her ear: “Brooms in the air!”

*****​

Borough of Wandsworth, London, December 28th, 1996

Brenda Brocktuckle studied the decrepit muggle buildings from the roof of a muggle building nearby. It was far larger than she had expected when she had heard it was a brewery - just how much beer did muggles drink? Although it had been abandoned, so who knew what the owners had thought. The tall chimney worried her - it would make a perfect spot for a guard. Muggle guns would be effective if used up there as well - though not as precise at that range, or so she had been told. Of course, if her plan worked there wouldn’t be any fighting, not here at least. The two imperiused mudbloods would be recruited by the Resistance, and lead the Aurors to their base while the two undercover half-bloods would leave. Brenda snorted - she wasn’t that lucky. But she had contingency plans.

“Rickett and Purvis are entering the main building,” Martin announced, unnecessarily - she could hear the mudblood guards greet the group at the door through the enchanted mirror Purvis had in her pocket.

Brenda grunted in reply, staring through her Omnioculars. One mudblood on the chimney. Two had been at the door, ushering the undercover group inside. Where were the rest? Disillusioned and spread over the area? No. They’d be inside the building. At windows. Ready to flee at the slightest danger - that was how the Resistance operated. They didn’t stand and fight; they hit and ran.

“Nervous?” Parkinson asked. “Don’t you trust your plan?”

She scoffed. “It’s a solid plan, but the mudbloods are slippery criminals.”

Parkinson shrugged. “The only ones who can mess this up are the two half-bloods.”

He was correct, but that wouldn’t help Brenda if the mission failed - it had been her idea. Her plan. She had picked the two undercover Aurors as well. The Ministry expected results, even more so after she had made them lose face with the fake escape of Wilton and Smith. If this failed, then her career was over. She’d probably be sent to guard Azkaban.

She huffed. She’d not fail. She had a dozen Aurors and two dozen Hit-Wizards ready to apparate in on her command. She wished she could have had them deployed in advance, but that would have endangered the mission - even with Shacklebolt’s team wiped out, you couldn’t trust everyone, not even in the Corps.

She heard Rickett’s voice through the mirror. “Hey… I hope this is not your base. It’s in desperate need of some repair work.”

The mudbloods snorted, but didn’t let any information slip. Brenda hoped Rickett didn’t overdo it - though the Avengers were supposed to be cocky and reckless. The two former prisoners made a few comments about how it was still better than Ministry cells. Brenda tried to tune them out and focus on anyone, anything else she could hear. She wished she had a way to watch what the two Aurors were seeing.

She heard a door open with the sound of shrieking metal. One of the mudbloods, a wizard, said: “After you.”

“Wow, that’s Hermione Granger!” Purvis said, sounding like an awed schoolgirl.

Brenda drew a hissing breath. Granger! The mudblood who had killed her partner. The leader of the Resistance. The most wanted mudblood in Britain. Here, in the brewery. The witch had guts, to come in person. Brenda hoped that meant her plan was working.

“Should we call the others?” Martin asked.

“Yes,” Parkinson hissed. “Let’s get the scum.”

Brenda hesitated. The plan was to let the Resistance recruit the two mudblood moles. Having the Ministry forces charge in was just the contingency plan. But… if she managed to capture or kill Granger, then the Resistance was done for anyway - without their leader, they’d either break up, or make mistakes and get killed. But if she sent the Aurors and Hit-Wizards in, she’d endanger Rickett and Purvis. They were half-bloods, and they knew the risks, but...

The two unwitting moles were prattling in hushed voices about Granger. She heard Rickett say: “That must be Finch-Fletchley.” Their mail contact. Another important member, as far as they knew.

Suddenly, the chatter and whispers cut off - she couldn’t hear anything anymore. Not a sound. Privacy spells, she realised. But why would the mudbloods cast the spells in the middle of a secure building? There was no way anyone could listen in from afar, and if they suspected an eavesdropper close by… they suspected a trap, Brenda realised.

“Merlin’s arse,” Parkinson spat. “It was a trap. They knew.”

“No… they didn’t know,” Brenda said. “But they suspect something is up.” Could Rickett and Purvis fool them? Talk their way out? She shook her head. They were half-bloods, not mudbloods.

She took out the other mirror in her pocket. “Flint! Attack! Granger is in there! We have two undercover Aurors there as well, Daniel Rickett and Doris Purvis. They’re wearing grey coats and black trousers.”

Brenda pulled her own broom out and mounted it while she heard Flint shout to the response force to apparate.

“They won’t exactly stop to check who they are cursing,” Martin said, already on his own broom.

Parkinson shrugged. “The half-bloods are probably already stunned - or dead.”

They had barely started to fly when dozens of broom riders appeared in the air above the brewery. “Anti-Disillusion Jinxes,” Brenda muttered. But they had expected that.

Then she saw one of the broom riders - an Auror - jerk, and fall off his broom, his Shield Charm shattered. Then another screamed, veering wildly, trying to steer his broom for a few seconds before rolling over and falling as well.

She hadn’t seen a spell… guns! “They’re shooting at the broom riders!” she yelled. But where were they? The chimney was clear…

The attackers were now flying evasively. That should save most of them, Brenda thought. They were either diving down to the muggle building, to charge inside, or climbing up to keep the mudbloods from escaping with brooms - Anti-Disillusionment Jinxes worked both ways.

But where was the damn mudblood with the gun? They had to be outside the Jinx’s range.

Another broom rider was hit and went down, screaming. But Brenda had seen from which side his shield had been hit. “They’re on top of the tall muggle building!” she yelled into the mirror. But the distance… she hadn’t expected them to be that far away.

Flint reacted at once. “Avery! Take your group and take the bastard out!” Five broom riders changed direction and flew towards the muggle building.

“The roof’s withstanding Blasting Curses,” she heard another Hit-Wizard yell.

“Use transfiguration!” Flint ordered.

“Brains of a Flobberworm,” Brenda heard Parkinson curse. “We should have taken more veterans.”

Then Brenda and her group hit the area covered by Anti-Disillusionment Jinxes, and the Auror hoped fervently that the muggle with the gun would shoot at Avery’s group, and not at hers.

*****​

Young’s Ram Brewery, Borough of Wandsworth, London, December 28th, 1996

Hermione Granger was diving behind the prepared cover - steel walls anchored solidly in the reinforced floor - as soon as she heard Dean’s warning, casting a Shield Charm before she hit the ground. She bruised her shoulder, but bit down on the pain, rolling and coming up with her wand aimed.

Louise and Jeremy were stepping back out of the room, but their wands were flashing, spells flying at the four visitors.

Daniel was yelling, waving his wand and something else around. “They’ve seen through ou…” Two bursts from assault rifles cut into him. He dropped both his wand and the other thing while he was falling down on his knees, and Hermione saw a mirror hit the ground before the traitor collapsed, blood pouring out of his mouth.

Her own Piercing Curse shattered the Shield Charm Doris had just finished casting. They had been as surprised as the Resistance, she realised - but they had been ready for an attack as well. A second later, Justin’s Cutting Curse hit her, slicing into her side. Before she could scream with pain, her body jerked from the impact of several bullets and she fell down, blood spreading in a pool beneath her.

Seamus shot both in the head before starting towards them from his hiding spot. The two other muggleborns - the freed prisoners, if that was not a lie - were already down, stunned or killed by Louise and Jeremy. Justin moved forward to check on them. “It was a trap - the Imperius?” he asked, kneeling down.

That was a possibility, Hermione knew. Or they were imposters, and the real Avengers were dead or arrested. But they’d have heard about that, she thought. It was as or more likely that the Avengers had been a false flag operation from the start.

“He’s dead, but she’s just stunned,” Justin announced. “Do we take her with us?”

Hermione was tempted, but she needed more information. “Strip her completely - they might have tracked them with magic tied to her clothes.” The Resistance had done that, after all, to find some hiding purebloods.

“The broom riders are landing, they couldn’t get through the roof,” Dean announced over the radio. “We’ve shot down several of them, but they spotted our position, and a group is flying towards us.”

“Apparate out as soon as you can. We’re withdrawing,” Hermione ordered. “Seamus - prepare your surprise. Everyone else - fall back to the basement!”

The Irish wizard whooped with glee and rushed off while Justin vanished Mary-Jane’s clothes, then ran his wand over her body. “Nothing inside her that I can find.”

“Alright.” Hermione waved her wand, and cast a Full-Body Bind Curse, followed by conjuring a blanket to wrap around the witch, securing it with tight conjured ropes. “Leviate her!” she told Justin. “Let’s move.”

They hurried out of the room, through a side door, to the reinforced stairs that led to the basement. Sally-Anne arrived with Tania and Mary, who took up positions at the entrance of the stairs, to wait for Seamus.

Hermione led the group down, to the basement. They had reinforced the floor above them as well. Louise and Jeremy aimed their wands at a massive steel plate, right before Hermione vanished it, revealing the tunnel they had created beforehand.

The two former Hit-Wizards descended, wands out. Shortly afterwards, Hermione heard Louise’s voice through the radio: “All’s clear here. No hidden enemies.”

The attackers hadn’t found the escape tunnel then. This tunnel, at least - they had another one prepared, just in case. Hermione pushed the button on her radio. “Seamus, do it.”

A giddy “Yes!” was her answer. A minute later, Seamus, Mary and Tania rushed down the stairs.

“They’re breaking through the windows in the first floor,” Tania announced.

“We have ten minutes until it’s ready. Timer’s running,” Seamus said.

Hermione nodded at them. “Let’s move then.”

She let the others descend the stairs, then followed them. Once she was down a floor, she turned around and sealed the entrance with conjured concrete, three yards thick - better safe than sorry.

*****​

Brenda Brocktuckle let out a relieved sigh when she landed in the area of the brewery and had a solid wall between her and the mudblood with the gun. Ahead of her, Aurors and Hit-Wizards were casting spells at the building, breaking in. They were taking far more time than expected, though.

“The mudbloods have reinforced the walls and roof,” Martin said, “but the windows are a weak spot.”

Brenda blinked, then pulled out the mirror. “Flint! Do your men see anyone? Is anyone fighting you?”

It took a while for the leader of the response force to answer. An eternity, in Brenda’s opinion. “No, we have seen someone running inside, but no one cast at us.”

Brenda paled. “It’s a trap!” she screamed, at the mirror, and at the Aurors she could see floating near the windows, jumping inside. “Get away!”

She saw people scramble out of the windows, waiting for the building to blow up. It didn’t. Aurors and Hit-Wizards rushed away from the building, gathering right at the edge of the area of the Muggle-Repelling Charms, which coincided with the walls forming the area’s border. Brenda had rushed out, taking cover on the other side of the wall.

Minutes passed. Flint walked up to her. “What’s going on? We were just told to be ready to help an operation out.”

“Undercover operation,” Brenda said. “Our team was meeting the mudbloods inside, but they were discovered.”

Flint cursed. “And we were too late…”

“They could still be alive,” Brenda said.

“I’ll go and check.” Martin was already moving.

“Wait!” Brenda yelled.

Her partner turned around. “Someone has to check.”

‘Not you’, Brenda wanted to say. But she didn’t.

Martin grinned. “And you’re the commander.” Which meant she couldn’t risk her life.

“Selwyn, Hupwinkle - go with him!” Flint ordered.

The two Hit-Wizards looked unhappy, but followed Martin, entering the building through a broken window on the ground floor. Brenda saw a few other Aurors - brave or stupid - step closer.

“The air’s smelling funny!” one of them yelled.

Brenda’s eyes widened. “Bubble-Head Charms!” she yelled, casting one herself.

Then her world turned into fire.

*****​

London, East End, December 28th, 1996

Hermione Granger sighed and turned away from the muggleborn witch - Mary-Jane - who was sitting on the chair, smiling brainlessly under the effect of Veritaserum. That had been a chilling interrogation.

“So… it was a setup. She and her friend were imperiused to betray us,” Justin said, once they had stepped out of the room. “The question is: Were the Avengers imperiused as well?”

The witch shook her head. “I doubt that. We know when they arrested Milton’s group. They wouldn’t have expected the jailbreak; we didn’t even consider it. To imperius Milton and Smith in anticipation of such an attempt seems too far out for the Ministry.”

“They could have arrested them during the attempt.”

“And then decided on the fly to use the opportunity to hunt us?” Hermione pondered the idea, but dismissed it. “That sounds a bit too complicated for the Ministry.”

“It’s not impossible though.”

“But very hard to keep a secret.” Even after Shacklebolt and his team had been killed, Dumbledore had many sources within the Ministry. “I think if they had arrested the Avengers, they would have announced that success to everyone.”

“But why would they have waited so long to contact us, if the Avengers were undercover Aurors from the beginning?” Justin asked. “That’s rather patient for a Ministry in need of some victories to keep the confidence of the purebloods.”

“Maybe they thought we’d be less suspicious of them if they had a longer history of fighting the Ministry.” Hermione shrugged. “We know they had a communication mirror, and were talking to someone, right when the broom riders attacked.” It wasn’t impossible that they had been imperiused as well, of course. Just unlikely. And it would mean they hadn’t killed three, but just one victim of the Ministry.

“We have to be even more cautious when recruiting,” Justin said, sighing.

Hermione nodded. “Yes.” That was a good policy anyway.

“At least we hit them hard in return - John saw the fireball before he and Dean apparated away.” Justin grinned briefly.

Hermione snorted. “We hurt them, yes. But even more people will think we killed Shacklebolt’s team.”

Justin winced. “That’ll make trouble for our allies.”

“Some,” Hermione said, “But overall I think the loss of all those purebloods eager to hunt us down will help us more than it’ll hurt us.”

“Unless that drives the Ministry into joining the Dark Lord.”

Hermione nodded. “That’s a possible consequence, but the Ministry was in danger of taken over anyway, by force even.” She sighed. “Others will handle the Ministry.” Hopefully. “We need to sort out how to help Mary-Jane; we need to free her from the Imperius.” And she knew only one way - Thief’s Downfall.

“You think the goblins will refuse to help us?”

“Or betray us; they are greedy and hate all wizards,” Hermione said. “I’ll look into it though.” She hoped Dumbledore could pull some strings.

“She’s not going anywhere,” Justin said. “The others are celebrating. They’ll not like to hear we killed one innocent victim.”

“We had no choice,” Hermione said. Though privately, she wondered if that would cause a few of the Resistance members reconsider their bloodthirsty views. Probably not, she thought - they’d simply blame the purebloods for this again. She couldn't fault them for that - she did the same, after all.

The witch patted the enchanted mirror in her pocket - she had to inform her friends, and through them, Dumbledore, of what she had learned.

*****​

London, St. Mungo’s, December 29th, 1996

She saw the flames shoot out of the windows of the hall, turning into a huge fireball that engulfed the entire building. She saw two broom riders disappear in the flames before they could even scream. Another was turning his broom to flee, then threw up his hands right when the flames reached him. She saw an Auror on the ground wave his wand, whatever spell he was casting showing no effect before he, too vanished in the fires that filled the courtyard. She saw the flames rushing towards her, turned to dive behind the wall, away from the flames, but knew she was too slow. Then the flames reached her, surrounded her, and she burned, screaming...

Brenda Brocktuckle woke up screaming. She had been… she wasn’t dead? She looked around. She was in a white room, in a bed. Hospital bed, she realised. The familiar smell reached her nose. St. Mungo’s.

Panting and shivering, she ran her hands over her body. She wasn’t dead. She didn’t hurt. Merlin, she was alive.

“Auror Brocktuckle?”

Brenda whipped her head around. A wizard in the robes of a Healer was standing in the door to the room, smiling at her. “Yes?” she managed to say.

“I’m glad to see you awake.”

He looked tired, and his smile was even less sincere than usual, Brenda thought. She took a deep breath. “What happened?”

His wince told her enough. “As far as we can reconstruct what happened, your shield charm kept the flames from directly touching you, but the heat still burned you, and set your robes on fire. If not for the quick help of your partner, you would have likely died.”

“My partner? Martin Runcorn?” Brenda gasped. Martin had survived!

“Runcorn?” The Healer looked puzzled. “No, I mean Auror Parkinson.”

Parkinson. Of course - the man had been standing behind the wall. Under cover, sort of. Martin had been inside the building, when the bomb went off. He wouldn’t have survived. She closed her eyes.

The Healer kept talking. “You had a Bubble-Head Charm as well, contrary to others. We’re not yet certain how, but it must have contributed to your survival. The burns were easily treated, once we had you here. Your hair can be restored as soon as you have fully recovered.” The man was going through the motions, she realised. Either he had been doing this too often already, or…

“How many survived?” she asked, looking at him.

“I don’t know,” the wizard told her. “I wasn’t informed about that. I can only tell you that including you, we have treated eight Ministry employees.”

Brenda cursed under her breath. Nine. Three dozen Aurors and Hit-Wizards in the Response Force. And five in her task force. Avery’s team would have been too far away to be hit, and Parkinson might not have been wounded, but that still left… over two dozen dead. And all due to her plan. All her fault.

She barely noticed the Healer leaving. She was done for. They’d not even let her guard Azkaban, they’d imprison her for this!

“Shorter hair suits you, but this is a bit too short.”

She looked up. Parkinson was standing in the door. He leaned against the frame, arms folded, but she saw he was tired as well, and parts of his face looked a bit… spotty. He was wearing his robe though, not a hospital gown like herself.

“I heard you saved me,” she said.

He shrugged. “I put your robe out and healed what I could. I was lucky, barely scorched myself.” His grin was even more cynical than usual. “You might have absorbed the blast for me.”

Brenda snorted. “And all for nothing. They’ll burn me for this.” Someone had to pay for this disaster, and she was the one who had organised this. She had been in charge.

The other Auror stepped inside and closed the door. “No. They’ll burn Flint, although he was already burned to death.”

“What?” She looked at him.

Parkinson’s grin widened. “You warned him of the bomb. He didn’t pull his forces back far enough. Unlike you, and myself.”

That… Brenda blinked. That was a very generous interpretation of the events. “You reported that?”

He nodded. “We’re the only ones who survived and know what happened.”

“They’ll not believe it. They’ll blame me.” There were too many dead.

“They’ll believe it. I’ve explained it to a few friends.” Parkinson stepped closer and looked into her eyes. “We can’t afford to lose you. We’ve lost too many good Aurors already to the mudbloods.”

Brenda knew he didn’t mean the Ministry. She knew the price she’d pay for this help. She didn’t care though - Granger had murdered another of her partners. To bring the mudblood to justice, she’d do anything.

*****​

London, Ministry of Magic, December 30th, 1996

Albus Dumbledore smiled politely while he watched the Minister for Magic all but shaking in his dragon-hide shoes. Cornelius had a good reason, of course - the Ministry’s latest and most cunning scheme to deal with the Muggleborn Resistance had just failed spectacularly, as Miss Granger had informed him through her friends.

“Albus! Two dozen Aurors and Hit-Wizards are dead! Murdered by the Resistance! In broad daylight, in muggle London! This is a catastrophe! We have to do something!”

“‘We’, Cornelius?” Albus looked over his reading glasses at the Minister. “Did I not warn you not to persecute the Muggleborn Resistance?”

He could almost hear Amelia grinding her teeth. The Head of the DMLE was standing at the side of the Minister’s desk.

“You said you’d not support murderers!” Cornelius blinked.

“And I do not,” the Headmaster said. “But defending yourself against an attack is not murder.”

“They are mass-murderers, Albus!” Amelia said, trembling with anger, or so he thought. “They murdered dozens of people! They even killed your own friends!”

“They did no such thing.” Albus looked at the witch and let the least amount of contempt shine through his expression. “They exclusively attacked Death Eaters and their supporters.”

“They bombed Malfoy Manor and murdered everyone present!” The Minister was trembling now as well.

“A ball thrown by a Death Eater,” the Headmaster said. Cornelius opened his mouth, but he cut the Minister off. “Lucius Malfoy was one of the worst Death Eaters, Cornelius. A devoted follower and the right hand of the Dark Lord. Striking at him was a legitimate attack against the Dark Lord.”

“And the innocents present there? Not everyone there was a Death Eater! Many were simply purebloods attending a ball!” Amelia bared her teeth. “What do you call killing them but murder?”

“The muggles call such deaths ‘collateral damage’,” Albus said. “An apt name, I think.” Both were staring at him, shocked. He had to remind himself that they did not truly know him, or what he had done in the past. He chuckled, mirthlessly. “Everyone knew what Lucius and his ilk stood for. Anyone attending his ball showed their support for him - or at the very least, their willingness to accept the Dark Lord. Some would call that treason, even.”

“What?” The Minister gaped openly. “Are you… Merlin, are you saying that they deserved to die?”

“I would not say that,” the old wizard said. “But if they had to die so Lucius and his allies could be killed, then that was certainly acceptable.” He shrugged. “After Grindelwald’s War, I was sick of all the bloodshed. The things I had done…” He shook his head. Both were staring at him, and he chuckled at their expressions. “A few months ago I told you that you had no idea what a real war was. Did either of you look up what happened in Grindelwald’s War? What I did there?”

Judging by Cornelius’s expression, he hadn’t. Amelia though looked even tenser than before.

He shook his head. “What you call a catastrophe, two dozen wizards and witches killed, would have been called a skirmish by those fighting Grindelwald. Thousands died in that war.” With a sneer, he added: “But since they were not British, and most of them were not purebloods of Old Families, I guess you didn’t care.”

“Muggleborns were the most numerous of those fighting for Grindelwald!” Amelia said.

“And they had good reasons to fight for Grindelwald,” Albus said. Once more, the two were shocked. He sighed. “Why do you think I pushed for equal rights for muggleborns so hard after Grindelwald’s defeat? I know first-hand how people fight who have nothing to lose and everything to gain.” He snorted. “And now you know it as well.”

“But… but… why didn’t you tell us that?” Cornelius looked confused and desperate.

“And let the Death Eaters in the Wizengamot claim the muggleborns are the second coming of Grindelwald? You know how that would have been received.” He smiled grimly.

“You didn’t warn us in private either,” Amelia said, glaring at him.

“I know what you would have done, had I warned you of a muggleborn uprising in the style of Grindelwald.” Amelia would have done her best, or worst, to get the authorisation for a pre-emptive strike. And she would have received it - from the Minister and the Wizengamot.

“You… you protected them! You wanted them to be prepared for this war!” The witch sounded mortally wounded.

“I wanted to avoid this war. I failed. Now I want to win this war. At all costs,” the Headmaster said.

“But then you need to work with us! The Ministry needs you, together we can win this!” The Minister stood up. “We need to join forces!”

“Cornelius!” Amelia glared at Albus while she spoke to the Minister. “He wants the muggleborns to win this war!”

“I want the Dark Lord to lose this war,” Albus said. “And for that, the muggleborns are crucial.“

“You would sacrifice the Ministry to them? Your own country?” Cornelius sat down again, pale and shivering.

“The Resistance has not attacked the Ministry so far, they have only defended themselves. Even though they had good reasons to fight you, they haven’t struck back at you. Yet.” Albus met the Minister’s and Amelia’s eyes. “There is still time to mend fences. To repeal those evil laws, and restore equal rights for muggleborns. Against all of us, together, the Death Eaters would stand no chance.”

“I assume you want the Ministry to pardon those mass-murderers as well,” Amelia said.

“I want the Ministry to stop persecuting muggleborns. That includes the Muggleborn Resistance.” He leaned forward. “Even if you still do not accept that those laws were evil and unjust, and that the muggleborns had the right to fight back, you cannot ignore that you have no choice any more. Unless you want to submit to the Dark Lord, in the faint hope that his most loyal followers will not take revenge against you for their imprisonment on Azkaban.” He saw both of them grow pale at that. “Make no mistake: I would rather ally with the Muggleborn Resistance than with a Ministry that is still pursuing a pureblood agenda.”

The Minister sputtered, intelligible sounds escaping his trembling lips. Amelia, though, was made of sterner stuff. She glared at him. “You cannot defeat the Dark Lord by yourself, with or without the muggleborns. You need the support of the Ministry.”

“You are sorely mistaken, my dear.” He stood up. “It is up to you to decide if you would rather be Voldemort’s slaves, or accept muggleborns as equals. I advise you not to tarry though - not everyone is as patient as I am. Or as forgiving.”

Flashing them a smile that was anything but forgiving, he left the Minister’s office.

*****​

London, No. 12 Grimmauld Place, December 30th, 1996

“... and then we found out that the muggleborns we were meeting with had been imperiused by the Ministry in a plot to trap us! Two people, deprived of their will, turned into puppets, dozens of Aurors and Hit-Wizards ready to pounce, all because we dared to fight back against the Dark Lord and his followers, instead of letting them take away our rights through their puppets in the Wizengamot!”

Harry Potter nodded slightly as he sat in the living room of Grimmauld Place and listened to the Resistance Radio wireless broadcast. Usually they broadcast on Fridays, but after the Ministry ambush, they had made an exception - or so Hermione had told Ron and him.

“But we were prepared for such treachery! When the Ministry forces reached the meeting spot, all they found was death. Let that be a lesson, Aurors and Hit-Wizards: Fight us, fight muggleborns, and you will die!

“But the just reward for mindless thugs enforcing evil laws aside, those among our audience who are still in Wizarding Britain are now faced with a lot of questions. And the most important question is: Will you be next to be imperiused? The Ministry has given its forces permission to use the Unforgivables - for the duration of this ‘crisis’. Do you trust the Aurors and Hit-Wizards not to abuse this? To settle scores with old enemies, or to take someone to bed for the night? Who is watching them? Who is watching you? Anyone wearing the red robes of the Aurors, or the grey ones of the Hit-Wizards, could take control of you. And once they have what they want from you, they can send you to die, attacking others.

“Is that how you want to live? In constant fear of becoming an Auror’s puppet?

“We, the Resistance, do not use those vile spells. And yet we have killed more Death Eaters than the Ministry. So, why are they claiming that they need those spells to fight, when we prove they are not needed? Why do the Ministry want its forces to use spells so evil, one cast is enough for a lifetime sentence in Azkaban?

“Ask yourself that next time you see an Auror patrol! But maybe duck out of their way first.”

“Blimey!” Ron muttered, next to Harry. “That’ll be pouring Exploding Fluid into the cauldron. The Ministry’s going to foaming at the mouth.”

“They already desperately want to kill her,” Harry whispered. Hermione was the number one enemy of the Ministry. At least of the Ministry that was left, with Shacklebolt and his team dead. He glanced at Tonks, sitting in an armchair, staring at the floor, one tray with sweets and a glass balanced on the armrest.

Sirius, sitting in another chair, chuckled. “Quite a speech, but it’s wasted on the pureblood sheep. They simply don’t want to see what’s going on.”

“They’re afraid of muggleborns,” Remus said, standing at the window. “The Daily Prophet’s been working on them for over a year now.”

“Well, they certainly don’t need to imperius any of the Prophet’s staff; those are already mindless tools of the Ministry.” Sirius snorted.

Neither of the two men seemed to be looking at Tonks. The young Auror, though, was glaring at them. Then she stood up. “You act as if the Ministry is one big bloc or whatever. You have no idea what’s it like, in the Ministry. No one knows if you can trust your co-worker! There are spies of the Dark Lord everywhere! The Ministry was one miscast spell away from tearing itself up, before the recent bombings.”

Sirius said: “At least you’ve finally admitted who the real enemy is.”

Tonks bared her teeth at him. “I always knew that, you idiot! Mum was removed from the family tree for marrying Dad. Everyone knows I’m no friend of the Dark Lord, and that Bellatrix wants to kill all of us. If not for my talent to change my appearance, I’d have been cursed in the back already.”

“So, have you stopped thinking that the Resistance are criminals?” Harry saw that the three adults present were surprised by him cutting in. But he needed to know if he could trust Tonks. For all that she was family, to Sirius at least, and an Order member - even if he wasn’t supposed to know that - she was still an Auror, working for the Ministry. Which was hunting Hermione.

She glared at him, but he met her eyes without flinching. Between Moody’s and Dumbledore’s training, a young Auror simply didn’t look that tough. What could she do to him that he hadn’t suffered already, and worse, in training?

Tonks looked away first. “I’ve looked into history. The Ministry’s in the wrong.” She raised a finger. “But if anyone says ‘I told you so’, I’ll hex them!”

Harry nodded. It wasn’t easy accepting that the Ministry you had been working for, believing in, was controlled by evil people. And Tonks probably had known most of those killed in the recent bombings; they were not simply numbers to her.

Sirius grinned, and for a moment, Harry feared his godfather would push the metamorphmagus. But the wizard just clapped her on the back. “Good to hear. Now, what have you been doing for Dumbledore? You wouldn’t be risking your life for nothing, would you?”

“That’s none of your business. If the Headmaster wants you to know, he’ll tell you personally.”

Remus chuckled. “She’s not going to betray her orders, Sirius.”

Harry’s godfather pouted while Tonks grinned at Remus. The wizard quickly grew serious, though. “You are in danger, Tonks. Even your shapeshifting won’t help you that much - all they need is to get a superior to call you into their office, and ambush you when you leave.”

“I know that.”

“And yet you still go back there.” Sirius looked as if he wasn’t certain whether he should praise or criticise his cousin.

“It’s important.”

“I hope it is worth the risk, Tonks,” Sirius said.

Harry fully agreed.

*****​

London, Soho, December 30th, 1996

Hermione Granger was tired when she sat down in the booth of the pub she was to meet the Headmaster in. The Resistance had trained in the morning, and she had been helping with the broadcast earlier that evening as well. But this meeting was important - she needed help with Mary-Jane.

The Headmaster hadn’t arrived yet, so she picked up one of the newspapers and skimmed it. One article caught her attention - TVs were inexplicably failing in several houses all over London. Brand-new or slightly used, they didn’t work with cable, and sometimes not with a shared antenna either. That sounded like wards interfering with electronics… and that meant wizards. She glanced around, then duplicated the newspaper and stored the original in her enchanted pocket. She’d have to look into this.

The Headmaster, again disguised as a distinguished older muggle gentleman, arrived shortly afterwards. “Good evening, Miss.”

“Good evening, sir.” She flicked her wand and cast a few privacy spells.

“I am glad you were able to meet with me on such short notice,” the old wizard said. “Especially given the circumstances.”

“The failed ambush by Ministry forces.” She wasn’t in the mood for veiled words.

“Indeed. The Minister was trembling with fear when I saw him earlier today.”

Hermione snorted. “I think he’d have reacted the same if there had been a wild puffskein in his office.” Fudge was a morally bankrupt coward, in her opinion.

“Cornelius is not among the bravest wizards, but he is not quite that timid. Although he does find himself in a rather unenviable position, caught between the Muggleborn Resistance and the Dark Lord’s forces.”

“A position he ended up in due to his own choices,” Hermione said, sneering.

“Choices he is now regretting.” The Headmaster sighed. “I explained to him that he has but one option if he does not want to become a prisoner of the Dark Lord, likely given over to those held in Azkaban during his term: He has to stop persecuting muggleborns and repeal those evil laws, as well as pardoning the Resistance.”

Hermione drew a sharp breath. She hadn’t expected that. It sounded a bit too good to be true. “Can he do that? With the Dark Lord’s influence in the Ministry and the Wizengamot?”

“Cornelius has many faults, but he is a capable politician, if a bit too easily led astray by bribes,” Dumbledore said. “The recent murder of Augusta Longbottom has shown to many of the more naive members of the Wizengamot just what kind of man Voldemort is. And the loss of three dozen Aurors and Hit-Wizards, with nothing to show for, has undermined confidence in the Ministry - and among the Wizengamot. I do think he can force those changes through, if he calls in some of the favours owed to him and uses his personal knowledge of a few members. It will be a very close vote though.”

Hermione frowned. A faint hope, then - she didn’t think those who had eagerly voted to deprive muggleborns of their rights would risk the Dark Lord’s anger and vote for such a change. On the other hand, Dumbledore was the one with decades of experience in the Wizengamot. He should know better than her.

“There is, however, the risk of an armed takeover attempt by the Dark Lord.” Dumbledore sighed. “The risk has lessened somewhat, with the losses the Aurors and Hit-Wizards most eager to fight muggleborns took in the ambush two days ago, but despite my best efforts, I cannot claim to have found all the sympathisers of the Dark Lord inside the Ministry.”

“And he can bring in outsiders easily with the help of some of his moles.” Hermione bit her lower lip. “Can you stop such a takeover?”

“Unfortunately, the Order is split into many small groups whose members do not know each other. I’ve had some traps and other surprises prepared, but that will not help with the lack of wands.” Dumbledore smiled at her.

She closed her eyes when she realised what he was about to tell her. To ask of her. “I can’t ask them to help the Ministry.” Shaking her head, she added: “Not after the Ministry tried to ambush us. It was all I could do to keep a few of my friends from taking revenge on the Ministry.” If that proposal had been accepted...

“I was afraid of that, Miss Granger. As unfortunate as this is, it’s quite understandable. And yet - if the Dark Lord attempts a coup, he will expose a lot of his spies and moles. The Resistance could deal a severe blow to the enemy, and gain a lot of goodwill with the Ministry. Sooner or later, the war will end, with us winning, I sincerely hope, at which point fences will need to be mended.”

“I know,” Hermione admitted. “But a leader should never give an order they know will not be obeyed.” She bit her lower lip again. “This is an angle that might work - once tempers have cooled somewhat. But we still have two boys with a withered limb each, and one imperiused prisoner.”

The old wizard smiled. “And if I were to help with that, it would generate a lot of goodwill as well, as I understand.”

“If I could tell them you’re working with us, and how, it would certainly help convincing them to assist you there.” But it was dangerous to spread that knowledge, Hermione knew.

“This might become a possibility, though more like a last resort.” Dumbledore sighed. “Nevertheless, you will be needing access to a Thief’s Downfall to end this vile spell. Fortunately, the Nott, Davis and Greengrass fortunes allowed me to secure two of those devices.”

That would help a lot. “Thank you, sir. It was quite a blow when we realised that we had killed a wizard forced to fight us.”

The Headmaster smiled sadly. “I understand.”

“Have you made progress finding a cure for the Creeveys?” Hermione didn’t want to allow herself to be optimistic, but maybe there was a book in the restricted section of the Hogwarts Library that would restore the boys’ limbs...

“Unfortunately, the current crisis has absorbed just about all of my time.” Dumbledore smiled apologetically at her. “Although I heard that Ron’s brother is working on this problem as well.”

She simply nodded. There was still hope. But the boys were growing impatient.

Hermione really didn’t want to find that they had cut their own limbs off because they grew tired of waiting. Those two were just stubborn and impulsive enough to do such a thing.

*****​

London, No. 12 Grimmauld Place, December 31st, 1996

“We’re going to Paris?”

Ron Weasley’s stupid question - the Headmaster had just said that - left his lips before he could reconsider. In his defense, he was completely surprised and he had just spent another hour getting hexed, jinxed and cursed by Moody. At least he and Harry, working together, had managed to hit the retired Auror as well, although they usually had to sacrifice one of themselves to achieve that.

“Yes, Ron.” The Headmaster smiled. “Provided Sirius agrees, of course.”

Ron wasn’t Hermione, but he wasn’t that slow on the uptake. Of course they’d not ask his parents - his mum would never give her permission if she knew about the mission. He snorted, and the old wizard inclined his head, still smiling.

“Great,” Harry muttered, sitting next to Ron on the conjured bench in what had become their training room at Grimmauld Place. “Sirius won’t let me go.”

“He will, if he knows what’s good for him, and you,” Moody said, halting his repairing of the slightly damaged room for a moment. “You’re still far from what you should be, but you’re not useless or helpless any more.”

Coming from Moody, that was high praise. Ron perked up, then deflated a bit - Moody was probably talking about Harry, not them both. He wasn’t as quick or precise as Harry. Not too far behind, but he simply wasn’t as good. But he’d be going to Paris anyway. As long as Sirius agreed to let Harry go, of course.

*****​

“Have you gone mad, Albus?” Sirius all but yelled, jumping up from his seat. “You want to send Harry to Paris as a decoy for the Dark Lord?”

Ron winced at the wizard’s expression, and glanced at Harry. His friend was not looking happy. He understood the feeling - Sirius wasn’t quite as loud or expressive as Ron’s mum, but he certainly was coming close.

“I am sending them to Paris so the Dark Lord continues to think that we’re trying to hunt down his Horcruxes. Should he suspect the real plan, Harry would be in much more danger,” the Headmaster said in a voice so calm, he might be discussing the weather.

“‘Much more danger’? The Dark Lord is certain to have trapped his Soul Anchors! He’s had decades to prepare them!” Sirius was pacing now, like a caged animal. “And you plan to let Harry brave this danger, just to fool the Dark Lord?”

“We do not know if there is even a Horcrux in the Magical Bastille. It is a place well-suited for hiding such an evil object, but it is also a prison as feared as Azkaban. Tom might very well not have tried to use it for his own purposes - after all, even his power has limits, and he is not delusional.”

“Could have fooled me,” Ron heard Harry mutter under his breath.

“And you’re sending Harry to French Azkaban?” Ron could hear Sirius breathe loudly through clenched teeth. Of course that would touch a nerve with the wizard.

“There are no Dementors there. It’s in the middle of muggle Paris, after all, hidden beneath one of their most famous squares. It is well-guarded and protected, but not by those abominations, Sirius,” Dumbledore said. “And they will be helped along by friends on the continent, as well as Bill Weasley, one of the best Curse-Breakers we know.”

“I don’t trust the French!” Sirius was about to say something else, but Harry had stood up as well.

“Sirius, please. We need to do this.” Harry put his hand on his godfather’s shoulder. “I’ll never be safe as long as he lives.”

The other wizard closed his eyes, then suddenly grabbed Harry and pulled him into a hug. Not quite up to the standards of Ron’s mum, but coming close. “I don’t want you to risk your life, Harry.”

The animagus mumbled something else, but Ron couldn’t make the words out. He saw how Harry stiffened, though, and then patted the man’s back, slightly awkwardly.

The two remained like that, whispering to each other. Ron glanced at the Headmaster, who was simply sitting there, watching with that smile of his, then sighed silently and leaned back in his seat. That wasn’t how things were done at home.

After a while - Ron had kept busy trying to remember a few particularly humiliating training sessions, and going over what he could have done differently in his head, like he did with chess matches, sometimes - Sirius sighed loudly and let Harry go. “Alright. But I’m coming with you. And Remus too!”

One more the Headmaster nodded, smiling slightly. As if he had expected that all along. He probably had, Ron realised.

“When will we go?” Ron asked.

“January 2nd. Not many people will be on duty, so it will be easier to avoid attention,” Dumbledore said.

“Do the French know about this?” Sirius stared at the old wizard. “Does the Dark Lord?”

“I trust the Delacours to keep the visit confidential.” Dumbledore smiled. “Their daughter will be present, and endangering Harry will endanger her as well.”

“Bill and Fleur know what they are doing,” Ron said. “With them, Moody, and you, we’ll be safe.”

“I’d rather have you with us,” Sirius said, glaring at the Headmaster.

“My presence in France, or more precisely, my absence from Britain, would give the Dark Lord free reign to act with impunity. In the current situation, that could prove fatal.” Dumbledore’s smile grew thin. “As much as it pains me, I cannot leave the country.”

“France’s just a few miles over the sea.” Sirius folded his arms.

“The defenses of the Bastille will make leaving quickly impossible.”

“Damn the French!” Harry’s godfather sat down in his seat again. “Always complicating things!”

That was, once again, rather close to the reaction Ron’s mum had when Bill told her about his engagement.

*****​

Outside Withernsea, Yorkshire, Britain, December 31st, 1996

The Dark Lord Voldemort sat in his favorite chair, hands folded, with the tips of his index fingers and thumbs touching his face. Dumbledore had visited the Ministry, and now Fudge was apparently starting a rather drastic change in the Ministry’s policy. Voldemort had hoped, expected, that the death of two dozen Ministry employees at the hands of mudbloods would be a boon to his cause. Proof of just how dangerous they were. Proof that he was right and that Wizarding Britain needed him and his followers to be safe.

Instead, this bumbling, corrupt fool was now working on getting the muggleborn laws repealed. No doubt forced to by Dumbledore. Or bribed by Black, on the old fool’s order. He had supporters, of course. A lot of them, in the Wizengamot. But not enough, yet. His gesture towards the young Longbottom had not cowed as many as he would have liked. Or not enough - those who wavered in their support of him, those who tried to avoid joining him, but did not want to join Dumbledore either, might fear those mudbloods more than him. An unfortunate effect of emphasising the danger they represented.

He frowned. If only he could slaughter a dozen or two of the mudbloods! That would demonstrate to Wizarding Britain that he was the only one able to deal with that danger. But the cursed filth were hiding from him.

Which left him with far fewer options. Blood traitors, but they were hiding as well. He shook his head. There was only one target left that wasn’t hiding. Couldn’t hide.

If he couldn’t stop Fudge through politics, he’d have to use more direct means.

*****​

 

Chapter 25: French Connection

‘The Second Blood War was, especially at the beginning, essentially an internal affair of Wizarding Britain, like the First Blood War had been. None of the different factions fighting in the war were supported by other countries or international organisations, although the occasional support by individuals, often due to family ties, was not uncommon. There was even an unspoken agreement not to involve the International Confederation of Wizards, despite Albus Dumbledore holding the post of its Supreme Mugwump.
Nevertheless, several European countries kept a close eye on Britain. The muggleborn uprising undoubtedly impressed and influenced their policies towards their own muggleborn population - not many on the continent had forgotten the horrors of Grindelwald’s War, nor that many of his followers had been muggleborns. No wizarding country wanted to risk pushing their own muggleborns into rebelling, and yet all of them were, sometimes painfully, aware of the example the Muggleborn Resistance was setting. It was thus a very delicate situation the European countries found themselves in, having to tread a fine line between appeasing their muggleborns, and ensuring they would not present a threat to the government should they nevertheless rebel.’
- Excerpt from ‘Wizarding Britain in the 20th Century’ by Albert Runcorn

*****​

London, No. 12 Grimmauld Place, December 31st, 1996

Harry Potter glanced at the clock on the wall, which had been enlarged for this evening, while he grabbed another butterbeer. It was still another hour until midnight. He couldn’t wait for this year to end. It hadn’t brought anything but pain and loss. Well, almost anything. He was now dating Hermione - sort of. She still had to pick between Ron and himself, something he wasn’t looking forward to.

“You idiots!”

“Ack! No!”

He heard Ron suddenly yell behind him and he whirled around, wand drawn, in a slight crouch. When he saw his friend was just hexing the twins - quite thoroughly - he relaxed. The two must have tried to prank Ron, again - they hadn’t taken well to discovering that their little brother wasn’t the ideal test subject or victim anymore. Harry nodded appreciatively when Ron had both of them bound on the floor and was ‘finishing them off’ with Stinging Hexes to the forehead. Just as Moody had taught them.

“Ron! Fred! George! What are you doing!”

And there came Molly Weasley, rushing towards her children, loudly sharing her opinion on such antics. At least she wasn’t complaining about underage magic any more, after Sirius had pointed out that the children were much safer if they would not hesitate to defend themselves should they be attacked.

Harry put another lesson from Moody - though one the Auror had not emphasized quite as much as fighting - to good use and slipped out of the room. He wasn’t in the mood to listen to another loud Weasley row, no matter how entertaining many others found it.

He entered the Black Library, passing through the spells that kept the noise from outside away. He closed the door and took a deep breath. The smell of old books reminded him of the library in Hogwarts, a place he’d always associate with Hermione. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine her sitting at the table, flipping through half a dozen open books, taking notes at a fast pace and chewing on her lower lip whenever she encountered a particularly difficult or challenging piece of information.

He heard the door open behind him, and stepped to the side, his wand sliding into his hand. He winced - Moody’s lessons had affected him in more ways than the obvious. He still kept the wand in hand, though - if not quite aimed at the door.

“Harry?”

He recognised the voice before the girl entered the library. Ginny. “Yes?” he said. “Do they want me back in the living room?”

She flinched, just a bit, and closed the door behind her. “No. I saw you leave, and I followed you. My brothers are being annoying again.”

“Ah.” He nodded. He could understand that. “Ron can handle them, though. They just have to understand that he’s not their favorite easy target anymore.”

She looked at him, then snorted. “Good luck with that. They’re as stubborn as Mum.”

“So’s Ron.” Too stubborn to quit, Harry knew. Like himself.

The young witch sighed and leaned against the door, briefly looking at the floor. Then she straightened up, and raised her chin. “You and Ron are still dating Hermione, aren’t you?”

Harry nodded. “Yes.” Not as frequently as he wished, but they were.

“How is that going?” She started to fidget a bit. “I mean… you’re best friends, but competing for the same witch.” She shrugged. “That sounds like trouble.”

“We don’t want trouble. Whoever she chooses, we want Hermione to be happy. And she’d not be happy if we started a feud over this.” She might refuse to go out with either of them as well, if she feared their friendship could be ruined.

“That sounds noble, but I think things usually don’t work out like that,” Ginny said.

Harry looked at her. “Oh? Have you seen that happen?”

“Not directly. I’ve read about such love triangles though.” She blushed a bit.

“Ah, in those novels you like to read?”

“What? How do you know about that?” Ginny was staring at him with a mix of surprise and horror, her mouth half-open.

“Ron told me,” Harry said. His friend hadn’t mentioned what kind of novels they were, just that Ginny read them.

“That git! I’ll teach him not to share my secrets!” The redhead was fuming.

“He didn’t tell me anything, he just said that you liked to read some novels, when we talked about our situation.” Harry wondered why that would have been a secret - Hermione never made any secret about the books she was reading. Quite the contrary. Unless those were the kind of books Sirius had shown him when he had moved in here.

“Ah.” Ginny looked slightly mollified, but not placated. Then she sighed. “How is Hermione doing, anyway? I haven’t heard from her at all.”

Harry wasn’t about to share his friend’s secrets, so he simply said: “She’s under a lot of stress, with the war and the fighting. Very busy too.”

Ginny nodded, as if Harry had just told her something she wouldn’t have known already. “We miss her in the dorms. It’s not the same without her bossing us around. Lavender certainly can’t replace her.”

“No one can replace her,” Harry said, nodding firmly.

Ginny looked a bit pained when she agreed with him.

*****​

London, East End, December 31st, 1996

“And here’s to another successful year!” Justin raised his glass, grinning widely.

The assembled Resistance joined him in the toast. Hermione as well, of course - she was leading by example. Even though she didn’t think it was a good year, not at all. She’d have much, much preferred to celebrate the New Year after a boring term at Hogwarts. Not that Hogwarts had ever been boring for her, or her friends. Her best friends, that was.

“Death to the Death Eaters!” Dean was raising his glass now.

Hermione didn’t frown as she raised her glass again. As bloodthirsty as it sounded, she could drink to that. As long as Dean and Seamus knew that not all purebloods were Death Eaters. Reminding them of Allan’s death in her own speech hadn’t helped with that, of course - but there was no way she could have skipped reminding the resistance of their fallen members. Not without raising suspicions.

“To victory!” Jeremy kept it simple.

Hermione took another sip from her glass. Even champagne started to have an effect if you drank too much. And she’d be damned before she let herself get drunk. She was the leader of the Resistance, and couldn’t afford to lose control. But if everyone wanted to make a toast, she’d have to fake drinking soon - and she wasn’t among those who’d be going out and partying in muggle clubs after this, to properly celebrate the new year.

Fortunately, the toasts stopped, and someone turned up the volume of the wireless again. Hermione, and most of the others, preferred muggle music, but the Weird Sisters were a decent band. Or at least, not terrible. And with muggle radio receivers not working right inside wards, the pickings for entertainment were slim. Apart from books, of course.

She checked her watch. An hour left until midnight.

Dean and Seamus emptied their glasses, then waved. “See you next year!” Dean said, grinning, while the two left for their favourite pub. Theirs, and Allan’s, Hermione knew. Mary, Tania and, to her surprise, John, left together, followed by Jeremy and Louise. Not exactly the rousing team and morale building event she had had in mind when she had planned this.

She sighed and sat down on the nearest couch. Colin and Dennis occupied another. The younger Creevey brother was asleep already while his older brother looked like he was about to fall asleep any minute. Both of them had drunk too much - they were so young, they shouldn’t have been drinking, she thought, at least not as much as they had, but… she couldn’t have denied them that. Not with their… curse.

There went Colin, slowly leaning on his brother, eyes closed. Hermione hit both with a Silencing Charm.

“Is that the standard wizarding approach to babysitting, or just your own idea?”

Hermione turned her head, and frowned at the grinning Sally-Anne. “I’m just being practical. I don’t want the two to wake up when I levitate them to their room.”

The other witch laughed and shook her head. “I’m still not going to let you babysit my children!”

“What makes you think I want to babysit your children?”

“You volunteered to babysit them?” Sally-Anne nodded at the Creeveys.

Hermione had volunteered to hold down the fort, as Justin called it, while everyone else went to party, because she felt that was her duty as the Resistance’s leader. Last to eat, last to sleep, as the Major had told her. Of course, knowing that she’d not be able to celebrate with Harry and Ron since they were stuck at Grimmauld Place had made the decision more than a bit easier. And she had no intention of babysitting anyone’s children. She didn’t say that, though. Instead she stuck her tongue out at her friend.

Justin, stepping up to his girlfriend and handing her her jacket, shook his head. “I can’t leave the two of you alone, can I?” He chuckled.

“Do you mean me, or her?” Sally-Anne asked, pouting.

“Both,” her boyfriend said.

Justin had probably drunk a bit too much, Hermione thought. “Have fun!” she said, waving at them.

The former Hufflepuff hesitated, and looked at her, then at the Creeveys.

“Go on, you two!” Hermione said, making shooing gestures now, “Enjoy the evening!” When she saw Justin wince, she knew she shouldn’t have implied that she wouldn’t be enjoying her evening. She could claim she’d enjoy a book, but… Justin knew her too well. But he also knew, or should know, that she would not have that much fun without Harry or Ron either. Or both of them - no, he didn’t know her that well. She hoped.

“Are you certain?” Justin asked, but Sally-Anne had grabbed his arm and was already dragging him out.

“I am. Have fun, you two!”

Hermione kept smiling until she heard the door close behind the couple. Then she sighed and closed her eyes. Damn it, she wanted her friends! Or her parents. But when her gaze fell on the Creeveys, she felt guilty again. She hadn’t been cursed, hadn’t had a limb wither away, didn’t have to deal with a dead arm or leg looking like dried meat. The two were braver than she would be, in their place, Hermione knew.

And she felt guilty for having failed them. Both for not having been able to protect them, and for not being able to find a counter-curse to heal them. She sighed again. There was another option. Harry had reminded her of the silver hand Pettigrew had received from Voldemort, after having cut his own hand off to resurrect the Dark Lord. An instant replacement, apparently. She didn’t know how good it was - Pettigrew certainly wouldn’t dare to complain to his master - but it was likely that hand was far better than enchanted wood. Liquid metal, as Harry had described it - hopefully it wasn’t mercury. Well, Pettigrew would deserve getting poisoned, she thought.

But what was important was that she knew that such a thing was possible. And if it was possible, it could be recreated. Or reverse-engineered. Maybe Fred and George could help there… the Creeveys wouldn’t be the only ones struck with dark curses. Such a prosthetic could help a lot of people.

The song from the wireless, still playing in the background, suddenly stopped in the middle of the refrain. Hermione frowned, and flicked her wand, turning the volume up a bit.

“... just in: There was a fire attack in Diagon Alley, on wizards celebrating the new year. According to witnesses, it wasn’t Fiendfyre, but several people were burned alive or were rushed to St. Mungo’s. People out in the streets are asked to return to their homes until the culprits have been apprehended.”

Hermione drew a hissing breath. It could have been an attack by Voldemort’s followers, of course. But she had a feeling that this had been the work of muggleborns. Probably molotov cocktails. Maybe even homemade napalm.

She closed her eyes. If this had been an attack on random purebloods, then this was bad. Very bad.

*****​

London, Diagon Alley, December 31st, 1996

It was a testament to how badly the war was going, Brenda Brocktuckle thought, that three people burned to death by mudblood scum throwing fire on them and half a dozen more getting treated in St. Mungo’s for extensive burns was not considered a catastrophe anymore, but just another attack. And an amateurish one, at that - bottles dropped from brooms on a group of wizards. Half of them had missed, and either hit the ground, or the warded roof.

“Damn animals!” Parkinson muttered, next to her, staring at the blackened cobblestones. Half of them hadn’t missed, after all. Had covered their victims with fire. The faint smell of burned flesh still lingered.

Brenda knelt down, ignoring her new partner - it wasn’t official yet, but who else would work with her after she had lost two Aurors in less than a year? - and rubbed her fingers over the cobblestones, then smelled them.

“Did you find anything?” Parkinson asked.

“Remains of the liquid that was in the bottles that started the fires.“

“Potions?”

“Or a muggle concoction,” Brenda said, standing up. “I think it was something muggle.”

“An expert will be looking into it.”

Brenda shrugged. The more she thought about it, the more it looked like some muggle weapon - there was no magical residue apart from the water the surviving wizards had conjured in an attempt to extinguish the flames, and the smell of the remains… It reminded her of muggle cars. “How did they escape our broom patrols?”

Parkinson shrugged. “It’s night, the mudbloods didn’t cast spells that would have given away their position, the only ones on duty tonight were rookies…”

Rookies, and disgraced Aurors, Brenda thought. She had been on duty as well. Parkinson too. They were not officially blamed for the debacle at the brewery, and Parkinson’s ‘friends’ didn’t heckle or sneer at her, but she’d be first choice for the bad shifts for a while. “Figures.” She sighed.

“That wasn’t the Resistance.”

Brenda rolled her eyes. Of course it wasn’t the work of the Resistance; if those mudbloods had attacked Diagon Alley, they’d have wrecked half the street with one of their bombs. She often wondered why they hadn’t attacked Diagon Alley, yet. “Probably some mudbloods thinking murder would be fun, like the ones we caught.” Caught, and lost again.

“Why were those idiots out in the street anyway?” Parkinson nodded at a body on the ground, covered by a conjured blanket. “Had they forgotten that there are mudbloods out there just waiting to attack us?”

Brenda snorted. Smart people stayed home, or traveled through the Floo Network and by apparition. But there were always those who simply didn’t listen. “Probably thought they’d be safe. Or thought this would be a thrill. Or they were too drunk to remember why they should have stayed in the pub.” All that mattered was that they were dead, or burned, or both.

“At least some of them will survive. Without scarring even, according to a Healer friend of mine,” Parkinson said. “And it’ll serve as a lesson for the public.”

Brenda nodded. A lesson that shouldn’t have been needed. The British wizards should have learned already that mudbloods were a danger to all purebloods. “That doesn’t change the fact that we’ll need to catch the scum who did this.”

“We would have caught them, if our broom patrol would have been on the quaffle.”

Parkinson had chosen the one who’d be blamed for this. Brenda agreed with him - the broom patrol was there to prevent such attacks, or at the very least catch the attackers. For a moment, she felt a bit of sympathy. It wasn’t easy - or rather, it was nigh-impossible - to catch a broom rider at night. Not without the help of difficult spells, or expensive enchanted items. Neither of which a rookie was likely to have access to; those who had the skills or the gold would have better posts. Then she shrugged. She had been blamed for things she couldn’t have prevented; why should others fare better?

She looked up, staring at the night sky. They’d have to find a way to find broom riders at night. Human-presence-revealing-spells had a paltry range. A bit away, in muggle London, fireworks shot into the air. Muggles! They were celebrating, ignorant of the deadly war being fought just next to them.

Brenda blinked. Fireworks… Those rockets flew high, and they packed a punch, as she had found out years ago, when a drunken relative had lit one and then knocked it over before it could fly off. A number of them, prepared correctly, would be able to turn night to day, or at least expose the broom riders enough to hit them with other spells. Yes… that should work. The next time those mudblood murderers arrived, they’d receive a deadly surprise.

“Hey!”

The Auror looked at Parkinson. “Hm?”

Her partner pointed at the clock, blackened by soot, but protected from the actual flames by the building’s wards. “Happy New Year!”

Brenda snorted. Happy New Year, indeed.

*****​

London, East End, January 1st, 1997

The other members of the Resistance were surprised by the news of the attack on Diagon Alley, Hermione Granger thought, when they heard about it at the later than usual breakfast. That was a good thing - it meant they were not involved. That had been very unlikely, but it had been theoretically possible.

What wasn’t a good thing was the smiles the news were greeted with.

“Another group is taking action? Yes!” Seamus said with open glee.

His friend Dean nodded, biting into a scone. After swallowing, he added: “That should keep the Ministry even busier. I just hope they don’t get caught.”

“They dropped fire bombs from brooms, I think.” Justin refilled his tea cup, then his girlfriend’s. “So, they would have been safe.”

Hermione frowned. Didn’t anyone see the issue? Granted, they all had been out clubbing and had just woken up, but still... “Tactical matters aside, this could be a very big problem,” she said. “Even worse, this could end in a disaster for us.”

“Huh?” John looked at her. He wasn’t the only one who seemed to be lost.

She withstood the urge to sigh and rub the bridge of her nose. “A group of wizards celebrating the New Year was firebombed from above. Do you think it’s very likely that those were Death Eaters, and that the muggleborns knew that, and knew that they would leave the warded pub in the Alley?”

Justin drew a hissing breath. He had understood the problem then.

“You mean…” Sally-Anne’s eyes widened.

“Yes. It is very plausible that the culprits simply dropped bombs on the first wizards and witches they saw outside.” She narrowed her eyes. “Which means this was an attack on civilians - a war crime, in other words.”

“So what? Those were purebloods,” Seamus said.

The table fell silent. Hermione glared at him. She couldn’t let that slide. “Do you think being pureblood wizards means they are acceptable targets and deserve to die?” she said in the coldest voice she could manage while she felt enraged. “Do you think we should start attacking all purebloods for being purebloods?” She saw him wince, and he started to say something, but she continued, cutting him off. “And maybe we should kill the half-bloods too, it’s not as if we can tell them apart from the purebloods on sight, can we? Just kill them all, huh? And the children too? Want to burn down a house and watch them burn? Or hex a baby?”

Seamus was glaring at her. “I didn’t mean that!”

“What did you mean then? That we should act like Death Eaters, attacking others because of their blood?” Hermione spat. She glanced around the table, noting how many looked ashamed. Even Dean seemed taken aback. “Because that is what happens if you start attacking purebloods indiscriminately!”

“You don’t know if those were innocents!” Seamus said. “They could have been Death Eaters!”

Hermione nodded. “Yes, they could have been. It’s entirely possible that this was an attack on Death Eaters or their supporters, by a group that knew that.” Possible, but unlikely. “But if that was not the case, then we’re dealing with a war crime - and with muggleborns acting like Death Eaters.”

“It could be a false flag operation, like the bomb in Peacehaven,” Justin pointed out.

“Yes. That is possible as well.” Hermione nodded again. She saw the rest of the group relax. “I hope, I sincerely hope, that this was not a crime by muggleborns, but either the work of Death Eaters or an attack on them.” She took a deep breath. “But if it isn’t, then we have a problem.”

Everyone was looking at her now.

“If there are muggleborns indiscriminately attacking purebloods, then we need to deal with them - now, or later. If we tolerate such crimes, then we’re no better than Death Eaters.”

“It’s war,” Dean said. “Bad things happen.”

“Should we let a captured Death Eater go, because ‘bad things happen in war’?” Hermione scoffed. “This is not about blood, this is about justice.”

“Do you want us to hunt down and kill muggleborns?” John said, looking almost shocked.

“No. We cannot spare the time or people for such, not while we need to hunt down Death Eaters.” Voldemort had to die; it was the only way to win this war. “But,” she continued, “we need to make it clear in our broadcast that attacking innocents is a crime we’ll not tolerate. And, should we discover such crimes, and the culprits, we need to deal with them.”

While Justin and Sally-Anne as well as Tania, Mary, Louise and Jeremy nodded, Dean and Seamus looked mulish. Hermione shook her head. “We cannot let such things go, or people will assume we’re no better than Death Eaters. And if we tolerate such crimes, then we will be no better than Death Eaters.”

She raised her chin. “I’m not fighting this war so I can become a Death Eater. And neither are you.”

Seamus and Dean nodded, though slowly. Hermione hoped they understood how important this was.

*****​

Hogwarts, January 1st, 1997

Albus Dumbledore sighed, reading the reports Nymphadora had just delivered. He had feared this - and expected it. With the Death Eaters and most of their supporters in hiding - mainly thanks to the efforts of the Resistance - muggleborns were starting to lash out at any purebloods they could find.

Unless this was another ploy by the Dark Lord. That was a possibility - after Kingsley’s death, such a plan certainly would fit Tom. And yet… the Dark Lord would likely have arranged a far more devastating attack, to better frame the Resistance. Although, he might count on that being expected, and deliberately use a weaker attack…

The old wizard shook his head. He lacked enough information to find the truth. And, ultimately, it wasn’t even that important whether this was the work of radicalised muggleborns, or Death Eaters acting undercover. After months in hiding, the other muggleborns were likely to follow the apparent example.

And that meant that the war would turn even bloodier as people started to slaughter whoever they could find. Hatred and revenge would spurn all of them on, in a rapidly escalating cycle of violence and murder. At least Miss Granger was, according to Sirius, doing what she could to stop this. Albus just hoped it would be enough.

The wards on his office announced the visitor he expected. “Please come in, Severus,” he said, putting a smile on his face despite his thoughts.

“Good evening, Albus.” The young Potions master stepped into Albus’s office.

Fawkes trilled, but the young man didn’t react. Ah, pride and self-loathing - Albus wasn’t certain if Severus would ever forgive himself for his past sins. “Please have a seat.”

Severus lowered himself into the conjured seat. “The Dark Lord has yet to trust me with his location, but he has forgiven me for ‘failing to teach Malfoy how to stay alive’, as he put it. But on the other hand, he has yet to summon me to the same place twice.”

Albus nodded. Tom was acting with far more caution than in the last war. “Even if he reused some of his meeting places, we would be hard-pressed to prepare traps in all of them that he would not detect.” What they needed - Albus and his friend both knew - was Voldemort’s home, or base. The location he lived.

“I’ve been ‘cultivating’ Bellatrix. She is one of the Dark Lord’s most loyal and most trusted servants, and he might take her to his home. She hopes so, at least, which is why she was receptive to certain potions I could offer.”

“I am not certain if Tom returns the feelings of Mrs Lestrange,” Albus said. It wasn’t impossible - Tom had been a charming young man in his youth, and many a witch had fallen for him. But the kind of magic he had used to achieve his limited immortality demanded a price, and Albus doubted that Tom’s new body was ‘fully functional’, as the muggles put it. On the other hand, he had known houngans who had turned themselves into far worse things, without losing such earthly desires.

“He might not, but he might still take her with him, to show her his trust.” Severus smiled thinly. “And she’ll trust me. I’ll find his location, even if it’s the last thing I do.” He bared his teeth in a parody of a smile.

Albus nodded. There was another way, of course. Tom was very cautious, but he was still meeting his followers. Severus could carry a bomb with him. Shrunken, he could smuggle it inside. Pull it out, and set it off. The effects of the wards would make triggering it difficult, but not impossible - he had checked. Against anyone else, it would be almost certain to work. But against Voldemort? He knew about bombs, as he had so cruelly demonstrated. He was used to treachery, and would expect it. And he was one of the fastest wands Albus knew. Not even Filius was as quick. Would he be able to vanish or transfigure the bomb before it detonated?

Probably. Albus knew he could do the same, after all. He had tested it, just in case a friend of his fell victim to the Imperius, and Voldemort decided to use this ploy on the Headmaster.

Besides, while the death of Voldemort would be a likely fatal blow to his current campaign, it would be temporary. Only Harry could kill the Dark Lord for good. So far, things had not been as dire as to necessitate such a risky plan. But, the Headmaster added, with a glance at the drawer the report was now resting in, he might find himself in a situation where he’d have to ask Severus to sacrifice himself for such a chance sooner than expected.

He looked at Severus, sitting there, stiff and tense. If Albus asked him to, he would do it. Gladly even.

Guilt was a powerful force. Almost as strong as love. Albus knew that very well. Very well indeed.

*****​

London, No. 12 Grimmauld Place, January 2nd, 1997

“Ah, Paris, the City of Love! The centre of Courtesan culture! Where love is an artform!”

Harry Potter, waiting next to the Floo connection in Grimmauld Place, narrowed his eyes at his godfather, who had the silliest grin on his face he could manage, without changing into Padfoot. “You know we’re traveling to the manor of the Delacours, right?”

Sirius made a dismissive gesture. “Technicalities! We’ll be traveling to Paris as soon as possible. And those Delacours… mmm!”

“He does know that if he goes after Fleur, then Bill will kill him, and if he goes after Gabrielle, then everyone will kill him, doesn’t he?” Ron asked, leaning against the wall next to Harry.

His friend did not sound like he was entirely joking, Harry thought. He nodded. “Of course he does. He’s just doing this to distract himself from the fact that we’re about to head out on a dangerous mission.”

That earned him a glare from Sirius. “And I was succeeding, until you ruined it.”

“Sorry.” Harry wasn’t that sorry - he still had a slight headache from the Legilimency training with the Headmaster last evening. Or he thought he had a headache; after a few hours of diving through memories, things tended to blur a bit. Things and thoughts. He didn’t remember what he had dreamed last night, just that it had been very, very confusing.

The Fireplace flashed, and Harry had his wand out and aimed before a figure stepped out of it. Ron had done the same.

“Ah… good reactions, lads!” Moody grumbled, in his ‘pleased’ voice. “Still too slow to take me on, and you’d have been as helpless as a flobberworm, had I arrived with a Blasting Curse, since you are far too close, but it’s a start.”

Harry shrugged, lowering his wand.

“The room’s too small for that,” Ron said, frowning, “And it’s better to be close and in their face if you can’t gain enough distance.”

“Aye - but where are your Shield Charms then?” Moody shook his head. “You should have cast them already! Constant Vigilance!”

Despite being used to the old Auror, Harry still winced at the volume of Moody’s words. He winced even more when he saw Sirius scowling.

“I was told the two were ready for such a mission. If they are still making basic mistakes…” Harry’s godfather trailed off and glared at the other wizard.

Moody wasn’t impressed, judging by his guffaw. “You weren’t ready either, Black, and you want to come as well?”

“The fireplace is warded,” Sirius hissed in response.

Harry and Ron started to inch back a bit. Just in case the two needed more room.

“And I could’ve been imperiused, lad! Constant Vigilance means just that!”

“But if we are always looking and acting like we are about to attack, others will feel threatened. And fear drives many people to making mistakes. Fatal ones, even.” Dumbledore was standing in the doorway, smiling slightly. Next to him stood Remus, with a half-smile on his face.

“Weeds out the stupid,” Moody said, chuckling.

The Headmaster briefly shook his head, though his expression did not waver. He turned to Harry’s godfather. “Sirius, I can assure you that the two boys are ready for this. They might not be the equal to Moody, but they will not be a liability. There are many Aurors and Hit-Wizards who’d not fare well against them.”

Sirius grumbled. “That’s not exactly reassuring. A Puffskein could probably challenge half the Ministry’s recruits in a duel these days.”

Moody laughed out loud. “It’s not quite that bad, but the Ministry’s not getting the cream of the crop these days.” He shook his head. “It was the same in the last war - curse fodder, the lot of them, but a few among them had the talent and luck to last.” He pointed his thumb at Harry and Ron. “Those two would be among them, with a bit of experience and some blooding.”

Harry wanted to say that he had experience, having fought the Dark Lord several times, and having killed already, but held his tongue - saying such things would have had the opposite effect.

“Besides, we’re going to France. That’s a safe country,” Ron said.

“I would not go that far, I think,” Dumbledore said. “While the Dark Lord is not active in our neighbouring country, he has sympathisers there as well.”

“French Death Eaters? Wouldn’t they laugh at his name?” Harry said, snorting.

“No more than once, I think,” Remus said.

“And trust Moony to remind everyone of that particular tidbit!” Sirius said.

“Didn’t you just try to tell us that this was too dangerous for us?” Harry said.

“Well, it’s different when Remus does it,” Sirius said, frowning.

Remus rolled his eyes, and muttered something Harry didn’t catch.

“I trust you will be on your best behaviour while you are in a foreign country,” Dumbledore said. Harry wondered if he had sounded like that when the Marauders had been at Hogwarts and he had to scold them.

“I even know the Old Forms. Mother was quite thorough,” Sirius grumbled.

“Um.” Harry cleared his throat. “Forms?”

“The pretentious rituals pureblood snobs go through when they are trying to inflate their importance.” Sirius scoffed. “No one uses them anymore, though.”

“Rules on how to greet strangers and family, how to treat guests… quite fascinating, actually. They date back centuries,” Remus said.

“And they haven’t been used outside some circles for centuries. I bet not even the Dark Lord uses them,” Harry’s godfather said.

Harry glanced at Ron, who shrugged.

“Since you are meeting friends, allies, even future family,” Dumbledore said, with a glance at Ron, “I do not think you shall have to act as if you are entering into negotiations with a rival family.” He gestured at the fireplace. “But best be off now - being late would be rude.” With a smile, he added: “Some things have not fallen out of fashion.”

Sirius, of course, had to have the last word: “Then why do people call it ‘being fashionably late’?”

*****​

Outside Paris, Château De la Cour, France, January 2nd, 1997

“Welcome to my ’umble ’ome!”

Ron Weasley kept smiling, even though he wanted to wince. The home of the Delacour family was anything but humble, no matter what Fleur’s father claimed. Judging by the entrance hall they had arrived in, it was a manor, filled with old and expensive furniture. Maybe a palace even - though to judge that, he’d have to see the outside; Extension Charms meant the size of a building couldn’t be measured from the inside. Bill, who was standing with Fleur next to her father, had been rather vague when he had talked about his visits. Unsurprisingly - Ron’s family was poor, but proud.

The Burrow, now just ruins and rubble, had been a humble home, held together by spells and the hard work of them all. Ron knew he was being unreasonable, but he couldn’t help resenting the Delacours for … well, they weren’t showing off, and were friends - and family, once Bill married Fleur...

He shook his head. He had to focus on the mission, not on his family’s lack of wealth and his own issues.

“’Arry!”

Both Ron and Harry jerked, and Ron almost drew his wand - and wouldn’t that have been embarrassing - as a young Veela slipped around her father and made a beeline for Harry, almost bowling the wizard over when she hugged him.

Gabrielle had grown a lot since he had seen her the last time, Ron thought, grinning. Which made her latching on to Harry and babbling in French cute instead of annoying. Especially since Harry didn’t understand a word of it. The little witch had also received her wand since the tournament, and started to demonstrate all the spells she had learned so far. Which, fortunately, weren’t that many, seeing as she was still a first year. Quite impressive, though, for her to cast while keeping an iron grip on Harry’s arm.

“Gabrielle!” A loud voice, close to screeching, actually, cut through the babble and chuckling.

The girl’s mother made an appearance, and with a flick of her wand, had the protesting girl floating towards her. She also whispered some words to her husband, probably admonishing him for not having put a stop to this. Just like at home, when Dad would indulge Ginny, Ron thought.

While Harry rubbed some circulation back into his arm, the group followed Mister Delacour to a salon where food and drink waited for them - quite attentive, in Ron’s opinion.

“I ’ave informed the Commandant de la Bastille that I’ll be giving a few friends a tour,” Fleur’s father said, gesturing at the trays floating near the seats. “Please indulge yourself!”

“They let tourists tour the prison?” Harry sounded as surprised as Ron felt - he imagined touring Azkaban, and shuddered.

“Not everyone, of course,” Mister Delacour answered. “But I ’ave some influence, and some rules can be bent.” He smiled widely.

“We might need to visit the wardstones,” Remus said. “We’re not certain yet, though.”

They didn’t have to visit, Ron knew that - it was just a decoy operation. But they had to act as if this was their best plan.

“I will see what I can do. We might need to ’ave a few guards with us, though.”

“That will not be a problem,” Remus said.

Ron agreed - guards were good. Unless they were traitors - but Voldemort wouldn’t have that many spies in France, much less in their most secure prison, would he?

“Are there any monsters in the Bastille?” Harry asked. “Like Dementors?”

Ron knew Harry was asking not for himself, but for his godfather. If Sirius had a lapse…

“No.” Mister Delacour sounded quite disgusted. “We do not use such foul creatures. The cells of the Bastille are covered with wards, lined with cold iron, reinforced with all the spells we could think of - there is no need to torment our prisoners to keep them from escaping.” He chuckled. “It would be rather difficult to place such monsters there, seeing as our prison is in the ’eart of muggle Paris.”

Some Death Eaters would probably consider that a fate worse than death, but it sounded like a much better system than Azkaban, Ron thought. More expensive, of course. Which meant that the British Ministry of Magic wouldn’t switch unless, or until forced to. He saw Harry pat Sirius’s shoulder, and the older wizard grab Harry’s hand for a moment, and looked away. That felt a bit too personal to watch.

“Who is guarding the prisoners? Aurors?” Ron asked, mostly to distract himself.

“No, our Gendarmes are not serving as prison guards. We have specially trained people for that.”

Ron exchanged a glance with Harry. “Hermione would love it if Britain had the same system.”

His friend nodded. “We’ll tell her about it.”

*****​

Paris, beneath the Place de la Bastille, France, January 2nd, 1997

Hermione wouldn’t like the Bastille, Harry Potter thought, walking behind Mister Delacour and the Warden of the Bastille. The Prison was completely underground, prisoners and guards both missing daylight, and the tunnels they were walking through were damp and gloomy.

As were the prisoners - he could hear some of them moan or mutter in their cells. This wasn’t a modern prison; this was a medieval dungeon, he thought. They had even seen the torture chamber - which, to Harry’s relief, wasn’t being used anymore, but was still being kept ready to use since technically, murdering the Duc, the ruler of Magical France, was still punished by being tortured to death.

The laughter of the warden during his explanation - he spoke English, although with an accent of course - hadn’t endeared the man to Harry. He couldn’t help but think that the French wizard reminded him of Umbridge - a sadist just waiting for the occasion to indulge himself.

He gripped his wand more tightly - the tunnels lacked sufficient lighting. People needed to use their wands to light their way, which would reveal their position even when disillusioned. Moody had griped about that some, but had acknowledged that it might help in case there was an attempt at breaking out.

His eyes fell on a wall, where words had been scratched into the stones. “Mort au directeur!” He frowned and stepped closer, cocking his head to the side to see if he could make out more.

Then the words disappeared in front of him, and the warden stashed his wand. “I’m deeply sorry, we ’ave some regular vandalism by our ghosts.”

“Ghosts?” Harry hadn’t noticed any.

“Many people were executed in ze Bastille. Some of zem stayed after death.” The man smiled as they went down yet another stairway. “Now, ’ere is our second to lowest level, and our most secure. The worst prisoners are incarcerated here. Dark wizards.” He sneered. “Zey do not even leave zis place after death - zeir bodies are buried in our catacombs.” He didn’t ask if Sirius could escape from those cells - Sirius’s answer when he had asked that for the first time, in the upper levels, had not been pretty.

“Catacombs?” Harry had a bad feeling about this, but he had to ask - he had felt a shadow of Voldemort since he had entered the prison, but he hadn’t sensed where it was coming from. But it had grown a bit stronger, now. Or so he thought.

“Yes. Small, but we don’t need more - not many criminals are as bad as to merit imprisonment even after zeir death.” The warden smiled.

“I trust that this is a symbolic imprisonment,” Sirius said. “And that their souls pass over.”

“Of course.” The warden nodded. “Although I like to imagine ze worst monsters being imprisoned ’ere forever.”

Harry believed that at once.

Remus shuddered - the wizard had been ill at ease ever since they had passed the section where unregistered werewolves were being kept. He wasn’t unregistered, Harry knew, not since he had been outed in their third year, but to think he could have ended up in a place like this for hiding his condition…

“There is a cemetery in Azkaban as well. Many prisoners are forgotten by their families, and their bodies are not claimed after their deaths,” Sirius said.

“I think we should take a look at those catacombs,” Harry said. Judging by the looks that earned him, not many shared his opinion.

Well, tough for them - he was risking his life here, and he was the one struggling with a headache! And the pain in his legs from walking for hours was amplified by his modified Supersensory Charm as well.

Even the smarmy warden hesitated, before nodding. “Of course. Please follow me.”

Another staircase down. Harry briefly leaned close to the walls. They were covered with scratched threats to the warden. The man didn’t notice, and Harry doubted anyone but Moody noticed them without specifically looking for them - how Moody managed to function with what had to be a sort of Supersensory Charm constantly active, Harry couldn’t imagine.

Another turn, and he hissed when the pain started to grow worse. There was definitely a Horcrux there.

“You alright, lad?” Moody asked, in a whisper the others would miss.

He nodded in response. He had gone through worse. Especially in training. They reached a large door, and the Warden fiddled with an ancient-looking key.

“Zis is ze lowest level, or part of it. The wardstones are in another room, of course, unconnected to zis room.” The warden pushed the door open. “Behold ze catacombs of ze Bastille!”

Harry drew a sharp breath, mostly due to the increasing pain - the view itself was not too overwhelming. Lots of niches, with cheap-looking coffins in them. Or bags, linen bags, all of them covered with a thick layer of dust, as was the floor, though fading footsteps could be seen there. There was no smell though, other than dry dust.

He slowly moved to the sides, and then ahead. The pain grew when he headed towards the far wall. He nodded at Bill, who looked grim, then started to wave his wand around.

“Monsieur?” The warden sounded alarmed.

“Beel’s just checking for curses,” Fleur said with a smile. “’e’s a bit overprotective of me.”

The wizard chuckled. “Well, I can assure you that zere’s nothing to fear ’ere - none of the guards have ever been ’urt when burying a prisoner.” He stepped forward and spread his arms. “Zese prisoners ’ere are not dangerous anymore!”

“But the curses are,” Bill said, in a strained voice. “There is a curse on that coffin back there.” He pointed at a coffin in the middle of the rows.

“What? What kind of curse?” The warden turned to look at the coffin.

“I don’t know. The coffin is under some kind of transfiguration. It looks simple, but I’m certain that it’s a complex one.” Bill shook his head. “I haven’t encountered this type of curse yet.”

“I think it would be best if we call in a few more Curse-Breakers,” Mister Delacour said. “Do you agree, Monsieur le Directeur?”

The man shook his head, then nodded. “Of course.” Suddenly, he pointed his wand at the door and cast a spell at it Harry didn’t know. He fell down, struck by four stunners and a Bludgeoning Curse courtesy of Moody, a second later.

“That was a sealing spell!” Moody barked. “Forget that coffin, and get that door open, lad!” the old Auror bellowed at Bill.

Bill’s answer was lost in the noise of dozens of coffins opening and linen bags being torn.

*****​

“Inferi!”

For a second, Ron Weasley stared with horror at the monsters tearing their way out of linen wrappings and wooden coffins. Then training took over. He cast a Bubble-Head Charm - you couldn’t trust the air in confined places if you fought there - and stepped up to Harry, who was just about to do the same. Either he had been slower than usual… Ron shook his head. Harry had had to cancel the Supersensory Charm first, or he’d be taken out by the first wound.

“Seal the other half of the room off!” Moody bellowed while his wand spat fire at one monster that had slid free of the remains of its coffin and was walking towards them. Ron turned to conjure a wall, together with Harry. They weren’t the only ones - solid stone filled the room, wall to wall.

That still left them trapped with two dozens of the monsters. Ron cast a Shield Charm. Bill was slinging spell after spell at the door, but there was no effect as far as Ron could tell, not with the quick glance he spared, before setting an Inferius afire that had just rolled out of its niche, then cutting its legs off with another curse. It started thrashing on the ground, setting another alight. A third charged at him, but Harry blew it back with a Reductor Curse, covering him as they had trained to.

The room was rapidly filling with smoke, and while their Bubble-Head Charms kept them breathing, it was becoming harder to spot the enemies. At least for anyone without an enchanted eye.

Moody was in a frenzy, cutting down monsters left and right. “Fall back, we need to seal more of them off!”

Harry and Ron obeyed at once, falling back towards Bill and Fleur, who were now working together on the door. Ron sent a creature that looked to be more bones than dried meat back with a Bludgeoning Curse, and Harry conjured a cage around it, trapping it. Sirius and Remus were close by, but Mister Delacour…

Fleur’s father had been moving to the downed warden and had been surprised by two of the monsters. Both were burning, but he was cut off now. Ron saw him casting at one monster, trying to open a path, but another smashed into Mister Delacour, hands turned to claws glancing off the French wizard’s Shield Charm. Another was fended off as well, then the shield failed, and a third raked its claws over the wizard’s back.

His scream prompted a yell by Fleur: “Papa!” Seconds later, an enraged transformed Veela charged the Inferi, fireballs flying from her hands at them. Half a dozen of them were struck and caught fire- they had to be as dry as tinder, Ron realised - but they were still moving, and still attacking Mister Delacour - and now Fleur as well.

“Depulso!” Harry yelled next to him. The Banishing Curse threw one Inferi into another, pushing both away from Fleur, into the thickening smoke from their burning brethren.

Ron followed Harry’s example, though he only hit one the monsters. Another reached Fleur, but the witch dodged its grasping arms and slid over the floor. More curses hit the ones attacking - striking - at Mister Delacour.

“Accio Antoine’s robes!” Ron heard Bill yell, and from amidst the fight, Mister Delacour shot out, and towards Ron’s brother. Ron didn’t know if the man was still alive - he was busy trying to stay alive himself. Covering Fleur had left him and Harry up for an attack by more of the monsters, and if the two of them fell back further, they’d expose Sirius and Remus, who were moving to protect Fleur. Visibility was shrinking, too, with each burning creature.

Ron clenched his teeth and cast a Reductor Curse at the closest Inferi, blowing its head off. Then he cursed himself for his stupidity - they didn’t need their heads. Moody had taught them to always go for their legs first. A Blasting Curse took care of that, but strained his and Harry’s Shield Charms. That was far too close now. Ron wanted to turn and flee, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t leave Harry, or the others. Not that he could flee anyway.

“Don’t waste your time, boy!” Moody, who was holding down one flank all by himself, shouted at Bill. “Open that door or we all die!” Ron didn’t know what Bill was doing, probably treating Mister Delacour’s wounds.

Fleur had managed to reach Sirius and Remus, by jumping or flying over two of the monsters, but she had been hurt as well, bleeding from a gash on her shoulder. And behind her, a dozen burning Inferi were advancing out of the smoke. Remus conjured another wall, but it couldn’t contain them all - two slid around it, and charged him. The werewolf managed to stop one with a Reductor Curse that blew its chest apart, but the other hit him, and dragged him down on the floor, where the burning monster and the struggling wizard rolled around.

Ron saw Sirius jump to Remus’s aid, transforming, before he had to dodge a legless Inferius which had dragged itself towards him. He destroyed it with another Blasting Curse. “Sirius!” he heard Harry yell. Ron didn’t need to check to know Harry was moving to help his godfather.

But that left him to cover the flank - and two more of the monsters were still coming. A Banishing Curse threw one of them back, into the burning remains of another. The second swiped at him, but Ron ducked, pointed his wand at the enemy’s belly and cast a Reductor Curse.

His shield stopped most of the chunks of dead flesh and bones before it failed. Ron turned to check on Harry when he caught something jumping at him out of the smoke. He didn’t manage to evade, and screamed when he was smashed into the stone floor, then again when claws ripped over his chest, tearing his robe and skin. He kicked at the monster and fended off a claw swipe at his face that left his arm a bleeding, hurting mess.

“Depulso!”

His Banishing Charm ripped the monster off him, and sent it up into the ceiling. Ron rolled to the side, over his wounded arm - Merlin’s Balls, that hurt! - and caught the creature with a Blasting Curse before it could get back up. Panting, he tried to scramble to his feet, but his arm was hurting so much, he took two tries to get up.

Another of the Inferi was climbing along the ceiling, he noticed, barely visible in the smoke. “Watch out, they’re climbing!” Ron yelled, casting again, trying to ignore his bleeding arm and the pain that seemed to be everywhere.

Harry was at his side again, restoring one of the walls that had been battered down - when had that happened? - while behind him, Sirius dragged Remus, or Remus’s body, towards the door. Harry was bleeding too, Ron noted, from his side.

Next to him, his friend blew a crumbling wall apart, toppling three of the creatures over, before conjuring a new one. But before they were sealed off again, Ron had caught a glimpse of dozens more of the Inferi, waiting to attack.

They would be dying here, he realised. Torn apart by undead monsters. Probably turned into Inferi as well, later. The Dark Lord would like this. Rage filled him. He’d not die like this! He’d not become a tool of the Dark Lord! He started casting at a burning monster still trying to reach them.

“It’s open! Go go go!”

Ron whipped his head around, saw the door open, and was moving at once. Moody was there, covering the retreat. He didn’t see the warden, and didn’t care. Traitors should die. Fleur was levitating her father, or so he thought. Another Inferius pushed itself through a gap, and Ron cast a Reductor Curse at it. He missed, though, and blew part of the wall up, letting the monster charge - but Harry got it with a Cutting Curse.

Then they were past the door, on the stairs, and Moody pulled the door closed, then cast a spell at it.

“That should hold them for a while.”

They still rushed back up a level, and filled the entire stairway with stone before stopping to treat their wounds.

*****​

 

Chapter 26: Sacrifices

‘As has been detailed, the loss of two dozen Aurors in a failed ambush was a shock for the Ministry, prompting Minister for Magic Cornelius Fudge to question his policies. In the same vein, the firebomb attack on a group of purebloods celebrating the new year in Diagon Alley and the following events caused the Muggleborn Resistance to reconsider their latest messages, as evidenced by the first broadcast of the Resistance Radio in 1997. Contrary to some of my colleagues, I do not consider those events by themselves as crucial for the war. Instead I postulate that the consequences of the change in policies those events caused were of critical importance for the outcome of the war. Not only was Albus Dumbledore’s role as a link between the Ministry and the Resistance exposed, but also a possible way to mend the rift between the two factions. It was thus only logical that the Dark Lord would react to those developments.’
- Excerpt from ‘The Second Blood War’ by Hyacinth Selwyn

*****​

Paris, beneath the Place de la Bastille, France, January 2nd, 1997

Harry Potter leaned against the wall, next to a prison cell, and gulped down air. Now that he wasn’t fighting for his life any more, he felt each breath hurting the wound in his right side despite the fact that he had stopped the bleeding with a quick Episkey. At least there wouldn’t be internal bleeding since it had been an open wound. It still hurt. He clenched his teeth, and told himself that he had suffered worse in training. At least worse pain. And, he added, looking at his friends, he wasn’t the worst wounded. Not by far.

Mister Delacour… Harry winced. Bill and Moody, the only ones untouched by the Inferi, as well as Fleur, were working frantically to keep the French wizard alive. They were pouring potions into him and casting spells, and Harry didn’t know if they would succeed. So much blood, so many wounds… one leg had been almost torn off, and the arms… Harry looked away when he saw the tears running down Fleur’s face, mixing with the blood from wounds she was ignoring as she struggled to save her father.

Harry’s own skills at Healing were rather pathetic, so he pushed himself off the wall and walked - slowly, carefully - over to Sirius, who was running his wand over Remus’s unconscious form. Sirius himself looked bruised, one eye swelling shut, with several red scratches visible on his face. His thick fur as a Grim must have protected him, Harry thought.

“He’s going to be alright,” Harry’s godfather said, before the boy could ask. “I need to get help now - watch the others!”

With that, Sirius transformed into a Grim and took off, racing to the stairs leading to the upper levels. They had sent a Patronus Messenger off already, but that had gone to the Delacours, and they might be delayed - one didn’t simply walk into the Bastille, much less rush into the prison, even in an emergency.

Harry looked at Remus. Sirius had said he’d be OK, but... the man looked in bad shape, as Moody would call it. Battered and bruised, claw marks dotting his chest and arms, and also burned from wrestling with an Inferius that had been ablaze. And he had taken at least one hit to the head, knocking him unconscious. That was dangerous, Harry knew - Madam Pomfrey had lectured him often enough about his Quidditch injuries. But once again, there was nothing he could do there.

Harry could help Ron, though - his friend was sitting on the ground, trying to aim his wand at his left arm. “Let me,” he said, crouching down and flicking his wand. “Episkey.”

It took two more castings until the deep gashes in Ron’s arm had closed and the bleeding stopped. “A bit deeper, and it would have taken your arm off,” Harry muttered.

“Better my arm than my face,” Ron said. “And it’s not my wand arm, so it’s the expendable one.”

“You’ve been listening to Moody a bit too much,” Harry said, chuckling. It wasn’t that funny. It wasn’t funny at all. But he’d rather laugh than cry. He waved his wand, and the cuts in Ron’s chest closed as well.

“Thanks.” Ron smiled, tiredly.

Harry knew his friend was still in pain - like himself. He sat down next to him. Neither of the two was looking at the desperate struggle for a man’s life going on right next to them. As long as Fleur didn’t scream, Harry thought, then her father was still alive. That was all he needed, and wanted, to know.

*****​

Outside Paris, Château De la Cour, France, January 2nd, 1997

“So much for Harry being safe! All of us are hurt, and Fleur’s father almost died. Might yet die!”

Harry Potter winced at the anger audible in Sirius’s voice. He wanted to say something, but held his tongue - Sirius still hadn’t calmed down, and Harry didn’t want to make things worse.

Moody, of course, had no such concerns. “The Healers in the Hôpital Hermétique aren’t that bad. Delacour wasn’t cursed, so as long as he arrived there alive, he’ll be fine. As will your friend.”

Harry was glad for their privacy spells - even if the Delacours and Bill weren’t at the Hôpital. Moody was a bit too callous when talking about the battle, in his opinion.

The old Auror shrugged. “Besides, neither me nor the lad’s brother got hurt, and neither did you. Scratches don’t count.”

Harry saw Sirius’s hand twitch, and for a moment, he feared that his godfather would start something, but the wizard controlled himself. “We almost died!” he said in a clipped tone Harry had seldom heard from him. “Harry and Ron almost died!”

“They didn’t, though, and they performed well.”

“They’re not bloody Aurors!” Sirius spat.

“Not yet, no.” Moody grinned. “I’m working on that, though. We’ll need good people in the Corps after the war.”

Harry cleared his throat. The two looked at him, as did Ron. “Err… how did Voldemort manage to infiltrate the Bastille like that? I thought it was the most secure place in France.” The Horcrux in Gringotts hadn’t been protected that well.

Moody snorted. “He probably placed the thing there in the 60s, before he started the war. The French were just slacking off back then, with their security, twenty years after Grindelwald.”

“And did he imperius the warden as well back then?”

“Maybe. Wish we could ask him, but…”

Harry winced. The Inferi had swarmed over the unconscious warden. Even if they had not attacked the man, he’d likely would have died when the fires in the room had consumed all the air. He felt guilty about that, and about being glad that the warden had died, and not someone else.

“We haven’t even destroyed the Horcrux!” Sirius said.

“I’ve sent word to Albus. He’ll take care of that,” Moody said. “Some good might come off this too - the French are bound to be unhappy about the Dark Lord putting traps in their dungeon, and almost killing Delacour.”

Sirius ground his teeth, then looked at Harry for a moment.

“I’ll be OK. Go and see Remus!” Harry knew his godfather was torn between watching out for him, and checking up on Remus. But he was safe here, relatively. Safer, at least, than he’d be if Sirius started a fight.

When his godfather had left through the Floo connection, Harry relaxed. At least until Ron, who had been silent so far, spoke up.

“What do we tell Mum?”

*****​

Hogwarts, January 2nd, 1997

Albus Dumbledore sighed when he returned to his office. Fawkes, picking up on his mood, left his perch and landed on the wizard’s shoulder, nipping at his ear and trilling softly. The Headmaster smiled at his companion, but didn’t really feel better.

Sirius had - understandably - been livid about the close brush with death Harry had had. Alastor’s gruff words hadn’t helped, of course, but Albus had been able to handle Sirius. Or rather, he had let Harry handle his godfather. Sirius had, after a lengthy argument, caved in. As Albus had expected. The Headmaster wasn’t proud of having manipulated both of them like this, but needs must - Voldemort could not know Albus’s real plan to defeat him once and for all. The Dark Lord had to believe that they were hunting his Horcruxes, as futile as that was. Even if it meant risking Harry.

Albus scoffed. Harry might even be safer now - if Voldemort was convinced that the traps protecting his Horcruxes could kill the Boy-Who-Lived, then he might not make an effort to kill the lad with other means. Of course, if Tom’s other traps turned out to be even more lethal than the one in the Bastille, the Dark Lord might very well be correct. It was all hypothetical anyway - Albus could not trust Tom to be that careless.

The trap had been lethal, though fortunately only the compromised warden had been killed, although Antoine Delacour had come very close to dying, and from what the Headmaster had gathered, it had been a near thing for the others as well. If it had been just Alastor and the boys… he shuddered at the thought, and Fawkes redoubled his efforts to cheer him up.

Albus didn’t know how Tom had managed to hide Inferi in the very heart of the Bastille, right under the nose of the Duc’s Court. The French might have grown sloppy and careless in the time since Albus had fought at their side against Grindelwald. Or the warden had been a more active spy for the Dark Lord than other moles. Or - the most unsettling possibility - Tom might have found a way to fool conventional detection spells. In his search for a counter-curse to help the two Creevey brothers, Albus had read reports of British wizards being surprised by zombies in Jamaica, during the island’s rebellion. If Tom had managed to acquire the knowledge of the Houngans…

He ran a hand over his beard, smoothing out what Fawkes’s attempts to groom him had wrought. First, this withering curse, now another possible connection. Albus might have to investigate this more closely. The Dark Lord with the secrets of the Houngans at his disposal was a terrifying possibility.

But that would cost time, time he could barely spare. He had to handle the incident in France, and the growing crisis in Britain. The first should not pose too many problems - at least not on the French side. The Duc d’Orléans was livid that one of his closest friends had been almost killed by a trap of a British criminal - and enraged and embarrassed that this trap had been placed inside one of the most secure locations of Magical France. Albus smiled. The French were proud wizards, and after this, even their blood bigots would be very unlikely to lend any aid to Voldemort. Quite the contrary, actually - Magical France would be a very hostile country for the Death Eaters. The Duc was not willing to intervene in England, though - but that was not necessarily a bad thing. Albus didn’t think the Ministry and the Wizengamot would react well to a French intervention - and Tom would call it an invasion in a heartbeat.

The Delacours, of course, wanted blood and would not be content to stay in France. In private, the Duc condoned that, but officially, it was the family’s decision. It didn’t matter, though - their support would be a great boon for the Order - they needed skilled fighters more than anything else, right now.

Which brought Albus’s thoughts to the brewing crisis in Britain. Because of that firebombing in Diagon Alley, and the resulting outrage among the purebloods, Cornelius was reconsidering his decision to stop persecuting and discriminating against the muggleborns. The Order was spreading the rumour that this had been an attack by Death Eaters to frame the muggleborns - which, Albus hoped, was actually the truth; the alternative was far worse - but it didn’t help much. Many purebloods were too afraid, or too angry, to see reason. They wanted revenge.

The Headmaster snorted at the irony - he was certain that the muggleborns shared those exact sentiments. He closed his eyes. Maybe he should arrange for Amelia’s Aurors to catch some purebloods masquerading as muggleborns?

It would certainly deal Tom a heavy blow. But he’d need some Death Eaters to frame for it. And they were hard to come by. Of course, there were alternatives. Not all supporters of Voldemort were marked. Or even following his orders. Some simply shared his goals. They would be cautious, though, since their views were known.

And Voldemort wouldn’t be sacrificing such useful allies for such a ploy. No, he’d use the dregs of his followers, the scum attracted by the promise of riches, and the opportunity to indulge their base desires. Wizards and witches the Dark Lord would not miss.

Wizards and witches Albus would not feel too guilty about using for his plan - no matter if they were working for the Dark Lord, or not.

He petted Fawkes, grabbed a lemon drop, and summoned a piece of parchment. He had to write to his brother. Aberforth knew his way around such people, and where to find them. More importantly, though, he was, unlike Mundungus, quite capable of capturing them as well. Although a bit of help might not go amiss.

*****​

London, No. 12 Grimmauld Place, January 3rd, 1997

“You what?”

Ron Weasley cringed. His mum had just heard about Paris. Fortunately, the privacy spells on this room in Sirius’s house were very powerful - that yell would have been heard in Hogwarts otherwise.

There had been some discussion about not telling her - Moody had cited ‘operational security’. Both Dumbledore and Sirius had insisted on telling her, though. Sirius probably so he had some help trying to keep Harry safe. Dumbledore… Ron didn’t know why the Headmaster was doing this. He’d be blamed the most. Ron was torn himself. On one hand, he didn’t want his parents to worry about him. On the other hand, he didn’t want to lie to them either.

“While they were on a mission in Paris, they encountered a trap of the Dark Lord. They were able to handle it, although one follower of Voldemort was killed in the process, and Miss Delacour’s father nearly died.” Dumbledore was telling the truth, though he was also being a bit economical with it, or so Ron thought. Or maybe that was diplomatic.

“Ron!”

“I’m fine, Mum!” Ron said quickly, forcing himself to smile.

“Were you hurt?”

Ron hesitated for a moment, glancing at the Headmaster. Should he lie? His mum usually saw through his lies.

“You were!” Apparently, she didn’t need Legilimency to read his thoughts either. “Albus! Are you sending children into combat now?”

Ron cringed. His mum was truly livid. And she had her wand out.

“Yes, he is,” Sirius grumbled.

Ron glared at the wizard, and saw Harry was doing the same.

“We volunteered,” Ron’s friend said.

“You’re too young!” The witch turned to Ron’s dad. “Arthur!”

Ron’s dad didn’t yell, or curse. But Ron knew his expression, even though he had rarely seen it. The wizard was angry. “I would like to know why my youngest son was on a mission for the Order - and had to fight for his life.”

“Harry is the Boy-Who-Lived. He has fought Voldemort three times already, four if you count 1981,” Dumbledore calmly said. “The Dark Lord will not rest until Harry’s dead - preferably killed by his own hand.”

“And you send him out there, where the Dark Lord can get to him?” Molly shook her head. “Are you mad?”

“Yes!” Sirius said.

“Harry is crucial for the defeat of Voldemort. Believe me, I’d prefer to keep him behind Hogwarts’ wards for the duration of the war, if that was possible. But as things are, the mission, despite the danger, was needed to keep him safe.”

Ron heard Harry snort at Dumbledore’s words. “I told Sirius already: I’m not going to hide. I’m going to do what I need to. Just as you all are.” Scoffing, he added: “There is no choice anyway. This fight started even before I was born, and it will end only once one of us is dead.”

Ron saw his mum blink, open her mouth, then close it as the realisation sank in. “Merlin’s Ghost!” She turned her head to Albus. “Don’t tell me…”

“You might say it is fated,” the Headmaster said. Ron couldn’t tell if he was angry at Harry for spilling his secret. “We are doing what we can to help him, train him, of course. Needless to say, this has to be kept secret at all costs.”

“Will you obliviate them?” Ron said, without thinking, earning him sharp looks from everyone.

“Your parents know how to keep secrets,” Dumbledore said. “They proved that in the last war, and in this war.”

They knew Occlumency then, Ron thought. And they had never told him. They had never said much about the war - and he and his siblings had rarely asked; they all knew that Mum had lost her brothers to a Death Eater ambush and that it hurt her to think about them.

“But Ron…”

He raised his chin. “I’m not going to leave Harry to face this alone,” he said, as forcefully as possible. He wanted to say that he’d be 17 and not a child any more in three months, but didn’t. His parents knew that already. “It’s bad enough that we left Hermione alone.” They shouldn’t have listened to her when she told them to stay at Hogwarts, he thought, not for the first time. And not for the last time either.

His mum opened her mouth, but his dad put his hand on her shoulder. “We can’t stop them, Molly,” he said quietly.

“All of them, Arthur,” Ron heard his mother whisper in the sudden silence. “All of my sons going to war. Fighting, getting hurt, getting…” Whatever she had been about to say was swallowed by her sobs.

Ron closed his eyes when his mum started to cry in his dad’s arms. He didn’t want to see that. It was bad enough to hear it. He felt terribly guilty about doing this to his parents - but he’d feel even worse if he let his friends down.

And he knew that trying to hide this from them would have been wrong. He clenched his teeth, then opened his eyes, and walked over to hug his parents.

*****​

London, No. 12 Grimmauld Place, January 3rd, 1997

“How’s your mum?” Harry Potter asked when Ron entered the entrance hall in Grimmauld Place.

“She’s busy in the kitchen,” his friend answered. “Preparing for our guests.”

Harry felt a bit irked at that - this was Sirius’s, Remus’s and his home. Everyone else was a guest. Even if they were staying for a long time. He didn’t say anything, though.

“She’s still not alright with it, of course,” Ron continued. “Can’t blame her, either.”

Harry nodded. “Sirius’s the same.”

“I wonder how her parents feel about the war,” Ron said. He didn’t have to say who he was talking about.

“We can ask her next time we meet her.” Harry wondered how much Hermione had told her parents. And if she felt guilty about worrying them.

Ron nodded, leaning against the wall. “When are the French expected to arrive?”

“Few more minutes.” Harry joined him. His side still ached a bit, and he rubbed his ribs.

Ron snorted. When Harry looked at him, he said: “I just imagined Gabrielle coming with them. Mum would probably personally drag her back to France.”

Harry chuckled. Fleur’s little sister had sworn to repay her father’s injury tenfold - as soon as she came of age. She had been serious too, and it wasn’t really funny when you thought about it, given the circumstances, but the pint-sized Veela had just looked too cute with her wand raised.

“Do you think there’ll be many Veela?” Ron asked.

Harry glanced at him. “I had the impression there’d be a few, at least. They seemed quite close. The family, I mean.” Unlike his own relatives. “Why do you ask?”

“Just wondering if there’ll be trouble.”

“Ah.” Harry thought about it, then shook his head. “I doubt it. We’re not at Hogwarts.” There weren’t that many unattached wizards in Grimmauld Place. And he and Ron were too young. And taken.

For a brief moment, he imagined Ron falling for a Veela. That would leave Hermione for him. He shook his head. He was better than that. But it would still be nice, and leave everyone happy.

Sirius entered the room, took a look at them, and grinned. “Oh… can’t wait for the Veela to arrive, huh? If your girlfriend knew that!”

Harry shot him a glare. “We’re being good hosts, since we didn’t know if you’d be late.”

“Me, late to meet pretty witches? Never!” His godfather’s grin widened, then he leered exaggeratedly.

“I should have brought the burn ointment,” Harry said to Ron. “He’ll need it.”

His friend nodded while Sirius frowned. “Hey!”

The fireplace flared up, and all three wizards took a step forward. Instead of the Delacours, the Headmaster stepped out of the flames. “Good evening, Sirius, Harry, Ron.”

Harry’s godfather nodded. He was still angry, Harry thought.

“Good evening, sir,” the two boys chorused.

“I take it that our French friends have yet to arrive?” Dumbledore said while brushing some soot off his robes.

“They shouldn’t be long now,” Sirius said, looking at his watch instead of Dumbledore.

If the old wizard noticed Sirius’s mood, then he didn’t say anything about it. He simply stood there, waiting. And smiling.

“Did you talk to the French Ministry?” Harry asked, as much out of curiosity as to simply pass the time.

“It is actually the French Court, not the Ministry,” the Headmaster said, “and yes, I did. To the Duc in person. He has agreed to keep the attack a secret, and blame the death of the warden on a curse at his home.”

“Voldemort will suspect something if his agent is cursed,” Ron said.

“He will. And he will discover that you triggered his trap, but survived. And that I tried to hide that. That should convince him that we’re focusing on hunting his soul anchors.”

“Ah.” Ron nodded, as did Harry.

Sirius grumbled something Harry didn’t catch. And didn’t want to.

Then the fireplace flared up again, and Fleur stepped through, followed by Bill. Harry didn’t see any sign of the wounds they had taken yesterday on them. The way they moved - Moody had trained them to pay attention to that - didn’t show any lingering pain either.

More people arrived while Sirius greeted the couple.

“Blimey,” Ron said, quietly enough that Harry doubted anyone but himself heard it. “Must be a dozen of them.”

His friend was correct, Harry thought. And among them, five Veela. No, four - that witch was too plain for a Veela, he thought.

“Welcome to my humble home!” Sirius said, with a sweeping bow. His angry mood seemed to have evaporated in the face of pretty witches. Pretty, smiling and giggling witches.

Harry sighed. He sincerely hoped this wouldn’t lead to trouble.

*****​

London, No. 12 Grimmauld Place, January 3rd, 1997

“The Muggleborn Resistance stands for justice! Our war is not with the purebloods - we fight Death Eaters and everyone else who supports them. We do not attack purebloods for being purebloods! We do not attack those who do not fight us.”

Albus Dumbledore, in disguise, nodded to the words of the Resistance Radio which filled the Hog’s Head Inn. Miss Granger stuck to her ideals.

“We have been persecuted, hunted like animals, simply because we were not born to wizards and witches. Our enemies happen to be purebloods, and loudly claim to fight for pureblood culture and values. It’s only natural to want revenge. To fight back using the same means that our foes use.”

Once again Albus nodded. Far too easy for many, he knew.

“But we cannot! For if we stooped to such levels, we’d be no better than the Death Eaters! Purebloods are not our enemies - Death Eaters and bigots are. Many purebloods risk their lives fighting the Dark Lord’s forces. They defy him just as we do. Blood doesn’t mean anything to them, nor to us.”

Aberforth, sitting across from him, snorted. His brother was quite the cynic, Albus thought. Or, to be more precise, Aberforth wanted to be a cynic. But the Headmaster was quite certain that his brother had not managed that. Aberforth cared too much, no matter how much he tried to hide it. And, Albus added, catching the other’s glare, he still blamed Albus for much of his pain. Not entirely unfairly, he had to admit.

“Every pureblood killed just for being a pureblood is a blow against us. Each of those murders directly helps the Dark Lord, for the bigots want to make this war into a blood war. They want to turn this war into purebloods against muggleborns. They want to drag us down to their level so all of the purebloods will join them out of fear and hatred. And each time a group of muggleborns decides to go and hurt purebloods, they get closer to their goal.”

Albus wasn’t certain how effective this appeal would be. If it saved even one innocent life it would have been worth it, but he doubted that it would keep every muggleborn from lashing out, or worse.

“That doesn’t mean you cannot fight. There are many purebloods who have, in word and deed, shown their allegiance with the Dark Lord. Those who fight for him, hidden beneath masks, and those who act in his interest while appearing to be independent. Those are our enemies. Those are the ones who want to kill us all. Members of the Wizengamot. Ministry employees. Journalists. And so-called concerned citizens.

“Adalbert Avery, Auror. Beatrice Avery, Ministry employee in the Floo Network Authority. Hermann Bulstrode, member of the Wizengamot. Winnifred Burke, Journalist. …”

Albus closed his eyes. “Proscriptions,” he whispered. Death lists.

“Was that your idea?” Aberforth looked at him.

Albus couldn’t tell if his brother approved of this turn of events or despised it. “I knew about it.” He could have stopped it, maybe. But Miss Granger had been quite convincing - those who wanted to fight needed targets, or they’d seek their own. Albus had his reservations, still - to name people to be killed felt a bit too much like the practice of the Death Eaters.

His brother snorted. “Did you check the names?”

He nodded, slowly.

“And are you afraid you made a mistake, and left an innocent on the list?”

“Not particularly.” He trusted his information. And his spies.

“What’s eating you then? Are you feeling sorry for the scum who caused this damn war?” Aberforth narrowed his eyes at him.

“Even with the lists being spread as leaflets, people might add names for various reasons. And once the practice of proscriptions has been established, it is difficult to stop. People can turn into a mob quite easily.” Albus knew how quickly an enraged group could turn onto a perceived enemy, and how brutal men could act if they thought themselves justified.

The other wizard shrugged. “The Death Eaters and their bootlickers are reaping what they have sown. Yes, there’ll be some excess, but it’s better than a bloodbath in Diagon Alley.”

“Which might still happen anyway.” Both of them knew about Mister Baker, after all. The former member of the Resistance would not be the only muggleborn who had ‘gone over the edge’, as Kingsley used to call it. Albus felt a brief pang of sorrow, thinking of his dead friend.

“Oh, yes. But it’s a bit less likely now.”

That was true. And Miss Granger’s influence on the muggleborns had grown again, Albus thought. This would be a great boon for a negotiated peace, should the opportunity present itself. He nodded.

“But you didn’t visit me to listen to the Muggleborn Wireless. What do you want, Albus?” Aberforth asked in a harsh voice.

“I need a few of those people who were just named. Alive, and reasonably unhurt.” The Headmaster almost smiled when he saw Aberforth’s eyebrows rise. “I need them to keep the Dark Lord from using those attacks for his own goals.”

His brother stiffened for a moment, then nodded.

Albus had expected that. Even if Aberforth liked to claim that Albus was manipulating people and plotting without care for those his plans hurt, his younger brother was no stranger to such ploys himself.

Something, the Headmaster knew, his brother blamed him for as well. And not entirely unfairly.

*****​

London, Sutton, January 3rd, 1997

“... Brenda Brocktuckle, Auror, …”

Brenda Brocktuckle, sitting in their muggle flat next to the wireless receiver, gasped. Those mudbloods… no, that mudblood had dared! Called out to the other mudbloods to murder her! For a moment, she felt fear. To be singled out like that… like others who had been murdered. But she fought the feeling down. She was an Auror! A veteran Auror! Not some Ministry clerk trembling in her Madam Malkin’s special offer boots! She grinned grimly. So, Granger felt it was personal as well. Good.

“Wow, the mudbloods really did it - they openly declared their intentions to murder every pureblood who does not bow to them!” Parkinson, sitting next to her in that infuriatingly casual manner of his, with his arm propped up on the table, was shaking his head in what looked like cynical amusement, Brenda noted. “I wonder if they list me as well.”

Brenda narrowed her eyes, she was certain that the other Auror wouldn’t be jealous if the mudbloods didn’t list him as a target, but… Ah! “Since you’re not that prominent, it means they might have spies inside the Auror Corps.”

“Or someone in the Corps has loose lips,” Parkinson said, “and is talking to a spy.”

Brenda sighed. “Right.” Office gossip, the bane of investigations - in more than one way.

“... Malcolm Parkinson, Auror, …”

“Ah, there I go. The mudbloods do know of me!” Brenda’s flatmate definitely sounded amused now.

She didn’t share the sentiment. “It’s not a good thing.”

He shrugged. “It’s not as if the mudbloods can find us, or anyone else on the list who’s smarter than the average Flobberworm.”

Brenda shook her head. “Some might not even know that the mudbloods want them dead.” After all, Brenda wasn’t a Death Eater herself, yet she had been listed. And some people on the list might not be as cautious as they should be.

“Well, they’ll find out soon enough from the Prophet. Although it might be better if the Prophet didn’t print the mudblood list. We wouldn’t want to help them spread their propaganda.”

“If you don’t publish the list, the people will find out themselves. And might endanger themselves in the process.” The chance was small, though, Brenda knew that - the mudbloods would plaster their damned leaflets all over Diagon Alley, as usual.

“Hm… if the published list would be a bit altered, we could make some trouble for the blood traitors. Put some of them on it.”

Brenda laughed. “That would be funny!” She doubted that any mudblood would attack them - they would have the original list - but it might make some of those traitors reconsider their stance.

“Speaking of funny, how goes your plan to stop the next attack from fire-dropping mudbloods?”

Brenda narrowed her eyes at him, but Parkinson gave no indication that he thought her plan was stupid. “I’ve met some setback - apparently, Zonko’s can’t deliver the fireworks I need.”

“And the Weasleys won’t speak to you, much less sell to you.”

Brenda nodded. “I can’t even buy through a middleman since I need a special order.”

Parkinson rubbed his chin. “You might have to talk to the Unspeakables.”

Brenda sighed. “Bothering them for a joke shop item…” She pressed her lips together. She didn’t like talking to the members of that department. She didn’t know anyone who did.

“Do you have another idea to stop the mudbloods?” The other Auror shrugged. “Short of checking if someone created a spell for that, and never bothered to share it…”

Brenda stared at him. “If I hear just one joke about this from another Auror…”

“My lips are sealed!” he said, quickly, but with a faint grin. “But if that fails, I might know someone who can help you, but it would be…” he trailed off.

She knew what he meant, or rather, who. But she wasn’t certain she wanted to go that far, yet. She shook her head and switched the wireless to the Ministry channel. They were playing music, of course - as if the mudbloods had not just challenged Wizarding Britain. The witch ground her teeth, then summoned a bottle. She needed a drink to deal with this. And the stupid muggles were doing something to the house too - at least they were working during the day, and not when she was home.

*****​

Hogwarts, January 4th, 1997

Albus Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, putting the letter he had just read on his desk. One Horcrux destroyed. He smiled at the man sitting across his desk. “Do you know the contents of this letter, Mister Delacour?”

Marcel Delacour, younger brother of Antoine Delacour, shook his head. “No. My niece insisted no one could know. She is very ’eadstrong, and loyal.” He sounded both bemused and annoyed. “Although, I must confess I am a bit vexed zat I’m not to know why my brother almost died.”

“It is for your own safety, and for the safety of others” Albus said.

The younger wizard nodded, but his smile could not hide that he didn’t like it. It could not be helped, though - the Headmaster had to make the effort to hide this, or Voldemort might see through his ruse. “I do have to say once again how grateful my friends and I are for your help. It takes a brave soul to face the Death Eaters.”

The French wizard waved his left his hand in an intricate gesture. “Bah. After zis attack on my brother, ’ow could we not take up wands? We’re French, after all. We stood firm even when ’alf of France ’ad fallen to Grindelwald. An uncle and an aunt of mine were killed fighting ’is hordes, and we paid back that debt as well.”

Albus remembered what had happened after Gellert’s defeat. The revenge the victors took on those who had fought for his old friend had been bloody and brutal. He still wondered if he should have let them kill Gellert, if it had meant that his followers would live. Less, though, these days, after those who had been spared after Tom’s first defeat had joined the Dark Lord again. The Headmaster was certain that this time, mercy would be in short supply, again. He kept smiling, though, and nodded. “Indeed. And now another Dark Lord is trying to rise, in Britain, this time.”

“’e tried before, and failed,” Delacour said. “’e’ll fail again. We’ll make certain of it.”

Albus almost shook his head. French elan! It seemed that those who had fought and bled in Grindelwald’s War had not passed on the lessons learned to their children. Although he was grateful for their eagerness - he needed their help. With the Delacours and the d’Aigles, he could meet Tom’s forces without the Resistance, should his enemy try to take over the Ministry by force.

Something that seemed to be less likely these days than Albus had thought. Even Miss Granger’s broadcast wouldn’t change much - many purebloods were scared, even though they were not on the list, and had no reason to fear they’d be on it. But they were slowly realising that if the Death Eaters lost the war, then Britain would change - and many might not like that.

Out loud, he said: “And we appreciate your help, very much. Between the Ministry’s corruption and the Death Eaters, we are hard-pressed.”

“And you ’ave to deal with the muggleborns, don’t you? They are the main enemies of the Dark Lord.”

Albus nodded, a bit slower. The Delacours were no bigots - Fleur marrying Mister Weasley was, if not proof, still a clear indication of that - but France hadn’t forgotten that muggleborns had rushed to Gellert’s banner. The press in Paris had been quite dramatic in their reports too. “They saw the signs before many others, and were ready for the war. Unlike the Ministry.”

“They started the war, so some say at least.” Delacour kept smiling, but his eyes had narrowed just a tiny bit.

“Those who say so are wrong. It was obvious that the Dark Lord planned to weaken his enemies, before murdering them.” Albus met the man’s eyes. “That plan failed, thanks to the Muggleborn Resistance’s initiative. The Ministry will not admit it, but without the muggleborns, they would have fallen to the Dark Lord already.”

“And yet they still fight them.”

“That policy is about to change.” Or had been - Albus had to pressure Cornelius some more.

Delacour shrugged. “As long as they are not attacking us or ours, then we should not have a problem.”

“The Resistance will not. Unfortunately, there are some muggleborns who have gone too far in their desire for revenge, and are attacking any purebloods.” Albus didn’t think those behind the fire bombing would stop. They had gone too far, and would know it. “Rest assured that they will be dealt with, when found.”

The man’s smile grew wider, though a bit more cruel as well. “Very well. We’re currently visiting the landmarks in Britain, so we can apparate easily to wherever we’re needed.”

“Very good.” Albus knew they were training as well, with the Weasleys, and also with Sirius and Remus. With Alastor added, that would give Albus close to twenty well-trained wizards to react to an attack. “Do you need anything?”

The French wizard made a show of mulling this over, then shook his head. “No, I do not think so. Our ’ost has been most gracious.”

Sirius would have been, Albus thought, given the number of pretty witches who had come to Britain. The Headmaster just hoped this would not lead to problems with the rest of the French.

*****​

London, Soho, January 3rd, 1997

Hermione Granger wasn’t tapping her foot - not quite; she had stopped herself twice so far - but she was frowning. Her friends were… well, they were not yet late, she amended, after glancing at her wristwatch. Even if it felt as if they were late. She took another sip from her tea, then set the cup down so quickly, some tea was spilled. There!

Harry and Ron were just entering the café, looking around for her. She saw Ron smile when he spotted her and nudge Harry. She looked them over carefully while they made their way towards her through the café. Both were moving a bit more slowly than usual, or so she thought. No, it was true. They were moving like after one of those violent Quidditch matches, or training. They had been hurt worse than they had told her through the mirror!

Something on her face must have given her thoughts away, since both boys were wincing when they reached her table. For a moment, she was taken aback, then she stood up, shaking her head, and went to hug them - maybe a bit harder than normal.

Once they had ordered and cast their privacy spells, she stared at both of them. “Just ‘some scratches’, hm?”

Ron grimaced. Harry looked sheepish, but said: “There were scratches. Among other things. But nothing really bad - the Healers had no trouble.”

Ron nodded.

Hermione pursed her lips. “Madam Pomfrey had no trouble putting you together either, after your many mishaps.” She took a deep breath. She couldn’t get angry. She couldn’t tell them about the Resistance’s missions in advance, and neither could they tell her.

“Well…” Ron started, “I’m sorry. We’re sorry. We didn’t want to make you worry.”

“And now I’m worrying even more,” she said, “when you’re on a mission.”

“Which makes us even,” Harry said.

She glared at him, but he didn’t flinch. And as much as she hated to admit it, he was right. Sighing, she looked down. To his credit, he didn’t rub it in. “Still, both of you were hurt.”

“Yes. Moody was good, but… there were too many. Of the Inferi, and of us,” Ron said. “Moody held one side by himself. But the others… Fleur’s father tried to save the warden, who had sprung the trap on us, and most of the rest were hurt saving him. It showed that we hadn’t trained together, all of us I mean.”

“Ah.” Hermione nodded, even though she wanted to cringe. Inferi - animated corpses. Most spells wouldn’t do much to them, nor would bullets. They were a bit slow, but trapped in a room with them… She forced herself to stay calm. “So… Bubble-Head Charms, then you set them on fire?”

“Basically,” Ron said. “But they were tricky - some climbed over the walls, and even along the ceiling. Remus didn’t mention that when he taught us, so maybe that was something Voldemort added.”

“Noted.” Hermione and her friends might have to deal with that as well, once they attacked a base of the Dark Lord. “How was the trap triggered?”

“The warden did it. Probably imperiused - he was killed by the Inferi as well. Locked us in the crypt when they started to move.”

“The crypt?”

“The place they buried, or rather, stored the dead prisoners,” Harry said. “The man said some prisoners wouldn’t even leave the Bastille in death. I hope he didn’t mean that literally.”

Hermione nodded, but given that the British Ministry punished some criminals by having a monster suck out their soul, she wouldn’t put it past the French to imprison souls as well. Another thing that would have to change, once this war was over. Dementors would have to go. “You did well, then.” Sirius had told her so already, between rants.

“We stayed with Moody, as long as possible, and did what we trained for. The others were rushing into the middle of the monsters,” Harry said, shrugging.

He probably felt as if he had done less than he could have, Hermione thought, just because he hadn’t foolishly risked his life.

“Well, we did good. Moody was even praising us. In his own way,” Ron said.

“He might have said that just so Sirius and your mum wouldn’t curse him.” Harry snorted.

The other boy shook his head. “No, Moody wouldn’t care. He’d probably think it was good training if they attacked him.”

While both boys chuckled, Hermione wondered just how hard their training was, and how good they were, compared to the Resistance and herself. At least it seemed as if they had weathered their first battle well enough. She’d not ask about the nightmares she was certain they had.

Ron broke the short silence that followed. “So, we listened to your broadcast. Do you think those who attacked Diagon Alley will stop?”

Hermione sighed. “No, I don’t. I don’t even know if they were muggleborns, and not Death Eaters, or imperiused.”

“Sirius said they didn’t find any ties to Voldemort,” Harry said.

Hermione had known that already. It didn’t mean there weren’t any, but… “Yes. I hate the thought, but I think those were muggleborns.” She took a deep breath. “They already crossed the line, and they may think they have nothing to lose now.” Or they might simply not care - such atrocities were common in wars, especially in civil wars. “The list may sound impressive, but most of those people will be hiding. We struggle to find them, and those other groups won’t have our resources.”

“Shite,” Ron muttered under his breath. Hermione didn’t bother to call him on it.

“They really might be imperiused, or Death Eaters in disguise,” Harry said.

“Hopefully.” And they would be, if the headmaster’s plan succeeded, the young witch knew that. “How did Sirius and your parents react?”

Both boys sighed and glanced at each other.

“As expected, then,” she said. Sirius and the Weasleys were very protective of their children. Or godson, in Sirius’s case.

“Yes,” Harry said, before taking a big sip from his soda.

“Dumbledore handled it, though.” Ron sounded as if that was one of the Headmaster’s greatest feats. And, given the tempers of both Sirius and Mrs Weasley, he might even be correct, she added to herself, with a smile.

“At least Sirius is now distracted by the French witches staying at Grimmauld Place,” Harry said. “He was getting far too protective.”

Her friend sounded annoyed, but Hermione didn’t think he really minded that his godfather cared so much for him. Quite the contrary. So why would he be in that mood? She almost smirked when she found an answer. “Are you worried about getting a stepmother?”

Harry jerked and stared at her. “What?”

“Children often have trouble when their parents remarry,” Hermione said. Sirius was the closest person to a father Harry had, after all.

“It’s not that,” her friend said. “I just think he is overdoing it.”

“Four Veela, mate,” Ron added with a grin. “And one other hot French witch. Of course Sirius is distracted.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. While she wasn’t that concerned with appearances, or so she liked to think, she was not certain that she would like to hear too much about Veela and ‘hot French witches’. Especially not if said witches lived with Harry and Ron. She huffed and said: “I hope you didn’t stare at them.” The witch clearly remembered his reaction to Fleur in their fourth year.

Ron quickly shook his head. “I didn’t drool, if you mean that. But I doubt there is any man in the house who did not stare at them at least once. Well, not Dad.”

Harry sighed. “Sirius said we should familiarise ourselves with them, so we don’t mistake them for an enemy in the middle of a fight.”

Hermione scoffed. “Of course he’d say that.” That was exactly what she expected of the wizard. She also noted that Harry hadn’t denied staring either. Well, boys would be boys. And would it be that bad if one of them fell for a French witch? The selfish, jealous part of her thought it would. But she wouldn’t have to choose then, wouldn’t have to hurt either of them if that happened. Although if both boys fell for the prettier, more mature French witches or Veela… She told herself that those witches were adults, and wouldn’t be interested in teenage boys, so the point was moot. Hopefully. “Sirius also said that they were a bit concerned about us,” she said. “About the Resistance.”

“They are,” Harry said. “Dumbledore said he’d explain that you’re our allies, but…”

“They are no bigots, but as Fleur told us, purebloods in France have had bad experiences with muggleborns fighting for Grindelwald,” Ron added. “They are concerned about a repeat of that.”

That sounded a tad bigoted to Hermione, but she didn’t say that. “I see.” Hopefully, that would not be a problem. She didn’t want to imagine Seamus and Dean meeting the French. Well, if there were only French witches and Veela, it probably wouldn’t be that bad… dear Lord, she had to stop thinking like that! The witch took another sip from her tea, and the conversation lapsed.

“Was there any success finding a cure for the Creeveys?” Ron asked, once again breaking the silence.

She shook her head. “No. The Headmaster is looking into it, but…”

“But he’s busy with the war,” Harry finished for her. “And with teaching and training us.”

Hermione nodded. It was selfish, it was cruel, and she felt guilty for feeling like it, but as long as it kept her two friends alive, she was fine with that. The Creeveys were in no danger of dying right now, after all. They were even safer now, unable to go on missions.

And when Hermione laughed at a joke Ron made she tried really hard not to think about the fact that even if the Creeveys’ lives were in danger, she’d pick Harry and Ron over them.

*****​

Outskirts of Newcastle upon Tyne, Britain, January 5th, 1997

“Your sacrifices are ready.”

Albus Dumbledore nodded at his brother’s comment. Aberforth might be biased, and trying to hurt him, but he was ultimately correct - the three wizards currently stunned and bound in the basement of the safe house would be sacrificed, if not in the way most witches and wizards of Britain understood the term. “Thank you, Aberforth.”

His brother glared at him. “I don’t like this sort of plot.”

“I do not like it either,” Albus admitted, truthfully.

“Could have fooled me. Isn’t that sort of sacrifice just your thing? Sacrifice a few to save many?”

“I trust that the men you picked are not innocents, but those who would harm and kill others for personal gain.” Albus knew that his brother was quite familiar with those sorts.

Aberforth huffed, but didn’t press the issue. “Not many will believe they were behind the other attack.”

“But it will seed doubts.” And, once the war was won, it would allow the purebloods to blame the Death Eaters for all those attacks, which should help with reconciliation.

“The Aurors still have people who can spot a False Memory Charm. Even one cast by you.”

Aberforth managed to make that sound like an accusation. As if Albus used the charm extensively. The Headmaster didn’t rise to the bait, though. “That will not be a problem. They’ll not be captured alive.”

“How would you manage that? Imperius?” Aberforth stared at him.

Albus narrowed his eyes. As if he’d sink that low. “No. Careful application of the False Memory Charm will ensure they will not plan to survive.”

“That lot might plan to die, but they might mess that up. They aren’t the brightest bunch of chaps.”

“Which is why the actual plan will be mine.” Albus smiled. “They will not survive; trust me.”

Aberforth drew a hissing breath. “You sound quite experienced.”

“Not as much as you might think.”

His brother scoffed and sat down in one of the chairs he had conjured. “Are you even working on curing those two boys, in between arranging murders and traps?”

This time Albus had to make an effort to control his own temper. “Of course.” Not as much as he could, unfortunately - the current crisis took precedence. “It’s not going as quickly as I hoped, that’s all.” Looking into Houngan business was not something even a wizard as powerful as Albus could rush. He stood up. “I’ll handle this then.”

“And I’ll be in my pub, trying to forget what I just helped you do.”

Albus didn’t say anything, simply shook his head once his brother had apparated away.

*****​

Outside Stamford, Lincolnshire, Britain, January 5th, 1997

The Dark Lord Voldemort was in a happy mood. Thanks to those mudbloods attacking fools in Diagon Alley, his efforts - or rather, the efforts of his followers in the Wizengamot - to stop Fudge from making a deal with the Resistance were enjoying far more success than he had expected. Just another attack or two, and Dumbledore’s proposal would be buried. That would compensate for the loss of so many of his followers in the Auror Corps, somewhat at least.

He frowned. He still had not made up that loss. Parkinson was dragging his feet - that man was skilled, but too cautious for his taste. Others would have jumped at the chance to lead the Aurors in his service. Parkinson, though, was ‘cultivating’ Brocktuckle - an Auror who had failed to stop the mudbloods for months now. And had been in charge of that failed ambush that had cost him so many of his Aurors. If not for Parkinson’s pledge that this had just been bad luck - after Voldemort had gone over the plans himself - he would have made her pay for that disaster. He still might - there were various ways to initiate a new Death Eater, after all. Some Bellatrix would greatly enjoy helping him with; the way she could use the Torture Curse impressed even him.

He looked at the report from one of his agents in Paris. His agent in Paris, now. The warden of the Bastille had been killed in an undisclosed accident. He snorted. As if he’d fall for such a ruse. The warden was dead, and Antoine Delacour, future father-in-law to one of the Weasleys, almost died as well? The only thing that could explain that was that Delacour had tried to reach the Horcrux Voldemort had hidden in the Bastille, and the warden had triggered the trap to stop him.

Which meant that Dumbledore was stepping up his game, reaching past the British borders on his hunt. Voldemort was not worried, of course - he had hidden Horcruxes all over the world before he had made his first attempt to take over Britain. Those who do not prepare for a defeat, however unlikely it was, were doomed, after all. But he was wondering if the Boy-Who-Lived had been present as well. Would Dumbledore risk the boy, counting on whatever protection the boy’s mudblood mother had managed to create? He summoned a piece of parchment and wrote a letter to his agent, ordering him to look into the matter. If the boy had been present, then that might mean that his trap had been defeated by Potter’s protection. And that would mean that the boy was a more important obstacle than Voldemort had thought. An obstacle that had to be removed before he could take over Britain. And he wanted to know how his Inferi had performed in battle. They had been an experiment, following his visit to the Caribbean in 1957.

He sighed. But first things first. Standing up, he left his room and took the stairs down to the basement. He checked the circle he had prepared again - it wouldn’t do to make a mistake with such an important task. Then he put a ring down in the middle of it. Not too cheap, not too expensive. Average. Banal even - a muggle wedding ring. Taken from the muggle currently staring at him, and, judging by the way her mouth was moving, trying to say something under the effect of his Silencing Charm. Likely begging or pleading. Pitiful.

The Dark Lord took out his wand, and saw the muggle’s eyes widen as she started to struggle. He shook his head. Why couldn’t she face her end with dignity? This was a sacred ritual, after all.

She should be honoured to give her life so Voldemort would live forever.

*****​

 

Chapter 27: Cursed

‘Officially, the French wizards and witches taking part in the Second Blood War were volunteers, without any connection to the Court of Magical France. Unofficially, everyone in France and Britain at the time was aware that this was a mission sanctioned by the Duc d’Orléans himself, to avenge the attack on his close friend Antoine Delacour in the Bastille.
There has been much speculation about what exactly happened that day in the Bastille, but all involved have refused to give any details about the event - or died in it. What is known, though, is that Mister Delacour was hurt by a trap guarding a dark artifact hidden there. All involved agree that the Dark Lord had placed it there, an opinion obviously shared by the Duc himself. And yet, dissenting opinions have been voiced, in recent times.
At first sight, the fact that no one among half a dozen wizards and witches who survived the trap was the victim of a dark curse might throw some doubt upon the Dark Lord’s responsibility. Wasn’t he known to have studied the Dark Arts more extensively than anyone else? Why would he not use the darkest curses to protect whatever he had hidden there? And why would he risk offending Magical France in the first place by using the Bastille for this? It is not uncommon for those questions to be followed by speculation that Dumbledore had arranged the whole ‘attack’ to give his French allies the pretext to come to his aid even though Magical France was officially neutral.
Those among my colleagues who support this theory often fail to ask themselves why Dumbledore would have stooped to such a complicated plan if he could simply have faked an attack on the home of the Delacours. If they were his allies and looking for a pretext, they could have easily arranged things. All without taking the very same risks that my colleagues claim would have stopped the Dark Lord. Not to mention that if Dumbledore had wanted to frame his enemy, he would have certainly chosen a dark curse for that purpose.
The only logical conclusion is that the Dark Lord was responsible for the trap that almost cost Antoine Delacour his life and brought his family’s wands into the war on Dumbledore’s side.’
- Excerpt from ‘Wizarding Britain in the 20th Century’ by Albert Runcorn

*****​

London, Diagon Alley, January 5th, 1997

“Why are we on the night shift, again?” Parkinson asked.

If she hadn’t been disillusioned, Brenda Brocktuckle would have raised her eyebrows at her partner. As it was she didn’t answer. He knew as well as she did that they were on this shift for two reasons. First, they had survived where two dozen Aurors and Hit-Wizards had not, under their command - well, Brenda’s, but Parkinson had been in her group. And second, if the mudbloods attacked again, it would be at night.

Instead she lifted the Omnioculars she had managed to procure from the DMLE archives, where it had been stored as evidence for twenty years, and scanned the sky again from their vantage point, on the roof of a house at the start of the alley.

“And why are we here? In the cold, on a roof, one slip away from breaking our necks?”

Once again, Brenda didn’t want to answer. They had spells against the cold, and were sitting on brooms with Cushioning Charms. But if her partner continued to gripe, then they might be heard by mudbloods before Brenda could spot them. The moon was waning, and without the Omnioculars, it would be a hopeless task. Even with it, it was easy to miss a broom at a distance, with a disillusioned rider. But she would be damned if she gave up, not now, not when the mudbloods were targeting her personally!

Just as she was about to tell him to shut up for the fifth time, she caught something flying over Knockturn Alley. A few adjustments, and she saw it more clearly. A broom rider! And anyone riding a broom to Diagon Alley or Knockturn Alley was a suspect even if they were not at war with mudbloods - they would have to fly over muggle London, which could endanger the Statute of Secrecy. But at night, and nowadays? Brenda would bet what was left of her career that this was a mudblood.

Was betting her career, she realised, when she pointed him out to Parkinson. Then she saw two more flying next to the first. None of them were disillusioned, but that was hardly surprising - even among the Aurors, few had mastered that spell.

Brenda had, though, as had Parkinson. And she had a Human-presence-revealing Spell cast as well, showing her where Parkinson was, as long as he stayed in the - sadly, rather short - range of the spell. Which she doubted he’d manage - they hadn’t been working together that long; even Martin - she felt the pain of his loss again - had not been good enough.

Still, it would suffice to stop three mudbloods. Unless it was a trap.

For a moment, she hesitated. Traps and ambushes was how the Resistance fought. If they were waiting for them… She shook her head, even though no one could see her. The Resistance wouldn’t be that clumsy.

“I’ll get the one in front,” she said. “You take care of the Jinxes.”

“Alright,” Parkinson answered.

Then they were off.

Contrary to her expectations, Parkinson stuck close to her on the approach. Shortly before they were in range of spells though, he veered off. She couldn’t pay much attention, though - the mudbloods were pulling out small things, probably the bombs. Brenda ground her teeth and aimed her wand. Just a bit closer, to be certain to hit… Now!

Her Bludgeoning Curse hit the lead mudblood in the chest, and the man was thrown off his broom. He fell down, screaming and flailing, and she saw the bomb drop as well. Both hit the roof below, and Brenda heard the bomb go off.

The Auror was already turning around, climbing to dive at the remaining mudbloods. She wasn’t an expert, but she knew the basics of broom combat.

The two mudbloods seemed to panic, looking wildly around for her. One of them was suddenly hit by a Cutting Curse, or rather, his broom was, and started to go down as well. The other dived down, evading Brenda’s own curse at the last moment - he too seemed to know the basics of broom combat.

It wouldn’t help him, though. Thanks to Parkinson’s Anti-Apparition Jinx, the mudblood couldn’t escape - and she had altitude on him. Her next spell missed, but he jinked to the left, as expected, losing more speed. She was gaining. And he was low enough now so he’d survive a fall - she needed at least one arrest. Another spell flew past the man, and when he pulled to the side and up, the bristles of his broom touched the roof underneath him.

Brenda was still diving, wand out, but she pulled up as well, leveling her flight, and the mudblood flew right across her - and into her next spell. The Bludgeoning Curse blew him off his broom, and he fell down on the roof, five yards below him, then skidded over the wet shingles until he slid over the edge and fell another story down into a dark courtyard.

Brenda followed, descending quickly, then jumped off her broom. The culprit was lying on his back, legs bent at unnatural angles, but he was still conscious, and glaring at her. His hands were empty - he must have lost his wand in the crash.

“You’re… not… taking me… alive…” he spat out.

Brenda’s eyes widened and she stunned him at once. Despite this, she saw black liquid dribble out of his mouth - poison! She fumbled for one of the bezoars on her with her left hand and countered the Stunner with her wand, but by the time she opened his mouth to push the stone down his throat, he was already dead.

Grinding her teeth, she stood up, kicking the barrel that had been broken by the man’s fall. A swish of her wand shrunk the corpse, and she mounted her broom again, to look for her partner and the other mudbloods.

As she rose out of the courtyard, she saw that not all of the buildings in Knockturn Alley had had the required wards against fire, not even half a year into this war - flames were shooting out of the burning roof of the building the first mudblood had fallen onto. Parkinson was flying nearby, and shooting water at the fire with his wand.

Brenda briefly closed her eyes, sighing - they couldn’t get lucky at least once, could they? - and then went to join him. Working together, they should be able to save the rest of the buildings until the other Aurors arrived.

*****​

Hogwarts, January 5th, 1997

“Albus! Hogsmeade is under attack! Multiple wizards on brooms!”

Albus Dumbledore had been about to go to bed when his brother’s voice from the fireplace stopped him. Hogsmeade, under attack. If this was a diversion, meant to draw him away from Hogwarts - or simply to occupy his attention, freeing the Dark Lord to strike at another target without having to fear his intervention… He shook his head. He couldn’t leave Hogsmeade to those attackers on a simple possibility.

A wave of his wand created a shimmering, gleaming phoenix, floating in front of him. “Sirius, Hogsmeade is under attack. Gather your group and the Delacours and meet me at the Hog’s Head Inn!” Albus said while Fawkes cocked his head, watching his transparent double until it flew away, towards London.

Albus created another Patronus Messenger. “Alastor, take the boys and come to my office. Alert me at once, should there be news of another attack!”

That done, he grabbed Floo powder and entered his fireplace.

“Hog’s Head Inn!”

A second later and lightly covered with soot - Aberforth should clean his fireplace better - he stepped into the inn. Unlike during his other visits, his brother’s ‘friends’ were not drinking in excess, but standing at the windows and doors, wands out. Aberforth was standing in the centre of the room, organising the defense. “More allies will arrive shortly,” Albus said, passing his brother and leaving the inn. He had to take stock of the situation as soon as possible. It could be an attack on a Death Eater cell, or an attack by Death Eaters. Or it could be muggleborns attacking purebloods.

Outside, he was faced with an - unfortunately - familiar view: Screaming people were fleeing their homes while others rushed into houses. The Aurors on duty tried to gain control over the panicking mob at the same time as they were also attempting to fight back, failing to achieve either goal. And from the air, almost invisible in the dark sky, fire bombs were dropping on roofs and streets - and on people. It seemed that Miss Granger’s broadcast had not reached those it had been meant for.

Twenty yards away, a cylinder hit the street right next to a family and burst into a fireball that engulfed all of them before they could react. In seconds the Merriweathers - Albus recognised them; their youngest daughter was in Ravenclaw - were on fire, screaming as they tried to put out the flames. One of them, Albus couldn’t tell who, managed to conjure water, but that wouldn’t help with those flames.

The Headmaster flicked his wand, and the water was transfigured into clay. Another flick and the clay was enlarged, and a swish had the entire family covered in the clay. Albus pressed his lips together while he saw the three people struggle - the clay was not just smothering the flames, but preventing them from breathing as well. He didn’t like to do this to them, but it was the quickest way to save them from burning to death.

After more than thirty seconds, he vanished the clay, revealing the burned but alive family. “Fawley!” His voice cut through the noise of the battle, enhanced by magic, and he saw the Auror jerk. “Get those people to St. Mungo’s, now!”

The Auror - Gryffindor, graduated two years ago - rushed to the Merriweathers. Albus didn’t know and didn’t care if the boy had even recognised him - those people needed help, and Fawley wasn’t doing any good trying to cast spells from the ground.

Albus spent a few more seconds covering the nearby roofs with clay, then conjured a few dozen bats, made them glow with a spell the Weasley twins had invented for a prank, and sent them up in the air. It didn’t matter if the attackers were disillusioned or simply dressed in clothes matching the night sky, the bats would find them, and mark them with their own bodies. He made a mental note to advise Miss Granger to stop dropping the Resistances leaflets from brooms; his trick would quickly spread.

As the bats spread out, then started to converge on the broom riders in the sky, people started to rush out of Aberforth’s pub, wands ready - Sirius’s cell and the Delacours had arrived.

“The bats will follow all brooms in the air.” Albus pointed up. “Mister Delacour, ensure they cannot apparate away, and cut them off from fleeing by broom, but be careful not to curse each other.” He saw one broom rider trying to evade the bats. “Sirius, take your group and cover the ground. The people need help, and there might be some enemies on the ground as well.” Unlikely, but possible.

The two groups hastened to follow his orders - they knew better than to argue. As the French spread out, the Veela taking to the air, Albus started to cast at the closest enemy he had discovered. Or rather, near and in front of the man’s broom.

Hitting a speeding broom rider was difficult even for him; sending a spark into a conjured cloud of Knallgas, as Gellert called oxyhydrogen, was easy. The explosion didn’t throw the man off his broom - he had likely stuck himself to it - but he was pressing his hands against his ears, and his broom almost crashed.

And he had become an easier target. Albus next spell cut the broom in two and barely failed to cut off the man’s leg. He screamed as his broom turned into dead wood in an instant, but Albus caught him with a Levitation Charm before he had fallen more than twenty yards, and stunned and disarmed him with his next spells.

He needed at least one of them alive, to find out who was behind this attack. And, he added to himself when he saw another broom rider crash into the ground, followed by fireballs, the French didn’t seem to be in the mood to take the enemies prisoner.

The floating body of the broom rider reached him. Muggle clothes, and muggle-style cloth mask. Albus winced. A flick of his wand rolled the mask up, revealing the man’s face. The Headmaster knew the man.

Felix Smith. Gryffindor, graduated four years ago.

Muggleborn.

*****​

Hogsmeade, Britain, January 6th, 1997

“Alright, is everyone ready?” Felix Smith asked, sliding his wand into its holster.

“Are you really certain we should be doing this? You heard the Resistance.” Bess looked at him. The muggleborn witch had been worrying all evening. “They said we shouldn’t attack random purebloods any more.”

Felix scoffed. “They had to say that, but it’s just politics. They don’t want to lose Dumbledore’s support. But do you really think they mind what we do? They blew up Malfoy Manor, and not all of those who died there were Death Eaters!” A group of muggleborns who had killed so many purebloods couldn’t really be against killing more of the bastards, Felix thought. It simply made no sense.

“But why are we risking Dumbledore’s support then?” Bess wasn’t giving up. The witch could be very stubborn, as Felix knew from their time at Hogwarts.

He smiled. “We aren’t. He’s not supporting us. He doesn’t even know us. We’re just doing our part in the war.”

“They said we’re helping the Dark Lord if we do this.”

He scoffed again. “As if! The purebloods are already on his side - did anyone help us when they started to hunt us?”

“Some did.” Bess crossed her arms.

“Some, yes. But did that help Teddy?”

Bess flinched. Felix nodded. Teddy had been their friend, since Hogwarts. And he had been murdered by Aurors in Diagon Alley. And no pureblood had helped him. None of them had cared about a mudblood. But they’d care now.

“Besides, we’re not attacking random purebloods - we’re attacking known supporters of the Dark Lord. Selwyn and Flint.”

“They are not on the list.”

“The Resistance is not perfect. They can’t know all Death Eaters. Have your forgotten how those two sneered at us when we entered their shops?” He shook his head. “Trust me, even if they’re not marked Death Eaters, they are helping them. Maybe with gold, maybe with information.” He smiled. “But if you still are not certain you can do this, you can stay here. Ricky, Mark and I can drop the bombs by ourselves.”

Bess shook her head. “No, I’m coming.”

Felix beamed at her.

*****​

Albus Dumbledore closed his eyes as he ended his Legilimency spell. As he had expected, these muggleborns hadn’t been forced by Tom to do this. They had chosen to do this. He sighed. And now two of them were dead, both killed by the the Delacours, or rather, the d’Aigles. The prisoner, Smith, would soon join them - the Wizengamot would show no mercy to muggleborns caught attacking purebloods. Nor, he added, muggleborns caught doing anything that could be seen as supporting the Resistance.

He sighed and looked around. Half a dozen Aurors and Hit-Wizards were watching him. The Ministry forces had arrived just in time to mess things up. They had almost attacked the Veela in the air, if Albus hadn’t quickly intervened. And while they didn’t dare take Smith off his hands, their presence prevented Albus from taking the steps needed to deny Tom another propaganda victory.

“Albus!”

And now Amelia had arrived. She wouldn’t be intimidated by him, or rather, not enough to keep Smith out of her hands. He turned towards her with a tired smile. “Good evening, Amelia.”

She nodded at him, looking at the muggleborn prisoner. Albus had treated the worst of the man’s wounds, but he was no Healer. “You took a prisoner.”

“I did.”

“And your ‘friends’ killed two more.” She didn’t quite glare at him, but it came close. “Foreign friends, or so I’ve heard. Friends the Ministry didn’t know about.”

“I was not aware that the Ministry required us to register visitors.”

She bared her teeth and glared at him. “Don’t mince words, Albus! We’re not talking about visiting friends, we’re talking about foreigners fighting in our war! My Aurors almost attacked them because they didn’t know about them!”

As if on cue, Marcel Delacour approached them, a wide smile on his face. The French wizard looked like he had just stepped out of his home for an evening in town. Not a single hair was out of place. And he had heard the witch, since he said: “It was a good thing they didn’t, since that would have gone badly for them.” He bowed. “Marcel Delacour, at your service, Madam Bones.”

Albus saw Amelia’s eyes widen when she realised just who his ‘foreign friends’ were. He wondered if she had truly not expected this. She did school her features at once, though, and even managed a smile, although a rather empty one. “You have a rather high opinion of your friends, Mister Delacour.”

He shrugged. “The British Aurors we saw fighting were not very effective. Although I assume the best were held in reserve.”

He had better cut in, Albus thought. The French were fine fighters, but they knew it as well. And their opinion of the British Ministry was likely influenced by Sirius and his friends. He cleared his throat. “One attacker was captured, two killed. There was a fourth, who I assume escaped?”

Delacour nodded, his smile slipping a bit. “Unfortunately, yes. One of them managed to evade us long enough to fly out of the area covered by the Anti-Apparition Jinxes.”

Which wouldn’t have been that difficult, given the circumstances, even counting Albus’s own spell. But Amelia looked satisfied. At least as much as the stern witch could be, he thought. The Headmaster nodded.

“We’ll be taking the prisoner off your hands now.” Amelia stared at him, daring him to deny her.

“I recognised him. Felix Smith. Muggleborn. It seems he and his friends didn’t listen to the Resistance.”

“And you stopped them.”

“Of course, Amelia. I’ll not let criminals attack the innocent, no matter their blood.”

That should, coupled with the attack by purebloods disguised as muggleborns on Diagon Alley, negate some of the political capital Tom’s allies would gain from this fight.

Albus hoped it would be enough.

*****​

London, Ministry of Magic, January 7th, 1997

Brenda Brocktuckle was both tired and annoyed when she finally returned to the Ministry. The only reason she was not complaining about it was that Parkinson had been whining about it already and she refused to show the same attitude. They had spent an hour dealing with the fire the mudbloods had started, most of it due to the residents hindering their efforts in their panic - the scum living there feared the Aurors as much or more than the mudbloods.

But they had saved the buildings adjacent to the burning house, and and they had caught the mudbloods responsible for the firebombings! That should impress the Head Auror. But when she left entered the Auror offices, she saw that far too many of her colleagues were around, and far too alert as well, for this time of the night.

She grabbed the first rookie trying to hurry past her. “What’s going on?”

“There was an attack on Diagon Alley, followed by an attack on Hogsmeade! More attacks might be expected - this could be a general offensive!” The rookie Auror said.

“What?” Parkinson stared at the young witch. “What happened in Hogsmeade?”

“Dumbledore personally killed all attackers but for one whom he took prisoner!”

Brenda blinked. Dumbledore, killing mudbloods? She shook her head. There was a more urgent issue to settle. “Why weren’t we informed? We were at the attack in Diagon Alley?” If that had been a deliberate act she’d make someone pay; if those attacking Hogsmeade had instead reinforced Diagon Alley…

“I don’t know! I’ve just been following my orders - securing a perimeter around the village, then returning to the Ministry with the prisoner.” The rookie looked nervous now. “I’m expected down in the cell area.”

Brenda released her, angry with herself. She was a veteran Auror; she shouldn’t act like a rookie. She shook her head and looked at her partner. “Busy night.”

Parkinson had recovered as well. “Yeah. If Dumbledore has started to kill mudbloods…”

“We might finally be able to find them and wipe them out,” Brenda finished for him. “But why would he suddenly betray his friends?”

“I don’t know, but I’ll find out!” Parkinson said, and walked off.

Brenda shook her head as she continued towards their office. Her partner was off gossipping again, leaving her with the paperwork. But at least he’d find out everything they needed to know about the latest office politics.

*****​

“We killed purebloods?”

Brenda nodded at Parkinson. “They identified the attackers we killed. All of them were purebloods. Knockturn Alley residents too, one had prior convictions.” She glanced at her watch. Their shift was ending soon.

Parkinson frowned, sitting down at the desk he almost never seemed to use. “Does that mean that we didn’t foil a terror attack on purebloods? Was that just some Knockturn Alley scum trying to burn down their competition?”

Brenda shrugged. “It could have been an attempt to frame the mudbloods.” She studied Parkinson, watching for a reaction.

He frowned. “That’s… possible, I guess.”

Which probably meant he’d have to ask the Dark Lord. If he dared. “Dumbledore at least claimed that,” she said.

The other Auror snorted. “Dumbledore also disproved his own theory when he captured that mudblood in Hogsmeade.”

“It’s not actually disproven. Just because there is a group of mudbloods attacking random purebloods doesn’t mean there can’t be an attempt to frame them as well.”

“How many know about this anyway?” Parkinson asked, a bit too casually.

“By now? Half the Aurors in the building. That sort of news spreads fast.” Brenda had seen the Auror who had told her head straight to the break area afterwards. She smiled cynically when her partner frowned - he probably had hoped to suppress this evidence. “Dumbledore requested a copy of the report as well.” And she doubted anyone in the Ministry would refuse the man. Not if half the things Parkinson had heard were true.

“Well, I think it was just some criminals using the mudbloods as a cover,” her partner said after a few moments.

“Those kind of criminals don’t suicide to evade arrest. And I’ve heard that the Dark Lord’s recruiting heavily.” Brenda didn’t quite smirk. Parkinson had been more subtle than she had expected, but he was trying pretty hard to recruit her for the Dark Lord.

“Well, it’s all speculation.” Parkinson shrugged. “I doubt we can prove it one way or the other. We can’t ask the Dark Lord if he recruited them, after all.”

Brenda joined her partner in a brief cynical chuckle. She knew enough about politics that this would make waves in the Wizengamot. Hopefully enough to finally bury the proposal to come to an agreement with the Resistance. To think anyone would want to let the mudbloods who had murdered so many purebloods get away with it… the mere possibility turned her stomach.

Granger would pay for what she had done.

*****​

London, East End, January 7th, 1997

“... the attackers were stopped by Ministry forces before significant damage was done to the village. According to witnesses, the Chief Warlock personally arrested one attacker. The Minister for Magic was not yet available for a comment, but...”

Hermione Granger, who had been about to spread some jam on a piece of toast, clenched her teeth while the Wizarding Wireless announcer - she didn’t think the Ministry mouthpiece deserved to be called a journalist - continued with this morning’s news. That wasn’t a good way to start the day. The other Resistance members sitting at the breakfast table looked like they shared her thoughts. Most of them, at least.

“Dumbledore’s fighting muggleborns? Arresting them?” Seamus said. “Did he turn on us?”

“He didn’t. They said that he defended Hogsmeade against an attack,” Hermione said.

“He fought for the Ministry, and against muggleborns. How could he tell that they were not attacking Death Eaters?” Dean asked.

“We don’t have any Death Eaters listed in Hogsmeade,” Justin said.

“Doesn’t mean there aren’t any,” Seamus said. “We can’t know everything. Not even Hermione.”

The young witch pursed her lips. That last remark would have been a friendly joke, even a compliment, if Harry and Ron had said it. Coming from Seamus, though, it was almost an insult. “We can’t know everything, no. And we can’t trust the Ministry’s lies. I’ll look into this, and get the truth.” It was possible that another group had found Death Eaters in Hogsmeade. Possible, but not that likely, she thought. Not under the nose of both Dumbledores. It was more likely that some muggleborns had decided to attack the village since the majority of the residents were purebloods.

“He’ll tell you a fine story that explains it all, but that doesn’t have to be the truth,” Dean said. “And working with the Ministry? The same Ministry that tries to kill us all?”

“That’s Ministry propaganda,” Justin said.

“So is the claim that this was an attack on the town, instead of a single building!” Dean shot back.

“We don’t know what happened, so we shouldn’t make any assumptions.” Hermione pressed her lips together.

“Assumptions like that Dumbledore is on our side?” Seamus snorted. “How do you even plan to find the truth with all those lies going around?”

“I plan to use multiple sources to verify each account.” She stared at him until he looked away.

*****​

London, Greenwich, January 7th, 1997

“I miss meeting you at home,” Sirius said, sitting down.

“I do as well,” Hermione Granger said, pushing a menu over the table. They were early for the lunch crowd, but the restaurant was filling up quickly.

The older wizard perked up. “You do?”

“Because I could meet Harry and Ron there.” Hermione had to chuckle at Sirius’s exaggerated crestfallen expression. “Though I’ve heard that you’re quite fond of your new guests.”

“Well…” Sirius grinned. “Who’d not be fond of Veela?”

“Heterosexual witches,” Hermione said.

“Ah, yes. I can imagine that. Melanie told me that other witches were often jealous of them.” Sirius nodded sagely. Hermione tried not to react, but her expression must have given something away, since his smile widened. “Oh, don’t tell me you’re jealous of Veela!”

She glared at him. She wasn’t jealous - she didn’t even know those witches - but… Hermione sighed. She was jealous. She wasn’t ugly, nor plain, as Rita Skeeter had once claimed, but she wasn’t the prettiest witch in her year.

She made a mental note to work on her poker face since Sirius grew serious and reached over the table to pat her hand. “Don’t fret, Hermione. I’m just joking. Remember, Harry didn’t go all gaga over Fleur.”

She wanted to say that Ron had shown a rather more pronounced reaction to the presence of the Veela, but refrained from doing so. Her friend had matured a lot since then. So she made a noncommittal sound. Besides, her friends were back at Hogwarts, now. Although they would still be traveling back to Grimmauld Place for some training sessions.

Apparently, it wasn’t enough for the older wizard. “Seriously, girl, don’t worry - the boys are not interested in the Veela, or not any more than normal for boys their age.” Which was not reassuring at all, Hermione thought. Sirius went on: “But more importantly, the girls are not interested in boys. Not even in the Boy-Who-Lived.”

That was more reassuring, Hermione thought. Although she wanted to protest that her two friends were not mere ‘boys’ - she remembered Harry’s reaction to Fleur calling him ‘little boy’ in their fourth year. She didn’t, though. Instead she raised her eyebrows at the wizard. “I assume this is where you try to impress me with stories of your conquests? By all means, go ahead. Given the latest news from the war, I could do with some laughter.”

Sirius huffed. “If you’re acting like that, then I’ll keep the secrets of French love making to myself.” Then he grinned. “Joking aside, how are your other friends doing? I assume they didn’t like what they heard.”

Hermione winced. “Most didn’t, and a few took it rather badly. What exactly happened?”

Sirius sighed. “The Headmaster called us late at night. Hogsmeade was under attack. When we arrived at the Hog’s Head Inn, Dumbledore was already there, sending up conjured glowing bats to mark the attackers for the Veela, who took to the air.”

Hermione hissed - if that spell spread, then the Resistance would have to change their broom riding tactics. Although bats could be dealt with by high-frequency sounds… she’d have to ask Dumbledore if they could test that.

“The French engaged the broom fliers, and we - my group and I - searched the village for attackers on the ground, helped put out the fires, took care of the wounded, until the Ministry forces arrived.” Sirius grimaced. “There were no enemies on the ground, but the burned people…” He shook his head. “Apart from the one Dumbledore captured, two more were killed, one escaped.”

Hermione nodded. A group of four, attacking a target in a village - bad odds, if the element of surprise was lost. It looked as if the attackers had lingered for too long - an amateur mistake. Blinded by bloodlust, maybe. She frowned. “Were the attackers really muggleborns? And did they attack random purebloods?” And, she added silently, did the Headmaster know that when he engaged them?

“Well, Dumbledore told us that he read the mind of the prisoner he took, before the Ministry took him - Bones herself was there - and apparently, that was a muggleborn group who wanted to attack Adalbert Selwyn and Frederick Flint.”

Hermione winced. She knew the shops those two men owned. Most muggleborns didn’t buy anything there after their first visit. To assume that those two were Death Eaters was a bit much, but they certainly approved of the discrimination against muggleborns. Approved, and took part in.

“There were burning people in the street, though,” Sirius said. “Families, children among them - the attackers were using some nasty stuff water wouldn’t put out.”

Hermione pressed her lips together for a moment, so she’d not curse. That was what she had feared. “They either had truly terrible aim, or they didn’t care. Or,” she added, “they wanted to hit the purebloods - any purebloods.”

Sirius nodded. “Dumbledore said they didn’t care about who else they hit, as long as it was a pureblood.”

The witch nodded. She could accept that, but would the Resistance? “So, one survived. And one will be executed.”

The wizard nodded. “Unless there’s some miracle, but…” He looked at Hermione and shrugged.

She nodded. She wasn’t about to ask the Headmaster to use whatever precaution he had taken to spring a captured Resistance member from the Ministry’s custody on a wizard who had been burning down random civilians - whether or not he were a muggleborn.

She just hoped the rest of the group would share her opinion.

*****​

London, Ministry of Magic, January 7th, 1997

Albus Dumbledore’s customary polite smile was more forced than usual when he walked to the office of the Minister for Magic that afternoon. While Sirius’s report from his meeting with Miss Granger was cautiously optimistic - the young witch shared Albus’s view on the matter - Albus didn’t think everyone in her group would have the same opinion. The Ministry certainly had painted the whole battle as if there was a close alliance between itself and Albus’s Order. Which was far from the truth.

Cornelius was alone, which was a surprise - Albus had expected Amelia to be there already; the stern witch knew that the Minister was a bit more suggestible than one would expect from the leader of Wizarding Britain.

“Albus! Here you are! Great news!” Cornelius beamed at the Headmaster.

Albus raised an eyebrow. “I would rather say that the events of last night were tragic in nature. A number of people died, many of them quite brutally.”

“Ah.” For a moment, the Minister seemed surprised, then he nodded, almost solemnly. “Of course, the deaths are a tragedy. So many who should still be alive, killed so senselessly!”

Not so senselessly, Albus thought - at least one of those battles had been carefully planned. He nodded, though - agreeing on general things with Cornelius made influencing him easier. “Indeed. One child died before my eyes.” He shook his head; his sorrow was honest, although he was thinking of the effects of that on the trial.

“But at least two groups of murderers were dealt with! And the public has seen that the Ministry can protect them!” The Minister was beaming again.

“Those who believe the Daily Prophet, at least,” Albus said. “Their account of the events of last night might be a bit misleading, I believe.” He allowed some of his annoyance to creep into his voice.

Cornelius cleared his throat and smiled weakly. “I would say they were a bit optimistic, maybe?”

Albus inclined his head. “Maybe. It depends on the policy of the Ministry - or, to be precise, on its change.”

Cornelius took a deep breath. “You know that the attack on Diagon Alley had a rather negative effect on those plans. Many Wizengamot members who were in favour of repealing the muggleborn laws changed their opinion. I’m certain you are aware of that as well.”

“Some,” Albus said. “But not everyone. And I am certain that a sizeable number of them can be persuaded to change their opinion again, with some effort.”

“Less than you expect, Albus.” The Minister shook his head. “The people are not willing to grant any concession to those who attack them.”

“Oh?” Albus narrowed his eyes. “That is quite a surprising development. A bit more than a year ago, there was widespread support to granting a lot of concessions to exactly those who’d threaten and attack British wizards and witches; namely, the Death Eaters.”

Cornelius coughed. “Err, that’s…”

“...an entirely correct description of the appeasement policy, Cornelius.” Albus’s smile lacked any humour.

The Minister blushed. “What happened in the past doesn’t change the fact that in the current climate, there is no majority to be found to grant the muggleborn anything; that’s something even those who support such a change agree upon.”

“And how much do you think the current climate would change if I were to publicly announce that I can no longer support the Ministry as long as it discriminates against the muggleborns?” Albus said.

Cornelius gasped. “But… you can’t!”

“You may be assured that I very well can do this. Or did you think I was joking when I warned you a week ago?”

“But…“ The Minister fell silent, apparently at a loss for words. “But…”

Cornelius gained a respite thanks to Amelia’s arrival. “Amelia! Albus is threatening to publicly call the Ministry out as criminal if we don’t change the laws on muggleborns!”

The Head of the DMLE stared at Dumbledore.

He met her eyes. “If the Ministry will not change its laws, laws that were passed on behalf of the Dark Lord, I might add, then I cannot support it.” He smiled. “I said it before, and I will say it again: I will rather ally with the Muggleborn Resistance than with a Ministry that is still pursuing a pureblood agenda.”

“Even if it drives the Ministry and the British people into the Dark Lord’s arms?” Amelia asked.

“If they would rather join him than accept muggleborns as equals, then they already are in his camp,” Albus said. He was forcing this, he knew, but with the recent attacks, he feared the Dark Lord might gain too much of an advantage if Albus let him exploit this.

Once again, both gaped at him. He chuckled, which seemed to further confuse them. “Is it that hard to believe that I am willing to risk facing the Ministry and the Dark Lord’s forces together?”

After a moment, Amelia said: “It seems rather foolhardy.”

Albus laughed out loud. Both were staring him now. “As foolhardy as facing Grindelwald when he had conquered much of Magical Europe?” In that conflict, too, Albus had waited too long, but for other, even worse, reasons.

Amelia scoffed. “I see.”

Albus was tempted to ask if she did, really, but simply nodded.

“But you have to see that is currently impossible to find a majority in the Wizengamot who will support what you ask for!” Cornelius said.

“Is it really?” Albus said. He knew that it was difficult, but Cornelius had been confident of success before the attack on Diagon Alley. “Even if the only alternatives are to either face me, or the Dark Lord?”

“Would you really lower yourself to the same level as the Dark Lord?” Amelia asked. “Put yourself outside the law?”

“If the law is evil, breaking it becomes a good man’s duty,” Albus said. “I have already let this go on for far too long.” Neither the Headmaster nor the Ministry had been ready for a war when the Dark Lord had returned, but Albus often wondered if he should have pushed for war anyway, forced Cornelius’s hand as he was doing now. Voldemort wouldn’t have been that prepared either, after all. But if he had done so, would the Resistance have formed anyway? He doubted it. Without the Resistance, the Aurors would have had to take the brunt of the fighting, and they were of limited reliability.

“That’s easy to say, Albus, but harder to do,” Cornelius said. “What will happen if the Wizengamot sides with the Dark Lord? What about Hogwarts?”

That had been the main reason Albus hadn’t pushed this yet. Hogwarts. His school. His students. If the Ministry turned on him, they’d be in danger. But he had no choice anymore. “Hogwarts will remain as it is. I will not allow anyone to threaten the students.”

“But will you remain Headmaster even if you are waging war?” Amelia said. “Even if you are fighting the Ministry, and many of your student’s families?”

“Yes. I will not let people who have chosen the Dark Lord’s side have any power over my students.”

“That would bring the war to Hogwarts,” the witch said. “You’d risk endangering the children you claim you want to keep safe.”

“If I left, war would come to Hogwarts - the Dark Lord would not spare any of the children whose families oppose him. And the muggleborns…” he trailed off. “No, I will not let the Dark Lord or his helpers get a hold of the children.” He smiled, cynically, when he added: “Which is another argument that might persuade some Wizengamot members to do what’s right.”

“You’d take their children hostage?” Cornelius gasped.

“No. But you might remind them that I would never use their families against them. Something the Dark Lord has done in the last war, and in this war as well, as Augusta’s murder proves.” Albus glared at the man. He had already made preparations, if worst came to worst, and the school came under attack.

“You will not be able to keep this under wraps if you plan to use this argument on the Wizengamot. The news will spread like Fiendfyre to the public.”

Amelia was shaking her head, but Albus thought she was beginning to realise that he would not budge. And it wasn’t as if she had an alternative - Tom would not let her live, if only to placate those of his followers he had freed from Azkaban. Sirius was no Death Eater, but his opinion of the DMLE, and of Amelia was rather extreme. Actual Death Eaters would be even worse.

He smiled. “I am not planning to keep this secret. I will tell them and anyone who asks that I will fight those who attack the innocents, no matter their blood. And I will add that I will consider anyone who supports blood-based discrimination as a supporter of the Dark Lord. Which includes the Ministry.”

“That will…” Cornelius was shaking his head. “The people will be in an uproar, Albus! Frightened, scared, angry!”

“I rather think they will be, yes.” Albus said. “But then again - sometimes, such a shock is good for them. Compared to what the muggleborns went through, it’s not even that bad.” They were not about to be persecuted for being born, after all.

“That’s rather callous of you, Albus. Not everyone is a hero.” Amelia frowned at him.

“I am well aware of that, Amelia.” He shook his head. “But everyone can see what is right and what is wrong. Even those raised in bigoted families will spend seven years at Hogwarts, apart from their parents, surrounded by other students and teachers from all sorts of backgrounds. Those who did not see how vile those laws were chose not to.” And he didn’t really feel bad for shocking those who looked away and ignored the muggleborns’ plight. Even though he had to admit that he should have made more efforts to teach the students that bigotry was wrong, some basic truths were obvious to everyone. Or should be.

“There is no dissuading you from this, is there?” Cornelius said. He was sitting hunched over in his seat, and almost pleading with his eyes.

Albus didn’t answer that. He didn’t have to.

“You might need to talk with a few members in person, Albus,” the Minister continued. “They will not listen otherwise.”

The Headmaster nodded. It seemed Cornelius was, finally, working on their problem, instead of trying to avoid it. “I will do whatever is needed, of course.”

“What about the prisoner you took?” Amelia asked.

“What about him?”

“Will he be covered by this ‘change of policy’?” The witch stared at him.

Albus had been weighing this question for quite some time. Felix Smith hadn’t started out with a plan to kill all purebloods. But he had not cared if he killed any either. And he had picked his targets for rather petty reasons, too. The Headmaster shook his head. “He attacked random purebloods for being purebloods. He didn’t know or care if they were Death Eaters. That’s not the same as defending yourself, or attacking Death Eaters.”

And, he thought, with some guilt, executing him would help in persuading the purebloods that they would be protected from muggleborns wanting to take revenge. At least those who had done nothing, of course.

Albus wasn’t planning to save any of those who had supported the Dark Lord.

*****​

Hogwarts, January 9th, 1997

Usually, the delivery of the Daily Prophet wasn’t an event that he was looking forward to, Harry Potter thought. Today was an exception, though. Today everyone in the house was waiting for the article covering ‘Dumbledore’s finally making a stand against the Ministry’, as Sirius put it. Followed by his wish that it wouldn’t be a final stand. Harry still didn’t understand why some thought that sort of joke was funny.

“What’s keeping the owls? We could have taken the Floo to the Cauldron and bought a paper already,” Ron said.

“Well, of course - the Floo’s much faster than flying,” Harry said.

Ron rolled his eyes at him. “Well, you know what I mean.”

Harry nodded, grinning. He was half-heartedly poking at the sausages on his plate. Ron was showing more of an appetite, but both were craning their necks whenever they thought they heard something. And trying not to grab their wands - Moody’s training and the fight in Paris had left an impression.

Harry was still dreaming of the Inferi, an unstoppable wave of them, rushing him. And Ron had nightmares too, he knew that, though neither of them had talked about it. Even though a number of the adults had offered to listen. Hermione would berate them for it, they knew. But… Harry didn’t want to talk about it. Not now. After, he told himself, after the war he’d talk about it.

Finally, the owls arrived, entering the Great Hall and spreading out. Usually, Harry would be looking for Hedwig, her white plumage easy to spot among the brown owls, but not today.

“There!” Ron pointed at one owl banking towards them, a rolled up newspaper in its talon. Ron had the money ready and was putting it into the purse tied to the owl’s leg while Harry grabbed the Daily Prophet, almost toppling the bird over when one string wasn’t quite free when he pulled. A bit of sausage mollified the angry bird, a quick cleaning charm took care of the spilled tea, and they could finally read the newspaper.

Albus Dumbledore challenges Ministry! Repeal the muggleborn laws, or fight him, Dumbledore says!

The article itself - not written by Skeeter - was less sensational, they found out, but given the topic, that didn’t mean much. It stated that the Headmaster had sent the Ministry an ultimatum - either the Ministry stopped any discrimination of muggleborns, or he’d consider them followers of Voldemort, with all that entailed.

“Blimey!” Ron said, shaking his head. “We knew it was coming, but still… look at the other students!”

Harry looked up and saw that at all the tables, even the half-vacated of Slytherin, students were loudly discussing the news. He glanced to the staff table, where Dumbledore was calmly eating breakfast, and talking to McGonagall. Not all of the teachers looked like they had known about this, either. Of course, Harry knew that some might just be able to hide their surprise better. Moody’s training had covered more than just fighting, after all.

“Bet you that all of those who cheer this don’t think what it might mean for Hogwarts,” Ron said.

“The staff have realised that,” Harry said. “McGonagall looks angrier than in our first year.”

“Well… we’ll need to step up the training of our house,” his friend said. “Focus on running away.”

Harry nodded. “The Headmaster will have an evacuation plan already. But it never hurts to have alternatives.”

“Unless you can’t decide what to do,” Ron quoted Moody.

Harry glared at him. “You know what I meant.”

“Yes.” Ron smirked.

They were even again, Harry thought. He glanced at the Daily Prophet. There was another article, detailing the trial of the muggleborn captured in Hogsmeade, and whether this development would affect it or not. The article claimed it would not - that Dumbledore had captured the criminal himself and condemned his actions. Harry had already known about this as well.

He wasn’t certain how he felt about it, though. Hermione had told him that she didn’t care for people who attacked random civilians, no matter if they were muggleborns or purebloods, but…

He couldn’t help wondering how many purebloods would see the difference between Felix Smith and Hermione Granger.

*****​

London, East End, January 9th, 1997

“... and if the law is evil, breaking it becomes a good man’s duty. Or, if he has the power to, repealing it, Albus Dumbledore was quoted by the Minister,” Seamus was reading out loud from the Daily Prophet.

Hermione Granger glanced up from where she was halfway through the third page of her own issue. She saw the wizard was shaking his head, and already knew what was coming.

“All those fine words, and then he condones the execution of the captured muggleborn?” Seamus scoffed.

Yes, what she had expected.

“The trial’s not been held yet,” Justin said. He had been reading over her shoulder.

“So what? They were probably just waiting for his go-ahead, we know they will kill us if they capture us!” Seamus didn’t have to say why - no one had forgotten Martin Cokes.

“We don’t murder random purebloods,” Hermione said. “The Wizengamot might not care for that difference, but the Headmaster won’t let them execute us. If this succeeds, then they’ll pardon us as well.” She held a hand up when Justin tensed up. “We can discuss the legal ramifications of such an act after we have stopped Voldemort.” Especially where accepting a pardon meant accepting that one had committed a crime.

Justin grumbled, but good-naturedly, at having been forestalled. Sally-Anne hugged him from the side. Hermione felt a pang of… not jealousy. Envy. She wanted her boyfriend near her too. Once she had picked him. If either of them still wanted her as a girlfriend when she finally made up her mind. Or heart, in this case.

“So, we ignore the murder of one muggleborn? Will we ignore the murder of others too? Martin’s?” Dean asked.

He wasn’t as loud and rash as his friend, Hermione knew, but shared the same views, which made him more of a pain in the butt, usually. “There’ll be a reckoning, once we’ve beaten the Dark Lord.” With Voldemort gone, Dumbledore would be able to order the Ministry around. Especially with the Resistance as a threat in case they didn’t follow his lead.

“So what? I bet there’ll be a ‘general amnesty’ for all survivors. Maybe some ineffectual ‘truth commission’.” Dean sneered. “I want justice for our deaths!”

“And we will get it.” Hermione stared at him. “We won’t forget, and we won’t forgive.”

And they’d not make the same mistake others had made in 1982.

*****​

Hogwarts, January 10th, 1997

“Please have a seat,” Albus Dumbledore said when Severus entered his office. The younger wizard sat down stiffly, as usual. Fawkes looked up from his perch and trilled soothingly, but Severus just tensed up even more.

“How did your meeting with the Dark Lord go?” Albus had been concerned when the other wizard had been called away at short notice, so to speak. That was often a bad sign.

“He was in a mixed mood,” Severus said. “Angry at having been surprised by your announcement, but pleased by it as well.”

“Pleased?” That was worrying, Albus thought.

“He said you were desperate. That only the threat of imminent defeat would push you to take action.” Severus’s face showed no emotion, but Albus knew the man was worried as well.

“He is mistaken, then.” It was true that Albus’s hand had been forced, but the situation was not quite as dire as Tom was thinking.

“He was also angry at the news of French involvement.” Severus’s voice held a tinge of amusement now. “Should the Dark Lord win, France will face some trouble.”

Albus nodded. That was information he’d pass along to the Duc at once, in strict confidentiality, of course. If things were not going according to plan, this might propel the French into providing more direct support in the war - it was easier to beat the Dark Lord while he still was fighting British wizards, after all.

“He has also reminded me of the need to gain your trust, and mentioned that the curse on my current position might not be lifted if I disappoint him.” Severus didn’t show any sign that he was disturbed by this threat. But then, the man had wanted to teach Defense, for years, despite knowing about the curse.

“I see.” Albus leaned back. “A quite compelling incentive, or so he might think.”

“In order to gain his trust, I need to be able to offer him more than some observations I make at Hogwarts.”

Albus knew that. “I will see that you can provide him with crucial information.” Although he’d have to ensure that whoever took part in that operation would be aware of the risks. “Was he gloating about my inability to break the curse?”

“Yes.”

That Albus hadn’t been able to break the curse - that for quite some time, he had not even been able to determine that there was a curse - was irritating. While Albus was not quite as knowledgeable about the Dark Arts as Tom was, he was very skilled in dealing with the Dark Arts. Discovering that his knowledge fell short in this matter had been a humbling experience. Just about everything he had tried had failed. Some methods seemed to have worked, only to be revealed as failures when another year had passed. It had been as if the curse was as hard to defeat as its caster. Fortunately, it was impossible to create a Horcrux for a curse.

Although… there were rumours Albus had found, when researching the withering curse cast on the Creevey brothers, on ‘undefeatable curses’. Rumours he might have cause not to dismiss as quickly as he had thought.

Severus was still waiting, he realised. Albus smiled. “Rest assured that I will be working on dealing with the curse once and for all.”

It looked like he’d have to investigate the Houngan angle more thoroughly.

*****​

 

Chapter 28: Decisive Dates

‘At the time it was published, Dumbledore’s ultimatum for the Ministry was considered by many as a turning point in the war. It is an understandable view, given the limited knowledge available to the public at the time. Here was one of the two most powerful wizards in Britain making a stand and forcing the Ministry to choose between allying with him, or with the Dark Lord. Many must have been thinking that if the Ministry sided with Dumbledore, if it was working with the Muggleborn Resistance, then certainly the outcome of the war was decided. Who could stand against those three forces if they were united?
And yet, as I will demonstrate, for all its publicity, Dumbledore’s declaration was just the inevitable conclusion of his actions to date. He had opposed the muggleborn laws from the start, and he had been advocating to repeal them for as long as they had been in effect. As we know, he also opposed the prosecution of muggleborns, with some notable exceptions. It was therefore only logical that he’d use more forceful means to make the Ministry change its policies when his more subtle methods had failed, since his ultimate goal was never in doubt.
However, even with just the information available at the time, it should have been obvious that the Ministry falling in with either side would not be decisive. The Ministry was not a unified force, but riddled with spies and agents for the different factions, and any official change of policy or alliance would not change that. Not without a bloody fight, at least.
At this point, however, I have to discuss another ramification of Dumbledore’s ultimatum: Ironically, it put him in the same situation as the Dark Lord he was opposing - outside the law. For just as his enemy had already done, Dumbledore too was no longer working within the boundaries of the law, but used the threat of naked force in an attempt to make the Ministry submit to him. That was quite a marked difference to his actions in Grindelwald’s War, and in the First Blood War.’
- Excerpt from ‘The Second Blood War’ by Hyacinth Selwyn

*****​

London, Ministry of Magic, January 10th, 1997

When she entered the Auror Offices, Brenda Brocktuckle felt as if she walking through a Dragon preserve dripping with cow blood. And it was all the fault of Dumbledore! First the mudbloods called her out as a Death Eater - which she wasn’t! She hadn’t even met the Dark Lord, nor anyone who’d admit to following him - and now Dumbledore had denounced the Ministry’s muggleborn laws as evil. Laws she had spent months enforcing - as was the duty of any good Auror! And now this was suddenly a crime? She ground her teeth and opened the door to her office with more force than usual. If not for the Cushioning Charm placed on the wall, the door would have slammed into it.

Parkinson still noticed. “I see you’re as fond of this new style of politics as others.”

The witch scoffed. “When ‘breaking the law becomes a good man’s duty’, what do you need Aurors for?” She sat down on her chair.

“It’s more than that,” Parkinson said. “If you call one law evil, and it sticks, where will it end? Is it evil not to share your food if someone is hungry? If one law is broken without impunity, then the whole body of law is weakened. If you can threaten the Wizengamot into passing or repealing laws with the threat of force, then all our laws and policies are no longer voted upon, but dictated at wand point.”

For a moment, Brenda was tempted to ask if that was not exactly what the Dark Lord wanted. But that would have antagonised Parkinson, who was the best and maybe only friend among the Aurors she had left, not to mention her flatmate. And the Dark Lord hadn’t done anything to her. Mudbloods, though, had killed two of her partners, and Dumbledore was trying to protect them from their deserved punishments. So she nodded. “Not that those fools who think the world of the Headmaster will ever admit that.”

“Sheep who blindly follow their leader, and they’ll only realise that he has led them into an Acromantula’s nest when they are already caught in the web.” Parkinson snorted. “I’d say they deserve it, but they’ll try to drag us down with them.” The Auror grinned. “I don’t know about you, but I’m not too terribly fond of pardoning mudbloods who murdered our friends.”

“Neither am I.” It would feel like failing her partners once again, Brenda knew.

“Well… what did Dumbledore say? ‘If the law’s evil, breaking it becomes a good man’s duty’? Maybe we should heed his own advice, should the Ministry end up following him. Although prevention is always better than a cure,” he added, looking at her with that feigned casual interest she had come to know.

She knew what he was hinting at. Knew what his friends were planning. It was certainly illegal. Some might even call it treason. She knew all that.

But she nodded anyway.

*****​

London, Soho, January 10th, 1997

Hermione Granger was feeling guilty. Going on a date - two dates - while the fate of Wizarding Britain was hanging in the balance was selfish. Very selfish. But, the young witch told herself, not for the first time, rest and recreation was important for a soldier in a war. Justin and Sally-Anne had told her so. Sally-Anne had even threatened to march her out of headquarters at wandpoint if Hermione ‘tried to be all stupid’.

And there wasn’t much she could do right now to influence the purebloods in making their choice. In fact, as she had been told by Dumbledore, it would be best if the Resistance didn’t do anything right now. Not even a supportive broadcast. Although the Resistance Radio would still broadcast, as it usually did on a Friday evening. But when it came down to it, it was the purebloods’ decision whether they would follow Dumbledore, or join the Dark Lord.

Hermione hoped they would join the Headmaster. She was sick of being a wanted fugitive. Even though hiding in muggle Britain was almost perfectly safe, there remained pure random chance. She ran her hand over her wig. It wasn’t the best disguise, but it would hopefully fool anyone stumbling on her. And she could probably spot a pureblood before they spotted her. Even, she added with a glance at the colourful crowd in the café she was waiting in, in Soho.

The door opened, and she looked up, but it was a couple, not Ron. She glanced at her watch. She had arrived too early, as usual. But better being early rather than late. It allowed her to take stock of her surroundings as well. Plan escape routes. She briefly closed her eyes and sighed. Even while she was about to go on a date with her best friend, she was thinking like a soldier. No, a wanted fugitive, she corrected herself, smiling wryly. She doubted she’d be able to break the habit either. Not that she could afford to.

“Is your boyfriend late?” the waitress asked, in a sympathetic tone as she served the tea Hermione had ordered.

“No. I’m early.” Not that it was any of the woman’s business, Hermione thought.

“Ah. You just looked so sad. Far too sad for a pretty girl on a date.”

Hermione forced herself to smile. “I was just thinking about a story I read. It had no happy ending.”

“Ah.”

The waitress probably thought she was overly emotional, or just being silly, but she left her in peace, which was what Hermione had wanted. The door opened again, and this time it was her date. Hermione smiled when she saw Ron enter. He cut a fine figure in his shirt and trousers. Casual, but well dressed. She was wearing a short skirt and leggings herself, with a turtleneck.

She stood up and hugged him, letting her hands travel briefly over his back, enjoying his closeness.

“You’re looking good,” Ron said, smiling at her when they separated.

“You too,” she said. She noticed his eyes briefly roam over her, lighting up, and felt pleased. Sally-Anne’s idea of shrinking the turtleneck just a bit had been a good one, she could admit that. Just as she could admit that she liked seeing Ron watching her like this. Especially with four French Veela living at Grimmauld Place.

“So, what do you have planned for today?” she asked when they had taken their seats, and the nosy waitress, who was smiling far too much now, had taken Ron’s order.

“Dinner, movie, dancing.” He smiled at her. “Nothing fancy, just the two of us, spending time together.”

“A classic date then,” she said, nodding in approval.

“It’s classic for a reason.” He grinned. “No need to be different just to be different.”

She saw that he relaxed just a bit - had he been nervous? Had he feared she’d expected something else? The waitress brought Ron’s soda and refilled her tea, interrupting their conversation.

“Dumbledore’s covering for you again?” she asked.

“Yes. Harry’s receiving another private lesson, just without me being there, for a change.”

“How are those lessons going?” She didn’t want to talk about Harry while on a date with Ron, but her friend was taking the same lessons.

“The Headmaster said we’re progressing at a nice pace. But… “ He sighed. “I know Legilimency training can’t be rushed, the headaches are bad enough as they are, but the longer we take, the longer the war goes on.”

“Yes.” Hermione knew what he wasn’t saying - the quicker they finished, the quicker Harry would be facing Voldemort.

“I wish I could do more,” Ron said, clenching his teeth. “I’m training just like him, but I won’t be able to help him when… you know.”

“I know.” And she knew both of them hated feeling helpless. Harry… it had always been him who had been facing Voldemort. Alone. She had been left behind, or petrified.

Ron broke the silence after a while. “I made reservations in an Indian restaurant. Bill recommended it.” He shrugged. “I couldn’t ask Parvati or Padma, they’d have wondered why I wanted to know.”

“And they would have likely recommended a wizard restaurant,” Hermione said.

Ron shook his head. “I don’t think there is an Indian restaurant in Wizarding Britain.”

Hermione didn’t know. But then, how could she know? She hadn’t grown up in Wizarding Britain. And she hadn’t spent that much time in Wizarding Britain, outside Hogwarts, either. She sighed.

“Do you dislike Indian food?”

“I like it.” She smiled. “But I just realised how little I know about so many parts of Wizarding Britain.”

“Ah.”

Ron looked just a bit… disappointed? Nervous? Did he fear that this meant she was picking Harry over him, since Harry had grown up in muggle England? Hermione shook her head. “So much still left to learn and discover.”

He nodded. “Same for me, with muggle Britain. It’s fun to find new things, though. New food, new movies, new clubs, tonight at least.” The boy smiled at her. “Once the war’s over, I can show you more of Wizarding Britain.” If they won, of course. If they lost they’d be very likely dead, Hermione knew that. Ron went on: “I’m starting to forget how it was before the war.”

Hermione chuckled with him, though both knew he wasn’t just joking. She took a deep breath. This was just the opening she needed to discuss this.

“It won’t ever be the same again, you know.”

*****​

Ron Weasley looked at Hermione. “What do you mean?” Was she talking about their friendship, after she made her choice?

“Wizarding Britain. It won’t be the same as it was before the war.”

“I reckon that,” Ron said. “Those laws will be gone. The Dark Lord will be gone. The Death Eaters will be gone.”

“Not all of them.” She was shaking her head. “Like last time, some will flee, or go into hiding.”

“They’ll lose all their power, though,” he said. Dumbledore would see to it. His parents had been talking about it.

“Maybe.” He saw that she was pressing her lips together for a moment, before she continued: “There are a lot of purebloods who don’t follow Voldemort, but don’t really like muggleborns.”

Ron scoffed. “Idiots.”

“Idiots, yes. And bigots. But there are a lot of them around. We can’t lock them all up either - not just for not liking muggleborns. And they have money, and influence. In the Ministry, as well as through their businesses.” She was pushing the teaspoon around in her cup. “They’ll keep their thoughts to themselves, for a while at least, but they’ll not accept us. And sooner or later, they’ll try to run things like they did before - by purebloods, for purebloods, maybe with a token half-blood and muggleborn for show.”

Ron frowned. “They can try, but things were changing before the war already. My family were considered blood-traitors for decades, after all. It’s mostly the rich, the Old Families, who are like that.”

“But they have the power. Gold, influence, properties. What happens once Dumbledore steps back or dies?”

Ron hadn’t really thought about that. The Headmaster had been around all his life, and his parents’ lives. To imagine a Britain without him… what could they do without Dumbledore? He cursed under his breath. “I didn’t think about that. But we’re not powerless. Look at my family. We’re poor, but Dad has a good job at the Ministry. Bill’s a highly paid Curse-Breaker, and marrying Fleur Delacour. Charlie’s working with dragons, which also pays very well.” It had to, given the risks, but he didn’t have to mention that. Hermione had seen how dragons were handled, at the Tournament’s first task. “The twins’ shop is doing well, even though we’re in the middle of a war and they’re known blood-traitors. Percy’s working hard at the Ministry.”

“You forgot yourself.” She was smiling at him.

He tensed up. He hadn’t anything to show for. Not like his brothers. He wasn’t a hard worker. Or a really talented wizard.

She must have guessed his thoughts, or known, since she grabbed his hand. “You’ve been fighting against Voldemort for years.”

He had. And he was good at fighting. Not as good as Harry, but close enough. He nodded. “I guess I can go and become an Auror, and hunt the Death Eaters who are hiding.”

“But that’s not what you really want to do, isn’t it?”

Once again he nodded. “I want to play professional Quidditch.” He saw her frown, just for a moment, like she usually did when he and Harry were talking about the best sport in the whole world, and grinned. “I don’t know if I am good enough, though.”

“And if you can’t play Quidditch professionally?”

What would he do if he couldn’t realise his dream? What he usually did. Go on and do something else. “I could become an Auror. I’m good in a fight. And all the training we’re doing would help with that work as well.”

“If they let you into the Corps.”

“They’ll have to.” He grinned. “After all, we’ll have won the war.”

Hermione chuckled at that. “Push as many of our friends into positions of power, while the bigots are still reeling?”

He shrugged. “It’s a good plan.”

“Yes.”

He raised his eyebrows at her, though with a grin. “Shouldn’t you be telling me not to abuse my influence like that?”

She shook her head. “As you said - we need all the power we can get, even after we win this war. We’ll have to make dead certain that Britain won’t ever turn back into this... cesspit of bigotry and ignorance, not even after Dumbledore is gone. We’ll need lasting reforms. Lasting and drastic reforms, which is very difficult to achieve.”

“Are you planning to enter the Ministry as well, then?” He was curious what Hermione wanted from her life. She was good at tackling difficult challenges.

She sighed. “If it’s possible.”

Ron frowned. That sounded… unlike the Hermione he knew. “Why wouldn’t it be possible?”

“I’m the most hated witch in Britain, among purebloods at least. Even if we win this war, a number of people will will want to avenge their family members, those the Resistance killed.” She snorted. “All of us are facing that, but I’m the leader. I’m the face of the Resistance. Those purebloods will never forgive me.”

He hissed. “Shite.”

For once, she didn’t call him on his language. Instead she nodded. “And my family will be at risk as well. My parents, and my partner. Or husband.”

Ron thought that that sounded familiar. He grinned. “You’re not trying to tell me you’re too dangerous to be with, are you? Remember how we reacted to Harry trying to pull that off.”

She chuckled, but grew serious quickly. “No, I’m not. And what if I have children?”

He hadn’t considered that. It was one thing to risk himself, and his family was Gryffindor to the core, but children?

Hermione snorted. “Not that I’ve been planning to have children anytime soon.”

“But eventually?”

She sighed. “I haven’t really thought that far ahead.”

“Oh.” He guessed that that meant she wasn’t planning to have children for several years after the war.

Hermione looked at him. “What about you?”

He took a moment to answer that. “I… I haven’t really thought about having children either, to be honest. I simply assumed that I’d marry and have children, because, well, that’s normal.” When he saw that she was frowning, he added, maybe a bit quickly: “At least normal in my family. I didn’t really think about it.”

“Harry’s parents married shortly after finishing Hogwarts and quickly had him,” Hermione said.

“Yes.” Ron wondered if Harry wanted children. His friend wanted a family, he knew that, but would the Boy-Who-Lived want to have kids? And how soon?

But the more important question was, Ron thought, whether he wanted children.

“Let’s talk about something else,” Hermione said, breaking the sudden silence.

He shook his head. “No, no.” He had to clear that up. He couldn’t let her think that he wanted her to have children as soon as the war was over. He took a deep breath. “I was surprised by the question, that’s all. I really didn’t think about this. Not before, and not now, with the war and all.”

She nodded, a faint grin on her face. “Not many are thinking that far ahead.”

“Well, Ginny was planning her marriage to Harry when she was seven years old,” Ron said, and regretted it at once. That was close to betraying what his sister had told him in confidence. When Hermione laughed, he quickly went on - he didn’t want to tell her that Ginny still planned to marry Harry. “But I think all of us will have to deal with that - the hatred and the threat of purebloods wanting revenge. I’m a blood traitor since birth, Harry’s the Boy-Who-Lived, and we’re your best friends.” He smiled thinly. “Everyone knows that they can hurt you through us.”

He saw that she was biting her lower lip. “I guess that’s true,” she said, a bit reluctantly.

“I don’t know that much about kids,” he said - he had been the second-youngest, after all, and never had to babysit Ginny, “but I’d rather not have children until .... ” He almost said ‘... until they can grow up safely’. Instead, he said: “But I don’t want to have children until I feel ready for that kind of responsibility.” With a grin, he added: “Which will take some time; can’t simply curse the little buggers if they annoy you.”

“Ron!” She was shaking her head, but she was smiling.

*****​

Hermione Granger watched Ron as he made his way through the packed club to the bar, to fetch two more drinks. Dinner had been nice. Good food, pleasant ambiance, a family style restaurant. They hadn’t talked about politics or relationships, but had mostly exchanged stories from their respective childhoods. The movie had been a romantic comedy. Nothing worth an Academy Award, but a perfect choice to forget the war and everything else for two hours.

When her friend was skirting the edge of the dance floor, a girl bumped into him while she was dancing. Hermione saw her turn around, probably to mumble an apology, and then noticed how her face lit up in a smile. She couldn’t hear what the girl was saying, nor Ron’s reply, but when she saw Ron smile at the blonde, then turn away, and the girl pouted, she felt rather pleased. It was strange what love could do to her - she wouldn’t have thought she could be that… petty? Before. Or that possessive. Even though Ron technically wasn’t her boyfriend, since she still hadn’t been able to choose. But he wasn’t available, not to a Veela, nor to a blonde tart who bumped into people because she didn’t pay attention to her surroundings when dancing.

She sighed. She didn’t know for certain if Ron really didn’t want to have kids as early as most purebloods seemed to have them. But his reason, that he didn’t feel mature enough to be a father, rang true. Ron wasn’t the most mature boy she knew. Although knowing that he wasn’t quite ready to raise kids was a sign of maturity in itself. Heck, she didn’t feel ready to have kids, and she liked to think that she was rather mature for her age - certainly more mature than some wizards twice her age. Like Sirius. Although Harry’s godfather had the excuse of having spent a decade in Azkaban.

Ron was at the bar now, talking to the bartender. He was fitting in well with the muggles, she noticed once again. A far cry from how his parents acted, or had acted, when Hermione had seen them. Her parents would approve of him, she thought, then giggled. They weren’t about to marry, they were trying to find out if they should have a relationship.

She saw Ron turn around, and start towards their table, two glasses in his hands. He did look attractive, his shirt and trousers fit him as if tailor-made - magic, probably - and he had been filling out in the last years. Dishy, some of her muggle friends would call him. Maybe next time they should go swimming, she thought. She’d like to see how Ron looked in speedos. And Harry too, she added.

“Here!” Ron held out her drink.

“Thank you.” Hermione took it, then raised her glass to her friend before taking a big sip. Then she shook her head. She should enjoy the evening, have fun, forget about the war, and all of this… whatever her relationships were.

“Let’s go dancing!” she said, and emptied her drink.

As if on cue, the music changed to a slow song and Ron opened his arms.

It was shaping up to become a great date.

*****​

Hogwarts, January 11th, 1997

Harry Potter, sitting in the Headmaster’s office, told himself that he was just covering for Ron while he waited for his best friend to return from his date. They were thought to have special lessons with the Headmaster, so it would be weird if they didn’t return together.

And yet, he knew he’d stay up even if he didn’t need to. He wanted to know how Ron’s date had gone. Not because he was jealous. Just curious. And maybe a bit… alright, he was jealous. Ron’s last date had gone well, considering that it had been cut short due to the attack on the Burrow. Harry could tell from Ron’s mood afterwards, when they had talked about Hermione, and from the fact that Ron hadn’t been really nervous for this date, which meant he had had reasons to be optimistic. And confident.

Harry on the other hand was quite nervous. His first date with Hermione hadn’t been bad, but it could have gone better. Sirius had said that he had been trying too hard - as if Harry hadn’t acted on his godfather’s advice when he had planned the date.

He glanced at the book in his lap, ‘The Art of Magical Warfare’. As far as such books went, it was a good one - not boring, easy to understand, and focused. But he hadn’t really read much in the last hour, after Dumbledore’s actual lesson had ended. Shouldn’t Ron be back already? Dinner and whatever they did afterwards couldn’t take that long, could it? His own date… well, it had lasted about as long, now that he thought about it. Still, he was wondering, despite not wanting to, what his two best friends were doing. Were they kissing? Harry and Hermione had kissed on their date, but would she have kissed Ron as well? Probably, he thought. She would have thought that was just being fair.

Which meant she’d be kissing Ron again, today. Probably had, already. If they had gone into a nightclub, then they would have had ample opportunities to kiss. Or go further - Harry had stories about what happened in those clubs. And not all of them from Sirius. He sighed again. Hermione wasn’t the kind of girl to do that. But if she did, would she be doing it with him tomorrow - no, it was now later today - as well?

Harry wasn’t quite certain if he wanted that. Part of him wanted to, and go further. They were at war, and he could die on the next mission. He’d rather not die a virgin. But he didn’t want to have sex just to have had sex. And sleeping with a girl Ron was sleeping with as well… he shook his head. That would never work, not even with Hermione. He frowned and closed his eyes.

“Are you wondering what your friends are doing right now?”

Dumbledore’s voice startled him. He had almost forgotten that the Headmaster was there - and it was his office! He cleared his throat. “Did you read my mind?” Without him noticing, despite him having learned Occlumency? If that was possible, then Harry wouldn’t last long against Voldemort.

The old wizard chuckled. “No, I did not. Sometimes, a person’s thoughts are written on their face. Although it helps that I am aware of your situation.”

Harry winced. The Headmaster knowing about his love life, or lack thereof, was embarrassing. The only worse person to know about this… well, Sirius already knew. He didn’t want to talk about this. “Are you going to tell me not to worry? They are out there, just the two of them. They don’t have any backup.”

Dumbledore shook his head. “No. While the odds of any enemy not only stumbling upon them, but also recognising Miss Granger are almost nonexistent, they are just that, almost.” The Headmaster paused for a second. “But if I do not miss my guess, you are worried about something else.”

Harry looked away. That was even worse - the Headmaster knew of his jealousy. He felt petty and stupid.

This time, the Headmaster sighed. “Ah, love - the source of so many great, and so many terrible things. Some say love is fickle, but I prefer the term ‘unlimited’ - you cannot control who you love.”

“Hermione thinks she can,” Harry said.

“If she does, then she is mistaken. Although I would think her actions so far as not so much aimed at controlling her feelings, but finding them in the first place.”

Harry shrugged. Whatever the reasons, it meant that Hermione would pick Ron or him. And Harry wanted her to pick him.

“It may sound callous to you, or even uncaring, but no one can control love. To be in love is not a contest you can win or lose,” Dumbledore said, petting Fawkes.

Sirius had said something else, but that wasn’t the time to discuss his godfather’s views. “You mean that I shouldn’t be jealous because it’s just dumb luck that decides it,” Harry said.

The old wizard shook his head. “Oh, no. Jealousy is natural. Many are jealous of yourself, for being famous, for example.”

“Like Ron,” Harry muttered. It was unfair - Ron had regretted and apologised for his attitude in their fourth year - but he wasn’t feeling like being fair right now.

“Your friend knows more than most what price your fame has, Harry. And yet I think he is still jealous. We all are, one way or the other, jealous of someone. What matters, though, is to not let our jealousy poison our true feelings.”

Harry wanted to ask who the Headmaster could be jealous of, but didn’t. He simply nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

The old wizard smiled and nodded.

*****​

London, Soho, January 11th, 1997

Ron Weasley was kissing Hermione again. She was sitting on his lap, hidden from the view of most of the other guests by some handy foliage from a plant, and by the shadows cast by the dim light inside the club. They broke the kiss, and he took a few deep breaths. This was… he didn’t have the words for it. Last time, they had kissed as well, but it hadn’t been like this. He had just heard about the attack on his home, they had been rushed, worried… not like this.

Hermione was breathing heavily as well. He could hear her, and if he leaned a bit forward, he’d feel her.

“Wow.” It was the best he could do, right now.

She nodded.

“Now I hate the Death Eaters even more, for spoiling the end of our last date.” For a moment, he was worried how she’d take his remark. Would she scold him for making light of the war?

Hermione didn’t. She chuckled. “Another good reason.” Then she leaned forward, and they kissed again. Ron felt one of her hands grip his hair and the other move over his back. His own hands were wandering over Hermione’s back. He didn’t touch her hair - that was a wig. He didn’t want to pull it off by mistake. Then he remembered Hermione would have used a Sticking Charm. Still, it wasn’t her hair. He missed her wild mane, even though her new haircut was both cute and practical.

When they broke the kiss this time, he was close to slipping his hands under her turtleneck, and she had opened two buttons of his shirt. She was shivering now.

“I think it’s time for us to go home.”

He nodded, shaking a bit himself. If they continued, who knew where it would lead? Well, he could imagine. And he was tempted. Very tempted. If he leaned in they’d kiss again, he was certain. And they’d go further than that. He wanted to. But they couldn’t. Not now. Not when she still hadn’t decided. “Yes, let’s go home. Before they start to worry.”

Neither of them would go home, of course - his own was destroyed, hers abandoned. He’d return to Hogwarts through Sirius’s Floo connection, Hermione would go to wherever the Resistance was hiding.

As the two of them straightened their clothes and stood up from their low seats, Ron suddenly had a stray thought: If this war went on for much longer, would those places become their real homes?

He snorted. When she turned to look at him, he shook his head. “Just thinking that we’d better end this war before our quarters turn into our home.”

She nodded. “We will.”

*****​

When he stepped out of the fireplace in Dumbledore’s office at Hogwarts, Ron saw that the Headmaster was sitting behind his desk and Harry was reading in his usual seat. For a moment, he felt guilty for having made his friend wait so long. And even more guilt for what he and Hermione had almost done. He fought the feeling back, though - they hadn’t done it, and he hadn’t been out that late. His first date had been cut short, after all. “I hope you didn’t have to wait too long.”

“Do not worry. I have been working, and Harry has been reading since our lesson ended.”

“Yes,” Harry said, putting the book he had been reading back onto the shelf. For a moment, Ron thought that his friend would say anything else, but he didn’t.

“Good night then, you two,” the Headmaster said, smiling.

The two left Dumbledore’s office, and started to walk back to the Gryffindor dorms. Ron kept his wand out - Moody had drilled constant vigilance into them, and Hogwarts was full of possible ambush spots. A glance showed him, though, that Harry seemed a bit distracted. He cast a Privacy Spell.

“Mate? Did something happen during the lesson?” Ron had had his fair share of embarrassing or even disturbing moments during his Occlumency training, and if Harry had managed to read Dumbledore’s mind…

His friend shook his head. “No… it’s just…” He shrugged.

“Well, if you want to talk about it, I’m here.” Harry was Ron’s best friend, after all - the least he could do was to offer his help. Or just to listen, which helped sometimes.

Harry shook his head. “Sorry. I’d rather not talk about it.”

Ron had to accept that. Experience had taught him that he couldn’t push his friend to talk; the only one who had managed that was Hermione, and only on a few occasions. Ron usually offered to go flying, or organise a pickup game of Quidditch, in such a situation. It was too late at night for either, though. Although some night flying training… no, it was too late, period.

And yet, a bit later, halfway to the dorms, Harry spoke up. “So… how did it go?”

“It went well. After the movie, we went dancing again.” He couldn’t help but smiling widely at the memory.

“Ah.”

That had sounded a bit… off. Ron looked at his friend.

“Well, there was no Death Eater attack to ruin it this time.”

“Oh, yes,” Ron said - maybe a bit too strongly, since Harry was now glancing at him.

“I thought your first date went well.”

“It did.” Ron nodded. “But this one was better.”

They went up a stairway, but halfway, it started to move. Neither of them talked while they were waiting for the stairway to decide on its next location. But as soon as they were in a hallway again, Harry said: “Did you kiss her?”

“We kissed,” Ron said. He looked at Harry, but now his friend was paying attention to potential ambushes. After a second, he added: “Did you? Last date, I mean.”

“Yes.”

Ron had known they would have - Hermione was not the kind of girl to treat either of them differently or unfairly - but to hear it confirmed… He felt a spark of jealousy, and couldn’t make it go away. Tomorrow, or rather, today, Harry would be on a date with Hermione. They would have fun, they would laugh, probably dance together, and they’d kiss each other. Would they be as close to going further as Ron and Hermione had been today? Had they been as close on Harry’s first date? Ron had felt like in heaven tonight, but now, with the prospect of Harry doing the same with her...

They finished the trip to their dorm in silence.

*****​

London, City of London, January 11th, 1997

When she entered the café, Hermione Granger saw that Harry was already waiting. A quick glance at her watch told her that she wasn’t late - her friend was just even earlier than herself. He looked good too, in dress pants and shirt. Not as casual as Ron had been, but fine in his own way. She had dressed up as well, with hose instead of leggings, and a blouse instead of a turtleneck. He had told her there’d be a dress code, after all, and she’d rather not feel underdressed even if they were not going to see a play again.

He had seen her as well - Ron had said Moody was trying to make them as paranoid as the old Auror was, something Hermione agreed with if it kept her two friends alive - and was standing up before she reached the table. “Hi!” His smile seemed to light up his face.

“Hi!”

She felt him relaxed as they hugged - he had been very tense before. Something she didn’t approve of. She released him, and both sat down. Hermione ordered a tea, as yesterday, while Harry wanted another soda.

“So, what do you have planned for today?” she asked, as soon as the waiter had left.

“Well, I’ve made reservations on the Symphony, from Bateaux London. A dinner cruise on the Thames.”

“Oh!” She had heard her parents talk about those cruises. “That’s the originally French ship, right?”

“I think so,” Harry said, though his light hesitation told her that he hadn’t known, nor cared.

“I’ve heard good things about them. My parents dined there before.” She hadn’t - she had been already at Hogwarts when the business had started, and there had always been something up during the holidays.

“Here.” Harry pushed a small package towards her. “Just in case.”

She took it, puzzled. What would he… she opened it and peeked inside. There was a vial, and bundle of… “gillyweed?”

Harry nodded. “If we’re attacked, we can escape through the water. The vial is a potion to keep us warm.”

She was impressed. That was a lot of preparation. “Moody’s good for you,” she said, nodding in approval.

Harry winced. “He’s a tough teacher. I almost stunned Neville when he surprised me the other day.”

Hermione bit her lip. Maybe Moody was a bit too paranoid to train her two friends. Out loud, she said: “How is he doing?”

Harry took a deep breath. “Not well. He’s angry and moody. And always training. He bought a new wand, you know. Said he couldn’t keep using his father’s wand. And he’s very intense.”

That didn’t sound like Neville, Hermione thought. Nor like something that was good for Neville. Still, losing his last close family… “Do you think he’ll do something rash?” Neville attacking Slytherins could be a catastrophe in the current climate.

“We’re keeping an eye on him. With the map,” Harry said.

“Good.” And there were teachers. Not that they had such a good track record, Hermione thought, but at least Dumbledore would be aware of the potential problem for his own plans, now. Or should. She hesitated a second. “Did you tell Dumbledore?”

“I thought…” Harry trailed off, then shook his head. “I’ll tell him once I get back tonight.” He sounded amused and sad at the same time. “I should know better than to assume people know, right?”

She chuckled, without much humour. “You know the saying about what happens if you assume something.”

Harry actually didn’t, so she explained it to him. He laughed quite a bit more than she thought the saying deserved. Boys! Ron would have laughed out loud as well.

“So, you’re taking me on a cruise on the Thames, on a ship from Paris. Quite the romantic gesture.” Hermione smiled at him.

He nodded. “That’s the idea.”

For a moment she wondered if that had been Sirius’s idea. For all his overacting and often crude jokes, Harry’s godfather was quite charming. Ron had relied on advice from his brother Bill, for picking the restaurants at least.

“When do we have to board?”

“Half past seven.” He grinned. “I thought we could visit a museum until then.”

“You know, you don’t have to do everything I like, Harry,” Hermione said. “A date should be fun for both parties.” A relationship didn’t last if one partner was always making sacrifices for the other.

“I wanted to visit the museum ever since I heard about it in school,” Harry said.

“Oh.” Now Hermione felt bad. She had assumed - ironic, after her explanation just a few minutes before - that Harry wouldn’t like to visit a museum, based upon… his attitude towards homework? Was she really that blind, or shallow?

“Hey… I haven’t told anyone that.” Harry smiled and patted her hand.

Hermione winced. That didn’t make her feel much better. Who could he have told at Hogwarts? Ron and her, and only she would have known what it was, and might have organised a trip for him. His family certainly wouldn’t have. Ron would have probably liked to see the museum too - his father would have loved it, but he’d have made a scene in every room. She snorted.

“Hm?” Harry looked confused.

“I just imagined Mister Weasley visiting the British Museum.”

“Ah!” Harry grinned, and the mood lifted. “We can go as soon as we are done here.”

Hermione quickly finished her tea.

*****​

The museum had been fun, Harry Potter thought. He had fudged the truth somewhat, but only a bit - as a kid, he had wanted to visit the Imperial War Museum, not the British Museum. And given that the two of them were currently fighting a war, it wouldn’t have been a good choice for a date anyway.

He was still in a very good mood when they boarded the Symphony, a boat with an all-glass structure. He had made reservations for the most expensive seats, or rather, Sirius had arranged it. Harry suspected that bribes had been involved to get a seat on so short a notice. Probably not compulsion spells, although he’d not put that past his godfather either. But it was worth it. Hermione was worth it, he thought while a waiter led them to their table.

They took a few minutes to order, with Harry relying mostly on Hermione’s knowledge of French dishes from her vacation. Mostly - thanks to their house guests, Harry had become familiar with a few French dishes as well, which must have surprised Hermione, judging by her expression.

“Speaking of French,” she said, once the waiter had served the entrées, “Has there been a change on the ‘stepmother front’?” She was smiling, but she looked a bit tense.

Harry frowned. “No. Sirius is still courting all of them, from what I can tell.” He didn’t know how serious his godfather was - the wizard avoided answering Harry’s admittedly tentative questions with his usual mixture of jokes and embarrassing stories from Hogwarts.

“Well, if Sirius does pick a French wife or lover, you’ll at least eat well.” Hermione shook her head.

“A small consolation,” Harry said.

“Would it be so bad if Sirius found someone?”

Harry took a deep breath. “Not that bad, I guess. But… I feel he’s overdoing it. You know… trying too hard.” Just as Sirius had told him, that was a recipe for disaster.

“Ah. You fear how he’ll feel once the relationship fails?”

Harry nodded. He could imagine how that would feel, and Sirius was still… he hadn’t recovered fully from Azkaban. He probably never would, Harry thought.

“I understand.”

When Harry saw that Hermione bit her lower lip, he tensed up. That wasn’t a good sign.

She straightened, and looked straight at him. He braced himself. “Have you thought about what you want to do after the war?”

He hadn’t expected that question. Or any question, to be honest. For a moment, he was relieved. Then he frowned. “I hadn’t, actually. I just… well, things would be back to normal. Or as normal as it gets for us.”

“Us?” she asked, with a raised eyebrow, but a smile as well.

He knew what she was hinting, but shook his head. “You, me, Ron, and the rest of our crazy friends.”

“I don’t think it’ll be normal for a long while. Things have changed too much.” She was looking at him with an unreadable expression.

He nodded. “Too many have died. Neville… you might not recognise him.”

“I can imagine,” she said. She took a sip from her aperitif. “But even with the Dark Lord gone, and his Death Eaters gone as well, there will be many bigots left. They’ll play nice and act as if they were for Dumbledore all along, but they don’t like muggleborns.”

Harry frowned, but nodded. She was right. Remus had said that that had happened after the last war as well. “We won’t let them get away with it this time, though.” They wouldn’t repeat the same mistakes his parents’ generation had made.

“We can’t really do that much, not without becoming like the Death Eaters. We can’t punish them for their thoughts.” Hermione shook her head and scoffed. “Until they try again to make Britain a country for purebloods by purebloods.”

“Over my dead body!” Harry snarled.

“That’s probably what they’ll do first. Wait until Dumbledore has died, then take out those of us who could stop them.” Hermione looked at him. “That is, if they plan ahead. We’ll be in danger of the families of the Death Eaters taking revenge on us even before that. People trying to avenge a loved one are not rational; they won’t care if they get caught or killed.”

She was painting a rather grim picture of the time after the war, Harry thought. “You mean this war will have been for nothing?”

“No.” She shook her head. “But we’ll have to work hard to prevent that. We’ll need to gather as much power as possible, so even without Dumbledore, the bigots can’t take over again. We need to radically reform the Ministry.” She looked grim now. “Even though lasting and drastic reforms are very difficult to do.”

“You’ll be Minister for Magic then, hm?” Harry said. He was smiling, but he wasn’t joking - he could see her as Minister. She had the passion, and the will, needed. And the talent, of course.

To his surprise, she snorted. “I’m not even certain I’ll be able to work in the Ministry after the war. For the purebloods, I’m the most hated witch in Britain. I’m the face of the Resistance for them. I’ll be the one they’ll go after if they want to avenge their dead.” She grinned, but with a cynical expression. “That will make working in the Ministry rather hard.”

“We can fire all the bigots,” Harry said. “The Ministry needs a purge anyway.” Sirius had often said so.

“We won’t know who’s a bigot. Only the dumber ones will announce it.”

Like Draco, Harry thought. “We can’t let them win, though.”

“We won’t. We’ll do our best to foil them. But it won’t be easy.” Hermione leaned back. “Nor safe. For any of us involved.”

“The war’s not been safe either,” Harry said. “We just have to deal with it.” There was no other choice.

Once again, Hermione seemed to hesitate. “What about our families?”

Harry had only Sirius and Remus. And the Tonkses. And his friends.

“I mean, are you planning to have a family? Children?” She went on.

“Of course,” Harry answered. A family, a real family, had been his dream since forever. His children would grow up happy and safe.

“Many wizards and witches seem to marry and have children quite soon after Hogwarts.” Hermione had a serious expression, which puzzled him somewhat.

“Yes.” His parents for example. And Neville’s.

“They even had children in the middle of a war.”

“Yes.” Was that what she was leading at? “You think that’s not a good idea?”

“Maybe. Although I wasn’t planning to have children anytime soon. The war just gave me an additional reason.” Hermione was now looking straight at him.

“I see.” He didn’t, really. “Do you plan to have children later?”

“Mabye. I don’t know yet. I haven’t really thought that far ahead.”

“You, not thinking ahead?” He chuckled, even though he had to force himself to do so.

“Not that far.”

Which, he realised, meant she wasn’t planning to have kids for several years after the war.

“And you want to have kids earlier.” She smiled wryly.

If not for the talk with Dumbledore last night, he would have wondered if she had read his thoughts. He nodded. “Yes. Like my parents. If they had waited with having kids I would have never been born.” Probably - they would have fought instead of going into hiding, and might have been killed. Or Voldemort would have won.

“Of course.” Hermione was smiling, but she looked sad while doing it. “I guess if you’re willing to have a child in the middle of a war, you’d not wait so you can focus on your work either.”

Harry had to nod at that. Even though he knew she wasn’t agreeing with him. Of course, Hermione’s mum had had her late, close to 30. And Hermione would likely follow her own parents’ example, not his. He cleared his throat. “Well, look at us, we’re not even adults yet in Britain, and we’re talking about children.”

Hermione chuckled, but it felt a bit strained. “Indeed.”

They finished the entrées in silence.

“What a beautiful sight!” she suddenly said.

Harry looked up. They were passing underneath Tower Bridge now. London at night looked great, he had to admit, with all the bright lights shining. “Yes.”

*****​

The cruise ended at a quarter to eleven. Harry was smiling when he led Hermione off the ship. “Solid ground under our feet again!” he said.

“Says the Seeker,” Hermione said dryly.

“And I’d have to know, seeing as it’s my natural enemy when playing.”

She laughed at that, even while she was shaking her head. As Sirius had said, witches liked funny wizards. Life was too short to be always serious.

“Now let’s go dancing!” he said. He was about to hail a cab when he turned around. “Unless you want to do something else.”

“I love dancing,” she said, with a smile.

He nodded. He hadn’t known that. Neither had she, until she went dancing with Ron on their date. Something that irked him.

“I know this club,” he said, raising his arm as he saw a cab drive by.

*****​

Fortunately, muggle dancing wasn’t as complicated as the dances at the Yule Ball, Harry Potter thought two hours later. All he’d had to do was move more or less in step with the music, the dance floor in the in-club Sirius had found was too packed to do any fancy dancing anyway. And the slow dances were even easier. Then all he had to do was to hold Hermione close. Although holding her that close, feeling her move with him, her body pressed into his… he hadn’t wanted to let her go when the music changed again.

“I think it’s time to go,” Hermione said.

Just as he didn’t want to let her go now, even though it was time to leave. They were in a corner of the club, her with her back to the wall, him standing there, shielding her from view. Moody would have punished him for presenting his back to the crowd, but at the moment, Harry didn’t care at all.

They had been kissing again, with tongue, like on their first date. Just more often. Not enough, though, Harry thought. Never enough. He wanted more. More kisses. More touches. If they were alone… But they weren’t alone. And Ron was waiting in Dumbledore’s office, probably bored and worried as well.

For a moment, Harry didn’t care. Ron could wait until morning, if he could stay with Hermione. He regretted his selfish, petty thoughts right away.

“Yes. Let’s go.”

*****​

London, East End, January 12th, 1997

Hermione Granger smiled at Colin, who was taking a turn as guard, as she entered the Resistance’s headquarters.

“Hermione! Had fun?”

“Yes, I had. But I’m exhausted now - we went dancing for hours.” She waved at him and went upstairs to her room. She heard others in what had become their living room, playing a game, probably, but just stuck her head inside to tell them she was back.

She stopped smiling once she closed the door behind her, and sighed. It had been an enjoyable date. Harry was charming like Sirius, honest - unlike his pranking godfather - and he was a good kisser. Like Ron, she thought.

But that didn’t matter, and it was all her fault. Harry wanted a family. And children. Quite soon too, like his parents. He revered his parents - quite natural, since they had died for him. So, why wouldn’t he want to follow their example? Everyone he talked to about them probably told you how great they had been. And the Dursleys… well, he would want a loving family, after living with them.

But most of all, he wanted children. Hermione had realised that. And she didn’t. Not as soon as he wanted to have them, maybe not ever. She frowned and started to change into her bedclothes. They could compromise, of course. But then neither of them would be happy. Both would feel as if they were sacrificing their dream, probably. It could work out. Maybe Hermione would suddenly feel her biological clock ticking as if she was forty - her parents had told her that she had always been very mature for her age.

She snorted. With the war, she was even less likely to have kids in the next few years. She would have to work harder than ever after the war to turn Wizarding Britain into a country she wanted her kids to live in. If she ever had children. And the thought of a child of hers, hurt or killed because of her…

She shook her head. It was silly, anyway. They were teenagers in their first relationship. They shouldn’t be thinking, much less worrying, about having children. Apart from, she added with a snort, keeping all the ways to avoid having them in mind when they had sex. Sex… she forced her thoughts back to the problem at hand, away from those tempting, lurid fantasies.

No, she shouldn’t be worried about different plans for the future. Teenage relationships often didn’t last. Often, but not always, she added.

But she couldn’t help it. She was not the kind of girl to start anything that she didn’t intend to see through to the end. Entering a relationship that she knew, or was reasonably certain, wouldn’t last was not something she wanted to do. It felt like letting her partner down. Nor did she want to enter a relationship just to fool around for a bit. Outside her fantasies, at least.

Casual sex, ‘friends with benefits’ - she had thought about that. Thought about, and discarded the possibility. She couldn’t do that. Not with Harry or Ron. Much less with both, as Sirius would probably suggest. There was too much emotion, too much love, for that to work.

It was selfish, she knew, but she’d rather be with a boy with whom she could at least think of having a long-term relationship.

Ron.

******​