Patron (Harry Potter AU) (Complete)

Chapter 45: Wedding Blues

“A marching band?” Hermione Granger looked up from the bills, catalogues, brochures and notes that covered the table in the salon in No. 12, Grimmauld Place, and stared at her boyfriend’s godfather. “It’s a wedding, not a parade!”

Sirius Black frowned. “That wedding I saw had a marching band! So Nymphadora’s wedding should have a marching band too!” He flicked his wand and a couple of pictures slipped out from underneath a carton filled with flower arrangement examples and floated to the table.

“What?” Hermione grabbed one before it could touch the table, then blinked. She knew that couple. Everyone in muggle Britain knew that couple! “Sirius! That’s Prince Charles’ wedding! That was a state affair!”

The pureblood wizard was just looking at her. “Yes? It’s the biggest muggle wedding I found. In Britain at least.”

Hermione took a deep breath, closed her eyes for a moment, and cursed the day the Black-Tonkses and Sirius had decided on having a ‘big expensive muggle wedding’ in addition to the wizarding wedding which would be held in Magical Bulgaria. “Did you run this past Mrs Smith-Forsythe?” She had persuaded him to hire a wedding planner just to avoid this sort of disaster.

“Oh, I didn’t have to. She said we could do whatever we wanted for the trip from the church to the reception, as long as the carriage adhered to the time table provided by her!” The animagus beamed at her.

“You can’t hire a marching band on such short a notice,” the young witch spat out. “They need training for that.”

“That’s what the pilots said too, until I doubled their prices!” Sirius made a dismissing gesture with his hand.

“Pilots?”

“Yes, to drop the rose petals on the street. I just need some permit from the city, but that shouldn’t be hard to get either - those muggle clerks can’t be paid much, right?”

“Are you planning to bribe … “ Hermione blinked suddenly, then laughed. “Ah, curse it! You got me!” She had fallen for a prank, once again!

“Huh?” The older wizard looked at her in apparent confusion. “What do you mean?”

“This isn’t a prank?” Hermione asked, with a weak and forced smile.

“I promised not to do any pranks during the wedding or its preparation,” Sirius said, wincing. “Andromeda threatened to neuter me if I endangered her girl’s big day.”

Hermione was in a mood to neuter the wizard herself. “Trying to bribe officials will lead to problems that could ruin the wedding!”

“Well, the same goes for using magic on them!” Sirius pouted.

“Which means it’s probably a good idea not to do either!” Hermione took a few more deep breaths. As ‘the resident muggle expert’, she had agreed to help Sirius with some last-minute preparations for the wedding next week. She had expected to straighten out details, like flower arrangements, wedding dresses and suits for the guests not used to muggle fashion, maybe sort out accommodations and provide a small guide for behaving at muggle weddings - no more than five feet of parchment. She hadn’t expected to deal with an attempt to outdo the Windsors! Especially not since the muggle wedding was supposed to be a rather small affair, close family and friends only. Unlike the Bulgarian ceremony.

“Well, how do you propose to get the needed permits then? The pilots said they wouldn’t fly without permission,” Sirius asked with a petulant expression.

“How about not hiring them at all?” Hermione snapped. If only Harry was around, but her boyfriend was training self-defense with Remus, and couldn’t… she blinked. “Did you talk to Harry about this?”

“He said to ask you.”

Hermione ground her teeth in frustration. It was probably payback for involving him in the struggle to show Nymphadora the difference between a luxury wedding dress and a dress fit for a punk wedding, but this was his godfather, not hers! Sirius really had too much money, and not enough sense, at least not when it came to muggle culture. Her eyes widened when she had an idea.

“Sirius,” she began, waving her left hand at the pamphlets and brochures on the table, “most of that will look really tacky to muggles.”

“That can’t be! If it’s good enough for a prince, it’s good enough for Nymphadora!”

“It will look tacky because old muggle families would never try to outshine the Royal Family.”

“Why not, if they have the money?”

“Tradition. If you do this, people will think you’re a nouveau-riche without manners or class.” She had to suppress a relieved smile when she saw that he finally understood.

“Oh.”

“Yes. Now, you can trust your wedding planner, she’s the expert, and she’ll have organized a classy and expensive wedding for you.” The woman better have, considering her rates, Hermione added to herself. Not that the Bulgarian guests the Black-Tonkses and Sirius were trying to impress would know those nuances anyway.

“Does that mean we can’t use the elephant I ordered either?”

Hermione’s wand was halfway out of her holster before she could control herself.

*****​

“Oh, I remember Lily’s wedding… it was a much smaller affair. Not as… expensive.”

Harry Potter glanced at Dudley while his aunt sighed, looking at the dress she was holding. His cousin shrugged. The two of them as well as Uncle Vernon had gotten their suits already, and rather quickly. But apparently, picking the correct dress for a wedding took more time. Much more time, even without trips down the memory lane.

“Yes, dear,” Vernon said, nodding. “Though there was no magical wedding afterwards, to compete with.” The big and - despite his diet - still hefty man smiled. Harry knew from his childhood that his uncle understood the wish to keep up with the neighbours very well.

“As long as this remains a normal wedding, everything will be fine,” Petunia stated, putting the dress down and picking up another to try on. Harry didn’t quite roll his eyes, but he shared another long-suffering look with Dudley; he had reassured his uncle and aunt several times in the last week - he was sleeping at 4 Privet Drive until their trip to Bulgaria, to renew the blood protection - that there wouldn’t be any magic at the wedding.

“It’s a purely normal wedding, Aunt Petunia. Nymphadora insisted; she’s quite a fan of muggle culture.” Harry didn’t think he should add that keeping the wedding purely muggle also turned it in an exotic affair for wizards and witches not unlike those shown in the BBC documentaries. His family wouldn’t appreciate that at all.

While Petunia vanished into a changing room and Vernon looked for a chair to sit down, Dudley leaned towards Harry and whispered: “Our trip to Diagon Alley’s still on, right?”

“Yes.” Dudley loved the Wizarding shopping area, especially Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. “Just remember not to buy anything too obvious.”

“I know, I know. I wouldn’t do that to my parents,” Dudley said, though Harry wasn’t quite certain if he could believe him. His cousin had seemed intrigued when Hermione had mentioned how irresponsible products like ‘Skiving Snackboxes’ were during dinner last night.

“Just don’t get caught. Can’t fool the wizards as easily as we fooled teachers.”

Dudley chuckled and slapped him on the back. Harry didn’t wince, even though he felt like it - his cousin’s boxing training apparently had increased his already considerable strength some more. “I won’t squeal on you, don’t worry.”

“Squeal on me? It’s not as if I’m responsible for you.”

“But you’re a prefect now - the enemy.”

“You sound like Fred and George!”

Dudley took that as a compliment, and his good mood lasted through the hour it took Harry’s aunt to decide on a dress.

*****​

Viktor Krum fidgeted in the unfamiliar clothes. Even with discreet charms on them they felt uncomfortable - if he hadn’t checked, twice, he’d have thought they were cursed. Why had he let his bride to be persuade him to have a British muggle wedding again? Ah, yes - so that the real wedding would be a traditional Bulgarian affair. In Bulgaria. His family had been so smug, sure to have gotten the better of the Black-Tonkses. They weren’t looking that smug now, stuck in the muggle church. A Christian church even! His team manager had gone spare until Viktor had managed to explain that it was simply tradition to have it in a church, not a religious statement. He wasn’t converting. Even so, it might cost him some fans, but he had enough of them.

He glanced at the guests to distract himself. His family looked as uncomfortable in muggle clothes as he felt. Nymphadora’s family looked at ease, but he had expected that. Nymphadora’s father was a half-blood, after all. And Harry’s family were muggles. Quite shy though - with the exception of his cousin. Dudley had asked him for an autograph even. And of course, there were the four veela with Sirius, who attracted envious and lecherous glances from half the guests. There would be trouble in Bulgaria, he knew that.

He went over his lines in his head again, and felt himself grow more nervous. What if he made a faux-pas? Embarrassed his family? This was just a muggle event, he told himself. A show, not a real wedding. Not legally binding. It didn’t help much. Legal wedding or not, he didn’t want to disappoint Nymphadora. And her family - or rather, Sirius - had obviously spent a lot of gold on this. Or muggle paper. The carriages, the catering - his suggestion to use McDonald’s had been shot down at once - and the elephant rides for the children (and Miss Lovegood) would have been expensive. He glanced at the blonde witch, sitting in the second row and scribbling on a muggle notepad. She was attending as Ron’s date, but her father’s magazine had been given the exclusive right to cover the wedding, mostly to keep other reporters from the event, but she obviously took this very seriously.

The muggle music - impressive, he had to admit, if completely different from the muggle music he had heard in the clubs of London - changed suddenly. He turned around, right in time to see the doors open.

Viktor knew that a lot of people had arrived with the bride and were now entering, but he didn’t notice them. He didn’t even notice the father of the bride. All his attention was captured by the sight of Nymphadora, clad in a white dress that he was almost certain had taken magic to don, walking down the aisle. Towards him.

And in that moment, it didn’t matter to him at all that this was not a legal wedding.

*****​

By the time dessert was being served at the wedding banquet, Hermione Granger was finally relaxing. Things had gone well. Better than she had feared, in any case. Sirius had behaved, and consequently, Harry hadn’t lost his godfather to Andromeda’s wand.

“Hermione!” Luna sat down next to her, on the seat Harry had vacated to join the Quidditch discussion at the next table with Ron. The blonde witch put her big notepad on the table, toppling a half-full glass of wine. “Oops! I keep forgetting that those glasses are not charmed against spilling. Nor the tablecloths against staining.”

While Luna was staring at the wine making its way to the edge of the table, seemingly fascinated by the lack of magic, Hermione reached over and used her napkin to mop the liquid up before it reached her own lap. Not that the dress she had to wear as part of Nymphadora’s bridesmaids would have been a big loss. The muggleborn witch had already decided she’d not inflict such torturous clothing on her own bridesmaids. If she ever married. A muggle wedding, the only option for her and Harry, was not recognized in Wizarding Britain, after all. It would be no more than an act for her parents, at best a gesture of defiance against unjust laws. Harry’s mother had taken that option, Hermione knew. Probably for the very reasons she was thinking of. And Lily had stayed a mere concubine in the eyes of Wizarding Britain even after she had been killed by Voldemort. The Wizengamot had granted a posthumous adoption of Harry by his father, making him a pureblood. Retroactively making his muggle marriage legal had not crossed anyone’s mind as far as Hermione could tell. And if it had, it would have been dismissed to avoid creating a precedent, she was certain of that.

“Hermione!”

A finger poking her side interrupted her gloomy thoughts - maybe she shouldn’t have drunk that second glass of wine.

“It’s a wedding! Think happy thoughts! Imagine your own wedding!” Luna beamed at her.

“I did.” She smiled weakly.

“Ah… but… oh!” Luna’s eyes opened wide. “Do you fear you’ll not have as beautiful a wedding as this? Sirius would certainly not skimp on his godson’s wedding! You’ll probably have an elephant as well. Maybe a flying one, if Hagrid manages to crossbreed it with a pegasus! Imagine, flying rides!”

The muggleborn witch didn’t like to dampen her friend’s enthusiasm - Luna had thoroughly enjoyed riding the elephant Sirius had managed to acquire through means Hermione didn’t really want to know more about - but she wasn’t in the mood for smiling and nodding and pretending all was well.

“I’ve no doubt that I’d have a great muggle wedding. But it wouldn’t mean anything since unlike Nymphadora, I won’t get a magical wedding.” If she was marrying Harry. But at the moment, she couldn’t imagine, or didn’t want to, marrying anyone else.

“Oh.”

“Yes, ‘oh’,” Hermione said, refilling her glass and waving her hand into the direction of Nymphadora, who was dancing with her father. “For her, this is just a party. A show to impress Viktor’s family. Exotic dinner entertainment. What the Weasleys like to provide for their guests, just on a more grandiose scale.”

Luna’s face fell, and Hermione was briefly confused, until she remembered that the Lovegoods weren’t exactly throwing or attending many dinner parties. They were actually seen by some as exotic dinner entertainment themselves. She suppressed her guilt though, and continued. “For me, such a wedding would be as close as I can get to marrying Harry.” Close enough to hurt, she thought. And the likes of Parkinson and Greengrass would mock her behind her back for aping a real wedding. She downed her wine. “I want more than an illusion, more than a sham!”

“But does it matter how you marry, as long as you two love each other?” Luna looked like someone had just proven to her that Snorkacks did not exist. Or had died out just before she could find one.

“Of course it matters! Unless we can marry in Wizarding Britain, our children will be muggleborns like myself!” Hermione spat out.

Her friend looked utterly confused now. The ranting witch suddenly realized that Luna really didn’t understand how bad this was. Sighing, she refilled her glass again. “They’d be third-class citizens. Looked down upon. Unable to marry who they want. And they’d have a patron.”

“But… Harry would be their patron. He’d have the same power over them if they were pureblood anyway. That’s not a bad thing; he’s your patron too,” Luna said, still looking lost.

“Do you think I like being his retainer? Do you think he likes being my patron?”

“You… you don’t?” The blonde Ravenclaw was staring at her, with her mouth open and her lips trembling.

“No, we don’t.”

“But… you love each other.” Luna sounded as if she couldn’t bear to turn this into a question.

“Yes, we do. But that’s despite him being my patron.” Hermione sighed again when she saw Luna still didn’t understand. “Luna… both Harry and I grew up in muggle Britain. We think people in a relationship should be equal.”

“But even if you both were purebloods, Harry would be the head of the family,” Luna stated.

“That’s wrong too! At least the French have two heads per family.” Hermione scoffed. The French also let their patrons exercise far more power over muggleborns than what would be tolerated in Britain, but that was another topic. “Not that it matters since we wouldn’t be able to marry in Magical France either.” She stared at her once again empty glass.

“I didn’t know you felt that way.” Luna had tears in her eyes now.

Hermione’s guilt reasserted itself despite the wine she had consumed. “Luna…” she began.

The blonde witch shook her head, interrupting her: “But you’re the most brilliant witch at Hogwarts! Even if things look gloom, you can’t lose hope! You’ll find a way to achieve your dreams!”

Hermione was touched, and felt her spirits lift. Luna was right - she shouldn’t despair. She and Harry would beat Voldemort, and then they’d beat Britain’s bigotry! If Lily had lived, she certainly wouldn’t have stayed James’ concubine.

“Just as I’ll find snorkacks, you’ll find a way to marry Harry!”

Hermione closed her eyes and resisted the urge to refill her glass again.

*****​

Watching Nymphadora and Viktor leave for their ‘wedding night rehearsal’, as he liked to call it, Sirius Black felt prouder than at the time he and his friends had managed to turn the entire Slytherin dorm including the students red and gold - right before the end of the 6th year feast. Viktor’s family seemed suitably impressed by the ceremony, most guests were thoroughly sloshed, and the dessert buffet was as delicious as the cook had promised. In short, the wedding was a huge success. It had cost quite some galleons, but then, that prank in 6th year had cost Gryffindor the House Cup. Worth it though. So worth it.

The wizard was on his way back to his table, where Valérie and Laure were animatedly chatting with a Bulgarian witch. Chantal and Eugénie would be outside, checking the wards. They didn’t trust the aurors and hit-wizards providing security - hidden from muggle eyes - that much. Well, neither did he, truth to be told, which is why he had hired some of those mercenaries Aberforth Dumbledore had brought back from the Balkans to protect the wedding.

Passing a waitress, he snatched a bottle from her tray, feeling proud for not having drawn his wand to summon it. That had taken a bit to get used to, seeing people serve food with their hands. Not too much though, once he had seen the waitresses. Now if they were wearing wizard fashion… a wizard could dream, couldn’t he? And weddings inspired a certain type of dream, not only in witches, he mentally added as he saw Valérie lean back and laugh at something the Bulgarian had said. Just like Lily, back...

Instead of continuing towards her, Sirius turned to the side entrance to the banquet hall, to get some fresh air while he let his thoughts turn back to what he remembered of James’ wedding. He didn’t remember everything, not after Azkaban. He only knew the Dursleys had been there because Petunia had told him that, earlier. But he remembered his friends saying their vows. Remembered them kissing. He didn’t remember, not really, what they had been wearing, but he had seen the pictures at the Dursleys. They had been so happy, every one of them, but especially James and Lily. The war had been very far away, then. Watching his friends, he had been certain everything would end well. Nothing would destroy their happiness.

But of course, he had been wrong. So terribly, tragically wrong. He had been young, and dumb, and careless. His own fault. And that traitor’s! For a moment, he wanted to smash the bottle in his hand at the wall next to him, just to vent some of his anger. He didn’t though. This was a wedding, he’d not ruin it by losing control and making a scene. Remus was probably making the rounds outside for the same reason. His best friend wouldn’t be taking the memories this event brought up any better than Sirius himself.

He took a few deep breaths of the evening air, then entered the hall again. Hermione and Luna were chatting a few tables away. The brunette - she had gotten rid of the dye as soon as they had left Jamaica, even though everyone knew ‘blondes had more fun’ - was probably correcting some of Luna’s misconceptions about muggles. Or something. Harry was chatting with the Dursleys. It looked like his godson’s family was about to leave already. Sirius dimly remembered they had left the other wedding early as well, and Lily had been angry later, at him. Or something.

In a few years, at most, there would be another muggle wedding in the family, Sirius was certain. Harry and Hermione’s wedding would be an even bigger affair, though. Just like James’ and Lily’s, it would be their only wedding, so it would have to be perfect! And this time, he’d get the permits for the planes in advance!

He walked towards his table, towards Valérie again. She was smiling brightly at him, she must have been missing him. He sat down next to her, leaning over to kiss her cheek. Under the table, he slid his hand over her thigh, enjoying how she tensed for an instant, holding her breath, before her smile turned just a shade sultry.

He imagined her, in Nymphadora’s dress. Or something similar. Maybe he should start a tradition of the Blacks having muggle weddings before their magical ones. The Delacours would like to have a Magical Wedding in France, he thought. And his bigoted parents would be turning in their graves.

*****​

“Thank you for coming!”

Harry Potter smiled at his family - the muggle part of it, to be precise. His aunt and uncle had stayed longer than he had expected, even with the lack of magic so far. Overt magic, at least.

“It was great, Harry!” Dudley grinned. “Though your godfather is still crazy. Elephant rides? At a wedding?”

Harry chuckled. “You should have seen his other ideas. Hermione pretty much went spare trying to rein him in.” He still didn’t know, didn’t want to know, how Sirius had gotten an elephant. ‘Plausible deniability’, his girlfriend had called it.

“I can imagine!” Dudley chuckled. “I still can’t believe he didn’t prank anyone.”

“Andromeda, the mother of the bride, had had a word with him,” Harry explained.

“Must’ve been quite a word, to make him behave.” Dudley shook his head - he was rather familiar with Sirius’s antics from Harry’s tales. And from his own experience.

“It was a lovely wedding Harry,” Aunt Petunia said. “And impressive. But we should be heading home now, it’s already quite late.”

Uncle Vernon nodded in agreement, but Harry could see that the man was warily eyeing a group of drunk Bulgarians. He could understand them - as people got drunk, they were likely to forget that they were not supposed to use magic. The muggle staff would be sent home soon.

“Of course.” He shook hands with Vernon, kissed his aunt on her cheek, and slapped Dudley on the back.

His cousin returned the favor, then whispered into his ear: “Just imagine what Sirius will do for your wedding.”

Harry forced himself to laugh as his family left the hall, but grew serious as soon as they had left his sight. His wedding. With Hermione. He wasn’t even sixteen yet, and people were talking about marriage!

Not that he didn’t want to marry Hermione. But in the future. After Voldemort was dead for good. And he wanted to marry her properly. Show everyone that she was his wife, his partner, not his retainer or concubine!

Though he’d settle for a muggle wedding, if that was all he, they could get. He just hoped Hermione would settle for a muggle wedding as well, if it came down to that. But that was a question for the future.

*****​

“Take these instructions and study them carefully - much depends on that ritual. Not least your own standing among my followers,” the Dark Lord Voldemort declared as he handed over a sealed scroll to Uesli Rosier-Flens. “And breathe not a word, not even a hint, to anyone else about this.”

The Ravenclaw’s eyes widened when he understood what Voldemort was hinting at, and he bowed deeply. “I will perform my duty to the utmost of my ability, my lord!” he declared, bowing deeply.

“I know. Bellatrix will observe your ritual, just as a precaution, of course. I trust you,” the Dark Lord said, and smiled when he saw the wizard pale some, before the man’s greed overcame his fear again.

Voldemort dismissed him with a nod, and watched him leave. The fool would be thinking of advancing into the Dark Lord’s inner circle, and apply himself accordingly, never suspecting that he was but a distraction. A necessary sacrifice, since Dumbledore had to be suspicious after the Dark Lord’s last ritual had gone out of control. A follower of average skill from a rather poor branch of a pureblood family was a small price to pay if it kept his old foe from disturbing the real ritual.

He turned his head to look at his Bellatrix, standing at his side. “You know your task.”

“Yes. I won’t fail you, my lord.”

He nodded. The task was easy enough for a witch of her power. He’d not even send her, if not for the need to keep it secret. His followers couldn’t know about this.

He sat down at his desk, dispelling the charm that kept anyone from catching even a glimpse of it. “Did Barty’s old contact send word?”

“He did, my lord. He is willing, though he demands a high price.” Bellatrix sneered, clearly angry at the audacity of anyone making demands towards him.

“If he succeeds, it’ll be worth it. And if he fails…” Voldemort smiled. He was not in the habit to reward failure. Not even a wizard working for the Sublime Porte was beyond his reach. Especially not when revealing the wizard’s role in two attacks on Potter would see the wizard facing Dumbledore - which would cause him to spill everything he knew about Voldemort’s interest in genies in an attempt to save himself. An interest the Dark Lord had taken care to fake in his dealings with Abdul al-Samar.

No matter if the attack on Potter succeeded or not, Dumbledore would have to deal with the Ottoman Empire. And Voldemort knew from personal experience just how much that would take.

Between the fake ritual and the attack on Potter, Dumbledore would be hard-pressed to find out, much less stop his real plans.

*****​

Bulgaria, or at least the customs area for arrivals by international portkey, hadn’t changed since last summer, Hermione thought. A cushioned floor, buckets for those who got travel-sick, stern-faced guards in black robes brimming with enchantments guarding the door to a large hall with grey walls and pillars. If anything, the number of guards had been increased, in her impression - though that might have just been a reaction to Viktor’s presence. Knowing that Bulgaria’s most famous Quidditch player was counted among Voldemort’s enemies would likely cause the government to increase security for his appearances. Of course, it could also be a reaction to the sheer number of British wedding guests who were expected to arrive over the next few days.

“Welcome to Bulgaria, my friends!” Viktor greeted them warmly. Boris Stankoiev, Viktor’s best friend, was with him, as were a few more young wizards and witches Hermione recognized from the wedding in London.

“Hello Viktor!” Sirius smiled at the star seeker. “Are you already looking for excuses to be away from home? That’s usually reserved for after the honeymoon!”

Viktor chuckled - politely, Hermione thought, it had been a really bad joke. “No, though I do confess that I don’t regret getting away from the preparations at home for a bit. My mother is in a frenzy.”

“Women usually are when it comes to weddings. They take them far too seriously. Everything has to be perfect, as if the marriage would fail otherwise.” The animagus shook his head.

Hermione gaped for a second at the hypocrisy. Sirius had driven her almost crazy with his near-obsession about Nymphadora’s muggle wedding! She managed to refrain from commenting - or hexing - Sirius with some effort.

The others, especially the wizards, seemed to find his comment funny though, and laughter accompanied them to the floo central of Sofia. A brief trip later, they arrived in the home of Viktor’s parents.

That had changed, of course - the house had been completely rebuilt, after having burned down by fiendfyre last summer. The young witch shivered briefly at the memory, then felt Harry’s hand slide into hers, squeezing it reassuringly. Viktor’s family had chosen the same style for the new house - wood panels, carved and lacquered, on the walls, and woven carpets on the wooden floor. Everything looked new though, and more expensive. It lacked the old, lived in and welcoming impression the old house had had. Or maybe that was just Hermione’s subjective impression, since the house also lacked Lala, the muggleborn witch killed during the attack last summer. That she had to play the obedient retainer again, in public, didn’t help her mood any.

While Sirius and Viktor’s father went through the formalities of hospitality, Hermione spotted a young witch wearing the muggleborn clothes, and the same crest Lala had worn. Obviously her replacement as representative of the family’s lower house - the muggleborns.

“Welcome to the household of the Krum Family. I am Ioana Kalinieva,” she said, bowing. For a moment Hermione saw Lana there, the words were identical.

“Hello. I’m Hermione.”

“Let me show you your room, and the house.” The witch smiled, though Hermione thought it lacked the open friendliness of Lana. Or maybe she was just feeling guilt still over the witch’s death, and resented seeing her replaced.

Stepping out of the floo room, Hermione could see that the house was also larger than its predecessor. And definitely more expensive. It looked like Viktor’s father had decided to use the occasion to demonstrate his family’s new wealth. The witch wondered, briefly, if that had led to troubles with the rest of the clan, but didn’t voice her thoughts.

“This is your room for the duration of your stay.” The girl presented a cozy, decently-sized room.

“My official guest room, right?” Hermione asked, smiling slightly.

“Yes.” Ioana’s eyebrows rose a bit. “You’ll not be sleeping in here then.”

Hermione chuckled, remembering her reaction last year. “No, things changed since last year’s visit.”

“Ah. Viktor said you’d become the official mistress of the head of the Potter family, but his mother was not certain what that entailed. I’ll show you his room.”

The young British witch didn’t bother to correct the other girl. Bulgarian customs were just a bit too different to easily handle the exact nature of her relationship to her patron. Like she was considered a member of the Potter family, but not allowed to use the name, it was easier to simply nod and go along with. ‘Official mistress’ was close enough anyway. Hopefully Sirius wouldn’t make too much fun of her and Harry, once he heard about it.

Harry’s room - though lacking his presence at the moment - was far larger, and far more luxurious than she remembered. Expansion charms, she assumed. Unless Viktor’s family had really gone overboard and had replaced their house with a mansion. It was furnished for a couple - two armoires, two desks even, and one big bed.

She smiled at the sight. After the fortnight Harry had had to sleep at the Dursleys, she was looking forward to sleeping with him again. And waking up in his arms.

*****​

Sirius Black rarely envied his best friend. Remus hadn’t much to be envious of, in his opinion. Even discounting his lycanthropy, Sirius was better looking, had four gorgeous veela girlfriends, a great godson, far more gold, and didn’t have to deal with stupid children all year. On the other hand, Remus wasn’t currently in Bulgaria, in a village where half the population - or more - seemed to think his four aforementioned gorgeous veela girlfriends were out to seduce the wizards and wreck families.

The villagers hadn’t exactly said anything, that would have angered and shamed Viktor’s family, but the looks the veela got were clear enough. Viktor’s best man explaining that Sirius was so rich, none of the veela would risk losing him for a Bulgarian villager hadn’t gone over well with either the villagers nor Sirius’s girlfriends. It had been high time to take out a broom and do some flying.

“The village looks much better from above,” Valérie, flying next to him, said. His love was still not flying as well as she had before she had gotten cursed, maybe she never would, but she could fly more than well enough now to enjoy the sky once more.

“Oh, yes. Jalouses idiotes!” Laure agreed, gliding on an updraft. “We cannot ‘ear them from up ‘ere, and we can barely see them.”

Sirius wisely - in his opinion - did not disagree. The village did look pretty from above, what damage the raid last year had done had been repaired. At least as far as he could tell. A few more days, and then there’d be the wedding. Two days before the full moon, on a Sunday, as Bulgarian tradition demanded. Tomorrow was the day the two ‘farewell to freedom parties’, one for the bride, one for the groom, would be held. Another Bulgarian tradition Sirius approved of.

And after the wedding, they’d return to Britain. Just in time to avoid the full moon and to celebrate Harry’s birthday at home. At least his godson seemed to enjoy his time here in Bulgaria. The boy was currently out with Viktor and Ron, who had arrived from Romania, where he had visited Charlie Weasley. The three were apparently ‘broom hunting’ in the forest. Wandlessly, to boot - what foolishness. Though as long as it was fun, who was Sirius to judge them? And yet, Harry would be glad to return as well. As Sirius’s father had said once - one of the only pieces of advice of his sire Sirius had not rejected - a wizard couldn’t be happy if his witch wasn’t happy. And Hermione wasn’t happy in Bulgaria. She wasn’t treated like the veela were, but he knew she resented the strict caste society Bulgaria had. She had been ranting about it often enough. That the young witch had accepted the traditional Bulgarian robes for the wedding was a miracle, seeing as they’d mark her as a muggleborn. She spent the days studying in their room, sometimes not even attending meals if Harry was away. Sirius didn’t know what exactly she was studying, but it wasn’t school work.

Ah well… a few more days, and the wedding would be done, and everyone could return to their normal lives, and only had to deal with the weird relatives at family gatherings. Sirius smiled and started a dive, prompting the four veela to chase after him.

*****​

The duck was flying as fast as its wings allowed, so close to the water its feet seemed to drag through the water, headed to a patch of reed. It knew the area, and it had a head start. Harry Potter though was the youngest seeker at Hogwarts in a hundred years. And he was on the finest broom currently on the open market. And ducks were not exactly the best flyers, and far bigger than a snitch. He was on it in a heartbeat, his hand snatching out and gripping the bird by the neck.

“Hah!” he held the flapping, quacking bird up while Ron and Viktor caught up. “I’m in the lead again.”

“By a duck,” Viktor scoffed, though he was grinning. “The only game easier to catch than a duck would be a dead duck.”

“LIke in Quidditch, what matters is the catch,” Ron said, coming to a stop next to the two. His broom was slower than the ones of the two seekers’, though far more maneuverable. A keeper’s broom. Viktor had offered him one of his older brooms, but Ron had refused, claiming he wanted to fly as much as possible on the broom he’d fly in games.

Harry let the bird go, watching as it fled and disappeared into the closest patch of reed.

“Don’t you want to impress Hermione with your prowess as a hunter?” Viktor asked.

Harry glared at the Bulgarian while Ron chuckled and said: “She’d not be impressed, she might not be a Quidditch fan, but she knows how easy it is for Harry to catch birds.”

Harry chuckled while he nodded, though he knew Hermione might not consider the double-entendre that amusing. His girlfriend might also say something about archaic and barbaric views and outdated values - she ranted about Bulgaria’s customs often enough, though he thought part of that was born from her current frustration with her research. He wouldn’t mention that though - it was both a bit impolite towards their gracious hosts, and would endanger Dumbledore’s plans.

A sudden movement to his left drew his attention. He turned his head and spotted a broom rider above them, flying towards them. No, half a dozen disillusioned broom riders, his enchanted glasses informed him. Then he saw the disillusioned figures flying nearby without brooms.

“Watch out!”

He was already moving, his broom accelerating, when the first spells flew towards them. He easily evaded them, pulling around, when he suddenly found himself struggling not to be swept from his broom by unnaturally violent and strong winds.

*****​

Doruk didn’t know how the Boy-Who-Lived had spotted him and his wands - they should have been out of the range of any detection spells, none of the Bulgarian patrols had detected them - but he had, and spoiled their surprise attack. Fortunately, he and his men had come prepared for that. Anti-portkey and anti-apparition jinxes were already in place while the genies their employer had provided were preventing the target from escaping on his broom. No one could fly through a storm controlled by a djinn!

But the storm would also attract the attention of the Bulgarian peasants. His men were already diving towards the boys caught in the storm - the days of waiting for such an opportunity, dodging the villagers and the guests exploring the countryside had left them champing at the bit to finish the job.

A bit too eager. Emre was already casting, the fool - his piercing curse would never hit anything in the storm at that range. And Harun was rushing ahead, leaving the others on slower brooms behind. He was a good wizard, experienced, but sometimes a bit too sure of himself. Doruk hoped this wouldn’t be one of those times.

He himself stayed back. He wouldn’t be rushing into close combat, not even when he had double the number of wands and genies on his side. That was what he paid his men for. As his father used to say: “A leader needs to stay behind, so he doesn’t lose sight of the big picture.” Pity his father hadn’t heeded his own advice, 30 years ago, and had been caught with his robes up by French Gendarmes magiques.

*****​

Harry Potter fought to keep control over his Firebolt while the sudden storm was doing its best to smash him into the ground. He had been in worse, back in the tournament. Or almost as bad. But back then he hadn’t had a dozen enemies bearing down on him and his friends. Still, he wasn’t quite panicking. A quick glance showed him that both Viktor and Ron were still flying, and seemed to manage - so far.

Then the first broom rider came at him. He must have pushed his broom to leave the others behind, Harry thought, and he wasn’t slowing down. A bit further, and only a professional seeker would be able to pull up in time avoid a crash. Harry was rather certain that his attacker wasn’t a professional Quidditch player.

“Expecto Patronum!”

A normal spell would have almost no chance to hit anything in a storm that pushed both Harry and his target around. His corporal patronus though wasn’t affected by the wind - and could aim itself. It couldn’t really hurt the man, of course - not by itself. But few could ignore a glowing, flying stag barrelling at them. Harry heard a shriek, and then saw the man crash into the ground with flailing arms.

He hesitated for an instant, then pointed his wand at the crash site. “Confringo!” The earth around the crashed broom blew up, ensuring that if the man had survived the crash he’d still be in no shape to return to the fight.

Then the other four wizards were in range, and spells started to rain down on him. Hitting a broom rider in this storm while riding a broom was almost impossible though. He started to weave, even corkscrew, to make it harder still. “Aeroarmaguttis!”

With the shield surrounding him and his broom, the noise from the wind and the force of the storm both lessened and his speed increased. He could easily escape and fly back to village, to get help. But that would mean he’d leave his friends to face the attackers alone - and the village patrols should have noticed the storm by now. Still, getting out of the storm was a good idea. He urged his broom on and banked right, to the edge of the storm.

And flew into a wall.

His aerodynamic shield shattered, but had managed to cushion the impact enough to let the enchantments on his robe save his life. Even so he was thrown off the broom, and crashed into the bushes lining the pond. He felt his left arm break - after five years playing seeker, he was quite familiar with the sensation - and rolled a few yards, stones and roots hurting him further, with the cushioning enchantments spent already. Panting and groaning with pain, he stood up, fighting the storm’s fury - and saw all four broom riders shoot towards him.

“Protego!”

He dove forward, screaming in pain when his broken arm touched the ground, and almost collapsed then and there as spells hit the ground around him, throwing up dust and fragments that both hindered and hid him.

He spotted one of the attackers flying very close to the ground and pointed his wand at him, pouring as much power into the spell as he could.

“Aguamenti!”

The jet of water that spewed forth from the tip of his wand missed the man, but Harry corrected his aim, and the attacker was pushed off his broom… no, he kept on the broom, but was now flying upside down - a sticking charm’s work, Harry realized. A piercing curse hit his new shield, battering it, and Harry had to drop the Water-Making Spell and evade, allowing the wizard he had hit to regain control of his broom.

A few spells flew at them from the side - Viktor had arrived! - but missed the attackers. It had given Harry some breathing room though, and he managed to raise a few walls to give him some additional protection. They weren’t as good as Hermione’s, but they’d do. He flicked his wand as spells started to rip into his walls, and transfigured debris on the ground into small daggers. Dozens of them. Then he banished the lot of them at the next broom rider who came at him.

Even with the storm spoiling everyone’s aim, and the unsteady path the broom rider was flying, enough of the daggers hit to wound the wizard. Harry aimed his wand to try and hit him with a curse, now that the man’s shield was down, but the wizard pulled up and fled before he could cast.

Another wizard dove at him, wildly casting. And from the side, a third… no! That was Ron! Harry’s friend flew straight at the other broom rider, and for a moment he feared Ron would ram the wizard. But the redhead had just gotten so close that he couldn’t miss anymore - and while his shield absorbed the curse sent at him, his own spell shattered the shield of his opponent, and the follow-up spell blew up the man’s face.

One wounded, two down for the count. But there had been six at the start, and Harry could only see three of them around. And an unknown number of other figures, probably those controlling the storm.

His first wall shattered under the assault from an attacker, and Harry was about to replace it when Ron stopped near him. “Get up!” his best friend shouted. “We’ll have to leave here!”

“There are walls around us! I crashed against one!” Harry shouted back, but he nevertheless mounted Ron’s broom.

“Bloody hell!” Ron cursed, wiping some blood from his face. “They can’t have walls all around us - they couldn’t have entered themselves, otherwise!“

“Right. Time to hide. Take us down there, near the pond.”

Ron did so. On the way, Harry cast a series of blasting curses, throwing up enough dust to obscure them from view. As soon as they had landed he pulled out his cloak of invisibility while Ron shrank his broom down. Then the two raised more walls before slipping under the cloak.

“We’re not exactly first years anymore!” Ron commented as it became apparent just how much they had grown since Harry had received the cloak.

“It’ll work well enough,” Harry countered as the two started to make their way towards the border of the storm. After a few minutes that felt like an eternity, during which the walls they had left were reduced to rubble and the pond next to them hit with a dozen curses, and his broken arm had been bumped against Ron twice, they staggered out of the storm’s area.

“Bet that’s the leader,” Ron said, “up there, hovering.”

“Yes. Must have dropped the disillusion charm. Fool. Cast on three,” Harry agreed.

“One. Two. Three.”

*****​

Doruk was staring at the raging storm, trying to find his target and cursing his useless hired wands when suddenly, his shield was shattered and he was almost thrown off his broom. Before he could react or recover, more spells hit him, barely stopped by his robe’s protection. Why couldn’t he see the enemy? The anti-disillusionment jinxes were still working!

He started to accelerate, but knew it was too late. One blasting curse clipped his broom and destroyed the bristles, sending him plummeting down to the ground. And the spells kept coming. A piercing curse hit his shoulder, and he screamed with pain.

Then he hit the ground and didn’t feel anything anymore.

*****​

“Hah!” Harry Potter spat through clenched teeth when he saw the wizard leading the attack smash into the ground.

“It doesn’t look like he did control the storm though,” Ron commented.

“There are flying creatures up there, they have to be the ones responsible.”

“Damn. What kind of creatures?” Ron was looking at the sky, trying to spot them.

“Human looking ones. I didn’t see wings.” Harry couldn’t see anyone either… there! “I see one. Almost transparent.”

“Has to be a djinn. They’re rumored to be able to turn to air.” Ron shook his head. “Looks like the Ottomans.”

“Does fire work on them?”

“Should work.”

Before they could cast though the figure Harry had discovered fled the area and the storm started to quiet down, revealing two broom riders left - one wounded - and Viktor. Harry was wounded, and he knew he should retreat to the village. Viktor should do the same - the attackers would never catch him on his broom. But he was hurt, and angry, and fed up with getting attacked and endangering others everywhere.

He glanced at Ron. “Let’s get them.”

“Yes.” Ron nodded grimly, raising his wand. Apparently, he was fed up with getting attacked too.

Their spells hit one attacker before the man noticed them. His defenses must have been depleted already by Viktor, Harry thought, while the remains of man and broom fell into the pond. The other one tried to flee, but neither his skill nor his broom was up to the task of escaping from the best seeker in Europe, and Viktor soon brought the man down as well.

“You know, they’ll be angry with us, for this, but it was worth it,” Ron said, taking deep breaths to calm down.

“Viktor’s family, for ruining the area?” Harry’s arm was starting to hurt too much to focus properly.

“No, Sirius and Hermione, for not fleeing when we had the chance.” Ron chuckled. “They’ll focus on you though.”

“Damn! I’ll tell them you had the only broom available, and wanted to finish them off.”

“What? It was your suggestion!”

“Obviously I was not thinking straight due to my broken arm, and you failed to pull me out of harm’s way,” Harry chuckled, then winced when the movement caused his arm to hurt even more.

“You can’t blame me for this!” Ron protested.

“I can’t very well blame Viktor, can I? We’re his guests.”

Their host looked very surprised when he found the two of them sitting on the ground and laughing almost hysterically.


Chapter 46: Plots

 

Chapter 46: Plots

An hour later, Harry Potter and his best mate Ron Weasley were not laughing anymore. It seemed as if everyone apart from Viktor was mad at them. But Viktor wasn’t there, in Harry’s room. The Bulgarian was helping with organizing his family’s response to the attack. Lucky him. The surviving attackers had been taken away by the Bulgarian guards, but Harry didn’t expect much to come from their interrogation - Voldemort covered his tracks very well, and they wouldn’t know anything important.

“What were you thinking? Outnumbered I don’t know how badly, facing Ottoman raiders and genies - genies! - and you attack? Didn’t we train for such a situation? If you get ambushed, the enemy has the advantage! If you can retreat, you do so!” Sirius was pacing in front of the two, gesticulating wildly. Harry’s godfather was furious. Valérie, Chantal, Laure and Eugénie didn’t look that happy either, standing at the wall, and Hermione… Harry winced when he remembered how she had arrived at the partially destroyed pond, sitting on the back of Sirius’s broom, anger and worry etched on her face.

“We had the advantage, and we had to help Viktor,” Ron put forth, then cringed when the room’s attention seemed to focus on him.

Harry used the distraction to sneak a glance at Hermione, sitting next to him, and winced. His girlfriend was fuming, but he could see she was fighting not to cry again. He wrapped an arm around her, and though she stiffened - she must agree with Sirius’s assessment of his and Ron’s course of action in that fight - she didn’t pull away.

“Viktor’s three years older, and was holding his own in the fight,” Sirius snarled.

“He was outnumbered and he needed our help!” Ron blurted out. “He didn’t even have an invisibility cloak!”

Sirius opened his mouth, apparently gearing up to cut Ron’s argument down, when Hermione spoke up: “He tried disillusioning himself, but it didn’t work.”

“Well, of course it didn’t work. They’d have put up anti-disillusion jinxes,” Sirius commented.

“Those jinxes were supposed to work against cloaks as well. But Harry’s cloak wasn’t affected.”

Harry blinked. That was true - he hadn’t thought about it, back then, he had just been glad the cloak was working.

“That was his father’s cloak, right?” Hermione wasn’t as tense as before, Harry could feel that.

Sirius, nodded. “Yes. A family treasure, James called it.”

“Invisibility cloaks do not last that long. A few years at most.” Hermione was biting her lower lip, as she often did when pondering a mystery, Harry knew. And she wasn’t focusing on what he had done anymore.

“They must have had it re-enchanted regularly,” Sirius said. “Dumbledore had it after … he must have done it too. That explains why it’s so powerful too.”

Hermione nodded, but Harry frowned. Something didn’t add up. “Did he improve other cloaks too? They would grant a big advantage in combat.”

“Not to my knowledge…” Sirius trailed off. “The Order could use such cloaks. Of course, protecting you is very important, since Voldemort is so focused on you, so it makes sense to make sure your cloak is the best.” His godfather didn’t mention the prophecy, since not everyone present was aware of it. Though Harry was rather certain that sooner or later Sirius would inform his girlfriends.

“And yet the ability to remain invisible while others can’t is so useful, Dumbledore would have made more of those for the Order.” Hermione had picked up on Harry’s thoughts.

“Which means he can’t make more,” Ron added. “That means your cloak is special, Harry.”

Harry pulled the cloak out of his enchanted pocket and let it slide over his hand. It had always been special, being a tie to his father. But what if it was more than that?

“Maybe there’s something to it that other cloaks lack, which makes it easier to enchant… some family secret… some variant of a Demiguise that has died out since?” Hermione mumbled. Harry noticed that she was staring at the cloak with an almost hungry expression, and protectively stuffed it back into his pocket before his girlfriend could try to dissect the cloak in an attempt to understand its secrets.

“You can ask Dumbledore about it, he’ll tell you,” he quickly said when he noticed her expression darken.

“Yes. Now, let’s go back to your utter lack of common sense.” Sirius said, with a smile devoid of any humor.

“What else could we have done?” Harry asked. “We couldn’t flee with just one broom - the cloak wouldn’t cover us and the broom, and they would have spotted us and boxed us in.”

Ron supported him. “Attacking their leader from under the cloak was the best decision.” With a slight huff, he added: “And if we had gone for help, we’d have been too late for Viktor. He is good, but he can’t dodge genies with invisible walls that long.”

Sirius closed his eyes and sighed, then sank into an armchair he conjured right behind himself. “You may have a point there.”

Harry perked up and smiled at Ron, then had to wince when Hermione dug her nails into his thigh.

“So, I think it’s time for you to learn apparition,” Sirius stated. “That will allow you to escape and get help quickly in a similar situation.”

“They had anti-apparition and anti-portkey jinxes up as well,” Harry said. “That’s pretty much standard for such attacks.”

“Yeah. One day everyone will be so used to that, they won’t have to cast the jinxes anymore since no one will even think of trying to apparate!” Ron chuckled, but stopped as soon as half the room glared at him again.

“It’ll be useful still. Jinxes can be broken, and portkeys only go to a predetermined destination.” Sirius shook his head. “I should have taught you that much sooner.”

“You need to be 17 to get an apparition license,” Hermione mentioned, though her tone and expression told Harry that his girlfriend didn’t care about that law. Not if ignoring it would make him safer. He felt the same with regards to her own safety.

“Yeah. Use it for emergencies, and if you get caught, claim it was accidental magic,” Sirius said, waving his hand in a dismissive gesture.

Harry glanced at Hermione, then at Ron. ‘Emergencies’ would be a rather flexible term, he thought with a grin that his friends shared.

“I’ll act as if I don’t know what you three are thinking.” Sirius shook his head with a wry expression. Harry did his best to put up an innocent front.

*****
​

Bogdan Lyubenov Stoyanov stared at the two boxes that had been delivered to him by a brown post owl. Smaller than a cigar box - obviously expanded inside. He pointed his wand at them. All it would take to keep his honor was to get rid of them. He took a deep breath as his hand was trembling, his wand wavering. He just had to...

With a curse, he flung his wand away, sending it cluttering against the wall in his study. How could he think of saving his honor when that would doom his his daughter? Clutching the locket hanging from his neck, he stared at the picture on his desk, of a blonde girl, waving at the camera with a bright smile showing a gap in her front teeth. Nadya Bogdanova Lyubenova. His only daughter. Wiping the tears that were running down his cheeks away, he looked at the second picture, at the gently smiling witch. Maria Petrova Stoyanov. His wife, killed the day their daughter had been taken. What would Maria want him to do? Would she sacrifice their daughter for their honor?

He scoffed. He knew the answer. His wife had died to protect little Nadya. Died in vain - the raiders had taken the girl anyway. He had been away, that terrible day, more than 20 years ago. He had been working in Sofia when the raiders had struck the house. When he had returned had seen the carnage; faithful Sergey struck down by a Killing Curse at the door, where he had faced the Ottomans; his wife in a pool of her blood, struck by a cutting curse on top of the stairs. She had been too strong for them to take, too skilled with her wand to capture. And so the dogs had killed her. And had had taken Nadya. Her room had been empty. Tsveta, the maid back then, had been taken as well, he remembered. Easy prey for raiders, muggleborns.

His wife though… he had met her at Durmstrang. She had been a year below, but a fierce duelist. Better than him, he had to admit, when he had been her age. She would do, had done anything for their daughter. He leaned back in his seat, shivering. How could he betray her, and their daughter?

He looked at the box again. Lacquered wood, black and shiny. It looked almost ordinary, not even hinting at the danger it held. Like a gift, for a wedding. Or a favorite tea box. No one would suspect anything if he carried it with him. Until he opened it.

He clenched his jaw together, his hand still clutching his necklace, and glared at the parchment that had come with the box. The instructions. And the promises. His daughter’s freedom. Lies, Turkish lies, he told himself, not for the first time. They wouldn’t let his daughter go even if he did what they wanted. And yet… he wanted to believe them. Wanted it so badly.

His fingers opened the locket. Caressed the lock of blonde hair in it. It was his daughter’s. A spell had proven that. She was still alive - a polyjuice potion he had his maid, Silviya, take, had proven that. For a moment, it had been as if Nadya had returned to him, and he had broken down crying. She had grown up into a beautiful woman since her kidnapping, like her mother had been. Silviya had understood then. Had been happy for him, the poor trusting girl.

He had obliviated her, of course. Couldn’t risk her betraying that secret. Betraying his impending betrayal. But that had sealed it. Watching his daughter’s form waver, turn back into his maid’s had felt like losing her again. How could he go through that again? How could he sacrifice her? For strangers?

He wrapped the blonde strand of hair around his finger, ran it over his cheek. Nadya. He told himself that the Ottoman who had sent him the first letter, with the lock, wouldn’t keep his word. Would betray him. But the hope… whenever he touched the lock, Nadya’s hair, he knew he had to try, had to risk it, no matter how small the chance.

He couldn’t fail his daughter again.

Never again.

*****
​

Abdul al-Samar closed his ledger, a slight frown on his face. Procuring the poison needed for this task had been more expensive than he liked. Far more. Usually, he didn’t need much of it - just enough for one wizard or witch. It was a complicated poison, delivered in two parts, both of them harmless and therefore not detected by the usual spells until combined - in a body, or outside. He only knew one potioneer who knew how to brew both components, and the man charged a fortune for his services - and his secrecy.

If there had been another way to do the Dark Lord’s bidding, Abdul would not have spent so much gold. But that poison in gaseous form was the best option. Spreading a disease like Dragon Pox would be deadlier, and easier - but that would bring down the wrath of the ICW. The Sublime Porte would sacrifice him in a heartbeat if there was even a hint about the deliberate use of magical diseases. Not even Grindelwald had dared to do that. The last time a country had crossed that line, the consequences had been so severe, even the memory of the country had been erased from all but a few accounts.

The Ottoman wizard had thought of using Exploding Fluid, but that was too easily detected as well. An Assassin might be able to smuggle enough of the fluid past whatever guards and spells the Bulgarians and British had put up, but the Elder of the Mountain would never allow one of his wands to move against a protégé of Dumbledore. Anyone else Abdul knew would be caught. Or was smart enough not to go.

He leaned back, wondering how Doruk had fared. The pact with the genies he had sent along with the raider and his thugs had ended, which meant Doruk was dead. As expected. And planned. He shook his head, smiling slightly. To think that man had fancied himself his rival! The fool hadn’t not known Abdul was behind the mission, nor realized that even if he succeeded, he’d die - at the wand of Dumbledore, or killed by his employer to prevent Dumbledore from tracking him. All that talent for crossing borders, and no wisdom.

But Doruk’s failure would make the Bulgarian barbarians tighten their security even more - and call in experts for genies. And Stoyanov was their best. It was delightfully ironic that the very thing that had caused that wizard to become an expert for genies - or as much of an expert as someone outside the Empire could become - was also the thing that allowed Abdul to control him. The man’s daughter that had been kidnapped and raised in the Empire.

He frowned again. Procuring the witch had not been cheap either - she had been married to a wizard in Constantinople, and breaking into a harem wasn’t common, despite all the tales told in taverns and cafés. At least her husband wasn’t that influential, so there shouldn’t be much trouble on that front.

He flicked his wand and a steaming kettle floated over, dipping as it filled his cup. Stoyanov was both his best opportunity, and the weakest part of his plan. Holding his daughter hostage should be enough to make the Bulgarian obey, but using such means was always a bit of a gamble. Stoyanov seemed like a sure bet though - he had no family left that could be hurt, other than his daughter, no real career to care about, and would happily die for the girl. Or woman, now.

Still, using the imperius or laying some compulsion charms on that lock of hair Abdul had sent to the Bulgarian would have insured the man’s compliance, but either could be detected. Though if Abdul was honest with himself, then he liked that bit of risk, that bit of uncertainty in a plan. And he enjoyed the thought that even if Stoyanov didn’t die from the poison, his daughter would return to her husband instead.

After all, Abdul had only promised to set her free, not to send her to a father she didn’t remember anymore.

Just as the genies he made deals with, Abdul prided himself of adhering to the letter of his deals, not the spirit.

The cup of tea floated a bit away while his chuckling turned into a violent coughing fit. bent over, his lungs hurting, he pulled out a small vial with shaking fingers, swallowing its contents quickly. With closed eyes he waited until breathing didn’t hurt anymore. As usual, it took a bit longer to bring him relief than the last time he had taken it. One day, in the not too distant future, it would simply fail. And he would die.

Unless he gained the Dark Lord’s knowledge of how to cheat death. That was the real prize Abdul was after. The Dark Lord’s means of immortality. And that was worth all the gold he had spent so far, and then some.

*****
​

Since her last visit, playing the dutiful little muggleborn in Bulgaria had become harder, Hermione Granger thought while she checked her appearance in the mirror of Harry’s and hers room. Or maybe she simply wasn’t used anymore to the degree of formality common here. It was different in Britain. Between the lessons at Hogwarts, where every student was treated the same, and the time Harry and she spent with close friends in their private room, where she could be herself, she only had to act as a retainer in the hallways and at the meals. Due to the war, they had few formal dinners with guests at home - at Harry’s home - and when they went out, they usually stayed in Muggle London, where they could act like a normal couple. The same had been the case for their trip to Jamaica.

In Bulgaria though, they were always in public as soon as they left their room. They were wearing robes that told everyone their blood status, and while everyone knew she was his girlfriend - his mistress, actually, in their terms - she wasn’t supposed to ‘flaunt’ it. That would be trying to ‘reach above her station’. At least she had not offended anyone when she had hugged Harry after the battle he had been in.

Sighing, she ran her wand over her robe, checking with the robe floating next to the mirror if her transfigured robe matched the Bulgarian robe provided by Viktor’s family. There was no way she was wearing anything but her heavily enchanted robe, so she had to transfigure it.

Her torc grew warmer, alerting her that Harry was approaching. A few seconds later, the door opened and her boyfriend entered. He was wearing his own robe, also transfigured - though since he was a pureblood, his looked far more elaborate and colorful.

“Homenum Revelio.” Hermione flicked her wand, but no one was revealed.

“Moody’s checking the perimeter, or so he said,” Harry explained.

“He could have told you that to fool anyone listening in, and followed you inside.” Hermione narrowed her eyes. She was not quite certain the old auror hadn’t a way to fool her detection spells. At least the other Order members who had arrived from Britain with Moody, after Dumbledore had heard of the attack, were a bit less… eccentric.

“And then he’d assume whoever listened in would assume he was trying to fool them, and so he’d would still check the perimeter.” Harry grinned.

“At least he takes your security seriously.” Hermione frowned. She still wasn’t completely over the attack on him. If only she had been with him! She knew that would have meant she’d have been flying - she suppressed a shudder - or an easy target on the ground, but she should have been with him, ready to protect him.

“He’s paranoid. I think he has been disillusioning himself almost constantly since he arrived here.” Harry stepped up to her, cocking his head sideways. “That looks like a perfect copy.”

She sighed again. “It is. Not that it was that difficult to copy a plain muggleborn robe.” It wasn’t exactly that plain, quite the contrary. The embroidery was just more subtle, but by no means less extensive than the pureblood robe Harry wore.

“Well, all of them had to wear muggle clothes in Britain,” Harry said while putting his hands on her shoulder.

“I know, it’s only fair we wear their clothes for the wedding here.” Hermione knew it, knew how long it had taken for the two families to compromise, and yet…

“We could still wear our normal robes. Claim we need the additional protection.”

Hermione shook her head. “No. This is Nymphadora’s and Viktor’s great day. We shouldn’t ruin it.” Their excuse would be accepted, but everyone would know it was a lie.

“At least it’ll be interesting, to see a Bulgarian wedding. Note all the differences…” he trailed off, pressing his lips together.

She smiled, though a bit ruefully, at him. “I can stand it. Don’t worry.” And if she couldn’t… Witches could cry at weddings.

Harry nodded, then cupped her chin and lifted it towards him. “We’ll have our own, after the war.”

“Yes.” She knew that, though she didn’t know what kind of wedding they’d have. Would be able to have. Then their lips met and she closed her eyes, trying to forget such thoughts.

*****
​

Bogdan Lyubenov Stoyanov stared at the Krum family gathered in front of their home. Viktor Krum was shaking barley out of his hair - he couldn’t use a wand for that, that would bring bad luck - while the rest of his family shot spells into the air. The best man, Boris Stankoiev, floated the wedding banner, a tapestry which showed the life of the groom and his family’s history in short scenes. Bogdan smiled, remembering his own wedding banner. Contrary to Krum’s, his had focused on his family history - he had been so young then, he hadn’t had much to be proud of. Maria had chosen him anyway, over two rivals from Sofia.

While the wedding procession, led by the banner, left Krum’s home and his parents and made its way to the tent that would serve as the bride’s home for the ceremony, Bogdan saw his own procession, walking towards Maria’s home.

“Stoyanov?”

He jerked. Who… It was Ivan Dimitariev, the head of the forces safeguarding the village and wedding. The Bulgarian forces, to be precise - the British had sent aurors of their own, and most he had talked with assumed half the guests were guards in disguise as well. “I’m sorry, I just… I remembered my own wedding.”

Ivan nodded, sympathy apparent on his face. Everyone knew what had happened to Bogdan’s family, after all. “Weddings do that.” After a pause, he asked: “Any sign of genies?”

Bogdan shook his head. “None so far. But if they arrive, I’m ready.” He patted his robe’s pocket and forced a smile. Ivan smiled in return, slapped him on the back, and went to check on the broom patrols.

As soon as the other man had turned away he stopped smiling. If Ivan knew what he was about to do… He shook his head, banishing the thoughts. Nadya. He had to think of Nadya.

*****
​

Viktor beamed while his bride was led out of the tent, a veil on her head - as tradition demanded, she had refused it twice, before accepting it on the third time - and a long scarf floating around her. The scarf depicted her and her family’s history, but where his banner was thick and solid, the scarf was sheer, and thin, dancing around Nymphadora as if it was carried by fairies.

Boris, his best friend and best man, had the wedding banner dip with a flick of his wand - the signal for Viktor to capture the scarf. As one of the world’s best seekers, Viktor could have caught it in seconds, but tradition demanded he make a spectacle out of it, chasing it around the bride with exaggerated motions, almost running the bride over and generally playing the fool. According to tradition this symbolized the courtship, where the wizard chased the witch. His father claimed it showed the typical wizard making a fool out of himself over a witch. Mother had hexed him for the comment.

After enough time had passed, Viktor caught the scarf, wrapping it around his wand arm while both families present cast spells into the sky again to ward off evil spirits. Viktor noted that this time, people seemed to take this far more seriously than usual - they were not casting the usual flashy jinxes, but deadly hexes and curses. Viktor approved of this - twice his home had been attacked, and twice he had been taken by surprise. There would not be a third time!

When the spirits had been chased off, he offered his left arm to his bride - she had a tendency to stumble, and that wouldn’t do today - and started leading her towards the village temple, followed by their friends and family.

*****
​

Bogdan Lyubenov Stoyanov remembered his instructions while he followed the wedding procession towards the temple. All he had to do was open one box during the ceremony, take out a handkerchief, then wait until the ceremony was almost over and open the other box. Simple. Easy. He could do it. He had to, for Nadya.

Halfway to the temple, the music started, and he almost stumbled. The same song as… He shivered, wiping his eyes. Maria…

“Are you sad?”

Once again he jerked, surprised. Looking around, he saw a little girl staring up at him. She couldn’t be older than six and was wearing muggleborn robes. The same age his own daughter had been.

The girl tugged on one of her pigtails and cocked her head to the side. “Are you sad? You’re crying. Mother said witches cry at weddings because they are happy, but wizards don’t cry if they’re happy.”

He didn’t know what to say to the child. Shaking his head, he tried to smile at her. “I’m not sad.”

She rewarded his lie with a beaming smile of her own. “Good! It’s the biggest wedding of the village! Everyone should be happy!” Before she could say anything else, a woman shouted from further ahead: “Dana!”

“Ooops!” Grinning, she turned around and started to run towards the witch who had shouted - one of the muggleborn families bringing up the end of the wedding procession.

Bogdan watched the girl run, reach her family, and get picked up by her mother, or older sister. He didn’t know what the boxes would do. Not exactly. But he could imagine it. And he suddenly knew that Maria wouldn’t have done that, not even for Nadya.

When his eyes filled with tears again, he didn’t wipe them off but simply started to walk away, towards the edge of the village.

*****
​

When the priest was asking Tengri the Sky Father for his blessing of the marriage, Viktor felt his skin tingling and for a moment, he heard and felt the wing beats of a bird flying over his head. Nymphadora was looking at the open ceiling, seemingly startled - she had to have felt it too. “Tengri’s blessing,” he whispered, and saw her take a deep breath, and steady herself again. Together, they faced the priest, who was smiling widely under his thick beard.

“Raise your wands, and speak after me: I, Viktor Mihailiev, take Nymphadora Black-Tonks...”

Viktor raised his wand, and as he started to speak the words of the vow, he saw a golden eagle glide over the temple, then fly towards the sun and disappear. Was this…?

He was still wondering what he had seen when he was signing the marriage parchments, and so distracted, he was easily bested by Nymphadora in the ritual duel afterwards that tradition claimed would show who would hold the wand in the marriage.

He didn’t mind though - it was still the happiest day of his life.

*****
​

Bogdan Lyubenov Stoyanov stared at the small clearing in the woods. The wedding would be over by now. The temple emptying as the families and friends of the couple moved to the feast. It was over.

No… he still could do it. Just at the feast. It was in the open, but that… he clenched his eyes shut and hit the tree he was standing next to so hard, all his knuckles were split. No. He couldn’t. Maria would never forgive him. And neither would Nadya. The price was just too high.

But he had to ensure Nadya wouldn’t suffer for his decision. No more than she already was. And only his death would achieve that. With him dead, there would be no point to punish her. But first, he had to destroy the boxes.

He pulled them from his pockets and set them down on a stone in the middle of the clearing. Fiendfyre would endanger the entire forest, so he could only hope that vanishing it would work.

Taking a few steps back, he drew his wand and aimed it at the two boxes.

“Wait, please.”

For the third time this day, he jerked in surprise.

*****
​

The Bulgarian wizard reacted like Aberforth Dumbledore had expected, whirling around and aiming his wand, then wavering when he couldn’t spot the old British wizard. He almost chuckled - throwing his voice might seem like a party trick, and yet so effective when used in the right situation.

A series of disarming spells, cast too fast for the man to react in time, removed Stoyanov’s wand. Shocked, the man fell to his knees. That wasn’t the expression of a man doing his duty, but a beaten man. It looked like Moody had been correct, Aberforth thought with no small amount of resentment.

Canceling his disillusionment spell, he saw Stoyanov’s eyes widen.

“D-Dumbledore…”

“Indeed, though not the Dumbledore you’re thinking about,” Aberforth said, a bit prickly. He didn’t dress like a colorblind child after eating a whole box of chocolate frogs, after all. “So… where did you get those boxes?”

The man hesitated for an instant, then seemed to shrink, his shoulders hunching. “They were sent to me… with a lock of hair from my daughter. She was kidnapped… years ago.”

Aberforth stiffened and had to clench his jaws together to avoid cursing out loud. Damn that bastard of an auror! He had to have known this all along, and yet sent him to confront the man! He took a deep breath and managed to hold his temper. “And so they offered her life for the life of the Boy-Who-Lived?”

“Yes, no… I don’t know. I was to open those boxes, in the temple.” The man was crying now. “Nadya… I couldn’t do it.”

“Who sent the boxes?” Aberforth looked at them. Plain, but that didn’t mean anything. They could contain anything, from bound genies to molten lava. He should let Moody handle them. Give the bastard a taste of his own medicine. To think that Albus sent both of them to Bulgaria… and to think Aberforth had been fool enough to agree!

“I don’t know. I never saw the man. It’s an Ottoman wizard, that’s all I know.” Stoyanov sobbed.

Aberforth shook his head. “You assume that. You don’t know.” Though it was a good guess. Genies, kidnapped girls… it fit.

“Please… save her. She’s innocent…”

He hissed, remembering the last time he had gone into the Ottoman Empire to save two kidnapped girls. Only Lea had survived that attempt, Neola had died. His damn fault. And Albus’s, for not helping. “What’s her name?” he asked, knowing he shouldn’t.

“Nadya. Nadya Bogdanova Lyubenova.” The man’s expression was filled with so much desperate hope, it almost hurt just seeing it.

“I will do what I can.” Aberforth regretted the words as soon as he said them, but knew he couldn’t say anything else.

“Thank you. Thank you.” The man relaxed, growing calmer. “But you’ll need to find her, her kidnapper, first.”

“Yes.” And without a name, that would be difficult. Not impossible, but difficult.

Stoyanov nodded slowly. “I’ll have to make sure they’ll not punish her then.”

“Don’t be a fool!”

“I am a fool.” The Bulgarian snorted. “If I betrayed them, then they’ll hurt her to punish me. If I am killed trying to do their bidding though they have no reason to.”

“If they think you betrayed them, they have a reason to keep her as leverage.” Aberforth knew it was a weak argument, but they were talking about a man’s, a father’s life here.

Stoyanov shook his head. “If you give me my wand, I’ll give you my memories. All I know about the kidnappers. And… for Nadya. To give to her, once she is safe. And a lock of her hair, so you will know how she looks.”

“There’s no need for that. They won’t kill her.” Aberforth didn’t think so.

“Maybe. But if they start hurting her… I don’t know if I could resist then.”

There was nothing Aberforth could say against that. So he handed the man’s wand over. “I’ll say you looked like you were under a spell.” It would make it easier for his family. Or for his daughter.

“Thank you.”

Aberforth watched as silvery strands of memories were drawn out of Stoyanov’s temple, ending up in a few vials. And he stood and watched as the Bulgarian wizard sent a piercing curse through the same temple.

Then he carefully stored the two boxes in two different bags, sealed them up, took the locket with the girl’s hair and sent a patronus message to Moody before apparating away.

*****
​

“Was he a traitor?”

Aberforth Dumbledore glared at Moody without answering his question. “Did you know about his daughter?”

“Of course. Checking for such weaknesses is standard procedure.” The old auror grinned.

Aberforth felt like hexing the man. Or hitting him. But if he attacked, things would end with blood and death. The history between him and Moody guaranteed that. And the man’s paranoia. But he couldn’t leave this unanswered. So he leaned forward and whispered: “If you ever pull this again, I’ll make sure you’ll regret it.”

Moody sneered at him in response. “We’ll see who’ll regret it.” After a short pause, he continued. “So, what did you do to him?”

“I spoke to him. Before he killed himself,” Aberforth answered.

“What? We needed his knowledge!” Moody gaped at him.

“I’ve got his memories.” Aberforth smiled toothily at his old enemy.

“I’ll get them to Albus.”

“No, I’ll do it.”

Moody’s eyebrow rose - the one above his normal eye. “Will you be going off on a fool’s quest again while we fight the Dark Lord?”

Aberforth glared at him. “Two attacks on Potter with the help of an Ottoman wizard. Three if you count the genie at the end of the tournament. Someone has to take care of that problem.”

“You want to save the girl.”

Aberforth ignored the comment. “Can you handle the rest of the time Potter’s staying here?”

As expected, Moody was torn between his paranoia, and his desire to not rely on Aberforth. His pride won out. “I can handle it. Go and run to your brother and ask him for help. But don’t get anyone killed this time. Unless they are criminals.”

Aberforth apparated away before he lost his temper.

*****
​

“Home sweet home!” Sirius Black exclaimed when he exited the floo in No 12, Grimmauld Place and stepped over his godson, who was lying on the floor. “I thought we fixed your problem with floo travel. Did you have a relapse?”

“Someone tripped me,” Harry grumbled, getting up.

“It was probably Moody, still invisible,” Hermione said, grinning. “Constant vigilance, right?” she added, raising her voice just shy of yelling.

“I suspect it was some clumsy witch.”

“Well, you would, but you would be wrong.”

Sirius smiled while he watched the two teenagers head up to their room. His godson was safe; he could finally relax again. Two attacks in Bulgaria… part of him wanted to keep Harry in Grimmauld Place until Voldemort was dead. It would be easy… stock up on food, bribe Hermione with books until she supported the idea, hire some tutors…

He sighed. James had thought they would be safe while hiding as well. He had been wrong. And Harry wasn’t the type to hide. As much as Sirius hated it, he was too much of a Gryffindor. Too brave, too ready to jump into the fray to protect others. Well, if he could make Harry believe that Hermione would be safest here…

He sighed and shook his head. It wouldn’t work.

“Trouble, chéri?” Valérie was there, running a hand over his back. Behind her Chantal arrived, Eugénie and Laure right behind.

“Just wishing Harry wouldn’t have to go to Hogwarts in a month.”

“Will they be taking the train again?”

“Yes. It has been repaired, and they’ll have doubled the guards. And broom riding escorts for the whole trip.” It had been quite the discussion in the Wizengamot, but an alliance of traditionalists who’d rather risk their great-grandchildren than deprive them of the train trip, and hotheads who would not let Voldemort force them into abandoning such a symbol of Wizarding Britain had prevailed.

“You think Voldemort will use the opportunity to strike at someone else.” Chantal stated rather than asked.

“Exactly.” At least Harry would be safe. As safe as a boy could be when the worst Dark Lord in British history wanted him dead. “And we’ll be too late again. We can’t win by defending, we need to find them and strike at them.”

“Finding is the main problem.” Laure stretched, changing her robes to a lighter, sheerer and much shorter house robe. Or what veela considered house robes. Her cousins followed her example.

“Dumbledore says he’s working on that problem, but he won’t say how long it’ll be until he has a solution.” Sirius frowned. The Headmaster wouldn’t even give him an estimate.

“Maybe ‘ermione can ask ‘im? She’s visiting Hogwarts soon, right?”

Sirius almost glared at Valérie. Officially, Harry and Hermione were visiting Hogwarts for some lessons from Dumbledore. No one was supposed to know that it was a cover for whatever the witch was doing with Dumbledore. Sirius didn’t know it himself. He just hoped it would be as effective as whatever Lily had been working on - that had saved Harry and defeated the Dark Lord. To cover his near-lapse, he chuckled. “I fear that the Headmaster is not susceptible to a pretty face.”

“It’d be worth a try,” Valérie said, giggling, though judging by the slightly forced undertone, and the looks from her cousins, they hadn’t been fooled.

Well, the four veela had proven themselves time and again. and they were as good as family. Maybe it was time for a talk.

*****
​

Dolores Umbridge waved her wand, and the flagon of perfume circled around her, two drops floating up from it and flying towards her. She checked her appearance. The robe fit perfectly, framing her body and drawing attention to her figure without showing too much. Their target for this night was not interested in bedding women, but he liked the company of educated witches anyway.

She entered the main room, where the two beasts were waiting. She looked them over, then nodded. No one would suspect their true nature dressed in those robes. The female werewolf sneered at her. She still hadn’t accepted her place. The male one leered and made an obscene proposition. That beast reveled in his nature. She ignored it and drew her wand. “Let’s be off. Ethan Hathaway does not like to be kept waiting.”

Two hours later, Dolores was cursing her luck, or lack of. The moon would rise soon, but Hathaway hadn’t shown any inclination to retire to his bedroom with the male beast yet. And she had hoped to avoid seeing the monster transform. Or being nearby. Even with wolfsbane, she didn’t trust the werewolf - he was driven by his base instincts far too much even in human form. Not that she trusted the female one much either, but at least this one had shown some restraint in the past.

“Dear, feel free to get comfortable with your friend.” Hathaway gestured at her and the female werewolf. His hints were becoming less and less subtle with each glass he drank. The male monster laughed loudly, of course. He had claimed they were an item ever since both had refused his advances.

“Oh, we are very comfortable here,” Dolores spoke up, to cover for the growl coming from the monster near her. She felt a bit vexed that the werewolf seemed to be as disgusted as herself by the proposal - the beast should feel honoured by the assumption, no matter how disgusting it was - but focused on the mission. Any time now.

*****
​

Albus Dumbledore withdrew his head from his pensieve. He had been watching the memories Aberforth had brought to him for the sixth time, and yet he had not made much progress. The only - vague - clues to the identity of that Ottoman wizard were the boxes and the owl that had delivered them - a plain brown post owl. Almost impossible to trace. Probably killed already. And the boxes showed no hint of their origin either - those kind of boxes could be bought almost anywhere. He could only hope that his brother would have more luck in the Empire. A lot more than during his last foray to the Bosporus.

He had found other clues though. He would have to talk to Alastor. Using compulsion charms on a little girl… he shook his head. His old friend was going a bit far. And that stunt he had pulled on Aberforth… Albus had hoped his brother and Alastor would make up, or at least, bury their feud in the face of a common enemy, but it seemed they were a bit too set in their ways. More than a bit, with Aberforth determined to save the man’s daughter. He could only hope his brother would not repeat his past mistakes.

The charm on his floo alerted him, and he drew his wand as he walked to his office. His fireplace was warded, and he did expect Harry and Miss Granger, but in these trying times it was best to be prepared.

He reached his office before the two teenagers arrived. With his entire flat technically located inside his office, distances were easily adjusted to a single step when needed. Or to a hundred.

“Good evening, Harry, Miss Granger. Please have a seat.”

He checked the small clock on his desk. “We have an hour until the moon rises.”

Harry nodded, more than a bit stiffly. Understandable - the poor boy would, in all likelihood, have to share Voldemort’s mind again during a terrible ritual this night. Miss Granger rubbed his back and he managed a smile. “Some birthday present.”

Albus chuckled, even if he didn’t feel it was funny. But the boy was making an effort to lighten the mood, which deserved his support. He met the glaring eyes of the young muggleborn witch, and held her gaze until she looked away. She meant well, but she was still inexperienced, and a bit too eager where more caution would be preferable. Fawkes sang, lifting the spirits of everyone present, and Albus slipped the phoenix a few lemon drops in gratitude,

“Headmaster? I was wondering…”

“Yes, Miss Granger?”

“Could a dementor suck a soul out of a horcrux?”

He raised his eyebrows at the calm tone the young witch used when talking about some of the foulest creatures known to man. He wasn’t surprised though - he had known she would look into those matters when researching magic that affected souls.

Folding his hands, Albus leaned back. “While it would seem logical, I fear it would not work. A dementor’s power only works on living, feeling people.”

“But…”

He raised a hand before the witch could continue. “Without access to the body, they wouldn’t be able to reach the soul. It was put to the test, so to speak, on Azkaban.” Bones had put a stop to it quickly, but not before a few Death Eaters had already been ‘kissed by accident’. And Tom wouldn’t have chosen the dark mark as his horcruxes if a single one of his followers getting kissed would have led to his own demise.

“Oh. Would it work if his current body was captured?”

“It might, or it might not. If it is possible to protect oneself against the dementor’s kiss, then Tom will have done so - he would have known he would be facing this punishment, should he get caught, before he started his first war.” He sighed. “Not that it would be too practical anyway, with the dementors now serving him.”

The young witch looked down, and this time it was up to Harry to console her. “Even if we can just find them through the mark it’ll be enough to win the war.”

Albus knew that was true. But it wouldn't be enough to save Harry, should his mother's protection ever fail. The things Voldemort could do, using the soul fragment in his scar... And judging from the look on Miss Granger's face when she stared at him, she knew it as well.

He would have to let her read some of the books he hadn’t touched since he and Gellert had parted ways. The three people remained silent for a bit, listening to another of Fawkes’s songs.

“I’ve another question, sir.”

“Yes?”

“Why didn’t you study sympathetic magic?”

“Ah. To be honest, it would have done me more harm than good.” He chuckled at their alarmed expressions. “No, no. Not the kind of harm you are thinking of. Sympathetic magic is not dark.” Though a few of the curses often used with it were among the darkest magic known to wizardkind. “But for me to be seen studying what most consider voodoo would have damaged my reputation. My political opponents would have jumped on the opportunity, and my enemies would have rejoiced at the ability to blame me for any suspicious death no matter if I was nearby or not.”

“So now they will blame me, us?” Harry asked.

“I do not think anyone outside your family knows about your training on Jamaica,” he tried to reassure the two teenagers. Harry seemed to accept that, but Miss Granger frowned. She didn’t push the point though.

“Yes Miss Granger?” He had seen her hand twitch. She didn’t raise it to ask a question, not anymore, but sometimes, old habits lingered.

“Did you do something to Harry’s invisibility cloak? We noticed that it worked even against anti-disillusionment jinxes. That’s not normal.”

“Ah.” He took a lemon drop to gain some time to study the young witch and wizard. They seemed curious, not suspicious. “The cloak is more powerful than normal cloaks - which is why it has been in your family for so long, Harry.”

“Can it be duplicated?” Harry leaned forward. “If all of the Order had such cloaks, the war would be much easier.”

Albus smiled. Others would have been happy to own something special, Harry though was concerned with helping others. He shook his head. “Sadly, the secret of its construction was lost. I’ve studied it for years.”

“Oh.” The two teens looked disappointed, though Miss Granger also looked intrigued. Albus had a feeling that she’d look into the matter herself, though hopefully only after Voldemort had been defeated, and then it wouldn’t matter that much anymore. But if Voldemort learned that the myth was real...

He checked the clock again. It wouldn’t be long now until the moon rose.

*****
​

When two inhuman screams filled the room and both werewolves started to shake, Dolores moved at once. Hathaway was still staring, frozen with shock and horror as he realized that he was in the same room as two werewolves, when her first spell struck his robe’s protection. A robe he wouldn’t have been wearing if the male werewolf had done his job.

The wizard was rich, and his robes’ enchantments showed it. Dolores’s first four spells were countered by them. Her fifth body-binding curse though hit before Hathaway could cast himself, and he froze as his limbs snapped stiff.

She turned to the male beast, who had just finished transforming - an ugly, violent process that sounded as if all of the bones in the human body were broken before changing. “Bite him! I’ll check if the way to his bedroom is clear.”

Instead of obeying, the monster took a step towards her, his long tongue lolling out of his slobbering mouth. Dolores had taken two steps back before she realized it. “Bite him, then wait at his side!”

The beast took another step, almost a jump. Her wand was already aimed at it. “Don’t come closer!”

The monster’s mouth opened, and she couldn’t help but staring at the row of gleaming white oversized teeth. Which meant she didn’t see the beast kick a chair at her.

She hadn’t been too bad in DADA, and she managed to blow the chair up with a blasting curse before it hit her, but that had given the werewolf enough time to jump at her. To her horror, Dolores realized that she wouldn’t be able to stop the monster before it reached her. Before it bit her, cursing her, and turning her into a monster herself. Or do even worse.

She started to scream when another furry body plowed into the jumping werewolf from the side, pushing it away from the witch who was scrambling back in near-panic. The female werewolf… had saved her?

Dolores stared, shocked, while the two monsters fought. She couldn’t tell who was winning. Couldn’t cast without hitting them both - which wouldn’t be a bad thing, she realized. And yet she didn’t cast, but waited while blood and fur flew, and growls turned into howls and then into whimpers, until one beast was on the ground, missing its throat, and the other, bleeding, but still standing, turned towards her.

Again Dolores almost cast, but stayed her wand. That was the female one. It grunted, then limped over to the still bound Hathaway, bending down to bite him in the arm.

Slowly, the witch lowered her wand. She was safe. Sort of. The werewolf who had attacked her was dead. She was not hurt. Not cursed. She started to smile.

Then she stopped. She had been saved. By a werewolf. Who had risked her life for her.

No. No. “NOOOOO!”

If not for the privacy charms her scream would have been heard in the whole house.


Chapter 47: End of Summer

 

Chapter 47: End of Summer

By now he was very familiar with the sight. The beast was struggling, frothing through the gagged mouth, eyes rolling. The enchanted chains dug deep into its fur, burning its cursed skin and flesh. A Silencing Charm kept the howling from disturbing him.

He was alone with the beast. His Bellatrix was far away, ready to complete the distraction he had arranged. He looked up - the full moon had risen, but clouds had so far blocked its light. The beast had transformed, of course, the curse didn’t require the actual moonlight to trigger, and neither did the ritual, but the symbolism of the circle and altar actually illuminated by the moon would make it stronger.

And given what he was attempting, even that much help was welcome.

Finally, the clouds parted, and the runic circle was bathed in the silvery light. Smiling, he started the ritual, igniting the floating lights. Unlike in the disastrous second attempt, the bands of runes he had seen in the first such ritual appeared again between them, though different ones this time. They spread, and wrapped around the floating crystal globe.

It was time. He stepped over to the bound sacrifice, silver knife already drawn. The enchanted blade cut deeply, parting ribs almost as easily as it parted flesh, and soon he was staring at the exposed, beating heart of the monster. Instead of removing the heart though, he stabbed his wand into it with a whispered incantation.

“Abunda!”

When he withdrew the wand, a thin stream of blood followed the tip. The monster’s heart blood. He stepped around the altar, ignoring the frantic beast, and touched the wand to the floating globe. The blood touched the crystal, and vanished into it with a sizzling noise. Smiling, he watched the beast weaken as more and more of its blood was fed into the globe, which started to shine brightly, the light rapidly growing in intensity.

Long before the beast died though he pulled the wand away again, touching the ground, and let the blood spill over the earth. While the werewolf bled out, he studied the floating globe’s enchantments. If they started to weaken he’d have to act very quickly.

They didn’t. They strained though. And when the monster died, they flared up, and he had to hasten to touch it with his wand, and send a cone of bright, blinding light up to the sky.

*****​

Harry woke up shuddering. When he hadn’t slipped into a vision at moonrise, he had hoped that Voldemort had been scared off from another attempt at the ritual by his close brush with death. It hadn’t been the case. Before he could summon his glasses, Hermione handed them to him. Putting them on, he realized he had been transported to his - and now their - bedroom in No 12, Grimmauld Place. After a glance to the clock hanging from the wall, ignoring the way the figures on the enamel dial seemed to peer at him with open curiosity, he muttered “What a way to start my birthday.”

His girlfriend shook her head, but his joke seemed to have reassured her that he was, if not fine - she never used that word after his first Quidditch accident and subsequent stay in the under Pomfrey’s care - at least not hurt.

“Same as before?”

“He didn’t almost die,” he answered.

“He’s making progress again then.” Hermione shook her head, pursing her lips.

“He was more careful though,” Harry explained while drawing the memory out of his head and into a vial Hermione summoned. “That means he would take longer.”

He didn’t have to add ‘long enough for you to finish your own ritual’ - she knew what he meant and nodded.

“Dumbledore is waiting for this. Downstairs,” the young witch said, then bent forward and kissed him.

When they pulled apart, Harry was tempted to banish the vial downstairs and lock himself in with Hermione. He didn’t though - this was too important. Lives depended on his visions. “Later,” he whispered in her ear, then got up.

*****​

A monster had saved her. Had gotten hurt for her. It didn’t make any sense. Couldn’t make any sense.

Dolores Umbridge stared at the bleeding, misshapen form of the werewolf in shock. She felt the urge to help the beast, treat her - its! - wounds, and her wand was aimed at it before she realized. It growled, and she lowered her wand, fighting the urge to make cooing noises and explain herself.

Instead she addressed the still paralysed form of Hathaway. The man’s eyes were wide with fear, and darting back and forth between her and the werewolf. He too was bleeding, though just from one bite. She pointed her wand at the wound. “Episkey.”

While the wounds closed she vanished the blood that had been spilled, followed by the corpse of the werewolf. The other monster was trying to bandage her, its wounds as if it was a muggle. Rolling her eyes, Dolores stepped closer.

“Stop it! I need to vanish all traces of the fight, and for that, I can’t have you bleed on the carpet!” She sneered at the beast as it snarled at her. after a few seconds, she once again aimed her wand and started to close the numerous wounds the werewolf had suffered defending her. It growled some more, but didn’t attack or move away while she cast.

Finishing up, Dolores muttered curses when when she realized that she had left herself open to an attack by the monster. And that she hadn’t minded as long as she could help the beast.

Shaking her head as if to physically banish the thoughts from her head, she repaired the furniture broken in the scuffle, and approached Hathaway again. “My dear Ethan. By now you’ll have realized what has happened: You’ve been bitten by a werewolf under the full moon.”

The wizard’s eyes managed to convey the horror he must be feeling, and she smiled sweetly at the sight. Served the arrogant idiot well. “If anyone learns of this, you’ll be finished. A monster, removed from your position, driven from your family. But don’t worry. As long as you do us a few favors, your secret will be safe.” She patted his cheek while the werewolf growled again.

“Now let’s disillusion the werewolf, and move to your bedroom. The monster needs to rest until the sun has risen again, when we can leave without trouble.”

*****​

“What do you make of that?” Kenneth Fenbrick asked while prodding a marble splinter with his wand.

“Ritual gone out of control,” Bertha Limmington answered curtly. Kenneth’s partner was investigating what looked like a scrap of fur to him, until she turned it around and he could see the bleeding skin and flesh on the other side.

“What do you have there? Remains of an animal?”

“Werewolf.”

“A werewolf? Caster or sacrifice?” Kenneth looked around on the small clearing again. It wasn’t as devastated as the last clearing they had investigated. Or rather, he corrected himself, the devastation seemed to have been caused by a different effect, not simply a weaker version of whatever had caused the last incident.

“Sacrifice.” Bertha flicked her wand and a broken chain link floated over to Kenneth.

He studied it briefly. “Silver inlays.” That would hint at the werewolf having been chained up. Especially with the timing, right under the full moon. “So, that means the bits and pieces we found at the edge would have been the caster.” Bertha opened her mouth, but he knew what she’d say and continued, grinning at her expression: “Unless they belong to another sacrifice, or were a bystander.”

Glaring at him for an instant, Bertha nodded. “We haven’t found a wand.”

And Kenneth doubted they ever would. Anything that could reduce a block of marble to rubble would destroy a wand. “Maybe there’s a splinter from it in a part the trainees collected.” Ollivander might be able to identify it - the wandmaker had an uncanny memory for his work. Unless this was the work of a foreigner. “Though if the caster escaped the last disaster, he might have escaped this one as well.”

“If a ritual goes out of control, then the consequences are unpredictable.” Bertha looked at another, bigger piece of werewolf, levitating it in front of her and slowly turning it around itself while she cast several detection spells at it. “No spell residue.”

“Looks like a divination case then,” Kenneth remarked. Officially, there was no such term for investigations one needed a seer’s vision to solve, just cases that were ‘put on hold until further information was acquired’, but every auror knew the score. And there were precious few visions to be had, with so few true seers being born.

“We still have to wait for the results from the Unspeakables,” Bertha objected. “It’s too early to say that.” Kenneth could see she wasn’t really believing her own words though.

He shrugged. “Nothing we can do then but wait.”

“But work on our other case,” Bertha corrected him. Her glare turned into a grin when Kenneth pouted theatrically, and both were smiling when they apparated back to the Ministry.

*****​

Harry Potter watched his friends gather around the long table in the dining room of No 12, Grimmauld Place. He could see the enormous birthday cake in the middle, slowly turning around itself, layers upon layers of chocolate and vanilla cake and enough sugar frosting to drive Hermione’s parents, were they there, into a berserker rage. The faeries flitting around the room - wearing tiny witch and wizard robes and chasing Aicha’s genie - certainly acted as if they had already eaten too much. Candles burning in all colors of the spectrum topped the cake - illusions, Harry knew. Real candles and Sirius didn’t mix well, or so Remus had claimed before Harry’s first birthday celebration at Grimmauld Place. Something about blowing out candles with magic, and blowing the cake away at the same time, all over his mother. It was one of the stories Sirius didn’t want to share.

“Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you!” Dudley started the song, and his friends joined in. That they didn’t know the melody didn’t deter any of them from singing as loud as they could, and Harry exchanged amused glances with his cousin and Hermione.

Dodging a particularly hyper faerie that was careening around wildly in the room, Harry approached the table, Hermione at his side.

“Usually the cake is carried to the celebrant, not the other way around,” his girlfriend muttered.

Harry smiled - she still hadn’t forgiven Sirius’s declaration, three years ago, that that he knew best how to combine muggle and wizard custom to celebrate Harry’s birthday. His godfather hadn’t budged an inch, and now was claiming they had created a new tradition.

When the song had finally ended, Harry flicked his wand and dispelled the candles. Sirius quickly started to cut it up and float the slices to their guests. Luna offered crumbs of her slice to the faeries at once, and was soon surrounded by a dozen of the little creatures gorging themselves on cake, and trying to braid her hair.

Ron, his cake floating behind him on a silver plate, stepped up to Harry. “Hey! Good cake! Who made it?”

“Eugénie, though it’s a recipe from Aunt Petunia,” Harry answered. His aunt never quite added that much frosting though.

Ron nodded. “Think I can get it for mum?”

“Are you still grounded?” Hermione asked.

Their friend spread his hands with a rueful grin. “If only my O.W.L. results had arrived after the fight…” In a lower voice he added: “Did you sleep well?”

“As usual,” Harry answered. Hermione grabbed his hand and squeezed it.

Ron nodded, a serious expression on his face. They all knew what he had been asking about. “Well… opening your gifts now?” The redhead pointed to the side table, where a variety of boxes in shimmering colors awaited, some of them changing their forms every few seconds - a new product by Fred and George, apparently.

Harry narrowed his eyes. “I think I’d rather have Hermione check them for spells first.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Not even Sirius would prank you today.”

“He did it last year.” And the year before.

“You hadn’t just been through such a violent experience back then,” Hermione insisted. He stared at her, and she sighed. “Fine. I’ll check them.”

While the witch started to run detection spells over the various packages, Harry smiled. He didn’t actually mind getting pranked. Quite the contrary - with Voldemort conducting those rituals and the recent attack in Bulgaria, a normal birthday would be nice. Glancing over at Luna, whose hair now looked like Disney had crossed a Medusa with Rapunzel, he added ‘relatively normal’. The blonde seemed to enjoy her new appearance though - she was smiling widely while she looked at her reflections in three mirrors surrounding her.

“Think she’ll try to get Hermione to let the faeries at her hair?” Ron asked, leaning a bit closer to Harry.

“Probably,” he answered. The blonde Ravenclaw had a gift for ‘loosening up’ Hermione, as Ron called it. The muggleborn witch in question was still checking Harry’s presents. “Padma is still in India, she couldn’t make it.”

Ron took a sip from his Snapple - Harry didn’t know where in Britain Sirius had managed to buy that brand and didn’t want to ask - and made a grunting noise. When he Harry looked at him and raised his eyebrows, his friend elaborated. “I’m not certain she’d have come even if she was in Britain. Her letters have been a bit… distant.”

“Oh.” Harry didn’t know what to say that wouldn’t sound stupid.

“Yeah. We haven’t officially broken up, but… it’s not the same anymore, you know? Hasn’t been for a while.”

“Oh.”

“But, hey - we’re starting the Year of Exploration! Plenty of birds to meet that way!” Ron’s grin looked a bit forced to Harry, but he didn’t comment.

Instead he nodded in agreement.

“Have you two talked about it?” Ron asked, nodding his head towards Hermione, who was trying to fend off Luna and her swarm of hairdressing faeries, to the great amusement of everyone else present.

“Sixth year? Yeah.” He wouldn’t go into details, of course.

“Ah.”

They didn’t talk much for a bit, while Hermione’s hairstyle was ruined. The girl didn’t seem to mind that too much though. Her reaction a few minutes later though, when the wrapping of Sirius’s present for Harry suddenly engulfed her and turned into a giant cake, from which she emerged wearing a bunny outfit… no wonder Padfoot had already started running before the cake had fully formed.

All in all it was a perfectly normal birthday party at Grimmauld Place. Just what Harry wanted.

*****​

Paige Caldwell glared at the witch she was sharing her flat with. Dolores Umbridge, bigoted pureblood of the worst kind, kept staring at her over the breakfast table. The werewolf snarled “I didn’t do it for you, you know. I stopped the son of a bitch so we’d not fail the Dark Lord.”

“Of course,” Umbridge answered, sneering.

Paige bared her teeth in response and stood up. The other witch rose as well, facing her. Both had their wands ready. For a few seconds, it was like before. Then Umbridge sat down again, scoffing, and grabbed the Daily Prophet on the table.

Paige felt like smashing the table, but controlled herself and sat down herself. Her body was still hurting from the transformation, and the wounds she had suffered fighting - and killing - Burke. Wounds the other witch had closed for her. Damn her.

The werewolf grabbed a few sausages and wolfed them down. She kept an eye on the other bitch, watching for a reaction to her display of werewolf pride. The witch’s eye twitched, but she didn’t make a comment. Sulking, Paige leaned back and summoned tea.

If she was honest with herself, she didn’t know why she had attacked Burke. She had known that the other werewolf would have gone after her as soon as he had finished with Umbridge, but it would have been far better to wait with attacking him until he was busy with the witch, he wouldn’t have killed her, or not right away anyway. And while it was equally true that she didn’t want to fail the Dark Lord’s mission, Burke would have taken the blame.

So why had she pounced on the other werewolf, risked her life like that, for a bitch that looked down on her and wanted to exterminate werewolves? They had nothing in common, other than both having to whore themselves out for the Dark Lord.

Her brooding was interrupted by hot tea spilling over her lap - she had crushed the cup in her hand without noticing. Umbridge made a clucking noise and Paige whirled around. Once again their eyes met over crossed wands, and once again Umbridge backed down.

Paige was still growling when she had finished repairing the cup and scourgifying her robes.

*****​

The Dark Lord Voldemort should have been in a fine mood. His ritual had worked, showing that he was on the right path. He just needed to find a way to store all the power from the sacrifice, safely store long enough to use it. His Bella had completed her mission as well, and the decoy that he had created should fool his enemies until it was too late to stop him. And yet… Potter had escaped once again - no, twice again - in Bulgaria. He told himself that the attack had been just a diversion, that he hadn’t really expected it to succeed, and that all that mattered was that he completed his ritual.

It didn’t help. That boy was too lucky! And he was destined to face the Dark Lord. Voldemort suddenly was afraid, and suppressed the emotion at once. He was immortal! He was the most powerful wizard Britain had ever seen! No matter how much luck the boy had, it wouldn’t save him! He pounded his fist on his table, then sent the parchment he had been studying away with a wave of his wand.

And yet that sliver of doubt, of fear, remained. He had been defeated once when he had faced that boy. No, not once, but twice. He remembered Quirrel burning. What would happen if they faced each other a third time? The boy’s parents had defied him three times. Could the boy even be killed by anyone but the Dark Lord himself?

It would mean no one but Potter could kill Voldemort, but then… with his horcruxes, he couldn’t die anyway. But he could be defeated. Could be reduced to shade. Could be caught and sealed, maybe. Who knew what Dumbledore was doing, safe in Hogwarts? No, he couldn’t trust the prophecy to protect him.

But he knew the boy could be hurt by anyone. Could Potter be crippled by anyone as well? Hurt so bad, his life would be agony, his spirit broken to the point he’d welcome death at Voldemort’s hand?

Tempting thoughts, but to implement such a plan was very difficult. Hogwarts remained a fortress, its wards protecting the students. And after his attack on the Express, the Ministry was bound to guard it, and Hogsmeade very well. He couldn’t afford another attack, the cost in wands was too high.

Gritting his teeth, he sat down at his desk. He had to focus on his ritual, not on such brooding thoughts. If all went well, he’d have the means to beat Britain. And to kill the Boy-Who-Lived from afar. And yet the doubts remained.

When Bella entered his study, bringing news of the werewolf and the whore, the dark witch looked surprised when instead of listening to her report, he swept her off and carried her to the bed. Surprised, but pleased.

Afterwards, with the witch asleep, he felt better. More confident. He would prevail. He would succeed. He would conquer.

And yet, a sliver of doubt, of fear remained.

*****​

As expected, the case of the mysterious failed ritual had been put on hold. Indefinitely. Kenneth Fenbrick didn’t like it - his gut told him that there was more to it than some fledgling dark wizard making a fatal mistake - but there was nothing he could do, or think of doing. They hadn’t found even part of a wand, and the body parts didn’t offer any clue to the wizard’s identity either.

And so they were back to hunting down Dolores Umbridge. “You know, if we go undercover as courtesans again, we’ll end up developing a reputation,” he said to Bertha while the scroll with all the information they had about the woman rolled itself up.

Instead of being flustered or annoyed, his partner grinned back. “Didn’t you already have a certain reputation?”

He gaped at her. She wasn’t supposed to tease him! Huffing, he busied himself with sifting through the reports again. The witch Umbridge had been seen with hadn’t been identified yet. Was she a partner, a co-worker, or an apprentice? The last was unlikely. And why would Hathaway, a homosexual, hire her and her friend’s services? He looked at Bertha. “The pattern doesn’t fit.”

She met his gaze, frowning. “Hm?”

“The switching from one rich wizard to the next. If she’s working as a courtesan, she’d not focus on a single wizard per month. That’s what you do if you’re angling to become someone’s mistress. But if she’s doing that, why drag another witch with her? And why doesn’t she succeed? From the looks of it, neither Fickleton nor Rees look terribly fond of her.” He pointed at a few wizarding pictures showing the two men glaring at the witch. Not openly though. “And Hathaway? That wizard hasn’t ever touched a witch that way.”

“Maybe she failed to wrap them around her finger, and antagonized them instead? Like it happened with the Minister?” Bertha hypothesized.

“Hm. I don’t think so. She’s smart. She wouldn’t make such a blunder three times. It’s not as if it’s that difficult to please a Wizengamot member - just pour on the flattery and keep smiling whatever happens. Skills any Ministry employee learns easily enough,” he added, cynically.

Bertha nodded, all business now. “Neither Fickleton nor Rees seem to be looking for a mistress; both have been frequenting their regular private clubs since their dalliances with Umbridge.”

“She changed her modus operandi when that other witch appeared. The young one.” The one that didn’t act like a courtesan, Kenneth thought. “She could be the key.”

“We still haven’t identified her. No one at Hogwarts recognized her,” Bertha said. “That makes her either a foreigner, but her accent is too perfect, or someone home schooled.”

“Someone schooled at home, without a decent education.” The kind of witches and wizards whores were recruited from. Or thugs. Courtesans, the real ones, generally had a better education, Kenneth knew that.

“Not someone the rich wizards she has been visiting usually bother with.” Bertha had narrowed her eyes, a sign she was thinking hard.

“Unless they’re interested in the kind of entertainment a courtesan wouldn’t agree to,” Kenneth said. “Maybe Umbridge is serving as a go-between, a door opener for that kind of clientele?”

“It sounds not too economically feasible. Not only do those wizards interested in such services already have their suppliers, but it also doesn’t explain why they don’t like her afterwards anymore.” Bertha had pushed her scroll away.

“She’s not training her as a courtesan in any case.” Kenneth didn’t need to explain that; neither he nor Bertha had forgotten how they had been trained for their undercover mission by Dumbledore’s spy. “She’s the key. If we find out why she’s with Umbridge, we find out what Umbridge is up to.”

“We’ll have to ask the Wizarding Examinations Authority then, if they recognize her. Even if she’s been homeschooled she’ll have taken one O.W.L. at least.” Bertha stood up and gathered the best picture they had of the witch.

“I doubt those fossils can remember their own names, much less students,” Kenneth muttered.

“You’d be surprised how much gossip they know. Homeschooled students are always a good topic - has a family become too poor to afford Hogwarts, or are they too weak to attend?” Bertha shook her head. “I think there are good odds they’ll remember her.”

Kenneth grumbled, but followed her out of their office. He hadn’t anything better to do anyway. In addition to that, these days, even the Ministry wasn’t as safe as most people thought it was - they had discovered that themselves, after all - and he didn’t like to leave his partner on her own.

*****​

Sirius Black recast the privacy spells for the third time. He knew he had cast them perfectly twice already, but all good things came in three. Or four, when it came to veela girlfriends. Girlfriends who were growing nervous now, it seemed.

He was nervous himself. Slightly. Taking a deep breath, he turned towards the four girls sitting on the couch. “We should be safe from eavesdroppers now.”

“Do you fear ‘arry or ‘ermione would listen in?” Valérie asked. He couldn’t tell if she was more than simply curious, but she seemed a bit tense.

“No, they already know what I’m about to share with you.” He smiled a bit weakly at the veela’s reaction. “I know we’re alone here, but it’s a good habit to ensure privacy even if you think it’s not needed.” And he didn’t trust his house elf that much. Never had really trusted the creature.

He saw them sit straighter, which did nice things to Valérie’s and the other’s chests. Obviously his actions had impressed just how important this secret was he was about to share.

“Now… you remember the incident in Jamaica.”

All four nodded. “The attack on ‘arry by a ‘oungan,” Eugénie said.

“It wasn’t an attack,” Sirius said. “It was a vision.”

That surprised the girls. “A vision?” Laure asked.

Sirius nodded, gravely. “Harry has visions of the Dark Lord. He can see through his eyes when he works ritual magic.”

Valérie gasped, hands covering her mouth.

“That means Dumbledore knows what the Dark Lord is doing.” Chantal said.

“Part of what he’s doing,” Sirius corrected her. “But it’s an important source of information. It is absolutely crucial that the Dark Lord remains ignorant of that.”

All four nodded.

“It’s not a pretty sight, Harry having a vision. His scar starts bleeding, he is struck unconscious… it’s also very obvious, which is why we need to be ready to cover such incidents up.”

“That will be ‘ard, seeing as we don’t know when a ritual will happen.” Chantal’s voice changed a bit at the end, almost turning it into a question. His girls were smart.

“He’s been doing a ritual on each full moon, and we expect that to continue.” Sirius smiled.

“People might start to suspect ‘e’s a werewolf, if ‘e always ‘ides during the full moon,” Valérie added. Smart indeed!

“We planned to have him appear under the full moon in Bulgaria, before it rose in Britain, but after the attack…” Sirius trailed off.

“We could organize a, what did Nymphadora call it, slumber party?” Eugénie smiled.

“Sadly, we cannot predict when exactly during a night a vision will take place. And those who take such rumors seriously will likely also believe that his friends are covering for him.” Sirius sighed. “We’ll have to make do with him handling silver a lot, and hope that will counteract such rumors. If they appear.”

He answered a few more questions about how to handle the visions, watched as the girls left the room. He wanted to tell them about Hermione’s secret project with Dumbledore as well, but he understood that there was no need for that - Harry’s secret required a lot of help to be kept, given its unpredictable nature. Hermione’s didn’t.

It was only logical, and yet he hated keeping such secrets from them. He loved and trusted them. They deserved to know. And yet - it wasn’t his secret to share. And if anything happened to Hermione because of him, Harry would never forgive him.

Slender arms wrapped around his chest, and he felt soft curves pressing into his back. Valérie. He heard her whisper into his ear, and felt her breath on his throat.

“You are troubled. Is it because such a connection works both ways, and could be used by the Dark Lord?”

He stiffened for a second, his worst fear exposed, then nodded. She didn’t say anything else, just held him.

Smart indeed.

*****​

Aberforth Dumbledore looked like just another muggle tourist in Constantinople - Istanbul, as the muggles called it. He even had a muggle camera dangling from cheap, flimsy straps held in his hand. And, even though he’d deny it if asked, he had been seeing the sights in the muggle city. So much had changed since he had been here last, decades ago.

He had entered the Empire with the help of a Greek smuggler, down the coast. Using a fishing boat, he had disembarked at a cove or hidden beach on the Turkish coast. Just like he and Sasha and his wands had entered the country the last time. Once inside the country, past the border guards and patrols, it had been easy to apparate northwards, until he reached the capital of the Empire.

He had spent enough time gawking though - he had a scumbag to find, and a girl to rescue. Like the last time.

Ducking into a small, dark alley, he transfigured his clothes - hideous muggle fashion only tourists seemed to be wearing, he’d get some as a souvenir for his brother if he didn’t hate him - into the outfit of an Ottoman wizard. A quick coloring charm changed his hair and beard, and a sip from a vial darkened his skin tone. So disguised, he continued down the alley, which grew narrower and narrower, until he suddenly was faced with a solid wall. Or what a muggle would have seen as a solid wall.

He stepped through, and found himself in Magical Constantinople. Unlike Wizarding Britain’s Diagon Alley, this wasn’t just a shopping street and red light district, but an entire town, hidden from the muggles in the heart of the city itself. The old wizard didn’t gawk at the sight of dozens of genies walking and flying around, on tasks for their masters, or at the plethora of exotic wizards and magical creatures filling the streets. Only those new to the city would do that, and the thieves and conmen of the city liked to prey on those. Aberforth could handle either kind, but he couldn’t afford to draw attention to himself. The Ottomans still hadn’t forgotten what he had done.

And neither had he forgotten what they had done.

On the way to a tavern he knew, he passed the old slave market. Officially, it was defunct, the trade abolished. Unofficially, everyone, even the ICW, knew that the trade still went on, just not as obvious as in the past, and in private locations instead. According to the Ottoman Empire’s official word on the matter, ‘rogues and bandits’ supplied the slaves, and ‘foreigners’ bought them. Discreetly, so the authorities could claim ignorance.

He passed a patrol of two janissaries, the bright red and gold headdress with the distinct large white flap hanging from it easily visible even in a throng of people. Officially, the elite wands of the Sultan were all recruited among the orphans within the Empire, or born to janissaries. Aberforth didn’t trust that claim, just as he didn’t trust the claim that they were all loyal unto death to the Sultan.

They were skilled though, and their reputation well-earned. He passed the Persian Park and almost entered - the Hanging Gardens, copies of the famous Babylonian ones, were a sight to behold, filled with all magical plants known to man - a claim Aberforth was inclined to trust, even if the Quibbler tended to disagree.

Above him half a dozen flying carpets were flitting around. Not quite as fast or agile as brooms - not even close, actually, given the latest generation of quidditch and racing brooms - they were far more suited to transport people, and far more comfortable as well. Too bad, he thought, that they had been banned in Britain after The Intervention, in a fit of pique. Albus probably had let it happen for one reason or the other.

He pushed thoughts of his brother away and continued on, his robe’s protections flaring once in response to a magical pickpocketing attempt. He kept the culprit in sight and his wand out until the suddenly glowing teenager had disappeared in a side alley. While most such thieves went after distracted marks, some of them were hired to serve as distractions.

Finally he reached the tavern he had been seeking. It hadn’t changed much either since his last visit. Arkan was still behind the bar. The British wizard approached him and ordered a tea. When the steaming cup floated towards him, followed by the kettle, he smiled. “I’ve been missing your tea, Arkan. It’s been too long.”

The Ottoman narrowed his eyes, but didn’t seem to recognize him. Well, Aberforth wasn’t the famous Dumbledore, after all, and Arkan must have known hundreds of mercenaries and other low-lives. As a fellow bartender, Aberforth would even feel a sort of kinship, if the man wasn’t such an unscrupulous sort.

“Have you been here before?” The Ottoman was still looking at him.

“Once, after ‘The Intervention’.” He saw the other wizard stiffen. The Ottomans didn’t speak of ‘The Intervention’; they called it ‘The Invasion’. He grinned at the man. When Arkan’s eyes widened, realizing who he was at last, Aberforth smiled toothily and slid a wizarding picture taken of a polyjuiced girl over. “Nadya Bogdanova Lyubenova. The name would have been changed years ago. That’s what she looks like today. I want to know where she is, and if she has been recently kidnapped.”

Arkan grew just a bit paler and Aberforth’s smile just a bit wider. Jackpot.

*****​

“Visualize the destination. You need to be completely certain where you want to travel.”

Hermione Granger wanted to roll her eyes at Remus’s instructions. She could see the circle painted on the floor in the hall in Sirius’s house where she was to apparate to. How much more certain could she be?

She also wanted to appear there. Very much. So much for ‘determination’.

What the young witch had trouble with was the ‘deliberation’ apparition apparently required. While she understood the need to be careful, lest she be splinched, she was not careful enough. She couldn’t refute that - Remus had had to reattach a few body parts already.

That would have been humiliating enough, but Harry and Ron had mastered the technique already.

“Just imagine…” Ron started to say, probably trying to help her, but a glare from her made him shut up at once. She’d master this by herself! At least Harry knew better than to disturb her!

She wanted to appear there. And without leaving anything behind! She wanted it almost more than anything else. Her pride was on the line! Grinding her teeth, she tuned Remus out, tuned Ron out, tried not to glance at Harry, and willed herself to conquer space and time.

Suddenly she experienced the by now familiar feeling of getting squeezed through a tube, her whole body squeezed into a far too small box or tube. She fought the sudden panic - she wouldn’t let what thousands of wizards and witches did daily scare her into losing control.

And then she stood in the circle, panting, but… a quick check confirmed it, she was whole. Beaming, she turned around.

“You did it,” Remus declared, stowing his wand after checking magically. He had her repeat the feat half a dozen times before he was satisfied though.

“Finally! I was about to check if you had been replaced by a polyjuiced spy!” Ron said, snickering.

She glared at him until Harry hugged her. “We’ve been worried, you know.”

“I can’t be perfect at everything.” She pouted. She wanted to be though.

“What’s important is that we now can apparate. We’re no longer limited to floos and portkeys.”

That made her smile. They were no longer limited to Hogsmeade either, during the weekends. She could… her face fell.

“What’s wrong?”

The young witch looked at Harry. “I just thought: I could visit my parents each weekend, or maybe even each evening, if I so wanted - if they were not currently hiding from the Dark Lord’s murderers.”

“They’re hiding on a world cruise,” Harry said, his voice carefully neutral.

She glared at him, but he didn’t add anything.

*****​

Pansy Parkinson smiled sweetly at her guests. As a good host should. Greengrass and Davis were visiting again. The two had been over regularly during the vacation. Too often, for Pansy’s taste. Well, not really. Even the blonde twit’s presence was preferable to yet another attempt by her parents to lock her up in their home for her own safety. It wouldn’t do to hide her when other families didn’t, lest the public thought the Parkinsons were either cowards, or too weak to protect themselves outside their wards. Too bad Greg was on a family visit.

So, Greengrass was, Pansy thought, a sort of necessary evil. Davis, on the other hand, was smart and witty. It was … nice to chat with her, and gossip about others.

“What do you think about Potter beating the Dark Lord yet again?” Greengrass wasn’t smart or witty, of course. The twit still seemed to think they were now friends. She probably thought all those animals the Quibbler wrote about were real as well.

“Do you mean Potter escaping yet another attack on him during his vacation in Bulgaria? The Dark Lord wasn’t present there, as far as I know.” Pansy summoned sweets and drinks for everyone from the tray their house elf had just put down on the table.

“He could have been there though!” The twit wasn’t about to surrender to reality anytime soon, it seemed.

“He wasn’t. As the year before, it was a group of hired wands, from the Balkans or the Ottoman Empire,” Pansy pointed out.

“They were Ottomans this time, or so I heard,” Davis added. “If that continues, then Potter will have been attacked by assassins from every continent and country before he finishes his N.E.W.T.s.”

“And he’ll have beaten them all! He’s so brave!” Yes, Greengrass was still infatuated with Potter.

“He wasn’t alone. He was with Krum and Weasley.” Davis looked at Greengrass with a mixture of fondness and exasperation. Pansy had the impression that she did that very often.

“Our year’s Weasley?”

“Yes,” Pansy answered, “Ron Weasley.”

“He’s brave too!”

“They’re Gryffindors. Bravery is mandatory for them. Brains, not so much,” Davis smirked.

“Neither of them’s a fool,” Pansy said. She didn’t know why - Davis words were not exactly something new, but covered the general view Slytherins had of their rival house quite well. When she saw the other witch raise an eyebrow, she knew she wouldn’t back down though. “You saw them teach us. They’re not as smart as Granger, but who is?”

“Not me!” Greengrass announced. Davis and Pansy exchanged a glance.

“Weasley would be a good catch. Smart, rich, and no heir,” Davis said, a bit too casually in Pansy’s opinion.

“He’s no Potter though!”

Pansy ignored the twit and met Davis’s eyes. “And unlike Potter, he doesn’t come with Granger attached to his side.” And only a foolish witch would assume they’d not play second fiddle behind the muggleborn even if they married the Boy-Who-Lived.

“Mh.” Davis nodded.

“She’s pretty though, so that’s no drawback.”

Pansy sighed. “Greengrass, she’s a true m-muggleborn. They don’t think like we do. You’ll not get a threesome.” She’d probably get a hex to the face for asking, even, but that was not Pansy’s problem.

To her surprise, the blonde sighed. “I can dream though, can’t I? It’s not as if I can marry him anyway. He’s a head.”

“Yes. What a waste.” Davis chimed in.

“Well, I just want to sleep with him!”

“You and half our year.” Davis’s comment sounded well-used to Pansy.

“Weasley has a girlfriend too. Patil.” Greengrass pointed out.

“I heard the Patils might not even return to England from India,” Davis said.

Pansy wouldn’t mind that, even if Hogwarts had already lost too many students. “We’ll see if that’s true in a month.”

“What plans do you have for the year?” Davis asked, once again deceptively causally.

“Potter!” Both ignored Greengrass’s answer again.

Pansy shrugged. “There are a number of attractive students in our year I’d not mind getting to know a bit better.”

“Such as Weasley?” Davis smiled again.

“Anyone going out with Weasley is painting a big target on their back,” Pansy answered. That wouldn’t really deter her though - not after almost getting killed by Voldemort’s raiders once already.

“It would keep you on your toes though. And the Weasleys seem to be among the up and coming families. The twins’ shop is doing well, considering the war. And another brother is getting known in the Ministry.”

“And his sister got her hooks into Longbottom. Too bad they hate Slytherins, hm?” Pansy said.

“Boys will be boys. I haven’t heard of any Gryffindor who actually refused the advances of a pretty member of our house during their sixth year.” Davis grinned.

Pansy laughed, even though she was not really amused. She didn’t know if she actually wanted Weasley, but she certainly wouldn’t let Davis steal him away before she decided if she wanted him. Her cousin Almira had told her the most interesting stories about the Gryffindor’s older brothers.

*****​

Ron Weasley stared at the Hogwarts letter he had just received. And at the badge inside. Quidditch Captain. For Gryffindor. He hadn’t expected that. He had hoped for it, of course. But Harry was their star player, prefect and the Boy-Who-Lived. He was just Ron. Ron, team captain now.

Slowly he started to smile. He didn’t know if Harry had refused the position, if McGonagall had decided that Harry already had too much on his plate, or if Ron’s proposed plays had been so good she decided he’d be the best choice for captain.

But he knew he’d work twice as hard now, so there wouldn’t be any doubt at the end of the year why he had received the position!

He had to tell his family. And Harry and Hermione.

It wasn’t until much later that he realized that he had not thought about informing his girlfriend until his mum had reminded him.

*****​

“And that’s the basic outline for the ritual’s first part, sir,”

“Remarkable. The concept seems sound, though it needs adjustments to overcome the mark’s defenses.” Albus Dumbledore was genuinely impressed while he studied the notes Miss Granger had spread out on his desk.

“I know. I expect that won’t take too long though. I worry about the second part though.” The young witch bit her lower lip, worrying,

“The removal of the fragment in Harry’s scar?” He slightly raised an eyebrow.

“Yes. All the spells I found that could succeed at that were… questionable.”

He knew that if there was no better choice, the girl in front of him would use such questionable means. In a heartbeat even. “I assume you have a plan though.”

“I have an idea. But to craft the spell I need more information about similar spells.”

“Soul magic is banned in Britain,” Albus stated.

“I’m not planning to cast any. But I need to research them for the ritual.”

“Which you plan to conduct.” He ran a hand through his beard.

“Yes.” He raised her chin defiantly, daring him to try and change her plans.

He knew better. “Understandable. I have a number of private notes detailing some spells. Unfinished.” Mostly. He and Gellert had been rather active, back in the days.

Her eyes lit up. “That’s… very good, sir. Thank you!”

“It will not be easy to adapt them to a ritual though,” he cautioned her.

“I’ll do it.” No doubt, no hesitation.

“That kind of magic might also require a price to be paid.”

“I’ll pay it.”

He sighed. Hopefully it wouldn’t come to that. There were ways around some requirements, but in the end, someone had to pay the price for ritual magic. He’d rather pay it himself than have a child pay.

“I’ll have the notes sent to you tomorrow.”

“Thank you!”

The eager answer made him smile. The girl hadn’t let the realities of war crush her. Yet. “Now, do you have any questions?”

“Oh, yes.”

*****​

Constable John Brown first heard the screams. Horrible, desperate screams. His partner, Ethan Flynn, gasped, then accelerated the patrol car they were driving in the outskirts of Edinburgh. Whoever was screaming needed help. And quickly.

Before they found the victim though the screams ended. John cursed - that was a very bad sign. Then they reached the small park in the heart of the suburb - barely more than a few trees and underbrush - and Ethan hit the brakes, hard. Before them, in the middle of the road, was a man on the ground. John and Ethan got out of the car at once.

“He’s alive, I’ve got a pulse!” Ethan cried out while John was calling an ambulance. The man wouldn’t wake up though. Maybe it was an overdose.

Then he started to feel cold - really cold. His breath became visible, and he started to see some frost appearing on the ground. “Ethan?”

“John? Are you as cold as I am?”

He slowly nodded, rubbing his arms. “This is… I don’t what this is. It’s the middle of the summer!”

“The screams came from a w-woman. This is a m-man,” Ethan started to say, his teeth chattering.

“Damn!” John shook his head. “I’ll check the park out. Stay with him.” He was halfway across the street before Ethan managed to answer.

The park looked even worse. Frost covered the ground and the plants. It looked as if he had stepped into the arctic. It wasn’t as cold anymore though. Then he saw the people on the ground. Covered with frost. Unmoving. Like the victim they had almost run over.

“Dear Lord!” He stared at the bodies, three of them - an entire family, it looked like - for a second, then rushed forward, calling another ambulance. He checked the pulse of the three bodies. They were alive, but he couldn’t wake any of them. Then he heard another scream. Ethan!

He stood up and sprinted back towards the road. When he reached the park’s entrance, he saw Ethan was on the ground, unmoving and covered with frost. What had happened? He took a step towards his partner, then reeled as memories rose within him.

He was six. His sister had taken his new book and didn’t want to give it back. He ripped it out of her hand and pushed her away. She stumbled, and fell - and her head landed on a metal toy car. All that blood… the trip to the hospital… his parents’ reactions … he felt like crying forever.

His partner needed him. He took another step forward.

He was twenty. A fresh recruit. He had been sent to check an illegally parked and possibly abandoned car and noticed the smell coming from the trunk. He opened it, and was faced with a half-decayed corpse.

Shaking, he stumbled, and almost fell.

He was thirty-one. His father was dying. Painfully. Cancer had turned a strong man in a shadow of himself, unable to eat or talk. So many tubes, going into his body. Only the eyes were the same he remembered, but those were pleading, begging for something he didn’t know he could do.

He was on the ground. Why was he on the ground? He didn’t remember falling down. Something touched him. Something really, really cold. He didn’t see anything.

Then his head was lifted up by an invisible hand, and his lips started to freeze, and he wanted to scream, but couldn’t as his soul was sucked out.


Chapter 48: The Rescue

 

Chapter 48: The Rescue

“Good afternoon, Mister Asperburry.”

Albus Dumbledore smiled at the leader of the four hit-wizards who had their wands trained on him in the floo room in the Ministry while he stepped through the Thief’s Downfall. He didn’t like to have wands trained on him, and had to still his first urge to disarm them all, but was good to see them working diligently, and not slacking off, even though no one working for the Dark Lord had been caught here in months.

“Good afternoon, Chief Warlock,” Asperburry saluted him with his wand. The others were already paying attention to the next arrivals - well trained indeed, but then, Albus wouldn’t have expected anything else from Asperburry; the wizard had been a strict and dutiful Hufflepuff prefect, after all. Like Amelia Bones, whom the Headmaster was meeting in the Ministry.

“Good afternoon, Albus.” The witch in question nodded at him when he entered, barely looking up from the parchment she was reading as he took a seat and a tray with sweets and tea floated towards him.

“Good afternoon, Amelia.” He served himself, packing a few sweets for Fawkes while Amelia refilled her own tea cup with a flick of her wand. “You have news you said?” That that meant important or urgent news - which usually was the same - was left unsaid; she wouldn’t have called him for routine reports.

“Yes. Yesterday, six muggles, two of them constables, were found in a coma in Edinburgh.”

He stiffened. “Dementors?” It was the most likely explanation, both for the condition, and Amelia’s call.

“All symptoms and circumstances match a dementor attack, including an unnatural cold witnesses mentioned.” Amelia’s face showed a grim expression. Her lips were pressed so tightly together, they formed a thin line.

Albus briefly closed his eyes. Six souls lost. He took a deep breath, then met Amelia’s eyes. “Was that the only such incident?”

“So far. We’ve kept an eye on muggle reports ever since Azkaban. The muggle authorities assume there was some sort of drug or chemical involved.”

He nodded. As sick as it was, dementor attacks were easy to cover up for wizards. Far less of a problem than enchanted toilet seats. The Statute of Secrecy wasn’t in danger, yet.

“Why do you think those monsters attacked now, after all those months?”

That was the crucial question, he knew. Rubbing his chin, he answered: “I do not think the Dark Lord ordered this. Attacking muggles, even as a distraction to force us to spend wands and resources on guarding muggles, is not worth the risk of the ICW intervening to protect the Statute of Secrecy.”

“Do you think he’s lost control over the dementors?”

“Our efforts to prevent him from smuggling in muggles who were kidnapped abroad might have started to show results.” It wasn’t likely though - it was just too easy to kidnap muggles. Albus didn’t want to think about the numbers of muggles they hadn’t been able to save, the unfortunate souls that ended up feeding the dementors - or sacrificed for dark rituals. “But if he had truly lost control over them, if whatever deal he had struck with them had been broken, then we would have had far more such reports.”

“The dementors were pushing the boundaries then. Just as they were at Azkaban.” Amelia sounded almost relieved.

“That is likely. They are intelligent, after all.” And greedy, and cruel. A guard at Azkaban had once likened working with dementors as holding the leashes of a pack of hungry grims to keep them from feeding on a buffet - or on yourself. “They might also be testing the Dark Lord, to see if they can alter the deal.”

“Should we prepare for an imminent attack on wizards and witches then?”

“I do not think he has the wands for such an attack.” Dementors couldn’t break into locked homes, not without help from wizards, and just about everyone in Wizarding Britain was now living behind the strongest wards they could afford - often in the mansions of the Old Families. Those protections would withstand an attack long enough for reinforcements to arrive. “Not to spare, at least. Though he might try to set the dementors on us anyway, but as a distraction for both us and them, I do not think that is likely.” The Dark Lord was still working on his ritual. Not that Albus could tell Amelia that, the risk of the secret being revealed to the enemy was too big.

“We still need to be ready though.” The witch sighed. “I’ll have our contingencies reviewed.”

“Indeed,” the Headmaster said, even though he knew that whatever work was spent on that task would be missed elsewhere. Judging by Amelia’s expression, she knew that as well. And yet, they had to. For there was one possible target that would be very vulnerable to a horde of dementors. “If the aurors and hit-wizards guarding the Hogwarts Express were taken by surprise by such an attack, the consequences would be too terrible to contemplate.”

The sharp hiss from Amelia showed him that she had considered that as well.

“It is very fortunate that Remus Lupin has had a lot of success teaching his students the Patronus Charms,” Albus said casually.

“Oh, indeed. If not for him, we’d have to keep our most experienced aurors in reserve just to guard against dementors. As it is, we can use our youngest recruits for that.”

Albus smiled. He was very pleased at hearing those words, and would bring that thought up with the Minister later as well. If Remus’s condition should ever be revealed to the public, being able to point at him as the wizard responsible for teaching their children to defend themselves and others against dementors would come in handy to keep him as a teacher. Coupled with support from Harry, and maybe a few heroic deeds by Remus in the war, it might even be enough to reform the werewolf laws.

Provided the werewolves serving the Dark Lord did not commit more atrocities.

“There’s something else,” Amelia ventured and floated a few pictures over to him. “Do you recognize this witch? My aurors are certain she’s a British witch, but we haven’t been able to identify her yet.”

Albus studied the pictures. A young woman, in the company of Dolores Umbridge - ironically, the witch behind many of the modern werewolf laws he had just been thinking of. From what he could see of the background of the picture, they were in a private club. Courtesans, not guests according to their robes. The other witch was young enough she wouldn’t look too different from what she had looked like as a student. To his great dismay, he hadn’t been able to be as involved with his students as he would have liked. It was not inconceivable that he’d forget a student that had not drawn attention to her. But the girl did look familiar... his eyes widened. “Paige Caldwell! That is a surprise!”

“Why?” Amelia asked, staring at him.

“She took her O.W.L.s 8 years ago, but did not return to Hogwarts. She was attacked by a werewolf during her summer holiday.” Her family had kept it quiet, though that hadn’t kept him from finding out why a student left his school without taking her N.E.W.T.s.

“A werewolf with the witch behind the latest and harshest werewolf regulations?” Amelia sounded almost shocked.

“Who would have thought.” Did Dolores have a change of heart after her fall from grace? It was not impossible, but another explanation was more likely - someone was forcing her to work with a werewolf. And while her views didn’t quite align fully with the Dark Lord’s, he could imagine her working for Tom.

“This smells like a plot from the Dark Lord.” Amelia had come to the same conclusion. She snorted. “And I thought the Minister was just afraid of what his former lover might do - or reveal.”

He looked at her over the rim of his glasses. “I think it is imperative to investigate this thoroughly.”

Amelia nodded. “According to our information, Umbridge has been switching love interests each month, approximately, and always went for rich, influential wizards with a weakness for vices.”

“That does raise some concern,” Albus commented. The kind of people Amelia described would know better than to open themselves to blackmail, but Dolores was smart, if not as smart as she thought she was.

“We’ll get to the bottom of this, Albus. Thank you for your help.”

“I am always happy to help.”

On the way back to the floo centre, Albus wished his brother was back in Britain. Aberforth had contacts in the scene Dolores frequented, and would likely be able to shed some light into the affair. Alas, he knew that his brother would not leave Constantinople until he had rescued that girl he had mentioned - Aberforth was feeling far too much guilt about his past failure to abandon what he must be seeing as a chance to redeem himself.

If only the stubborn fool would realize that he had done his best, and wasn’t at fault! Albus shook his head - his brother would likely never accept that. He was far too similar to Albus himself in that regard.

*****​

The Dark Lord Voldemort frowned, looking at the amulet on his desk. According to the deal he had struck with the dementors, it would protect its wearer against them. So far, it and the others like it hadn’t failed. But the deal also stipulated that the dementors would only hunt if he told them to, as long as he’d supply them with victims to feed upon.

And the wards he had laid over the ruins those creatures were kept in had signalled that half a dozen of them had left, for hours, before returning. Had they broken the deal? That would only be possible if someone else had offered them a better deal. As far as he knew, at least - and as far as Renquirt, the Ministry’s expert for the monsters, knew.

He lifted the amulet up, then let it drop on the desk’s polished surface. It wasn’t as if he had a written, clear and concise contract. Dementors were not human, and did not think like wizards. Though as long as he had upheld his part of the deal, they should have upheld theirs - and Voldemort knew he had delivered enough muggles to them to fulfill his obligation. He had even delivered more than the agreed-upon number, until acquiring the animals had become a bit more costly than expected, and his finances had suffered the recent reverse. Surely that wouldn’t…

He shook his head. Maybe they had considered his generosity as altering the deal, and now required the new number of victims per month? There was a reason one did not tip goblins, after all, those filthy creatures would not only see that as a weakness, but raise their rates in turn.

It was just a theory, but one he could act upon, at least. Acquiring more foreign muggles through the usual channels would be costly though. At the same time, grabbing British muggles was dangerous - the Ministry would be branding him as a threat to the Statue of Secrecy as soon as they had proof. Or a reasonable suspicion.

Still, it was not impossible to avoid such calamities. Muggles, even British ones, could disappear without a trace and without raising any suspicions, under the right circumstances. Boats sank all the time, after all, many of them disappearing without a trace, for years. With a bit of planning he could acquire dozens of muggles, without anyone ever knowing he had done so.

But who could he trust with such a task? His Bella was as skilled as she was loyal, but she had no experience with muggles. Like his other followers - none of them had been raised in the muggle world. Not that he’d trust any of them otherwise. That left only hiring a specialist - with all the doubts about their loyalty hirelings brought with them, and the increased costs - or doing it himself. And his own knowledge of muggle Britain was decades out of date.

He shook his head. He had no desire, none at all, to return to that primitive, dirty and stinking world. He left that orphanage behind forever, with all the humiliation and misery he had suffered from. He could send the dementors against the wizards, in the hope they’d cause some losses before they were dealt with, but he’d rather not waste more of his resources. Not at this point at least. But once his ritual was ready, they’d serve as a fine distraction.

Decision taken, he stashed the amulet in his enchanted pockets again. He needed more gold to hire more help. It was time to make a few plans.

*****​

Aberforth Dumbledore, sitting in a café on the street, nodded his thanks at the young genie who floated a tray with a small cup of coffee towards him. A flick of his wand and a mumbled word sent a copper coin flying through the air. The little creature darted forward, grabbing the coin with both hands and saying something so quickly, he wouldn’t have understood it even if he knew the genie tongue.

Taking a sip from the coffee he put a fake smile on his face - he greatly prefered tea, but his cover was better served with coffee. At least it was stimulating, even though a shot of whiskey would not have gone amiss. Sighing, let his gaze wander over the main street of Magical Constantinople. It was full of people and magical creatures, mostly genies of all sizes and kinds, a wondrous sight for anyone used to the smaller magical quarters in Europe.

Those who were on their way to the Grand Mosque were easily recognizable thanks to their robes. Lightweight and thin, made from silk, with long, billowing sleeves, those robes reached the ankles and their decorations denoted the social standing of their wearers - the more magical, the higher the person’s rank. Transparent veils were worn by the witches, bashlyks by the wizards. They were followers of a branch of sufism that did not condemn sorcery, just sorcery for evil ends - or so Aberforth had been told. He was quite certain that the definition of ‘evil ends’ was rather flexible in practise.

In contrast, the majority of the crowd was wearing bright, colorful and often daring robes, even for wizards, usually combining a sleeveless vest with billowing pants, decorated with elemental motives - or made up from the elements themselves. Those were the Ottomans who had, after the Statute of Secrecy had gone into effect, rejected the quran and its forbiddance of sorcery, and had returned to the faith of their ancestors, revering Sky Father in a floating temple opposite the Grand Mosque. Those were the Ottomans Magical Europe was most familiar with, the masters of the genies and elemental sorcery - and the evil eye. That they were revering the same god the Bulgarians did was a topic best never mentioned in either country.

As usual at the time of prayers, the janissaries were out in force, ready to intervene should the tension between the two factions threaten to spill into violence. The Sultans had learned their lessons after the Great Schism in the last century, when religious violence had almost torn the Empire apart in a conflict so brutal, it was said the Sultan’s Plaza had been covered with blood for a week. According to legend, the Sultan at the time, Adem I, had given his life in a ritual to end the violence. Aberforth didn’t doubt that a ritual had taken place, but he couldn’t help wondering if the Sultan had actually volunteered for the sacrifice - the janissaries, nominally followers of the Old Gods, were known to be the power behind the throne, after all.

Finishing his coffee, Aberforth frowned at himself. He was turning into Albus, idly pondering academical questions without any relevance to the matter at hand. He wasn’t here to study the Ottomans, he was here to save a kidnapped girl and to track down the wizard responsible for the attack on the Boy-Who-Lived.

If only Arkan would deliver already! Aberforth hated the fact that he didn’t know anyone else in the city, and that his cover would be blown quickly should he interact directly with the kind of people who knew what he sought. And that he couldn’t do anything for the other victims of Ottoman and Barbary Coast raiders - ‘rogues and bandits’, according to the official stance - who had been kidnapped and sold as slaves, to be imprisoned behind the walls hiding the estates of the rich here, or used as curse fodder in the skirmishes with Persia.

A genie the size of his hand landed on the table, chirping what he recognized as a greeting and holding out a parcel the size of a coin towards him with an eager, bright smile. He pointed his wand at the parcel, casting a few subtle detection spells before summoning it towards him. One couldn’t be too careful, after all. He fished for another copper coin in his purse while the genie investigated his empty cup of coffee before pointing at it with a questioning expression on her tiny face.

For a moment, Aberforth was confused, then he smiled, banishing the copper towards the genie, and nodding. “Feel free.”

The tiny creature beamed at him, then gestured with her hand, and a drop of coffee left in the cup floated towards her wide open mouth. Fascinated, he watched as she swallowed, blinked, coughed, and then shot in the air with a trilling sound of glee, almost disappearing in the sky before returning to snatch up the coin left for her, and speeding away again.

“Give me Owls any day,” Aberforth muttered, though with a smile on his face, before casting a privacy spell and unshrinking and opening the parcel. Inside was a fez with a combination of colors only Albus would love, and a scrap of parchment with a single line on it: Abdul al-Samar.

Aberforth smiled. He had the name of the man he sought. And soon he’d have the name of the girl as well. One victim would soon be free - and maybe his guilt at having failed Neola would be lessened a bit.

*****​

“Dumbledore recognized our mystery witch,” Kenneth Fenbrick said to Bertha Limmington, when he entered their office, waving around the note he had just received.

“Oh?”

“Paige Caldwell. Hufflepuff. Took her O.W.L.s in 1988, then was attacked by a werewolf during the full moon.” He didn’t have to add that she couldn’t continue school after that.

“Umbridge working as a courtesan with a werewolf? That sounds rather implausible,” Bertha commented, the usually unflappable Ravenclaw looking almost shocked.

“Unless Dumbledore has gone senile, that’s exactly what is going on. I’d not rule that out, of course,” Kenneth joked. When his partner briefly rolled her eyes, he continued: “In any case, that’s enough to arrest her.”

“We would need reasonable suspicion of her being a threat to others for that,” his partner said.

Kenneth scoffed. Bertha knew as well as he did that werewolves could be arrested whenever the aurors wanted. “Arresting her would tip off anyone else involved in whatever she and Umbridge are doing though.” Not to mention that making an arrest in the kind of venues their mystery witch frequented needed a lot of wands to ensure the hired wands wouldn’t try to interfere. And the more wands you had, the higher the chance one of them was on the take from the owner of whatever place you were raiding. Not even a civil war against a Dark Lord had stomped out that kind of corruption.

“Do you want to observe her instead then?”

“Yes. A werewolf courtesan… that’s kinky.” He chuckled, thinking of all the dirty jokes he could make about that.

“I doubt her clients are aware.” Bertha fell silent.

Kenneth looked at her. “They change clients each month.” If what he was suspecting…

“Each full moon.”
“Merlin’s balls! If she’s been cursing them… I think this exceeds our authority.”

“Technically, the Beast Division of the Magical Creatures Department is in charge of werewolves.”

Kenneth gaped at her. She knew perfectly well that anyone accusing the kind of wizards Umbridge and Caldwell had been involved with of being a werewolf was very likely to ruin their career. Or lose their life. He was about to point that out when he caught the faint grin on Bertha’s face. He groaned.

“Let’s inform the boss.”

*****​

Abdul al-Samar studied the note he had received. The men he had hired had caught the foolish foreigner asking questions about him. That had been quick, but then - foreigners tended to stick out in Constantinople. They didn’t know how business was done in the city. How to avoid making waves that would disturb the peace with the janissaries.

For a moment he considered having the thugs bring the man to him. No one would disturb him here. His house was not just larger than those of his neighbors, his wards were far stronger as well. He decided against it though. Bringing that kind of business home would be a bad idea. He muttered a curse under his breath. By all rights he should be living in a better area, closer to the Sultan’s Palace. He had the gold for it. More than enough. And yet he couldn’t find anyone who’d sell to him, even though he knew houses were regularly sold. His gold just wasn’t old enough for the notables of Magical Constantinople.

But he’d show them. Sooner or later, one of those arrogant old families would make a mistake, and need his services. And then he’d have leverage on them.

Grinning at that thought, he called his bodyguard, who was as usual waiting right outside his door. “Ahmed! Take half a dozen of my guards, the discreet ones. I have a meeting to attend.”

The tall, wiry wizard bowed in return. He’d contact some of the more reliable thugs in the city while Abdul put on a disguise. Leverage wouldn’t help him if he was seen with thugs.

A few minutes later Abdul and Ahmed apparated to a small, dirty courtyard where half a dozen thugs were waiting. He was familiar with most of them, all sufists,but didn’t bother greeting them by name.

“I need to speak with a visitor to our city, and I don’t want to be disturbed during the meeting.” Abdul didn’t have to say anything else; the hired wands knew their business. And they knew he paid them generously. “The meeting’s in the Blue Tavern.” The thugs started to grin.

The name of the Blue Tavern was supposedly a slight against the Blue Mosque, chosen by a fervent convert to the Sky Father who had founded the tavern in the 12th century - or the 19th, if you were using the European calendar. Whatever the reason, it was now known as the place to conduct your business in private. Even the janissaries trod lightly when visiting - the current proprietor, known as ‘Gökhan’, had a veritable army of jinn at his disposal.

Abdul nodded at the two towering genies - Daos - next to the door and pointed at the hired wands with him. “They’re with me.” The larger genie nodded, and the door opened. Inside, the air smelled of smoke - a dozen shishas were being passed around at any moment, he thought - and of liquor. A few girls wearing nothing but strings of coins were dancing on tables while trays bearing drinks floated through the room. Abdul briefly glanced over his shoulder, to make sure his hired wands were paying attention to him, instead of ogling the flesh on display. So reassured, he approached the bar. The genie behind it - a four-armed giant surrounded by floating glasses and bottles that whirled around him - pointed him towards the backdoor. Abdul dropped a generous tip and went to meet his contact.

He met Kasim in a rather sparsely furnished room. Easier to clean up, he guessed. The foreigner, and old man with a badly dyed beard, was sitting on a chair, securely bound with spells and manacles. He seemed to be screaming something, but Abdul couldn’t hear a single word - he must be under a Silencing Charm. No one else was there. Did his contact trust him that much to meet him while outnumbered? Or had his wands already sought out company to spend their pay? He turned to the wizard. “Did he give you any trouble?”

Kasim shook his head, which surprised Abdul - the man usually never lost an opportunity to boast. And those spells securing the captive were unusual too, now that he thought of it… his eyes widened, and he opened his mouth to alert his men, but Kasim already had his wand out. A swish, and Abdul and all his men were smashed back against the walls by an overpowered Banishing Charm.

Abdul’s robes absorbed most of the impact, as did those of Ahmed, which he had paid for, but next to him he saw one of his hired wands, on the ground and groaning on in pain. Ahmed didn’t hesitate and was casting before he had found his footing, sending a Killing Curse and Flensing Curse at Kasim.

The traitor ducked behind the captive, and both curses missed. Abdul cast a shield and started towards the door, trampling over the groaning man on the floor. He couldn’t apparate inside the tavern, nor use a portkey, but if he made it back to the main room, he’d have help - Gökhal didn’t tolerate fighting in his tavern.

A whip of fire lashed through the room, cutting down two thugs who had started to cast at Kasim, and shattering his own shield before another enchantment on his robes stopped it. The rest of the thugs and Ahmed were sending spell after spell at the traitor, hough many missed, and most of the rest hit the captive or were stopped by Kasim’s shield.

Abdul cast another shield and tried once more to reach the door. One of the thugs had had the same idea, and beat him to it. Before he could open it though, spikes shot up from the floor and down from the ceiling, impaling the wizard and walling off the door. More spikes were growing out of the walls, this time horizontally, and Abdul dropped to the floor just in time to avoid another banishing charm. No one else was as fortunate, and while Ahmed was still standing, though bleeding from a wound on his back, the rest of the thugs were done for.

This wasn’t Kasim, he realized. Kasim wasn’t half the wizard this man was. He had to be someone else who had taken the hired wand’s place and appearance. Snarling, Abdul pulled a small bottle out of his robe and opened it. At once, thick smoke filled the room, reducing visibility to a few feet and a massive blue-skinned Marid appeared next to him. He asked in a booming voice “How may I serve you, mas… oh, you’re in trouble!”

Abdul ignored the wide grin the genie wore, and pointed at the area the impostor was in. “Stop that…”

Once more he was interrupted when the smoke vanished and he dropped to the floor to avoid a hail of iron marbles that had appeared in the smoke’s place and shot towards him. When he didn’t hit the ground as hard as he had feared, he first thought that his robe’s protections and recovered their power. Then he realized that someone had turned the stone ground to mud. Before he could stand up, the mud turned back to stone, capturing his wand and both legs.

A curse from Ahmed told him that his bodyguard was in a similar situation. He turned his head to check, just in time to see the man, both feet stuck in the ground, get bisected with a Cutting Curse. His bodyguard’s blood hit him in the face. He turned to the marid he had freed from his bottle. The genie would be able to save him!

He opened his mouth to order the marid to get him out, but he couldn’t speak.

“Master? Don’t you have any orders? This looks quite dangerous, are you sure you want to handle this by yourself?” The genie was laughing openly now, enjoying Abdul’s peril. He would pay for that dearly!

Then a stunner hit him, and Abdul couldn’t think no more.

*****​

Aberforth Dumbledore glanced at the blue-skinned genie hovering in the middle of the room. Without orders the creature shouldn’t attack him. Unless he gave it an opening. He didn’t intend to.

He was still wearing the form of the boasting wizard who had fallen for his trap; the polyjuice would last another ten minutes. Using himself as bait had worked better than he had expected - the idiot, Kasim was his name, had walked straight into his ambush. The old wizard glanced at the remains of the Ottoman. Kasim, wearing Aberforth’s disguised form, had died an ugly death; those thugs had been throwing very dark curses around. At least Aberforth wouldn’t have to fear that he’d be identified; there wasn’t much left that looked like him. And it wasn’t as if the thug hadn’t deserved it - Aberforth suspected he wouldn’t have been the first foreigner Kasim had made disappear in the city, and that usually the victims were quite younger and prettier.

He turned the stone holding Abdul captive in mud again and levitated the man up. The marid hadn’t moved, but hadn’t left either. “How long are you bound to him?”

“Until I do him a service.”

“And if he dies before he can give you an order?” Aberforth asked.

“Then I’m free.”

Aberforth nodded. That would do. He ended the other spells he had cast, vanishing the spikes that had killed so many, then opened the door. Trailing the stunned Abdul behind, he ran to the main room, then past the bar, shouting “The captive escaped! I need to get him to a healer!” The resulting chaos allowed him to reach the door.

The marid was still behind him when Aberforth reached the border of the anti-apparition wards and apparated to a safe house he had prepared in the countryside.

*****​

Hermione Granger started at the pages she had just read and fought not to shiver. This spell… she looked up. Dumbledore was watching her with a concerned expression.

“Did anyone ever use this spell?” If someone had… It was one thing to consider the effects of a spell, but to see how it was created, how it worked… she felt more than slightly ill.

“I do not know,” the Headmaster answered. “I fear I will only know the answer when both Grindelwald and myself have passed on.”

“This was… Grindelwald’s spell?” Hermione gasped. A lot of what she had read about the man now made more sense. If he had used such spells in his war…

“He created it, though not alone. But I think even he might have balked at paying the price for such magic. He certainly didn’t use it against me when we fought.”

Hermione nodded. And if Grindelwald hadn’t used that spell when facing the Headmaster, on the brink of defeat, then it was not likely he had used it before, when he had been winning handily.

“I trust you will not try to cast the spell either, Miss Granger. The price is too high. Harry would certainly agree with me.” His expression was colder than any Hermione had ever seen on the Headmaster’s face before. “This is just an example, to help you find a solution to deal with… your problem.”

She swallowed, then nodded. “Of course.” Although Dumbledore was not correct - the spell would do what she needed it to. It would destroy a soul. Not unlike a dementor’s kiss, which the Ministry used all the time. All she had to do was to figure out how to adapt it into a ritual and how to avoid paying the price the magic demanded. Make it… safer. Less dark.

And she had an inkling of an idea already.

*****​

Aberforth Dumbledore sent his last strand of memories from Abdul’s interrogation into a vial, stoppered it and put it into the box he had prepared. The man had not only confirmed that he had been hired by the Dark Lord to attack Harry Potter and the wedding, but that he had also been the one responsible for organizing the assassination attempt by that genie in the last task of the Triwizard Tournament, over a year ago. And had been involved in dozens of slave raids over the years. Dozens of children and young witches taken from their families, sold as if they were pets.

Picking up the box, he shrunk it and then tied it to the leg of the post owl waiting on the table. Albus would get the box in a few days. Just in case his rescue of Nadya Bogdanova Lyubenova didn’t go as planned - he couldn’t think of anything but death that would keep him from trying until he succeeded. He had added the information about the girl’s kidnapping as well, even though he was quite certain that should he fail and die, then Albus would not lift a finger, much less a wand to save the girl himself.

The girl was known as ‘Nadiye Baykara’, and had been returned to the harem of Rasim Baykara, the second son of a minor member of the Sultan’s court. It wouldn’t have been that hard to break into the harem and save the girl - if not for the fact that Abdul had hired wands to do exactly that a few weeks ago. Baykara would have certainly improved his wards as a consequence. Probably his guards as well.

Aberforth closed his eyes and remembered Lea’s rescue. And Neola’s death. And the deaths of Sasha and many of his wands. But that had been the harem of a high-ranking wizard of the Sublime Porte, with dozens of guards and genies. Baykara’s wouldn’t be protected like that. And Nadya would be alone there.

The old wizard shook his head. Contrary to the fantasies of most British wizards, Ottoman wizards didn’t generally have harems filled with a dozen or more wives and concubines. Not since the ‘acquisition’ of muggle girls had been outlawed when the Statute of Secrecy had been implemented 300 years ago. The vast majority of the Ottomans had one wife, though her private rooms were still called a harem - it was apparently a matter of status. Muggles had haremliks, private areas for the whole family, but wizards had harems, women’s quarters.

He thought of tracking down the wands Abdul had hired to kidnap Nadya and finding out how they had gained entry, then decided against it. It would only tell him what method not to use, and that was not worth the effort needed to find a bunch of criminals in Constantinople. And to persuade them to share their knowledge.

He’d find a way himself. He wasn’t his brother, but it took more than a simple ward to stop him. Especially if a girl’s life and freedom was at stake.

But first there was the matter of Abdul’s continued existence. Something Aberforth had to rectify. He raised his wand at the bound captive. The effect of the veritaserum had ended, and the man was struggling frantically against the bindings that held him. Aberforth ignored it.

“Reducto.”

*****​

Harry Potter ducked beneath a red spell - hopefully a stunner - and raised a stone wall to hip-height with flick of his wand, right in time to block a series of spells. The stone started to crack almost at once, and Harry cursed. They were pushing him too hard, boxing him in. He was limping already, and his entire left side felt like someone had taken a beater’s bat and tenderized his flesh there. Another flick of his wand placed a second wall right behind the first, and a flick filled the area with thick smoke. Now all he had to do was to…

A blast above him interrupted his thoughts as he was slammed headfirst into the ground. Before he could recover, much less even think at treating himself, what felt like half a dozen stinging hexes hit him.

“Bang! You’re dead,” Sirius announced from behind him.

Harry groaned in response.

Ron floated a vial with a pain-relief potion over to him. Harry drank it, closing his eyes when his headache disappeared and his side stopped stinging. “Thanks Ron.”

“Anytime, mate.”

Harry stood up, stretching, then walked slowly over to where Ron was sitting on a low bench, a box of snacks and refreshments between his legs, next to Hermione. Harry’s girlfriend was shaking her head and pursing her lips, as if it was Harry’s fault that Sirius and Remus were going overboard with their training. Granted, this ‘enhanced regime’ was a direct result of the attacks in Bulgaria, but that hadn’t been his fault either.

“You’re up, Hermione,” Remus said while Sirius repaired and cleared the dueling area. The young witch stood up with a huff, but when Harry moved to hug her, she kissed him. Until Sirius sent a stinging hex at her backside and she jumped out of his arms with a yelp.

“Stop wasting time! You need this training! You can snog afterwards!” The dark-haired wizard impatiently tapped his wand against his thigh.

“Sirius calling snogging a waste of time… did anyone check him for polyjuice or a confundus spell?” Harry said while glaring at his godfather.

“Hey now! I didn’t say that!” the older wizard protested, while Remus and Hermione laughed.

“Well, yeah, you just did,” Ron said, triggering more laughter, though Hermione’s sounded a bit forced to Harry. With good cause - a second later she had to dodge Sirius’s first spell. Her shield stopped Remus’s spell, and an instant later, walls started to rise all around the witch.

“She’s good at that,” Ron said, “but defending yourself won’t let you win, at best you can avoid losing.”

“That’s something already,” Harry countered, watching as his girlfriend did her best to fight the two adult wizards in the room.

“Even that requires either an easily bored or exhausted enemy, or allies to come to the rescue. Lacking both, Hermione won’t last too long.” Ron shook his head as Hermione’s walls were crumbling faster than she could throw up new ones.

Harry wanted to disagree, but he knew Ron was correct. “She hasn’t attacked them yet. I wonder…”

Right then, both Remus and Sirius were suddenly faced with a swarm of beetles rushing them. For a moment, both disappeared in a buzzing cloud of insects, then both swarms disappeared and a cloud of dust.

“Silent finites… we need to get the hang of that,” Ron commented.

“We will. Just need more training.” Harry was determined to train harder. Lives were at stake, as the attacks in Bulgaria had once again proven.

“Speaking of, will we continue the Self-Defense Club?”

“Yes. Why wouldn’t we?” Harry asked, puzzled.

“Ah. There weren’t many 6th year in the club last year, were they?”

“No, I thought they would…” Harry rolled his eyes as he trailed off. “Really?”

“Well… I guess a number of witches and wizards will use the opportunity to flirt more.” Ron shrugged.

Harry rolled his eyes, then was distracted by a scream from Hermione. He had his wand out, ready to hex, before he realized she had just been hit with stinging hexes as well. “Like Parkinson.”

“Hey! That’s a low blow!” Ron pouted, which lifted Harry’s spirit some while he dug out a Pain-relief potion for Hermione.

Hermione staggered more than she walked towards them, and he was up and at her side in a heartbeat, steadying her. “Should have waited for the potion before standing up,” he whispered, handing it to her.

She scoffed in return, but drank the potion. He could feel her relax.

“They’re really pushing us.” He knew it was hardest on Hermione - due to her research for Dumbledore, she hadn’t had as many lessons and training sessions in defense as he and Ron.

“But we’re learning a lot,” Hermione countered. “Even if it’s a painful way to learn.” She glared at Sirius and Remus, who were about to join them and Ron for a break.

Both wizards shrugged, seemingly unconcerned. “As long as a potion fixes it, it’s ok,” Sirius stated.

“Technically, that includes Skele-Gro,” Hermione said.

Harry winced - he had had to take such a potion once, after a particularly nasty Quidditch accident. Matron Pomfrey had claimed his shoulder bone had been ‘pulverized’, and had to be vanished to replace it.

“Well, you know what I mean,” Sirius said, summoning a snack and a bottle of butterbeer for himself.

“At least we’re getting better,” Ron said. “And if we’re together you’ll have a much harder time beating us.”

“We’ll see. You don’t think we’d face you while outnumbered when the goal of this exercise is to teach you how to fight while outnumbered, do you?” Sirius smirked, and Remus smiled widely.

Harry had a bad feeling about that. He was proven right when Sirius called his girlfriends to help out.

*****​

“As you can see, this ring glows when poison is nearby.”

“I see. How much do you value it at?”

Aberforth, disguised as a Persian merchant, smiled pleasantly while he talked with Rasim Baykara about selling a few of the trinkets Abdul had carried on him. Arranging the meeting had taken a bit of an effort, but Arkan had known the right person to give him a recommendation. The Ottoman was both polite and witty. If Aberforth hadn’t know he was a slave owner, he might even have been fooled into thinking of him as a nice person.

Ironically, it had been Abdul’s actions that likely were the reasons for Baykara’s new interest in protective items. If Nadya hadn’t been kidnapped a few weeks ago, then the Ottoman wizard wouldn’t feel threatened and vulnerable. And so there he was, chatting with the wizard in the very house he needed to sneak into.

It was a bit bigger than Aberforth had expected, but so far he hadn’t seen too many expansion charms being used. He hoped that this would also be the case in the harem - searching through a maze of expanded rooms would be a pain. The house was also better protected than he had expected - those wards were new, and strong. Not impossible for him to beat, but the time that would have taken would have been enough for help to arrive.

Not that it mattered now, that he had been invited inside, if under guard. But that had been expected as well.

After an hour of haggling, Aberforth had sold a ring and a necklace, and a Confundus Spell followed by disillusioning himself had convinced the guards that he had left the premises. Now all he had to do was waiting until late at night, when everyone but a few guards would be sleeping.

He spent the time on the roof. It would have been pleasant, relaxing even, if not for the memories of Lea and Neola, and his fatal mistake. If only he hadn’t underestimated those guards, or those genies! If he had been a bit faster, a bit more ruthless… if he had found their wands, or replacements, so they could have defended themselves…

If, if, if… he knew what Albus would say, the hypocrite. ‘Do not dwell on past mistakes, past the need to learn from them.’ Even though Aberforth knew Albus would take his guilt for the death of their sister to his grave.

He managed to distract himself from his wandering morbid thoughts by trying to remember his astronomy lessons, and matching the sky above him with the constellations he still knew. Which weren’t many - he had barely touched that subject since he had graduated.

Finally it was time - the last light had gone out an hour ago. He stood up, wincing at the painful reminder from his body that he should not spend too much time in uncomfortable positions, and snuck downstairs, to look for the harem.

The inner courtyard was patrolled by a guard - sleepy and sloppy, from what Aberforth could tell. The man didn’t even look up. It was no problem at all to reach the selamlik where he had met Rasim Baykara. To reach the private quarters though was a bit more difficult, with the entrance guarded by a genie. Once again though a Confundus Charm helped - the guard didn’t notice how the door opened right behind him.

As expected the girl wasn’t sleeping in the ‘harem’, but in the bedroom of Rasim himself. Aberforth smiled as he slowly opened the door to the chamber, and saw Baykara and Nadya lying on the bed, fast asleep. The crib in the corner though…

He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. If Nadya was a mother, then this complicated things immensely. A Silencing Charm would let the baby sleep no matter how loud the room might get. A Sticking Charm would keep the the child - less than one year old, he guessed - safely inside the crib, but he thought that would be going a bit too far. But a privacy spell to keep anyone outside from hearing them inside would not go amiss.

He didn’t bother with the Silencing Charm for Rasim, he simply sent half a dozen stunners at him, just in case his bedclothes were enchanted as well. It turned out they hadn’t been. The Ottoman would be feeling that in the morning - unless it turned out he had abused the girl. The he wouldn’t ever wake up again.

Then he tapped the girl’s nose with his wand, waking her with a weak stinging hex. Nadya’s eyes shot open and she yelled, ready to jump out of the bed - until she spotted the wand aimed at her, and froze.

Aberforth spoke quickly: “I’m a friend. Neither the wizard nor the baby are hurt. I’m here for your father, to rescue you.”

“What? Who?” The witch blinked.

“Your father, Bogdan Lyubenov Stoyanov. Your name is Nadya Bogdanova Lyubenova.”

“My name is Nadiye Baykara!” the witch shouted, and grabbed for her wand. Before she could get a grip on it though Aberforth had summoned it.

“That was the name given to you by your kidnappers. The ones who murdered your mother when she tried to protect you.” Aberforth saw that his words made the girl gasp - what ‘orphan’ had not wondered about her parents? - but she controlled herself quickly and grit her teeth.

“That is my name, given to me when I married Risam!” She reached out and shook the man.

“He’ll not wake up anytime soon,” Aberforth said.

“What did you do to him?”

He hated hearing the concern for the slaver in her voice. “I stunned him. You were kidnapped and enslaved as a child.”

“I was an orphan.”

“You were not. You were stolen from your father.” The slavers must have obliviated the girl, for her to cling to that lie so stubbornly. Aberforth was almost glad her father would never know this. If that had been done to Lea and Neola… He pulled out a picture showing her mother, father, and herself. “Look at this! It’s your real family!”

She glanced at it, then pushed it back. “I don’t know these people.” She hadn’t called for help yet - she was smart enough to realize that if her shouting earlier had not brought help, more shouting wouldn’t achieve that either. “You’re just trying to kidnap me! Like those men before.”

“They kidnapped you to force your father to work for them.” Aberforth was tempted to stun the girl, and take her with him. But the baby complicated this. “He died so he wouldn’t have to betray either his country or you.”

She stared at him, as if she couldn’t understand him. “If my parents are dead, what do you want?”

“I promised your father I’d rescue you, and bring you home.” To betray a dying man…

“I don’t need to be rescued, this is my family, and my home!” She stood up, a thin shift wrapping itself around her to preserve her modesty. “Even if your story was true, why should I give up my family for a country I don’t even remember? For a family that doesn’t exist anymore?”

“You were kidnapped, and obliviated! Your life here is a lie.” Any minute could a guard pass through, checking up on the couple.

“It is not a lie! I grew up here. I married. I have a child.” She was so close now, staring straight into his eyes, that she was pushing her chest against the tip of his wand.

He wanted to tell her it was a lie - but in a sick way, she was correct. The slavers only had to obliviate her once, to wipe out the memories for her prior life, and she’d make her new memories herself. Had done so. And yet it was all based on a crime. On murder and kidnapping.

“If you drag me with you, then you’re just a kidnapper. Like the others!” She crossed her arms under her breasts and lifted her chin.

“I’m not like them! I’m no hired wand working for the highest bidder!” He clenched and unclenched his left hand while he gripped his wand so strongly, the knuckles on his right hand were almost white from the strain. The urge to simply stun this silly girl for her own good was overwhelming.

“You still want to take me away from my home, my family. Destroy my life.” She had tears in her eyes, though he had known witches who could fake those on command.

“We will take the baby with us,” Aberforth spit out. As if he’d leave the child here!

“And deprive him of his father? And Risam of his family?” Nadya shook her head violently. “I’d rather die!”

He had his wand pointed at her, ready to end the insane argument, when suddenly, he saw Neola in her place, standing tall and proud all those years ago, as she told that slaver the same, right before she was struck down. And he just knew he couldn’t take her with him. Even if leaving her here was wrong. Even if he had promised her father. He wasn’t Albus, who’d sacrifice lives for his ideals.

He held out the picture again. “Please take this at least. They’re your parents. You can show them to your son.” After a second, he added: “And to your husband.”

She took the picture hesitantly, as if she feared it might whisk her away, before she nodded.

Sighing, and feeling far older than he was, he said: “And if you ever want or need to flee the country, send an owl to Aberforth Dumbledore.”

“Dumble…” She stared at him, shocked into silence.

He disillusioned himself and was gone before she could recover, dropping her wand on the shelf next to the door.


Chapter 49: Chasing Umbridge

 

Chapter 49: Chasing Umbridge

“The Ottoman bastard who was behind the attacks on Potter won’t be helping the Dark Lord anymore. But you already know that since I sent you the memories.”

Aberforth Dumbledore leaned back in his conjured seat, facing his brother’s desk. He felt like he was reporting to a superior, or a teacher - he was actually! - and he hated it.

“I see. What happened to Nadya Bogdanova Lyubenova?” His brother’s voice was, as usual, mild.

“She didn’t need to be rescued,” Aberforth stated in a flat voice, glaring at the older wizard so he understood that this was not something he wanted to talk about.

“They killed her then. A tragedy.” His brother sighed, and Aberforth felt the urge to hex him for this display of fake remorse and compassion. For the girl, and for himself.

“No. She didn’t want to be rescued,” he spat out.

“Ah.”

He waited for his brother to go on. Say something sanctimonious he could blow up at. The phoenix trilled, and swooped over to drop one of those awful confections in his lap. He glared at the bird, then at his brother, who had not even the hint of a smile on his face. His brother still didn’t comment. After about a minute, Aberforth said: “She had a child.”

“She was not under a spell then.”

Finally! He scoffed. “Of course not. I checked.”

“And she had no family to return to.”

Of course Albus’d know that. Looked into it, probably, as if he’d care about an individual instead about his principles. “No. And she didn’t want to leave her husband.”

“Was she a slave?”

“She was kidnapped as a child. They took her memories, made her think she was an orphan.” Aberforth grit his teeth. The girl had been a slave, even if she didn’t know it, or didn’t want to know it. Sold like cattle to her husband.

Albus nodded, his face dripping with understanding. If only he’d show some condescension!

“Knowing about her origin, she might yet decide to leave.”

Aberforth scoffed. “She’ll deny it and stay with her ‘husband’.”

“Which is her decision to take.” Albus summoned a bottle of Ogden's Finest and two glasses.

Aberforth held up his hand, stopping the glass from floating towards him with a bit of wandless magic. He’d not share a glass with his brother, and get consoled for once again failing to save a girl. “You know what happened in Constantinople. What has been going on in Britain in my absence?”

“We found out that Dolores Umbridge is working as a courtesan with a werewolf.” Albus said while filling one glass for himself.

“What?” Aberforth stared. That made no sense.

“Indeed. It’s quite surprising.”

“Surprising? Shocking! There has to be something else behind this.” He didn’t know that witch well, but her hatred of werewolves was deeply-rooted and widely known.

“I can only think of a few reasons for such an arrangement.” His brother took a sip from his whiskey, burping fire. “None of them good.”

“A plot from the Dark Lord then.”

“I do not think we can afford to dismiss that possibility.”

“And my friends will be involved in tracking them down.” Mathilda, to be precise. The courtesan knew those two aurors well, and was a bit too brave for her own good. And she’d not listen to him if he tried to keep her safe.

Albus nodded, taking another sip.

“What about the Dark Lord?”

“He hasn’t sent his wands into battle often since the attack on the Express, and never in big groups.”

“He’s up to something then, and I bet it’s not just rebuilding his forces.”

“Quite likely.”

Aberforth was certain Albus knew more than he was revealing, but couldn’t think of a way to make his brother spill that information. Two could play that game. He stood up. “I have to check with my friends.”

Albus had an unreadable expression when he nodded, and Aberforth fought the urge to check if his brother was watching him when he flooed to his inn.

*****​

Albus Dumbledore sighed after his brother had vanished through his fireplace. He had hoped Aberforth would be able to come to terms with his past regrets in Constantinople, but it seemed that this had not come to be. On the contrary - his younger brother might even feel more guilty now, having failed to save another witch.

If one could call it failure. Certainly, the Ottomans’ cavalier attitude towards and unofficial tolerance for slavery was despicable, but it wasn’t as if there were no kidnappings in Britain. The things that happened in Knockturn Alley… or the treatment of werewolves.

After filling his glass again, he raised it towards his oldest companion and closest friend. “To a better future, Fawkes!”

The phoenix trilled, and started for his bowl of lemon drops, Albus let him, which prompted Fawkes to chirp at him, and offer one drop to the Headmaster. Smiling slightly, he took it. The affair with Miss Caldwell occupied his mind, more than it should probably, given the approaching full moon, and the upcoming start of the next school year. If only he could send Remus to sound out the werewolves, but that would expose his professor’s secret, and ruin his life.

Putting his empty glass down, and absentmindedly petting Fawkes, he considered his options. Since it was very likely that Tom would attempt his ritual again during the next full moon, Albus could attempt to use legilimency, and read Harry’s mind while he was experiencing the vision. That should allow him to apparate to the location - the Dark Lord hadn’t had anti-apparition jinxes up the last time - and even a minor spell would disturb the ritual. And as he knew from Harry’s vision, that would cause a deadly backlash.

It was a very tempting course of action. No one but Albus himself would be at risk, and if he succeeded then the Dark Lord’s body would be destroyed, the war would quickly end without Voldemort directing his forces, and Miss Granger and himself would have ample time to find a way to deal with the horcruxes before Tom could manage to return from wherever his spirit went afterwards. Even if Albus died with Tom, he could leave a note for Saul, who would take his place and help Miss Granger finish her work.

And yet the risks were too big. Albus would have to prevent Tom from apparating away, as the Dark Lord had done the last time his ritual had went awry. And since it was very likely that he’d face both Tom and Bellatrix, this would be very difficult. Not impossible though - a powerful Blasting Curse could likely hit them both. It wouldn’t hurt them much, if at all, though, given their experience, and he’d have to cast both an anti-apparition jinx and an anti-portkey jinx to trap the Dark Lord there. And if he did that, he’d be trapped there as well.

That was a sacrifice Albus would be willing to make. He was old, and he wasn’t getting any younger. And while it was theoretically possible that Tom might be able to dispel one of the jinxes quickly enough to trigger a portkey, or have Bellatrix apparate them away, it was not very likely.

But what if the Dark Lord had taken precautions? Maybe he had a trusted confidante ready with another ritual to revive himself. Albus’s sacrifice would have been for naught, and Britain would be left without him to counter the Dark Lord. Theoretically, the Ministry could muster enough skilled wizards to defeat Voldemort. Even a wizard as powerful as Voldemort - or Albus - could be taken down with enough wands. But such a force would, like Albus currently, have to be held in reserve, able to counter the Dark Lord’s appearance. Those dozens of wizards and witches would not be available to face the rank and file of Voldemort’s Death Eaters. All the Dark Lord would have to do to win was wait, recruit more, and let his wands gradually grind the aurors and hit-wizards down while keeping the bulk of them chasing him.

But even that wasn’t the worst possibility. If Voldemort noticed his presence in Harry’s mind, he’d know about the connection to the boy. As cunning as Tom was, he’d bolt, abandoning the ritual, and alter his plans. Albus would have lost his best source of information, and Harry would be in great danger.

No, as tempting as this decapitation strike was, Albus couldn’t do it. It was simply too dangerous.

He’d have to find another way to atone for his sins.

*****​

“That looks rather simple.”

Hermione Granger turned her head and frowned at her boyfriend, who was looking over her shoulder at her computer’s screen.

Harry didn’t seem to notice. “Not the kind of formula I’d expect from your secret work.”

Hermione reflexively checked if the privacy spells protecting their room in No 12, Grimmauld Place were still working, even though she had checked them before she had started her arithmantic calculations. Relaxing slightly, she addressed the wizard. “It is meant to be. This is a formula to adapt a simple spell into a simple ritual so I can test my program. That way I’ll be able to test my optimization methods before running the real formula.”

“Couldn’t you do that with the actual formula, for more precise results?” Harry sat down on the desk, facing her.

She bit her lower lip. Harry wasn’t as skilled in arithmancy as herself, and he didn’t exactly know what the Headmaster had her working on, but he was not stupid. Before she could think of an explanation, he frowned.

“You can’t do that because the spell is too dangerous to test the improvements the usual way, right?”

She nodded slowly. When she heard him mutter a curse she looked away.

“There has to be another way. A better spell, ritual.”

The young witch shook her head. “We haven’t found a better spell. And time’s running short. Each full moon, Voldemort is making progress.”

“We still don’t know what he’s doing.” Harry’s tone turned it into a question.

“No,” she answered, hiding her annoyance. Did he really think think she’d keep this from him if she knew?

Her face must have betrayed her reaction, since her boyfriend sighed. “Sorry. I just… I hate this.”

Hermione didn’t have to be told what he meant with ‘this’. She knew he hated that she was taking risks for him. Just as she hated it when he was in danger. She stood up, and moved in front of him still sitting on her desk. “I hate it as well, but we don’t have a choice.”

“I wish I knew what you are doing with the Headmaster.” He wrapped his arms around her.

She rested her chin on his shoulder, and whispered: “No, you don’t.”

She hoped he’d think she meant the risk of Voldemort finding out through him.

*****​

Mathilda Miller moved through the main room of the ‘Milarin’ with a grace born from both talent and training, her robes - a network of thin stripes of fabric wound tight around her - attracting a fair amount of attention. The private club had more customers than she would have expected, given the war that was going on. It was too high-priced to appeal to the rank and file of the aurors and hit-wizards who might die any day, and would be living it up each chance they got, and she would have thought that the kind of customers it was courting would be more inclined to stay safe behind the wards of their mansions, than risk coming to Diagon Alley.

Then she saw the two dancers on the stage, and understood. Veela. Courtesan trained ones even - rare outside Paris. The owner of the club had to have spent a fortune to persuade them to perform in Britain in these troubled times. That would attract a lot of the kind of wizards Umbridge and Caldwell were aiming for - and only a few of them would be able to hire the veela. So, a prime hunting ground for the two suspects.

Since one of them was a werewolf, that probably wasn’t the best wording, she admitted to herself.

Mathilda slowly walked to the bar, where she ordered a glass of champagne and studied the audience. No sign so far of either Umbridge or Caldwell, but there was Fickleton, staring at the stage as if he had been entranced.

Wizards. Mathilda masked her cynical snort by taking a sip from her drink. Though, truth to be told, not every wizard was like that. Just most, as her teacher in Paris used to say. Watching the Wizengamot member absentmindedly drinking from his own glass, she considered approaching him, but decided against it. He had a reputation of being a tad rough with his playthings, and she’d rather not find out he was now a werewolf by discovering he had left permanent scars on her.

Leaning against the bar and letting her gaze wander, she caught the eyes of a younger wizard roaming over her body. She smiled at him while she checked him out. Expensive robes, though a bit too flashy. Young, a few years out of Hogwarts yet. Rich enough to visit the club, which meant he wouldn’t be emancipated. Beholden to his Head of Family, which meant he was from an old family. Not rich enough to have a chance with the veela, and smart enough to realize it. An easy mark, then. But for the fact that he was still sitting alone. Mathilda didn’t think that her fellow courtesans would miss such an opportunity, so he was either choosy, or there was something else going on.

She downed the rest of her champagne and started to walk towards his table. Finding out what exactly was going on would be a good way to pass the time. And if she needed to go further to keep her cover… the wizard looked quite handsome.

“Hello, sir. Are you looking for some company?” She smiled, going through the motions - he hadn’t left her out of his eyes ever since she had noticed him.

“I am,” he said, with a faint hint of a foreign accent. Balkan. He motioned to the seat next to him. “Pavlos” he introduced himself.

“Marie,” she answered, using her fake Parisian accent and alias while she sat down with a smile. Up close she could see his robes were brand new, and he had an interesting scar on his collarbone. The accent and the new robes pointed at a wand for hire who had struck it rich. Greek, or Macedonian. But those rogues usually were far more forward. She’d have expected him to pat his lap. And after Aberforth’s efforts, most of the Macedonians and other Greeks were working for…

She had to fight the urge to curse when the knut dropped. Still smiling, she leaned forward, cast a privacy spell, and whispered: “How much were you paid to watch over me?”

The young man blushed and tried to mask his surprise with a cough. He rallied quickly though. “I wouldn’t charge to protect a beauty like you.”

“Really?” she said, letting her fingers trail over his robe. Theoretically, he could have bought the robe with his own gold, to wear. She heard him hiss when she reached his lap, and withdrew her hand.

He nodded, wetting his lips. “Really.”

She slid a bit closer, until their thighs touched. He was handsome, if a bit young. “Are you aware of the reasons for mine, and therefore your presence here?”

“You’re looking for two dangerous witches. Cursed ones.” He grinned. “I have hunted their kind before. I will not let them touch you.”

She almost sighed. Aberforth was getting a bit too protective in his old age. At least he hadn’t come in person, and had picked a charming bodyguard. Though that he hadn’t bothered to inform her did not sit that well with her. Leaning forward, and letting her robe grow a bit looser, revealing more, she asked: “And what are your orders in case they do not appear?”

“I’m not to let you out of my sight.” Other wizards of his age would have been nervous now. Pavlos wasn’t. The difference, she guessed, between a young wizard with a generous appanage from his head of family and no real experience, and a young wand for hire.

“I’ll hold you to that.”

*****​

Kenneth Fenbrick wasn’t happy. At all. He should be, posing as a young and rich fool, out for a good time in an expensive club, with all expenses paid for by the Ministry. And he was surrounded by pretty witches who were flirting with him.

But they were only acting so nicely because they wanted him to hire them. He wasn’t attractive, his purse was. That alone wouldn’t have been enough to dampen his mood much, though. A pretty girl was a pretty girl, after all, especially if someone else was picking up the tab.

No, what was ruining his mood was the fact that his partner was undercover as well, in a different private club, posing as one of those witches currently surrounding him. You didn’t split from your partner, every rookie learned that at the academy! If anything happened, he wouldn’t be able to help Bertha.

If only she had gone as a guest instead of a courtesan! Witches frequented those clubs too, after all. But she had claimed that while she had had training as a courtesan, she hadn’t any experience posing as one of the rich witches looking for paid company. He didn’t like that, not at all, even if it made some sort of sense. His partner, wearing that very revealing robe she had picked, flirting… If one of those old rich wizards made a move on her, and she couldn’t refuse him without blowing her cover and endangering herself...

Merlin’s balls, he was jealous! He almost dropped his glass. Jealous of whoever flirted with his partner while she was undercover! What was wrong with him? He knew such flirting wouldn’t mean a thing. Not to Bertha. She was the most professional witch he knew. Professional auror, that is. Not the other kind. Even if she had loosened up a bit in the last year.

He turned to the bartender, a gorgeous blonde witch in a robe that barely covered her curves, and ordered another whiskey. He was on a mission, on a hunt. He had no time to deal with this… discovery. And yet he barely managed to nod and smile at the redhead pawing at him, and keep an eye on the most recent arrivals.

Bertha Limmington. Brilliant, but not the most personal witch. More fond of books than people. A typical Ravenclaw. Top Auror. Like him. But very much not like him. By the book. Pretty. Beautiful even. A brilliant mind, and deadly with her wand. The best partner he could wish for. And she had a well-hidden, but keen sense of humor. And she could flirt, if she wanted. The way she walked, in that skimpy robe….

When the redhead tried to slip her hand inside his robe, he realized that she had taken his smile as an invitation. He hadn’t even realized just how he had been smiling! He covered his lapse by paying for her next drink and tried to focus on his task again.

Merlin, he was in love with his partner!

Right then, the ring on his left hand grew warm - the agreed-upon signal that Bertha had spotted Umbridge and Caldwell. He made his excuses, citing a family emergency, not caring if it sounded convincing, tipped the redhead generously, and left the club. He had two suspects to catch, and a partner to catch up with.

*****​

Kenneth stepped out of the floo in ‘The Nightingale’, nodding at the two bouncers. They looked him over, checking if his robes matched the club’s price range, but didn’t look like they were expecting trouble - anyone arriving by floo had gone through the Thief’s Downfall at Floo Central, after all. Anyone entering from the street though would have to endure a lot more scrutiny.

Entering the main room, Kenneth spotted his partner at once. Bertha was leaning against the bar, crowded by a pair of young wizards with more gold than taste judging by their robes. At least they weren’t pawing her. He walked over to them, maybe a tiny bit faster than usual. He wanted to simply push the two idiots away, maybe hex them a bit if they didn’t get the message, but that would cause too much trouble, and endanger their mission. And Bertha would be furious.

Instead he beamed at her and ignored the two men. “Darling, there you are! I was held up at work, please forgive me.”

The witch smiled widely at him, and part of him hoped that it wasn’t just an act. “Of course!”

The two boys apparently didn’t understand that they should leave. Maybe he shouldn’t have mentioned work - some of the rich thought anyone who actually worked was not rich enough to matter. But one of them faced him. “Hey! We saw her first!”

“Yes!” The other, more than a bit drunk, nodded emphatically.

“Get lost. She’s mine!” Kenneth growled at them and slipped his left arm around Bertha’s waist. The witch leaned into him, but her right hand pinched his side. He ignored that while he stared at the impertinent boy until the idiot’s sense of self-preservation finally started working and he turned to leave, pulling his drunk friend with him. The bouncer that had started to walk towards them returned to his position at the wall again.

Kenneth smiled at his partner, not releasing her waist. “Shall we get a table, darling?” They could cast a privacy charm at the bar as well, but it might catch some unneeded attention. Most people didn’t talk about anything at the bar that actually required such secrecy.

Bertha nodded. “Good idea, honey.”

He kept his arm around her while they walked over to the next free table, but once inside the privacy spell’s effect, she pulled away. She did sit down next to him, at least, though he didn’t know why she seemed amused.

“I didn’t spot Umbridge or Caldwell.” He was pretty certain he’d not have missed them.

“They’re at that table there,” Bertha said, indicating a table under a privacy spell in the center of the room. “With Simon Bragglin. Or someone polyjuiced as him.”

Ah, that was his partner, always precise, always covering all the bases. “I think we can discount that possibility.” Bragglin, one of the middle-aged Wizengamot members, would have arrived by floo as well.

“Theoretically, you could drink polyjuice right when entering the floo, and exit under its effects,” Bertha said.

“Has that ever been tried?” Kenneth didn’t think such an exploit would have been overlooked.

“Modern floos are too quick for that too work, but if you set up a slower connection, it would be theoretically possible.”

“If they can set up a slower connection to their target, they probably don’t need to use polyjuice to infiltrate that location.” Kenneth chuckled. “Now, how do we do this? Arresting them in the middle of the main room?”

She rolled her eyes at him. “The risk of bystanders getting hurt is too big.”

“Especially since a lot of those bystanders would be rich and influential,” Kenneth added cynically.

“Like Bragglin. You could do without another reprimand.”

“I haven’t gotten a reprimand in ages,” Kenneth answered. “Besides, we’re at war - regulations and stuff are not quite as tight.” Which wasn’t always a good thing. A number of aurors might cross lines that shouldn’t be crossed, secure in the knowledge that as long as results were delivered, no one would be asking them any questions.

Judging by Bertha’s frown, she was all too aware of that as well. “I still do not recommend it. It would be best if they took a private room.”

Kenneth agreed. “The owner won’t make much of a fuss if we raid a private room, as long as we’re discreet. And they’d be trapped in there.”

“But if they don’t take a private room here, we’ll be forced to stop them before they reach the floo or the door.” Bertha sighed, which did interesting things to her barely-covered chest.

Kenneth was staring, then caught himself. Fortunately, she didn’t seem to have noticed, or didn’t seem to mind. “We could herd them to the door, and have an ambush outside. If we’re at the floo, that shouldn’t be too hard.”

“Yes.” Bertha pulled out an enchanted mirror from an invisible pocket in her robe. “I’ll go to the bathroom and contact the boss.”

“Aren’t the bathrooms under privacy spells as well?” Those would foil communication mirrors, like any other means of eavesdropping.

“Only the stalls.”

“Ah. I’ll get us more drinks.” At her raised eyebrows, he added: “We have to keep up appearances.”

“Of course.” She chuckled and stood up.

As soon Bertha had left the table and the area covered by the privacy spell, Kenneth closed his eyes and leaned back. He had almost asked her to sit in his lap. But he had been afraid of her reaction. If she got angry, or thought it was a tasteless joke… he could handle that. But if she thought it was unprofessional...

He tapped his wand to the light at the table, summoning a waitress, and hoped that the next few hours or so, depending on how long the two witches were staying, wouldn’t be awkward. Or stressful. He just knew it wouldn’t be the light banter he was used to. If only he had realized that he had fallen in love with Bertha earlier, or later, and not in the middle of an undercover mission with her! And if only she’d be wearing a less distracting robe!

*****​

If anyone deserved to become a werewolf, Simon Bragglin did, Dolores Umbridge thought. The man was acting like an animal already. She’d had to rearrange her robes a dozen times so far, and the werewolf had had to repair hers even. And it wasn’t as if either garment would hide much of their bodies. The man was the head of an old pureblood family - if not quite an Old Family - but he had the manners of a mudblood bastard. She had barely managed to keep herself from cursing him when he had first pulled the werewolf on his lap and had torn down her robes. Damned life debt!

When the wizard leaned over and buried his face in the exposed chest of Paige - the beast - Dolores pulled her wand and vanished the contents of her glass. She felt like drinking, but she knew she couldn’t afford to dull her mind. At least one of them had to keep her wits, and it looked like her ‘partner’ was busy enough keeping her temper. She wasn’t looking forward to the rest of the night. If only it was the full moon already!

She used her wand to order another round of drinks. At least she’d lighten the man’s purse, and with a bit of luck, he’d soon be too drunk to continue molesting them. And once the full moon had arrived, he’d pay. They’d have the whole night for their revenge.

A scantily clad waitress brought the drinks. Dolores thought she looked sympathetic. She could be wrong, but she didn’t think Bragglin restricted his behaviour to courtesans. That he wasn’t married at his age implied enough anyway.

The man separated himself from the werewolf’s chest - finally! - and leaned back in his seat, summoning his glass with a flick of his wand while Paige repaired her robes, again.

“Ah!” Burping fire, he leered at Dolores, and she had to fight to not shudder with revulsion. To think a member of the Wizengamot could sink so low…

He patted his thigh. “Come on, girl, you’ve had enough rest!”

Dolores glanced over at the werewolf, who winced behind Bragglin’s back. Umbridge grit her teeth - to be pitied by a beast - before smiling and sliding over to to the man. “Of course!”

He’d pay. He’d pay dearly for this.

*****​

Paige Caldwell felt relief. They were finally leaving ‘The Nightingale’, and Bragglin had drunk enough that he’d hopefully fall asleep quickly once they were at his manor. He wasn’t drunk enough to be unable to stand though - even though he had his arms around both her and Umbridge as they made their way to the floo. Maybe they’d have to make him drink some more at his home.

She glanced over at the other witch, behind the man’s back. Umbridge looked livid. She must have really hated getting touched by the man, Paige thought - she hadn’t been like that with the other targets. Probably something personal, even though Bragglin hadn’t acted as if he knew her, other than by name.

Paige had to admit she had been surprised by the man’s manners. He wasn’t quite as uncouth as Greyback, but he had not displayed even a trace of the sophistication she’d expect from a Wizengamot member. Maybe this was just how he treated courtesans? She had almost marked him with her fingernails when he had torn her robes open for the first time, thinking he was attacking her. If she had drawn blood, that would have been bad. It could have compromised the whole mission.

And that would have displeased the Dark Lord. She shuddered.

Bragglin must have noticed, since he asked: “Are you cold, pet?”

Paige forced a smile on her face. “A bit… someone tore my robes up.”

As expected, the man laughed. So loudly actually, that another guest and his ladyfriend frowned at the display. Once again Paige was reminded of Greyback. The werewolf leader loved to flaunt courtesy whenever he could.

They left the main room, walking to the floo behind a couple. Another rich man, and a not too experienced courtesan, or so Paige thought - she hadn’t quite the provocative gait. She didn’t look that young, so she probably was another witch fallen on hard times, and turning to this life to make ends meet. Those witches didn’t know what hard times were. Paige knew it. Knew how it was to be torn from her family, from her country, banished and left to fend for herself. And she knew how to survive, how to live, without whoring herself out.

Paige scoffed and shook her head.

“DMLE, Aurors Fenbrick and Limmington! Paige Caldwell, Dolores Umbridge, you’re under arrest!”

Paige felt as if her blood had frozen in her veins, staring at the two wands aimed at her and Umbridge. That couple was a pair of undercover aurors! She gasped - she was a werewolf who had infected several wizards, willingly even. If she was arrested, she’d be executed!

She’d rather die fighting! She was about to draw her wand when she heard Umbridge whisper: “Imperio. Attack those aurors!”

Bragglin drew his wand. The two aurors were quicker, casting at him while spreading out, but their Stunning Spells were stopped by the man’s robes.

“Reducto!”

Braggin’s spell missed, but tore up the teak floor, sending splinters towards the aurors and dust up in the air.

Paige, now with her wand in hand, felt Umbridge grab her arm. “Come, to the exit!” The witch whispered, trying to pull her with her.

The werewolf shook her head. “No, not the exit. They’ll be waiting for us.” They wouldn’t cover the floo with two aurors and leave the main entrance uncovered.

Umbridge cursed, but agreed. “Main room!”

The two ran back, into the main room. Behind them, Bragglin was casting another Blasting Curse. The man wouldn’t last long, but he had bought them enough time to put a few guests between them and any pursuit.

“Backdoor?” Paige asked

“They’ll be waiting there too.”

Front and back and floo were blocked. The werewolf felt trapped, cornered. She wanted to lash out, kill those who attacked her. Charge them and rip them to shreds. Feast on their entrails! She might have lost control, if Umbridge had not pulled her towards the stairs and shaken her out of her rage.

“What can we do?”

“The roof. We’ll blast our way through the roof.” The other witch was sprinting up the stairs. Paige didn’t hear another explosion, which meant Bragglin had been stunned.

Another couple - no, a two witches, one wizard - was descending the stairs. Paige roared at them, and when they didn’t part quickly enough, she banished the wizard into the next wall.

“Imperio! Go down and blow every table up!”

Paige glanced to the witch running slightly behind her. That was the second unforgivable the witch had cast, in front of witnesses. If she got arrested, it’d be Azkaban for her. For life. In for a knut, in for a galleon.

“Window!” Umbridge shouted when they reached the next floor. She looked like she was out of breath.

Paige hadn’t any problems - werewolves had great stamina. It didn’t make up for being cursed, but it could come in handy. She ran towards the window, wand out.

“Don’t cast yet!” Umbridge shouted. Paige heard explosions and screaming from below while the witch pulled out a broom from her robes and unshrunk it. “Disillusion yourself, and mount up behind me!”

Part of Paige wanted to refuse. To obey was to submit. She fought that instinct down though, and did what she was told.

“Reducto!”

The window was blown away, and the broom shot through the opening before the debris had hit the ground. They almost hit the house on the other side, but Umbridge managed to pull up in time, and then simply flew straight - away from the club, away from the alley.

And with the aurors hunting them for what they had done, and the Dark Lord likely to hunt them for what they had failed to do, away from Wizarding Britain.

*****​

“Half a dozen guests seriously wounded. One Wizengamot member hurt by aurors. Five Wizengamot members protesting the ‘rash, reckless and unjustified action’ of the DMLE. And both suspects escaped.”

Kenneth Fenbrick, standing at attention in front of Amelia Bones’s desk, next to his Bertha Limmington, winced. Bones sounded angrier than right after the attack on the Hogwarts Express. Or maybe he thought that because this time, all her anger was directed at him and his partner. At least it felt like it. “I bet those protests came from Wizengamot members who were found in ‘compromising situations’.”

He regretted his quip right away when the head of the DMLE glared at him. “Do you deny that ‘rash and reckless’ fits this mess perfectly, Auror Fenbrick?”

“No, ma’am.”

“So, can you explain how two whores who have never shown much skill with their wands, much less as duelists, managed to escape two of my most experienced aurors and a full team of hit-wizards?” Bones glared at Kenneth and his partner, hands on her hips.

“Ma’am, Umbridge imperiused Bragglin to attack us. We couldn’t take him out quickly, not without hurting or even killing him, and that allowed them to flee back into the club’s main room, full of bystanders,” Kenneth said, looking past the witch. He didn’t have to mention that hurting, much less killing a member of the Wizengamot who had been put under the Imperius right in front of them would have led to a terrible reaction from the Wizengamot. If only the man hadn't been wearing the best protections gold could buy! “And when we took up pursuit, we had to deal with another imperiused victim who was attacking the guests and staff - among them a few more members of the Wizengamot, ma’am,” he added, earning him another glare.

“Ma’am, I have to point out that the operation failed because we were not rash enough. If we had simply entered with the half a dozen aurors and hit-wizards who had secured the building, the outcome would have been far different.” Bertha met Bones’s eyes without flinching.

“The building wasn’t secured, Auror Limmington!”

“Sadly, we were not informed of that prior to the attempted arrest.”

Bones sat down in her seat, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “The Minister’s been in here already, asking for the head of the one who’s responsible for this debacle. He’s taking the escape of Umbridge very personally.”

Kenneth tensed up. If the Minister wanted a scapegoat, it’d be him or Bertha. And it had been his plan. His fault.

“We’ll blame the hit-wizards for not securing the building, and for neglecting to inform you of that fact. Our plan was, if not perfect, at least sound.” Bones sighed.

Kenneth was relieved. The hit-wizards had botched their task, after all, and they would not fire anyone in the middle of the war. Demoting them maybe, but given the losses they were still taking, they’d be back in their old rank soon enough - provided they survived.

“What about the pressure from the Wizengamot, ma’am?” Bertha asked.

Bones grinned in an almost feral way. “We’ll be moving on the suspected targets of Umbridge and Caldwell. If they turn out to be werewolves, then we’ll inform the Wizengamot. I am certain the esteemed members will reevaluate their stance on ‘rash and reckless’ arrests in private clubs once they realize that there was a werewolf infecting Wizengamot members who frequent such places.” She folded her hands and leaned back. “Something good may come out of this mess.”

Kenneth chuckled, though Bertha didn’t react other than smiling slightly. Instead she spoke up: “Will we remain in charge of this case?”

Bones shook her head. “Only as far as it concerns Caldwell and Umbridge. Others will handle the affected Wizengamot members.”

Who wouldn’t be Wizengamot members for long, Kenneth thought. He and his partner wouldn’t get off scot-free then - others and not them would make those high-profile arrests. He could live with that - whoever made those arrests would also make some enemies. Thinking of enemies… “Did the Minister claim that his affair with Umbridge was the result of her casting an Imperius?”

Bertha glared at him, and Bones rolled her eyes. “The Minister was quite vocal in his explanation that there was no affair.”

Kenneth swallowed his next remark, and Bones dismissed them.

Once out of their boss’s office, he relaxed. “That wasn’t as bad as I feared when I saw the carnage.”

“We were quite lucky. That was sloppy planning on our side,” Bertha said in a flat voice.

“Couldn’t be helped. Too much secrecy. You can’t plan well enough if your support can’t be informed until the last second, for fear of traitors and leaks.” Kenneth wasn’t happy with the situation, but he didn’t see what could be done about it as long as they were recruiting anyone who could hold a wand for the hit-wizards.

“We should enlist more trustworthy help in the future.”

“And where would we… really? Is that even legal?”

“Yes. Civilians can make arrests by themselves,” Bertha pulled out a scroll with the corresponding law on it.

“If no auror is present.” Kenneth was familiar with that law himself. A kidnapper once had claimed he had mistaken his victim for a thief and arrested her. The man had died in prison when the Dark Lord had stormed Azkaban.

“In maiore minus. If they can make an arrest without an auror, they can help an auror make an arrest as well.”

“I’m not quite certain that this is intended, or even legal, but I’m quite certain that no one cares as long as we get results,” Kenneth stated.

He shared a cynical grin with his partner. He didn’t like her plan, and he was certain she didn’t like it either, but he didn’t see a better way to get trustworthy help than asking certain friends and acquaintances of the Dumbledores. “Veela and rogues replacing hit-wizards. Is that a good or a bad sign?”

“And the head of the Black family,” Bertha added.

“I already mentioned rogues, didn’t I?”

That made her laugh, which improved his own mood greatly.

*****​

“What do you think of that?”

Harry Potter ran a finger over his chin as he looked his girlfriend over. She was wearing what looked like a strapless black cocktail dress that reached halfway down her thighs, under the open robes of a Hogwarts 6th and 7th year student. “Hm. I like it, but it looks a bit…”

“Muggle?” Hermione asked.

“Yes.” He held up his hand before she could say anything. “I know it’s heavily enchanted, but it doesn’t look like it.” It looked rather sexy - for muggle fashion. But for wizards, it was a tad too conservative. Especially for 6th year.

“And I can’t afford to look like I’m wearing a muggle dress.” The young witch sighed.

“We can’t afford it. No matter how much we might like understatement,” Harry corrected her. “It’s not as if I’m that happy with the robe Sirius got for me.” He glanced at the garment in question, hanging next to the armoire currently storing several other examples of wizarding fashion. If only he could simply transfigure his heavily enchanted duelling robes to look like it. But as Hermione had pointed out - one finite and people would gossip about him not having enough gold to buy new robes. So they would have to find a robe they liked, and then have it tailored, and then enchant it.

“Well… it makes you look dashing. A bit like a swashbuckler.” Hermione grinned.

“It looks like it’s painted on my legs, and the top part leaves half my chest down to my navel free.” At least there were no ruffles. Sirius had wanted some, but Harry had put his foot down. On Sirius’s.

“Mh.”

He glared at his girlfriend and flicked his wand. The neckline of her robe - or dress - plunged down to her navel.

“Harry!”

“If I have to expose my navel, then so do you!”

She hadn’t an answer ready for that, and he continued: “Add some moving cutouts, covered with glowing nets in distinct patterns, slit the thing on both sides up to the waist…”

Hermione added his proposed changes. “Hm.” She narrowed her eyes. “Still a bit… plain.”

“If you add more cutouts you might as well wear a bikini.” Harry thought she looked great in a bikini, but he wasn’t certain that was a fitting look for school. Some of the 6th years had gone down that route last year, and it hadn’t looked that well. Although that could have just been his impression - he associated such looks with the beach.

Judging by the glare Hermione sent at him she shared his sentiments, at least in part. “Nothing like that. I’m thinking of enhancing the fabric. Add subtle ornaments to it, which are only visible up close, or from the right angle.”

“Oh, that’s a good idea. Subtle, but not muggle. I think that will look good on mine as well.”

“If we manage to get it to work.”

“We will. We have two weeks left until the year starts.” And that should be more than enough to get their robes done, and enchant them. It would be better to wear transfigured duelling robes - while protection spells were not affected by the amount of fabric one was wearing, the protective qualities of the fabric itself naturally were. But walking around in them would send the wrong message, should someone dispel them

Hermione slipped out of her robe and sat down on their bed. “We’ve got other things to do though.”

“Yes. Combat training, and … your research.” Harry sat down next to her.

“Exactly.”

“How is your project going anyway?” Harry asked while rubbing her back.

“I’m still calibrating my program, sort of. Should be done this week.” She leaned into him and laid her head down on his shoulder.

“And then you can create the ritual?”

“Then I can start on the ritual. It’ll be the most complicated formula I’ve ever tried.” When she sighed, he felt her breath on his cheek.

“How long do you expect it to take?”

Another sigh. Frustrated this time. “I can’t tell.”

He decided to change the topic. “Are you looking forward to see what our friends will get up to in the Year of Discovery?”

“As long as they don’t expect us to take part.” Hermione wrapped one arm around him. “I’m not sharing you.” Her grip tightened.

“Neither am I. Sharing you, that is.”

“Good.” After a pause, she added. “Do you think Ron and Padma will stay together?”

“I’m not sure if they are together anymore. If they are… “ he shook his head, lightly, so he’d not disturb her.

“Poor Ron. He’ll be chased by lots of witches.”

“Why ‘poor Ron’?” Harry didn’t want to say it, but he more than suspected that Ron was looking forward to that. At least if he hadn’t changed his opinion since a few years ago, when he had mentioned his plans. That had been before he had hooked up with Padma though.

“Many of them will be Slytherins.” Hermione giggled, just a bit.

“Oh, right.” Harry chuckled. His best friend could always tell them no, after all.

Neither one mentioned that after the attack on the Hogwarts Express, it wasn’t certain just how many of their fellow students would be returning. They’d find out soon enough.

*****​

“Ron! I need your help!”

Ron Weasley looked up from the latest issue of Quidditch Weekly, and put the scroll he had been taking notes for plays on down. “Yes, Ginny?”

“You have to tell me if some witch is making moves on Neville.” His sister stood in the door to his room, arms crossed under her breasts - when had she gone from the stick figure to curves, he asked himself - and a frown on her face.

“Don’t you trust him?” Neville was about the last wizard Ron would expect to cheat on his girlfriend.

“I trust him. I don’t trust those witches!” Ginny spat out.

“You’re not planning to… do something to them?” His sister had a nasty temper, which had not improved after her first year.

Ginny didn’t answer, which was answer enough.

“Ginny… “ He sighed. And of course, just when he was the eldest Weasley at Hogwarts, and the one his parents would hold responsible. “You can’t just start hexing witches - or wizards - for asking Neville out. It’s his 6th year, people are expected to ask.”

“What if some Slytherin hits on Padma?” Ginny shot back.

Ron winced. “I don’t even know if Padma will return to Hogwarts, or stay in India, much less if we’re still a couple. She had some trouble trusting me, even before the attack.”

Ginny opened her mouth, then closed it. “I’m not like that!”

He stood up and walked over to his sister, grabbing her shoulders. “Then don’t act like that. Trust Neville.”

Ginny looked away. In a small voice, she asked: “And… what if he betrays that trust?”

“Then you can hex him and whoever is involved,” Ron stated. “And I’ll help you.” Year of Discovery, or not - all his brothers had agreed on one thing after Ron’s second year: Anyone who’d hurt their sister would pay.

Ginny slowly nodded. “Thank you.” She turned to leave, but he held her back.

“Tell you what, let’s go play some Quidditch. You, me, and the Quaffle.”

“If you get me on the team! As a starter, not as reserve.”

“If you’re good enough, you’ll be on the team,” Ron answered. She was good enough, in his educated opinion, but he’d prefer it if she was a bit better still - just to make it clear that there was no nepotism.

“I’ll show you!”

And he’d get better as well. He’d have to - the last keeper-captain had been Oliver Wood, who was now playing professionally. Ron knew he wasn’t the keeper Oliver had been, but he’d try his best, and hope his plays would make up the difference.

Slytherin wouldn’t win the cup on his watch.

*****​

The Dark Lord Voldemort put down the Daily Prophet, then stood up and started to pace. How had this happened? How had they found out? He barely noticed Bellatrix summoning the newspaper, then cursing it after reading. Two unidentified witches… he knew them of course. What had those two whores done, fighting aurors? Just because the Ministry had tried to arrest them didn’t mean they knew about his scheme, but it was more than likely. He cursed. All that work and preparation, wasted!

“My lord?”

“Go to those two whores, and bring them to me, Bella! Alive, but I don’t care if they are in pain.

“At once, my lord! Thank you!” Her eyes lit up, and she hurriedly dressed before apparating away.

A few minutes later she returned, alone, and fell to her knees.

He spoke before she could berate herself for failing him: “So, they have fled, deducing correctly that I’ll hold them responsible for this failure.”

“Yes, my lord. The flat was empty and their possessions were gone as well.”

He hadn’t expected anything else. After such a blunder, they’d run. It confirmed their guilt, at least. Sitting down, he pondered how to react. He needed gold, but the wizards he had managed to blackmail would know that the Ministry was coming for them. They’d hurry, and would not be receptive to further pressure since the secret he had been holding over their heads was now common knowledge.

And soon they’d be beyond his reach. He had to act quickly, if he wanted to secure some of their fortune for his goals. And he needed more gold, to settle the affair with the dementors. And more werewolves, as sacrifices. And even if they were too late, this scandal would sow distrust in the ranks of his enemies and force them to expend a lot of resources to check for werewolves. Which would drive more werewolves to his side once the Ministry and the public lashed out against them as expected.

“Bella, we’ll visit some werewolves.”

Her eyes lit up. Yes, Master!”


Chapter 50: The Year of Discovery

 

Chapter 50: The Year of Discovery

Sirius Black adjusted the golden goggles on his face. They looked gaudy, far more fitting for one over- or underdressed witch than himself, but they allowed him to see at night as if it was the full moon. They were heavy though, and pulling tight turns on his broom was sure to leave an impression on his face - literally. And he still couldn’t see the damn Death Eater hiding somewhere in the forest below him.

He, his girlfriends, Remus and Fleur and Bill had been alerted an hour ago that Death Eaters were attacking several locations all over Britain. It hadn’t taken them long to realise that it was a diversion - when they arrived at the Greentree Manor, the scum had already fled. Apparently, the Dark Lord’s wands had cast the anti-apparition and portkey jinxes so they didn’t cover much beyond the manor itself. If they had wanted to actually attack the manor, they’d have covered far more of the surrounding area, to make it harder to escape.

They had been trying to catch Death Eaters for an hour since, without success, until this group had lingered too long, and Sirius’s Sexy Strike Squad had been able to cover the area with anti-apparition jinxes of their own before attacking from the sky.

Half of the Death Eaters had been killed in the opening barrage of fireballs from the five veela. Two of the three survivors, who must have had layered fire protection spells on their robes, had fallen to Remus’s and Bill’s curses, but one had escaped into the woods. He hadn’t gone far enough to apparate away though, and Sirius’s group had covered the entire forest with more anti-apparition jinxes just in time. The Death Eater couldn’t run - but he could, and did hide. And he had done that for so long, Sirius was seriously considering to simply have the veela burn the entire forest down. It wouldn’t drive the Death Eater out - between his robe’s protections, a Bubblehead Charm and the Flame-Freezing Charm, a forest fire wouldn’t harm that wizard - but they would be able to spot him in the ashes afterwards. But the Greentrees would be very angry with him - they did claim to have Dryad blood in their line, after all, and were famous for their herbology talents.

“Got him!”

To his right Remus suddenly dove down. His friend had keen eyes, one of the few good effects of his curse. Sirius turned his broom towards the werewolf, but didn’t dive himself. He might have to trade altitude for speed if there were Death Eaters on brooms around. His girlfriends did the same, he noticed, two of them gliding closer while the others kept their positions.

Then Remus’s spell lit up a patch of the forest, and Sirius could see a figure running between the trees, towards a denser patch of the woods. Dark robes and a white mask - a Death Eater. The two veela who had flown closer were already casting curses at the wizard, so Sirius held back, and kept an eye on the sky. Even though he really wanted to curse that scumbag himself, he had to keep his friends safe.

A scream from below told him someone’s curse had found its mark. Hopefully it hadn’t been a lethal one - a prisoner would be good to have. Even if every Death Eater that murderer knew had already been killed, they’d get the location of their safe house, forcing the Dark Lord to find a new one.

He glanced down. The body wasn’t moving anymore, and Remus, who had landed, looked up and shook his head. Dead Death Eater then.

Well, safe houses were cheap, it wouldn’t have hurt the Dark Lord much anyway.

*****​

The Dark Lord Voldemort, disillusioned and floating high up in the night sky, was studying the activities around Ethan Hathaway’s mansion from about a mile away. The aurors and hit-wizards were close to breaking the wards on the mansion, after hours of working on them. The Ministry had moved quickly. Fickleton had been arrested shortly after Umbridge and Caldwell had escaped, as had been Rees ap Evan, but Hathaway had apparently been at home, entertaining guests, last night, according to Voldemort’s spies in the Ministry, and had holed up at once.

The Dark Lord pondered the situation. If he attacked the aurors now, with a third of them tied up in breaking the wards, he’d easily deal with them. The backlash from the wards would wipe out half of them. But the wards would still be holding, if weakened, and breaking them would give the Ministry enough time to send in reinforcements, even with the distractions he had ordered, and then Voldemort would be caught breaking down the wards.

No, it was better to let them break the wards, and then strike. Make Hathaway feel exposed and vulnerable, before Voldemort would demonstrate his own power. He flew down to the ground and ended his spell, landing next to his Bella, hidden behind a tree. “Get ready. We strike as soon as the wards go down.”

“Yes, Master!” Her face lit up with an eager smile and she licked her lips in anticipation.

“Kill them quickly, we can’t waste much time.” The dark witch had a tendency to play with her opponents, a habit he had been trying to ween her off for some time now. But old habits were hard to change, and having spent a decade in Azkaban hadn’t helped either.

“Yes, Master,” she answered, “I will not let you down!”

“I know.” She was his most loyal wand. She’d die for him, with a smile on her face, if he but asked.

He felt the tension in the air rise. The wards would crack soon. “Let’s go.”

He disillusioned himself again and flew off. His detection spells showed him the wards covering the mansion. Someone without experience in curse-breaking would assume the wards had been reduced to a shadow of their former strength. But that was not correct. The wards’ strength had been dispersed so their anchors could be attacked. He could see the power held at bay by the aurors’ curse-breakers, ready to rush back and crush the aurors.

And he could see the ties to the wardstone getting cut one after the other while he flew over the curse-breakers. Then the last tie was cut, and the wards’ energy dispersed in an impressive display.

When the half-dozen wizards and witches who had been taking down the wards cheered, he struck.

“Bombarda Maxima!”

The earth erupted in the middle of the curse-breaking team, throwing them around like rag dolls. He cast another Blasting Curse before they could recover, tearing four of them apart, their robes’ enchantments crafted to repel wards, not spells. The two left were battered and hurt.

The half a dozen hit-wizards and aurors who had the mansion surrounded on brooms started towards them. The inexperienced probably thought the wards had not been taken down properly. The experienced ones would know better, but they would still come - they wouldn’t leave those on the ground, those wounded, at the mercy of an ambusher.

The first two reached the curse-breakers and landed. Two others took up station above them, and the remaining pair held their positions, to prevent Hathaway from escaping in the confusion. Voldemort had expected that and flew behind the closest pair. His first Killing Curse struck one before he knew what had happened, and his next killed the other right when he was about to react.

Screams from the ground told him Bellatrix had struck as well.

“They’re invisible! Homenum Revelio!”

The Dark Lord singled that auror out at once and dove at him, his wand spitting curses. The auror - an older witch - dodged them all, not even straining her shield. Quite skilled and experienced indeed. And yet, when he reached the area she had covered with the Human-presence-revealing Spell, and saw him flying without a broom, she froze for an instant. “It’s the Dark Lord!” she screamed, right before his curses shattered her shield and ripped through her robe. The witch was thrown from her broom, dead before she hit the ground.

Her scream, meant to warn her allies, caused them to panic instead. Her partner fled as fast as his broom could go. Laughter from below him showed Bella taking advantage of the panic, and striking more aurors and hit-wizards down. Judging by the lack of long screams though she was following his orders to the letter, and didn’t use the Torture Curse.

A minute later, all the Ministry forces were dead or had fled. They’d be screaming for help - but his wands were out tonight, striking at several places in order to force the DMLE to split its forces. It’d take them a while to gather enough people to bother him and Bellatrix. Long enough to do what he had come for.

He flew towards the now open mansion, blasting apart a few animated statues that tried to attack him when he landed, and smashed the doors open with a Banishing Charm. Before he stepped into the splendid entrance hall, he ordered Bella to look out for auror reinforcements.

An Amplifying Charm later, his voice filled the whole house: “Hathaway! Show yourself if you want to live!” He had repeated it twice and was considering another demonstration of his power, when suddenly a concealed door opened under the stairs leading up to the first floor, and the wizard he was seeking stepped out.

“The Dark Lord Voldemort, I presume,” Hathaway said, though under his bravado, Voldemort could sense fear - and hatred. As expected.

“Indeed. The Ministry is aware of your curse. By resisting their aurors, you’ll be branded a criminal. If you join me, you’ll be restored to your position and power, after my victory.” Voldemort smiled at the man. There was no need to go to great lengths - Hathaway knew what his life would be like as a werewolf, and the Dark Lord knew from long experience that the higher a wizard stood in society, the more he was willing to do to avoid falling. But they couldn’t wait too long for the wizard to make up his mind. “You don’t have much time left though - the aurors will return in force, and then it’ll be too late to flee. So, what will it be? Prison and shame?”

The man ground his teeth, almost snarling. A fitting reaction for a werewolf, Voldemort thought. He held Hathaway’s eyes until the man cursed under his breath and looked away. “Alright.”

“I doubt you will need to grab anything but what you already carry on you. Follow me!” Voldemort turned to the side, to keep an eye on the door, ignoring how the man jerked. Of course Hathaway would have used the the siege of his mansion to prepare to flee with as much of his fortune as he could carry, no matter how small a chance he had. But if the fool thought Voldemort had spied on him, so much the better - he’d be far less likely to try to betray the Dark Lord before his usefulness would end.

It wasn’t as if werewolves were fit for the society Voldemort would be building after his victory.

Once more grinding his teeth, Hathaway passed Voldemort and left his mansion. The Dark Lord followed. Outside, his Bella waited, looking the werewolf over and pursing her lips before smiling at Voldemort.

“We’ll have to move away from the mansion until we can apparate. Bellatrix will take you with her,” Voldemort stated while he started to walk. It would take longer to dispel the anti-apparition jinxes, since he had left them up to keep Hathaway from escaping him.

Before they reached the edge of the jinxes though he saw movement in the woods in front of him. “Aurors.” And since he had been recognized by those who had fled, the Ministry wouldn’t have sent more of their wands back if they didn’t think they could face him. Given that his followers should still be keeping most of the aurors busy, that left only one possibility.

“Dumbledore.”

For a second he felt fear. Dumbledore had beaten Grindelwald, who had brought most of Magical Europe to its knees. The old wizard had decades of experience on him, and had to know spells Voldemort was not aware of.

And yet, he thought, with growing hatred and eagerness, Dumbledore didn’t know as much about the Dark Arts as he did. Voldemort had decades of experience studying the most forbidden, most powerful spells wizardkind had ever dared to research. And Dumbledore had spent most of the last decades as a professor and politician, not on the battlefield. The Dark Lord could kill him.

And even if he failed, he would return. He was immortal. Ten, twenty years from now, Dumbledore might be weakened with age, or dead.

“Master!”

Bella’s voice interrupted his thoughts. There were bound to be a dozen or two aurors, at least. If he confronted Dumbledore they would overwhelm Bella and Hathaway, and then attack him. And even if he couldn’t die, he’d lose all he had built up and prepared since his return. He’d have to start anew, and very likely without his trusted followers.

No, he couldn’t confront Dumbledore here, or now.

“Move!” he shouted, and flew up, disillusioning himself again before sending Fiendfyre into the woods around the mansion - and in front of Bellatrix and Hathaway. Screams from below told him the aurors there would be too busy dodging the cursed fire to attack Bellatrix.

He flew high above the building, casting more Fiendfyre into the forest hiding the aurors and his worst enemy, distracting them until Bellatrix had apparated away with the werewolf. Then he too apparated away. He had what he had come for, and the number of the Ministry’s more competent aurors had been further reduced. Not a bad result for salvaging a failed plot.

*****​

Kenneth Fenbrick threw up ash with each step he took. Even in the pale light of the rising sun, he could see the specks float in the wind. If not for the charms on his robe, he’d be covered with soot. And if he hadn’t cast a Bubblehead Charm, he’d be coughing and wheezing in the dust. After hours of fighting against cursed fire, the auror felt dead tired, but they had finally managed to put out the last unnatural blaze, and without the obliviators having to work too hard to keep the muggle fire brigade away. He glanced at his partner, Bertha Limmington. The witch was sitting on the charred remains of a tree trunk, staring at the smoking wasteland left of the forest around Hathaway’s mansion.

Someone who didn’t know her as well as Kenneth did would think she was studying the area, but he could see past the mask she had put on. The witch was as exhausted as he felt. He walked over and sat down next to her.

“What a cursed mess!” he said, sighing.

Bertha nodded.

“How many did we lose?” He didn’t want to know, but had to.

“A dozen total. Most from the original team, but Jefferson and Mannings were caught in the fiendfyre the Dark Lord threw down.”

Kenneth muttered a curse under his breath. Those two aurors had been off-duty, technically, but had volunteered just like Bertha and himself had, when the news of the Dark Lord’s attack had come in at the Ministry. Not close friends, but… in this war, you couldn’t help but get to know the other veterans better. And miss them when they died.

“It could have been worse,” Bertha said.

“Of course. But with Dumbledore - the Headmaster, not his brother, I mean - with us, I hoped…” He didn’t finish his sentence. He didn’t have to. Bertha understood.

“The Dark Lord fled from Dumbledore. That will raise morale, at least,” his partner said.

Kenneth scoffed, his breath sending flakes of ash that had been drifting by spiraling through the air. “And yet the Dark Lord managed to escape with Hathaway. That will raise the morale of the Death Eaters.”

“Maybe. But I think the gold they took with them will be more of a concern than the enemy’s morale.” When he looked at her, she frowned slightly, and continued. “Hathaway must have taken most of his fortune with him. They didn’t find any gold in his mansion. The house elf isn’t talking either.”

“What about his vault?” Kenneth knew most people, rich or poor, didn’t keep too much gold at home.

“I doubt he kept a lot of gold there, not after he was cursed.”

He nodded. Bertha was right - as usual. If Hathaway had been revealed as a werewolf, his successor as head of the family would cut him off from the family fortune at once. So, the wily politician would have been prepared for that. “Joy. More mercenaries getting hired by the Dark Lord.”

“And more people bribed,” Bertha added.

“Yes. At least we arrested the two other werewolves before he could save them.” Two out of three was not bad. It could have been worse indeed.

The witch nodded tiredly. She was a perfectionist, Kenneth knew. Still, they had done what they could. If Dumbledore hadn’t managed to win the day, who could have done it? He stood up and offered her his hand. “Let’s get home before you fall asleep in the ash.”

She looked at him with an unreadable expression in her eyes. Usually, he’d have joked about not wanting to do the reports himself, but somehow, he couldn’t. He simply waited with his hand reaching out to her.

After a moment, she took it and rose from the log. Her robes shed the ash easily, and a small breeze blew them away. He wanted to keep holding her hand, pull her closer, and … Merlin, it would be easy if she was another witch and not his partner. He knew how to make a good first impression, how to flirt, how to make a woman feel loved. Despite Bertha’s sometimes teasing comments, he was popular with the witches.

But Bertha was different. She was his partner. She knew him, at his worst and his best. They trusted each other with their lives each day. And he knew her, far better than any of his past girlfriends. She wasn’t just another witch to woo. He sighed as they went over to Mallory, the auror in charge of this case, to inform her they’d leave.

He loved her, but he had no idea how to tell her without endangering their friendship. If this was happening to someone else, he would have found it funny. It wasn’t funny anymore if it happened to himself.

*****​

Sirius Black was sitting in the bath in No 12, Grimmauld Place, trying not to fall asleep. It had been a long night. The damned Death Eaters had been striking at mansions and other locations all over Britain, running the aurors and the Order ragged. One house in Hogsmeade had been destroyed, apparently the wards had been sabotaged in advance, so not every attack had been a diversion. And of course there had been the Dark Lord himself, at the Hathaway Mansion.

Sirius shifted his weight a bit, and winced. Even with a cushioning charm, flying on a broom for hours was not too comfortable. Or, a traitorous part of his mind whispered, he was getting old. He ignored the voice and pointed his wand at a flask at the other end of the bathtub, tipping it over and letting more of the soothing concoction drip into the water, sighing with relief when the pain disappeared.

He could simply stay in here. Sticking Charm to his head, he wouldn’t drown. The water would stay warm… The door opening interrupted his plans. Valérie was there, clad in that flimsy house robe. He smiled and waved at the water. “Join me?”

“I might have strained the muscles in my back a bit.” She smiled and stepped closer. With a gesture of her wand, her robe fell to floor.

Sirius took a deep breath - even after all their time together, seeing her like this still awed him.

*****​

‘Werewolves among us! Hidden in the Wizengamot!’

The Daily Prophet’s headline was sure to catch an audience. The news that three Wizengamot members had been revealed as werewolves had driven the articles about the attacks last night off the front page. Albus Dumbledore did not think this was a good thing. Not at all. He skimmed over the article. ‘Beasts infiltrating society’, ‘Cabal of dark creatures’, ‘personally directed by the Dark Lord himself’. Speculation about how many werewolves had been among those who had attacked the Hogwarts Express. And loud, almost hysterical demands of ferreting out each and every last werewolf in Britain.

The article didn’t demand that all werewolves should be killed. Others would though, and soon. Especially in the Wizengamot. Albus would oppose it, of course, but in the end, there’d be a ‘compromise’, further worsening the fates of the werewolves. Probably forcing all of them into special holding facilities - such had been proposed in the past.

It didn’t take a genius to imagine how the werewolves would react to that. Some would flee the country, head to Scandinavia, despite the harsh life and foreign culture awaiting them there. But many would feel so hurt and angered, they’d join the Dark Lord. Something Tom certainly had taken into account already.

Albus had a more urgent problem though - he had to ensure that Remus would not be caught in the upcoming hunt for werewolves. Fortunately, he could easily and correctly claim that he had personally checked the staff and students at Hogwarts. But Remus’s regular absences during the full moon were a problem - even a halfway competent auror would be suspicious of that. He had a way around that, though. He just needed to talk to Minerva.

A flick of his wand sent a Patronus to his deputy. While he waited, he let his mind wander back to last night. He had met Tom face to face, or close to, for the first time in decades. And Tom had retreated. It had been the smart course of action of the Dark Lord - he had Ethan with him already, and there had been no need to fight Albus.

And yet… if the Dark Lord had thought he could beat Albus, he certainly would have given battle. Had he fled because he thought he was currently winning this struggle, or because he knew about Miss Granger’s plan, or suspected something like it? Or had he fled because he was afraid of facing the Headmaster?

Minerva’s arrival interrupted his thoughts.

“Albus? You said you needed me?” His old friend was breathing a bit heavily - she probably had, while not quite run, walked quickly.

“Indeed, Minerva. Please have a seat.” He conjured her favorite chair for her. “It’s not quite as urgent as I may have made it appear by using a Patronus,” - he smiled gently at her expression - “but we do have a problem I need your help with.” He gestured at the Daily Prophet on his desk.

“Ah.” His Deputy-Headmistress nodded, then narrowed her eyes. “You didn’t accept a werewolf as a student without telling me?” She asked,’again’ left unsaid, but clearly implied. Minerva’s view of werewolves wasn’t quite as enlightened as Albus’s own, sadly. Not as bad, of course, as the general public’s - no one as smart as her could work with Remus for years and not rethink some of their prejudices.

He shook his head. “No, of course not.” He had had a young witch in mind, but the child had disappeared with her family last year. He hoped they were now in Scandinavia. “But I need your help with Remus.”

He started to explain his plan. She didn’t like it, but he had expected that. She’d agree to it, though, he knew.

*****​

“Typical!”

Hermione Granger slapped the Daily Prophet down on the table in the kitchen in No 12, Grimmauld Place so hard, the werewolf in the picture on the front page seemed stunned for a bit. Grinding her teeth, she grabbed her floating cup of tea. “They use every excuse to show their prejudice!”

“They’re scared,” Bill Weasley commented. She glared at him, but he didn’t seem to be impressed.

“That’s no excuse! They are all but calling for hunting all werewolves down, no matter if they are innocent, or not!” Hermione scoffed.

“It’s an explanation. People who are afraid make mistakes,” Bill shrugged.

“That will be a small consolation for the innocents caught up in this,” Hermione huffed. “They didn’t ask to be cursed. First they get discriminated against, and now they get punished for the actions of others.”

“There won’t be that many innocent werewolves around. Many of them have either left the country, or have joined the Dark Lord.” Bill held up his hands. “Just saying how it is. Werewolves might not get treated that fairly in Britain, but there are reasons to distrust them.”

“It’s wrong. And it’ll drive more of them into the Dark Lord’s ranks.” Hermione grabbed a scone and bit into it.

Harry patted her arm. “It’s a vicious cycle. Werewolves are discriminated against, so some of them are radicalized and join the Dark Lord, which damages the reputation of all werewolves, making more people treat them badly, creating more recruits for the Dark Lord.”

Sirius nodded, as did his girlfriends. Of course, Hermione hadn’t expected anything else from Remus’s best friend.

Bill looked puzzled though. “I’ll say, this must be the most werewolf friendly household in Britain. Especially with Remus’s family having been slaughtered ...” he trailed off, and Hermione could almost see when the knut dropped. “Oh.”

Maybe now he’d reconsider his views on werewolves, Hermione thought.

*****​

Paige Caldwell wanted to hit something, or somebody. She and the witch had been hiding for two days in a small wizard tent now, and Paige wasn’t taking well to spending so long in a small enclosed space. Or with Umbridge. She wanted to move around, run around, do something, anything other than hide like a scared animal. Even if she was scared.

“We need to leave the country.”

Paige looked up and growled at the witch standing in the door to her room. “Fleeing?” Running from those cowards?

“The Ministry and the Dark Lord are hunting us. There’s no place left for us in Britain. They already arrested Fickleton and Rees ap Evan, and the Dark Lord himself took Hathaway. If we stay we’ll die. Tortured to death by the Dark Lord, or executed by the Ministry.”

“I’d be executed, you’d get life in Azkaban,” Paige answered. Another sign of just how badly werewolves were treated in Britain. You could use Unforgivables as much as you wanted, and wouldn’t be executed, but bite one stupid wizard under the full moon, and you got killed.

“I helped you bite others. I’ll be executed as well if we’re caught.” Umbridge stepped inside. Paige growled louder. This was her space. Her lair. The other witch stopped. “What else do you want to do? Charge the next auror and die? Keep hiding until they track us down?”

Paige growled again. “And where would I go? The entire continent hates werewolves.”

“There’s Scandinavia.”

The werewolf scoffed at that. “You think that’s a werewolf haven? The berserkers?”

For the first time Umbridge looked less than sure of herself. Paige went on. “I’ve met a berserker. They’re crazy. And they live more like muggles than like wizards. They like being wolves, and they are as bloodthirsty as Greyback in a fight, and almost as ready to start one as he is.”

“Damn.” The other witch leaned against the wall. “What about Siberia?”

“I’ve only heard rumors about it.” And she hadn’t liked those rumors. Why couldn’t there be a werewolf-friendly country where the inhabitants liked civilisation?

“At least it’d be far away from Britain. And if it’s not good, one could travel to America from there.”

Paige narrowed her eyes. “Why do you care about how werewolf friendly a country is, anyway? You can live in any country that doesn’t like Britain much, and as long as I can hide my curse, so can I.”.

Umbridge nodded, but didn’t answer. Instead she said: “We need to leave Britain first, then we can decide where to go.”

“If not for the life debt, you’d have already ditched me, right?” Probably literally.

“Of course.” The witch sneered at her.

Paige snarled at her, and wished she could order her around. Life debts weren’t exactly as good as she had thought.

*****​

Kenneth Fenbrick looked up at the moon in the sky, and shook his head in disgust. “Who came up with the idea of hunting werewolves during the full moon? In a damn forest to boot?”

His partner, Bertha Limmington, had an answer, of course: “Amber Cottingbell remarked in the last session of the Wizengamot that it would be easiest to find werewolves during the one night they wouldn’t look like humans. Apparently, Madam Bones agreed.”

“You mean it’s cheaper than spending gold to test suspects. I’m so glad to know we’re risking our lives for the Wizengamot’s purse.” Kenneth snorted. “Did you notice that when a bill is proposed to increase our budget, it takes them months if not years to pass it, but a bill to hunt down werewolves passes in one session?”

“The Wizengamot obviously thinks those are the correct priorities.”

Kenneth scoffed. “Of course they would.” He looked around. “And we’re here because a month ago, a muggle newspaper reported the sighting of a wolf in this forest.”

“Exactly,” Bertha answered in a bland voice. Kenneth was certain though that if had been looking at her, instead of looking out for werewolves, she’d have been grinning just a little bit.

“Well, at least we can claim we’re a couple taking a romantic moonshine walk, should muggles see us.” When Bertha didn’t say anything in response, he turned his head towards her, and caught her smiling while still looking at the bushes on her side. He licked his lips. Maybe he should… The sudden flash of red light ahead of them made him drop his plans. “Stunner?”

“Or a Piercing Curse. Or a muggle flashlight.” Bertha answered. She was moving forward too though, wand out.

Another flash of light was followed by a guttural scream. Not a muggle light then. And probably not a human either. They turned a slight corner, past a hedge, and stopped. In front of them was a stunned werewolf! And behind it stood a wizard with his wand pointed at them.

“Aurors! Lower your wand!” Both Kenneth and Bertha had their wands aimed at the unknown wizard.

The man did as he was told, and Kenneth relaxed slightly. “I’m Auror Fenbrick, this is Auror Limmington. Who’re you?”

The man took a step forward, into the moonlight.

“Professor Lupin!” Bertha said, and Kenneth raised his eyebrows.

“What are you doing here, sir?” Kenneth couldn’t think of a good reason to spend for a teacher to be there, at this time of the night.

“I was hunting. But I think I have been fooled,” the man explained.

“Fooled?”

Lupin nodded at the werewolf on the ground. “I have reasons to believe this is not a real werewolf, but a transfigured animal.”

Bertha frowned. “That would take a very experienced wizard.” She sounded as sceptical as Kenneth felt. Who had ever heard of transfigured werewolves?

Lupin glared at them and pointed his wand at the werewolf.

“Finite!”

And in front of Kenneth’s eyes, the werewolf changed into a German shepherd. Lupin smiled with a satisfied expression. “I thought something felt off. It wasn’t quite behaving like a werewolf.”

“You sound like an expert, sir.” Bertha didn’t quite turn it into a question.

“I think I know more about werewolves than most in Britain. My family was slaughtered by them when I was a child.”

Under the cold gaze of the man, even the usually unflappable Bertha seemed to cringe. Kenneth could imagine that the lessons with this professor were as disciplined and calm as those of McGonagall.

He cleared his throat. “So, this was a hoax?”

“Maybe.” The man shrugged. “It takes a very experienced wizard to do this.”

“I kind of doubt that McGonagall or Dumbledore would fake a werewolf sighting these days,” Kenneth said.

Lupin chuckled. “Well, I didn’t catch the werewolf I hunted. And I think whoever did plan this is not around here anymore. Do you need a statement from me?”

Kenneth looked at his partner, Bertha shook her head. “If that changes we’ll contact you.”

“Good. Good evening.” The man nodded at them, then apparated away.

“Wow. I didn’t think those rumors are true.” Kenneth shook his head. “He really is hunting werewolves during the full moon.”

“That’s not exactly legal,” Bertha remarked.

“As long as he ‘simply defends himself’, it is,” Kenneth responded. “Not that many in the Wizengamot would even think of convicting him now, if it was illegal.”

Bertha frowned at that, and without thinking, Kenneth reached out and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. She didn’t pull away.

After a bit, Kenneth prodded the stunned animal in front of them with his foot. “So… what do we do with the dog? Do we need to call in an Obliviator to wipe his memory when he wakes up?”

Both of them laughed loudly at that joke.

*****​

Thank you again for doing this, Minerva,” Albus Dumbledore smiled and ignored the glare she sent him in return.

“I’m a professor, not an actress, Albus!”

He kept smiling even while Fawkes ducked his head under his wing, and floated a bottle of Ogden’s Old Firewhisky over to his friend. Minerva kept frowning until another bottle joined the first. “I think you’ve proven that you have a talent for it though.”

“Feh.”

“Now, now, Minerva. You just saved our Defense against the Dark Arts professor from being unjustly incarcerated.” Indeed, the old rumor that Remus was always away during the full moon because he was hunting the werewolves that had killed his family had come in handily. Who would suspect that such a driven man was a werewolf himself? It wasn’t a perfect solution, of course - everyone knew that hunting werewolves under the full moon was dangerous. A hunter could easily become the hunted - and end up cursed himself. But such suspicions Albus was confident he could counter easily.

“Anyone else could have done that.”

“No one but you could have managed the transfiguration needed.” Albus nodded at her.

“Don’t give me that look. You could have done it yourself. You taught me that spell, decades ago.”

Albus sighed. “Sadly, if I couldn’t do it myself. If there had been an emergency, I would have had to leave abruptly, causing a lot of problems for young Remus with the aurors.” That was true. But having Minerva use the Polyjuice also implicated her, which would make her keep a closer eye on rumors about Remus. Otherwise she might let her prejudices, slight as they were, influence her.

Minerva shook her head, but didn’t contradict him. “I hope you’re satisfied now. Deceiving the law… if my students knew that!”

“I’m certain the Weasley twins be shocked .”

That earned him a chuckle. “They would, wouldn’t they?” She stood up. “I’ll be heading to bed now. I’ve got a lot of work to do still in the three days until the children arrive.”

Albus kept smiling until Minerva had left, then he grew serious again, and pulled a vial out of his pocket that contained Harry’s most recent memory of Voldemort.

Duty called.

*****​

Harry Potter stepped out of the floo onto Platform 9 ¾ at King’s Cross Station, with Hermione right behind him. Sirius was already there, with Valérie and Chantal, acting as if they expected a dozen Death Eaters to jump out from behind a pillar any second. They weren’t the only ones - all around them were wizards and witches acting in a similar manner. No one had forgotten the attack on the train this summer. Harry saw more than one student who was pale and obviously afraid - and not just the younger ones. Things had changed.

“Mister Potter!”

And some things - or people - never seemed to change, Harry thought when he saw Greengrass walking towards him, a wide smile on her face. The blonde Slytherin was wearing what looked like green silk scarves strategically wrapped around her curves. Almost transparent scarves that left little to the imagination. Davis was trailing behind her friend with an amused grin, wearing a slightly more modest robe in a similar style.

“Good morning, Miss Greengrass, Miss Davis.” He nodded politely at them. Hermione was a step behind him, rigid now, he knew. And Sirius was grinning like a loon.

“Good morning, Mister Black, Miss d’Aigle.” The Slytherin nodded at Harry’s godfather and probably future aunt before turning back to him. “Oh, you look even more handsome in those robes. Doesn’t he, Tracey?”

The brunette Slytherin nodded. “He does indeed. You too, Miss Granger.”

“You flatter me,” Harry said, and as manners dictated, added: “Though I’m certain next to you two, I appear rather plain.”

“I don’t think so!” Greengrass chirped, “Let’s see!” With that she stepped up to him and turned to face her friend at his side. “How does it look, Tracey? Good?”

“Mh.” The brunette witch nodded with a smirk.

“Too bad you’re not in Slytherin, or the colors would match.” Greengrass nodded emphatically at her own words. Harry thought he heard Hermione’s teeth being ground behind him.

“I hate to cut this short, but I need to board the train, or my dear security detail will drag me off,” Harry lied - probably; Sirius took his security seriously - and nodded at them. “Ladies.”

“Oh we can share a compartment!” Greengrass spoke up.

“We usually have a full compartment,” Hermione cut in. She sounded polite, but Harry was certain she was close to hexing the blonde.

“That shouldn’t be a problem - we’re rather slender, so we can fit in.” As if to emphasize her claim, Greengrass turned a bit, brushing against Harry’s side.

Surprisingly, the situation was defused by the arrival of yet another Slytherin ‘odd couple’, Parkinson and Goyle. As soon as Greengrass spotted the other witch, she was off to greet her as if they hadn’t seen each other for years.

“Let’s get a compartment for us and our friends,” Hermione whispered behind him.

“Yes,” he whispered back. The sooner they were in private again, and could drop the patron and retainer act, the better.

*****​

Hermione Granger sighed with relief when she closed the door to their compartment, hit it with a spell to seal it and a privacy spell, before sitting down in Harry’s lap. “I almost hexed that twit.” She wasn’t certain if she was joking or not. To see Greengrass acting so… she shook her head.

“Parkinson sacrificed herself for us,” Harry said, chuckling at the irony.

“Not exactly voluntarily, judging by her expression,” Hermione added. Not that she cared much about Parkinson. The witch should know how to handle Greengrass, having spent five years in the same dorm as her. She leaned her head on Harry’s shoulder and simply enjoyed the closeness. “You know, I didn’t think that the main problem would be the flirting. You can turn down proposals without being rude, but rebuffing flirting? That’s going to be difficult.”

“Oh, yes,” her boyfriend agreed while Crookshanks was trying to take over the entire bench across from them. The two spent the next few minutes kissing, and Hermione tried to forget about the earlier scene.

All too soon her spell signaled someone standing before the door. Sighing, she moved from Harry’s lap to the bench next to him and opened the door with a flick of her wand. Luna and Aicha entered with a cheerful ‘Hello’. Right afterwards though, the blonde Ravenclaw took a look at Harry and Hermione and started to pout.

“Hello you two… what’s wrong?” Hermione asked as soon as the door had closed.

“Hmph!” Luna crossed her arms in front of her.

Aicha giggled. “Luna’s jealous.”

“Huh?” Hermione glanced at Harry, who looked as lost as she felt. Did Luna…?

“I’m not jealous, I’m disappointed! I thought you’d wear some conservative muggle-style robe! I wouldn’t feel too bad next to that. Instead you wear… that!” she gestured at their robes. “It’s unfair!”

Hermione smiled, relieved. “You’ll be a 6th year next year.”

“That’s one more year of wearing the heavy robes!”

“You didn’t complain about it last year,” Harry remarked.

“Well, all my friends were wearing the same heavy robes. So, I was just showing some solidarity while we are almost suffocated wearing such heavy cloth.”

Harry cleared his throat. “So, how was your expedition to Sweden?”

Luna changed moods at once, beaming at them. “Oh, it was great! We found tracks we couldn’t identify, so they have to be Snorkack tracks! You can read all about it in the next issue!”

Hermione wasn’t quite certain that this was a valid conclusion, but didn’t mention it. She had started to suspect that for the Lovegoods, the chasing of legendary creatures was as important, if not more so, as the actual discovery. Life was a journey, not a destination, according to some. It would explain why Luna and her father were always so cheerful despite not having found Snorkacks yet.

She checked her watch. Still 20 minutes until the departure of the train, so 15 minutes until the Weasleys would arrive.

*****​

Ron Weasley had expected that without the twins, whose antics had always made the family late on September 1st, he’d arrive early at King’s Cross. Show off his Quidditch Team Captain badge. Apparently, it hadn’t been the twins’ fault, but some sort of family curse. Despite him and Ginny having packed their trunks last evening, they still had to rush to be on time. Unless of course the twins had pranked them. And of course, as soon as they had stepped out of the floo, Ginny had made a beeline for Neville, who could have worn a slightly less revealing robe too, in Ron’s opinion. Like his own, a short tunic that left his arms bare under the light robe, with tight pants and boots. Both top and pants were made from silk though, and could slowly change colors and patterns.

Then he saw Lavender in the crowd, wearing the kind of robe he had expected: Very tiny, very thin, very tight. But she was also wearing a prefect’s badge, he realized. Which meant that Parvati hadn’t returned to Hogwarts. Which meant that Padma wouldn’t be there either. He felt relieved, and then guilty for feeling that way.

The witch had seen him as well, and quickly approached him. “Hello Ron.”

“Hi Lavender.” He nodded at her new badge. “Congratulations.”

She scowled. “I didn’t want it. I wanted Parvati to return for our 6th year.”

“Did you know she’d not return?”

“She wrote me a letter, but the school letter with the badge arrive a day before that letter, and so I already knew, sort of.” Lavender pouted. “It’s so unfair! We had planned our 6th year together since we met for the first time!”

Ron nodded and made a sympathetic noise. At least she had received a letter. He hadn’t.

Lavender suddenly blinked. “Merlin! I’m sorry - I forgot Padma was your girlfriend, and she’s not returning either!”

“It’s OK,” he told her, “She seems to have forgotten that as well.”

“Oh!” He could almost see her thoughts - surprise, brief sympathy, and then she saw the opportunity. “Well, if you want to talk about it, I’m listening. Parvati was my best friend.”

He nodded. “Yeah.” He knew she meant more than just talking, but she was pretty, and it was their 6th year.

“Good.” She smiled at him. “Well, I have to go - prefects shouldn’t be late.” She patted his arm before she left.

On the way to his friends’ compartment, he ran into Parkinson. She was wearing a less revealing robe than Lavender. Still unmistakably a 6th year, of course. The Slytherin was probably on her way to the prefect’s compartment already. “Miss Parkinson.” He nodded at her.

“Mister Weasley.” She nodded back.

“I hope you had a nice holiday,” he said, surprising himself. She was a snake, and she had been Malfoy’s girlfriend for years. But… people did change, didn’t they?

She seemed surprised as well. “I did. I heard you were attacked in Bulgaria.”

“Yes.”

She didn’t ask for details, simply nodded. “Good day, Mister Weasley.” Then she was on her way to the Prefect’s compartment, and he was on his way to his friends.

*****​

Pansy Parkinson tried to ignore Greengrass’s prattling about Potter’s robes and chest, and focus on something else. Anything else. In moments like these she really envied Greg’s ability to not understand anything he didn’t want to. She did exchange a glance with Davis, though, her frowning at the other’s smirk. She couldn’t blame the girl though - she remembered how she had used Draco as a source of unwitting amusement. Before the Slytherin had changed. Before Draco had been murdered. Before the attack on the Hogwarts Express.

“So, did you talk to Weasley yet?”

Pansy looked at Davis. She was about to shake her head, then reconsidered. “Yes, I did. About the holidays.” Technically true.

Davis looked surprised, then grinned. “You’re a quick one!”

Pansy almost made a joke about being quick or dead she’d heard from a duelist. She shook her head instead. If she had been quicker, Vincent would still be alive. She’d probably dream of his death again. She knew a number of the students had decided to get obliviated of the worst memories. She wouldn’t chose that, of course. Losing her memories was like losing part of her life.

She wondered how Weasley dealt with the memories he must have. Maybe she should ask him someday. They were in 6th year, after all, where the house boundaries became somewhat fluid. She winced at her unplanned pun.

“Didn’t go as well as you wanted with him?” Greengrass leaned forward, eager to hear more. As if Pansy would humor her. Instead she shook her head. “Just remembered the attack again.”

“Oh.”

That shut even the twit up. The attack wasn’t something one joked about. At least Pansy hoped so.

*****​

The Dark Lord Voldemort looked at the remains of his latest globe. It had lasted a few minutes before the runes storing the power had failed, but at least the discharge had been controlled, and hadn’t resulted in a massive explosion. He needed it to store more energy, and last longer so he could use it, but it was an important step. He was getting closer and closer to his goal.

And thanks to the Ministry’s werewolf hunt, more of the beasts had joined his ranks, eager to avenge that latest injustice. Even better, any of them disappearing would be taken as the work of the Ministry, not himself. Like his latest sacrifice. The werewolf’s blood had fueled the Dark Lord’s experiments, and yet the beast’s pack would fight even harder against the Ministry to avenge his death. He smiled - an almost perfect setup.

He still had to deal with Hathaway though. The former Wizengamot member was too experienced in politics, and therefore plotting, to leave him unguarded, and it was unlikely that he’d take part in an assault where he could conveniently be killed by the enemy. And yet after having almost publically rescued the wizard, he couldn’t kill him or he’d undermine his followers’ morale.

Well, if the werewolf grew too unruly, he could always imperius the wolf and send him to his death. Or have Greyback settle it.

And Potter was now in his 6th year, and would be too busy fucking every witch that wanted a piece of the Boy-Who-Lived to find out what power he, Voldemort, didn’t know. It wasn’t tantric magic - Voldemort was quite experienced in that area, as Bella could attest - so the boy’s orgies wouldn’t result in the Dark Lord’s demise.

Soon it wouldn’t matter anymore. Soon he’d be able to tear down any ward he wanted.


Chapter 51: Relationships

 

Chapter 51: Relationships

Usually, the sorting was quite the attraction in the Great Hall. It was traditional to speculate which first year would go to what house. This time though, Hermione Granger didn’t feel like watching first years tremble before the Sorting Hat. She was watching sixth years instead. Watching them watching Harry, and her to be precise. Greengrass would have probably been drooling, if that wouldn’t have been showing bad manners. The blonde Slytherin made no secret of her desire to sleep with Harry.

And she wasn’t the only one. But she was one of those who seemed to fixate on Harry - there was a lot of staring and ogling going on. And a lot of the robes the new sixth years were wearing were meant to draw that kind of attention. She had never been more aware of the differences between wizard fashion (and taste) and muggle fashion than right then and there.

“If this was not Hogwarts, but London, I’d wonder who drugged the water,” Harry whispered, leaning towards her.

“I’d wonder who drugged my drink. With LSD,” Hermione whispered back, stifling a giggle.

“Well… we’re not exactly the height of muggle fashion either,” her boyfriend said.

“A necessary compromise,” she answered. She would rather have gone wearing nothing but some painted-on runes than to appear frumpy and prudish in front of all those witches after Harry. That might have given them ideas.

“Mh.”

Ron, sitting on the other side of the table, turned so he could watch the sorting, glanced over his shoulder at them. “What are you two whispering about?”

“Just talking about fashion,” Harry answered.

Ron snorted. “Lots to talk about then. Have you seen Parkinson?”

Harry looked over at the Slytherin table. The witch wasn’t wearing a particularly daring robe - for a pureblood. “She’s talking to Goyle and Davis. Has she been troubling you?”

Their friend sighed. “I’m not exactly certain. She’s … she didn’t make a pass at me, if you mean that.”

Hermione frowned. “Did you want her to?” He could do much, much better than Malfoy’s ex-girlfriend.

“Not exactly, but… Padma had been so jealous of her, I couldn’t help but wondering if there was a reason for that.”

“The Patils are not the only ones who didn’t return to Hogwarts,” Harry commented. He was correct - the tables had more free spaces than usual as well.

Hermione briefly wondered if that meant there would be more Gryffindors this year, proportionally, if the less brave had stayed away, then scolded herself for such petty prejudices.

Ron glanced over his shoulder. “Yes. We did better than the other houses, at least.”

Not everyone who was missing had been too afraid to return to school - a far too high number had been killed in the attack on the Hogwarts Express.

When the sorting had ended - Hermione hadn’t spotted a true muggleborn, but she would have to check with McGonagall to be certain she hadn’t mistaken a muggle name for a wizarding one - Dumbledore stood up. The feast appeared on the tables as well, and Hermione grabbed her goblet, to give the gods their due.

When the Headmaster lowered his head, Hermione understood that this year’s calling onto the gods would be different.

“Dis Pater. Watch over the dead, those cruelly taken from us by evil men and women, and guide them to the afterlife, where their ancestors await them.” He held out his goblet, and poured it out, the wine disappearing before it hit the ground.

The students and teachers followed his example. Hermione thought she could feel the magic in the air, her skin tingling, but once again she couldn’t tell if it was just the emotions of the people present affecting their and Hogwarts’ magic. No one said a word for a minute, before Dumbledore spoke again.

"Janus." He dipped the goblet, which had been refilled. Once again wine started to fall towards the ground, vanishing in mid air. "We humbly ask for your blessing. We need your aid more than ever, in these troubled times.”

“Hecate.” More wine poured out. More than the goblet could hold. “Protect us from evil curses, and magic that would harm the innocent.”

“Apollo. Keep us healthy, and alive.” Hermione’s skin was tingling all over now, and her hair had escaped the styling spells and was now floating. She could see that others were affected as well - most around her, and at the other tables.

Finally, the goblets seemed empty, and the students and teachers sat down. For a moment, no one said anything, no one seemed to touch the food either, then Dumbledore’s voice sounded through the hall again. “Tuck in now!”

The excellent meal soon had the sombre mood banished. Hermione would have been happier though if a few witches and wizards had remained sombre for a bit longer.

*****​

Harry Potter looked his new room over. It was smaller than his own at No 12 Grimmauld Place, but still a far cry from sleeping in a dorm with four other boys. And the bed was larger too. A not so subtle reminder that he was now in 6th year. The windows provided a nice view of the Quidditch pitch - unless he used the enchantments on them to show him any of a variety of selections ranging from Hogwarts to several exotic locations. According to a rumor, Fred and George managed to adjust a window once to show the female dorm’s bath.
The door opened and he turned his head. There was only one person who'd enter without knocking, or could enter… and one half-kneazle. Crookshanks padded inside, briefly surveyed his new territory, then jumped on the bed behind Harry and sat down.
"That's my bed. Mine and Hermione's," Harry informed the tomcat. Crookshanks, as usual ignored his words and stretched, digging his claws into the cover with an expression of utter bliss - or as much of such an expression a cat could manage.

“There you are, Crookshanks! You found our room already! Isn’t he the smartest cat ever, Harry?” Hermione entered, smiling widely. With a flick of her wrist she had her trunk float inside and land softly on the wall opposite Harry’s.

“He’s certainly the most stubborn cat I know,” Harry answered. Crookshanks yawned and appeared to fall asleep in response to his words. The young wizard turned to his girlfriend. “So, you’re moving in.”

“Yes,” Hermione said. “It’s just more practical to move in instead of visiting each night.” She unshrunk an armoire she had carried in her pocket, and started to levitate her robes inside it.

“Of course,” he said, with a grin as he stepped up to her. “I guess you already have repurposed your room as well?”

“Well, just using it to keep up appearances everyone knows are fake would be a waste,” Hermione answered, leaning into him. “We’re not in Bulgaria, after all.”

“Thank Merlin for that. I’d rather not see you in those robes.” He kissed her, and for the next minute neither said anything.

When they broke away, he asked: “And what are you using your room for now?”

“A closer work room.”

He nodded. The unused classroom they had repurposed years ago was a bit away. “It’s rather small though.”

“It is. But I’m not planning to use it as a laboratory. Just for light reading and homework.” Which meant, Harry knew, it would be full of books. She’d have to split her personal library though. Or rather, she’d likely simply stash the books she didn’t need for her research there. It wasn’t as if she didn’t already carry around a whole library in her pocket.

“And as a cover for when you’re working with the Headmaster, I guess.” He didn’t frown, even though he still didn’t like what she had to do.

“Yes.” She hugged him closely. He could feel her body pressed into his. She wasn’t wearing her outer robe, and his hands traveled over her bare back.

“You know, I feel kind of guilty. Tom’s out there, working on an evil ritual, and I’m acting like a typical 6th year, instead of working to stop him.” He didn’t add ‘like you’. She knew what he meant.

Hermione pulled her head back from his shoulder, and looked straight into his eyes. “Don’t feel guilty. You’re training more than I do, and you might have to fight him.”

“It still feels like… as if I’m trying to ignore him, if only for a moment.” As if he was running away from his problems, instead of facing them.

“You, we need that. If we cannot forget about him and enjoy life, we’ll break sooner or later. We need to be able to relax. And sex is a great way to relax.” The witch smiled slyly.

Harry knew she wasn’t just stressed by the Dark Lord’s plans. The offers, subtle or open, from other students were taking a toll on her as well, even if she could hide it well. She wasn’t just moving in with him because it was more practical, it was also a statement towards everyone else. A statement he agreed with and supported fully. “If we need to relax, does that mean we won’t use tantric magic to defeat the Dark Lord then?” He grinned.

Hermione snorted. “Merlin! Remember the twins trying to claim they were studying tantric magic for extra credits in History of Magic two years ago?” There was no need to ask which twins she meant.

Harry chuckled. “I don’t think anyone believed them. They had a lot of ‘study partners’ though.”

“Well, technically, it’s an exotic but valid magical tradition,” Hermione said, pulling away and sitting down on the bed. He joined her, taking care not to upset the feline occupier. “It’s just… to sum it up, it combines the worst aspects of normal spell casting and rituals.”

He slid up behind her and started to massage her neck and shoulders. “Hm?” He hadn’t really looked into the matter. Other than studying the materials Sirius had given him - but those had not really touched the ritual or magical aspects.

She sighed, and with a swish of her wand, had her robe pulled off her and flying towards her armoire. “Using tantric magic, it takes you as long as an average ritual to cast a simple spell.”

“What about the legendary power of sex magic?” Harry asked while his hands moved from Hermione’s shoulders and back to her side, and further.

“If there was such a thing, then Magical India would have fared far better in their conflict with Tibet. And don’t get me started on what a ‘virgin sacrifice’ actually means!” Hermione turned around and pushed him down on his back.

“Totally useless then?” Harry asked while she straddled him.

“Not totally useless,” Hermione said, then started to demonstrate what she meant.

*****​

Ron Weasley passed Harry’s room - which was now Hermione’s room as well, as he understood it - on his way to the Gryffindor Common Room. The door shimmered, indicating they didn’t want to be disturbed. It wasn't the only door on their floor either - the door to Dean's room was showing the same shimmer, not surprising, since last he had seen the guy he had been on his way to the Hufflepuff dorms.

To his surprise, Lavender was sitting in the common room, by herself, and looking rather morose. She was just wearing her thin and slinky robe, having discarded the open outer robes like everyone else. Following an impulse, and remembering their brief chat on the platform, he walked over and sat down in the seat next to her.

She looked surprised, then smiled. “Looking for some company?”

“I could ask you the same.” He nodded at her badge. “Are you on duty?”

The witch frowned. “Not officially, but McGonagall hinted rather strongly that someone should keep an eye on the common room.” She nodded at the stairs. “And the other prefect is currently busy with his girlfriend.”

“Ah.” Ron wondered if McGonagall had spoken with Harry as well. His best friend didn’t tend to think of himself first, and Hermione wasn’t the type to ignore such ‘hints’ from teachers either.

Lavender sighed. “It’s mostly to make sure the younger years don’t get involved in things. I had to threaten to stick Romilda to her bed to make her stop trying to get up the stairs to the 6th year rooms.”

Ron winced. “You probably saved her life, if she had managed to break into Harry’s room…”

Lavender giggled. “Hermione would have hexed her good. Silly girl.”

Ron forced himself to chuckle. He had meant it literally. If Vane had tried to break through the wards on Harry’s room, that would have been bad. Worse though if she had succeeded - neither Harry nor Hermione would hesitate to identify an intruder before cursing, not after the last attack on Harry by the Dark Lord’s minions.

“Or your sister, I guess, if Romy had gone after Neville.” Lavender shook her head.

Ron nodded. Ginny wasn’t having an easy time. With her in fifth year and Neville in sixth, she’d worry about older witches making advances. Such things happened, especially at the start of the year. He just hoped she’d not do something foolish. Neville was a good bloke. He’d not cheat on her, or dump her to get it off with another 6th year. Not if he knew what was good for him.

“She’s not yet in her dorm though. And neither is Neville,” Lavender added.

Ron really hoped Ginny wouldn’t do anything stupid. But he wasn’t about to discuss family matters with a witch who Hermione still called ‘the gossip twit’ if she was feeling particularly annoyed.

“Missing Padma, hm?” She sounded sympathetic.

“Yes.” It wasn’t the whole truth, but not a complete lie either.

“Parvati and I had such plans for 6th year.” Lavender sighed, hunching over a bit.

“Plans to get hexed by Hermione?” Ron asked, before he could help it.

“What? No! Contrary to others, we know her. We have spent five years in the same dorm, you know?” Lavender giggled. “No, we’d have gone after someone who hasn’t the scariest witch of our year as a girlfriend.”

“Together?” Ron raised an eyebrow. Exceptions like his brothers notwithstanding, such things were not as common as rumors made them out to be.

“Maybe. We didn’t get to make concrete plans, you know.” She sighed again.

He couldn’t tell if she was faking it, so he settled for a noncommittal “Ah.” Hermione would make an acerbic comment about having expected the two not to be able to plan out anything, Ron knew.

“What about you?” Lavender leaned forward, propping her chin up with a fist.

“Me?” Ron leaned back. “I had expected to be with Padma. I’d have let her set the pace, you know.” He thought he’d have done that - but if he was honest, he didn’t know how he’d have reacted if Padma had been as distant as she had become in her letters.

“Ah.” Lavender smiled, and Ron had no clue if she was amused, or touched, or thought him a fool.

“It’s moot now.” Padma hadn’t returned to Hogwarts, not even to Britain.

“So, you’re going to see if there’s a snake waiting for you to check the Great Hall?” the witch asked a bit too casually.

He looked at her. He wasn’t the smartest wizard of their year, but he could pick up things. Instead of answering, he asked: “Are you waiting for someone?”

“Does the curfew count?” She grinned, and laid a hand on his knee.

He covered her hand with his, and her eyes lit up. “I’d be a cad to leave you on duty here while everyone else is having fun.”

It wouldn’t be anything but some fun, he told himself. Nothing serious. Just what the Year of Exploration was supposed to be.

*****​

Gilderoy Lockhart didn’t like Australian animals. From what he knew, even the muggle ones were all poisonous and rabid. That went double for the monstrosities Jenny and Rubeus were usually raising. If anyone thought the spiders had been horrible, then they would be shocked to discover that there were even more dangerous animals around. At least the Tasmanian Devil had been recovered from his basement, and transported back to Tasmania, so they couldn’t experiment with that particular monster.

“What exactly are you planning to do with that fish?” he asked in Rubeus’s workroom, pointing at a fish that looked like a spiky piece of rock or coral floating in an aquarium. He didn’t really want to know, but he had to.

“It’s a Stinging Stonefish,” Jenny explained. “One of the most toxic muggle fishes. Some say its sting hurts worse than the Cruciatus.”

Gilderoy shuddered. “I’m never going to swim in Australian waters again.” If the muggles knew all about those animals, he was certain they’d evacuate the continent.

“They can survive up to a day on land,” Jenny said, with that bright tone she had when talking about the deadliest animals known to wizardkind.

“Merlin’s ass!” He stared at his friend. “What do you want it for? Another summoning spell?”

“Sort of. Not exactly. They’re not aggressive enough, and not mobile enough. Rubeus thought of crossing them with Manticores, so they could shoot their stingers from their tails, but Manticores are hard to control,” the witch, clad in her usual ‘jungle girl’ robes, explained.

“Not to mention that there’s a ban on experimental breeding of magical creatures,” Gilderoy added with as much sarcasm as he could manage.

“That too,” Jenny said, her tone making it quite clear that this was at most a secondary consideration. “We tried puffskeins, but that didn’t work out. They simply didn’t sting no matter what we tried.”

Gilderoy knew he would never look at one of the little fluffy balls again without shivering. “What exactly are you trying now?”

“We’re working on a spell that shoots the poisonous spiky fins, and nothing else, at a target.”

“Ah.” That sounded almost reasonable.

“But since Hermione said she can’t spare the time to run the arithmantic formulas for us, we decided on another approach. We’re working with the Weasleys on weaponizing the fishes.”

“The Weasleys… ‘Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes’?”

“Exactly! They’ve got a lot of ideas on delivery systems.”

Gilderoy, familiar with the two wizards from his time as a DADA professor, nodded weakly. He almost pitied the Death Eaters.

“That said… what are you doing here?” Jenny cocked her head sideways and looked at him. “You rarely visit our workshop!”

“It’s the start of the year.” He sighed.

Jenny looked puzzled, then the knut dropped. “Ah!”

“Yes.” There were simply too many witches and wizards who thought they were suddenly all grown up and ready to seduce a teacher. Namely, him.

“So, you’re hiding here from a bunch of little girls.” Jenny didn’t quite laugh out loud, but she came close.

“Yes. A number don’t take rejections well, and can get quite creative.” Gilderoy would rather not have to deal with accusations of having seduced a student again. Once had been more than enough. To think McGonagall would be so quick to believe such slander… At least the love potions were no problem, these days he routinely checked his food and drink for poison anyway.

“Oh?”

“Anyway, I’m avoiding the school in the evenings, until things calm down.” He sat down on a chair, after carefully checking if anything nearby looked dangerous, or even alive.

“How long will that take?”

“No more than a few weeks, at most.” At least that had been the case in the earlier years.

“I don’t remember you going through that last year.”

“I was a bit more subtle, maybe.” And less shocked by his friends’ experiments.

“Does that mean you only come to visit me to avoid trouble?” She glared at him.

“What? No, no! You know I like to visit you. But I don’t like visiting the dangerous monsters you and Rubeus keep.” Especially the experimental ones that might break out of their cages with new magical powers.

“Don’t worry, I’ll protect you!” She slung her arm around him and pulled him closer. “They don’t generally bother me in my quarters.”

“That’s because of the drop bear rumor.”

“If they’re not willing to risk a violent death, then they’re not the right kind of wizard for me.”

“How fortunate that I’m risking death each time I visit you then, or so it feels,” Gilderoy said.

“Exactly.”

*****​

“They didn’t come out of the Gryffindor dorms at all last night!”

Greengrass sounded like a little witch who had just been told that she wouldn’t get any gift for Yuletide, Pansy Parkinson thought. No, more like one of those spoiled children who didn’t get everything they wished for Yuletide, just half of it. Like Draco, for example. She pushed that thought away. “Don’t tell me you waited all night for Potter,” she said, summoning a basket of scones to her plate.

“I didn’t!” The blonde witch responded, pouting.

“She went to bed at midnight,” Davis added.

“Tracey!” Greengrass exclaimed while Greg chuckled and Pansy shook her head.

Sometimes she wondered if she was the only one from her year who hadn’t gone mad. Well, her and Greg. Potter didn’t count, he had probably been shagging his retainer for a long time already. And Davis… she didn’t know what that witch was thinking.

Though she did notice the odd mood during breakfast. Awkward glances, jealous looks… it would be interesting if she cared for that kind of gossip. Or would still be delusional enough to think those antics mattered outside Hogwarts. Where a war was being waged. She sighed.

“Love trouble, Pansy?” Greengrass asked. “It looks like Weasley has a new girlfriend.”

“What?” She looked up just in time to see Weasley take a seat at the Gryffindor table, with Brown hanging on his arm. “Ah.” She studied the two. Just out of curiosity, she told herself. Weasley didn’t look that smitten, and Brown looked like she was trying a bit too hard. And they were not sitting down with Potter and his retainer, and the rest of the inner circle of the Boy-Who-Lived. Just a fling then.

“She’s moving in on your wizard!” the blonde sitting next to her whispered.

Pansy rolled her eyes at the dim witch. “He’s not my wizard.”

“He won’t ever be yours unless you do something about this!”

Pansy glanced at Davis before answering. “Just focus on your own love life, Greengrass. Leave me to mine.”

The blonde huffed. “I’m just trying to help you.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Pansy muttered, causing Greg to chuckle.

“She’ll simply do what she did to Patil,” Davis added.

Pansy glared at her. “What did I do to Patil?” If there was a rumor that she was responsible for the Patils’ refusal to return to Hogwarts…

“You’ll train with Weasley, showing how good you are, and jealousy and insecurity will wreck the relationship.”

“I’m not training self-defense with Weasley to seduce him,” Pansy corrected the brunette. She couldn’t deny though that she might have been - in part only though - responsible for some problems between Weasley and Patil. But she couldn’t be blamed for the overreaction of an insecure witch, could she? “I’m training with him because he’s a very good duelist, and that training could save my life - again - one day.” She could see Greg nod at her words.

No one at the table said much for a while after that. Pansy felt guilty for bringing up the memories of that attack on the train, but if her friends and Greengrass didn’t take self-defense seriously, they might be killed in the next attack.

And she’d feel even more guilty if that happened.

*****​

“You’re early.”

“I’m doing well. Thank you for asking. How are you?” Sirius Black didn’t quite glare at his friend while he stepped out of the other’s floo, but he came close. It wasn’t the full moon anymore, so there was no excuse for rudeness.

“Sorry,” Remus answered, looking suitably chastised. “The start of the year is always a bit stressful, but it seems worse this time.”

“What happened? Is Harry in trouble?” Sirius looked to the door. He could be in the Gryffindor tower in less than five minutes, as Padfoot. If he had the password.

“Harry is fine. Apart from his patrols as a prefect, he’s been staying mostly in his and Hermione’s room during the evenings,” his friend said.

“Ah.” Sirius was relieved, and grinned. “I guess he’s been kept too busy to do anything else, hm?”

Remus rolled his eyes. “You can ask him or Hermione that yourself.”

“I’ll ask Harry later.” When Hermione was busy somewhere else. The witch might misunderstand and overreact to some of his questions. “So, what has you in such a tizzy?”

Remus sighed. “Just too many additional patrols at night, until things grow calmer. And the whole werewolf hunt going on in Britain.”

“Wasn’t that solved by Albus spreading the rumor that you’re out during each full moon, hunting the werewolf who killed your family?” It sounded like a good idea to Sirius.

“More or less. No one seems to suspect that I’m a werewolf now.”

“Where’s the problem then?” Remus was such a worrywart. Why was his friend glaring at him now?

“People are in a panic. It’s truly a werewolf hunt - in the witch hunting sense.” Remus frowned, making him look even older than he looked. That’s what being a teacher did to a man. And a werewolf.

“The witch hunts almost never killed a real witch or wizard,” Sirius commented. Remus should know this.

“Exactly. The werewolves working for the Dark Lord will be fine - they are already hiding from the Ministry. But the ones like me, wishing to simply live their life? They’ll be in great danger. How many will wait to check if a werewolf has taken wolfsbane and is in control of himself? How many will even care?” Remus wasn’t quite shouting, but he had grown loud.

“Ah.” Sirius understood his friend’s predicament now. “The answers are probably ‘too many’ and ‘not enough’.”

“Yes. 10 points to Black.” Remus sounded more bitter than Sirius expected.

“It’s not just that, right?” He wasn’t the most insightful wizard, but Sirius wouldn’t have had his success with the witches if he hadn’t been able to pick up some nuances.

“No.” Remus sighed and let himself fall into his seat. “With all the usual antics of the new 6th years, I’m reminded each evening that I’m not growing younger, but older.”

Sirius knew what his friend really meant: He was lonely. Or to be more precise: He wanted to be in a relationship as well. It shouldn’t have been a surprise, he realized. All of Remus’s friends were in a relationship. Harry had Hermione - or the other way around. Andromeda and Ted were married, so were Nymphadora and Viktor. And Sirius… well, he wasn’t married but he definitely was in a relationship. Four times over.

“Things will change for the better once we’ve dealt with the Dark Lord.” It was the best Sirius could think of without lying. Remus wasn’t exactly the most sociable wizard.

“Even if I find a witch who’d like me, I’d have to lie to her about my curse. And once she finds out, that’ll be it. So, why even start? Can’t have a relationship built on a lie.” Remus eyed his bottle of firewhisky.

“Well, then look for another werewolf then. No need to keep secrets from her, right?” Sirius said without thinking. But it was a good idea even in hindsight.

“Wha…” Remus blinked. “Most of them fight for Voldemort.”

“Most, not all,” Sirius reminded him.

“And the rest think I hunted them for decades.”

Sirius had no answer to that. “Well… it’s time for today’s training session, isn’t it?”

Remus knew what he was doing, but nodded anyway.

*****​

“Any news about the werewolf hoax?” Kenneth Fenbrick asked Bertha Limmington as soon as he entered their shared office.

His partner shook her head. “None. No suspect, no motive.” She pursed her lips. “Most likely it was a trap for Professor Lupin, and whoever laid it fled when we showed up.”

“You don’t think that though.” He knew her well enough he didn’t need to make it a question.

“No. Anyone skilled enough to transfigure a dog into a facsimile of a werewolf could have distracted us with a similar ruse, and attacked Lupin.”

“True.” Kenneth sat down on her desk and checked the files. Bertha briefly glared at him, but didn’t say anything. He didn’t find anything either. Not that he had expected anything else - the whole incident didn’t make much sense. That didn’t have to mean anything, but he couldn’t help feeling that they were missing something important.

“Anything new about Umbridge and Caldwell?” Bertha asked.

“None of the people at the airports, at the Chunnel station, or in the ports spotted them,” Kenneth said, showing the latest reports he had fetched on the way.

“They could have taken a broom and flown to France. Or they could be hiding in a safe house of the Dark Lord,” Bertha pointed out.

“The French have tightened their border security. They absolutely don’t want our war to spill over into their country.” In a more cynical voice he added: “Of course, if the French would have used the resources they spent on border security to help Britain against the Dark Lord, then the war would be over already.”

“Yes.” Bertha didn’t like his conclusions any better than he himself did, Kenneth thought.

“I’ve asked Mathilda to keep an eye out for the two fugitives.” The spy would likely call in Aberforth as well.

“Ah.”

“You sound as if you disapprove. Did I violate a regulation?” Kenneth wouldn’t put it past the Ministry to have some weird rules about informants that no one cared about but Bertha and maybe Bones.

“No. I’m just remembering how our last mission with her went.” His partner frowned at him.

“Oh. Well, we’re not going undercover this time.” When Bertha stared at him, Kenneth blinked and asked in a weak voice. “We are?”

Bertha nodded. “It’s not as if we have a better lead to follow in this case.”

“Great. If we keep this up, then we’ll be lucky not to end up permanently in undercover operations,” Kenneth grumbled.

“At least we’d get to wear different robes,” Bertha said, chuckling. “It gets a bit boring, wearing auror robes each day.”

Kenneth blinked. Bertha thought wearing regulation robes was boring? He was tempted to ask her to step through the Thief’s Downfall. “I’d not call it boring. And our robes are quite dashing, in my opinion, and in the opinion of several fine upstanding citizens.”

“Auror groupies, you mean,” Bertha said. “Are you afraid you’ll not be able to impress witches anymore unless you’re wearing red?”

“I don’t want to impress those witches anyway,” Kenneth grumbled.

“Oh?”

It wasn’t the moment to elaborate on the reasons for that. “What about you? Do you want to dress up as a courtesan?” Kenneth wouldn’t mind that - his partner looked very attractive in racier robes.

“Anything for the mission, right?” Bertha cited, but her lips twitched into a faint grin. She was teasing him!

“Hmph.” He glared at her, though that seemed to amuse her even more.

He didn’t understand her as well as he had thought.

*****​

“Are you certain this is a good idea?” Dolores Umbridge asked, looking down at the small village at the east coast of Norfolk. A muggle village, full of dumb filthy muggles, edging out a living by fishing with primitive muggle means.

The werewolf glanced at her. “We can’t use the bigger ports. That leaves the fishing villages. The Ministry cannot cover each and every village at the coast.”

“We’ll be taking a muggle boat. That’s not safe.” How could you trust non-magical transportation? Everyone knew muggles died by the hundreds each year from accidents.

“All the magical means are under surveillance. It’s muggle, or nothing,” the bitch told her.

Dolores ground her teeth. To lower herself to that… like a mudblood. And for a beast. But she had to, magic demanded it. She didn’t say anything, just looked away.

“Let’s go.”

The village didn’t stink as badly as Dolores had feared. She didn’t even smell fish, despite a small port full of boats. A few of them even looked sturdy enough to survive on the open sea. At least in her opinion.

They didn’t take long to spot a boat with a muggle in it. He didn’t look like a fisherman, Dolores thought. Soft hands, and skin that wasn’t aged prematurely by wind and sun. Now how to best handle this…

“Hey! You!”

The witch twitched when the werewolf simply yelled at the muggle. Fortunately, the dim man didn’t seem to take offense. Few wizards did when talked to by pretty witches, why would a muggle be different?

“Hey yourself.” The man stood up and put down the newspaper he had been reading.

“That’s a nice boat,” Caldwell smiled at him, and Dolores didn’t miss how the muggle straightened with pride.

“Oh, yes. It’s not the biggest, but it got the full range.”

“Oh? Could you reach Norway from here?”

“If the weather holds, theoretically yes. Though it would be a long trip.” The man’s leer told Dolores what he was thinking.

She wanted to kill him for the presumption. As if she’d lower herself to sleeping with an animal! She was a witch! She pulled her wand out of her holster and aimed it at the muggle.

“Imperio!”

*****​

Paige Caldwell felt like dying. The boat she was on was being battered by waves that swept over its railing, and the rainstorm - a squall, the muggle claimed it was - had reduced visibility so much, she could barely see the front of the boat - which was called its bow, apparently. She would have managed to stand that, if not for the rolling, and the effect it had on her stomach.

Umbridge wasn’t doing much better. Both of them had lost their breakfast and what lunch they eaten already, but Paige’s stomach still tried to empty itself regularly. She hadn’t cast so many vanishing spells in years.

And the muggle was acting as if this was normal! If not for the Imperius, Paige would have suspected a trap.

Another wave broke over the bow, and smashed into the windows. If they broke… they held. Paige wasn’t that worried about dying - she could always apparate back to the coast, they weren’t that far out yet - but to have to turn back after they had come so far… She growled, and dug her fingers into the armrest of the seat she she was strapped into.

Umbridge was staring at her with wide eyes. Did the witch fear they’d drown? Or fear she’d transform? That would be silly; they weren’t even close to the full moon.

“We’re making good time. We’ll hit the coast of Norway on schedule!” the muggle told them, full of Imperius-induced cheer. It would serve him well, Paige thought, if they sank, and he would be the only not able to save himself. Maybe then he’d not lie to them and tell them they could make the trip easily. Or leer at them.

She felt her stomach heave again, and barely managed to lean forward enough to spit bile on the floor instead of herself. Wincing at the taste in her mouth, she grabbed her wand.

“Scourgify!”

*****​

Harry Potter sat down against the wall in the training room and closed his eyes. Sirius and Remus had stepped up the intensity of their lessons, and he felt like he had just completed a full day of Quidditch training under Oliver Wood. The stinging hexes he had endured even filled in for the bludgers.

“Hey, you still alive?” he heard his godfather ask. He opened his eyes and saw that Sirius had sat down next to him.

“Barely,” he answered. “Some maniac tried his best to kill me. He looks kind of like you.”

Sirius laughed. “It’s for your own good, Harry!”

The young wizard scoffed. “Of course you’d say that.” Though he knew it was true - he needed intensive training, if he wanted to survive this war. Despite the best efforts of Dumbledore and the Order, he had been attacked several times already, and had to fight for his life.

“Trust your godfather.”

Harry snorted and summoned a coke for himself while Sirius grabbed a butterbeer from the floating cooler. They both watched Remus put Ron through his paces for a while. Hermione had left already, citing the need to continue ‘important research’.

“So…” Sirius finally said, “how do you like the Year of Discovery so far?”

Harry shrugged. “I could do without the invitations and flirting; it angers Hermione.” She was taking it better, and it seemed as if the rest of the school - with the exception of Greengrass - was slowly getting the message that Harry wasn’t looking for ‘some fun’, but it was still a strain on his girlfriend’s temper.

“Merlin! You’re acting as if you’re married already?” Sirius sounded as if he was not certain if he should be amused or appalled.

“If by that you mean I’m not cheating on Hermione, then yes,” Harry said while frowning at the other wizard.

“It’s not cheating if you both do it and it’s in 6th year.” Sirius shook his head, and muttered something Harry didn’t catch.

“Neither of us would do that,” Harry stated.

“What about a threesome?”

“Is that about Greengrass’s invitation?” Harry wondered if and how Sirius had heard about that. It hadn’t been exactly a public conversation.

“You mean you turned down a threesome? With that blonde witch? Granted, she’s a Slytherin, but she looks hot!” Sirius sounded incredulous.

“She insulted Hermione too much in the past,” Harry said, “and even if she hadn’t… me and Hermione don’t want to share.”

“You really act as if you’re married already. Kids these days, they grow up so fast!” Sirius theatrically rubbed the corner of his eye as if he was wiping a tear away.

Harry was tempted to retort with a crack about Sirius not growing up at all, but held his tongue. “You’re not really disappointed, are you?” he asked instead. It was sometimes hard to tell with his godfather.

Sirius took a deep breath, then shook his head. “Not really. I mean, I told you that you don’t have to do anything with anyone in 6th year, didn’t I?”

“Yes.” Far too late in Harry’s opinion, but he had.

“So, I’d be a hypocrite if I then expected you not to do what you want. Or what your girlfriend wants.” Sirius smiled softly, his eyes seeming to stare at something only he could see. “James and Lily were different, but they were not together during our 6th year. And even muggles knew what free love meant.”

Harry didn’t really want to hear what - and who! - his parents had done in their 6th year. To his relief, Sirius clapped him on his shoulder, and didn’t go into details.

“Though should you and Hermione ever change your opinion about a threesome, then I expect a detailed report!”

“Sirius!”

Laughing, Harry’s godfather stood up and vanished his empty bottle. He’d never change.

*****​

Sirius Black had kept up his facade, joking with Remus and teasing Harry, until he had left Hogwarts through the floor. Once back in his home though, he sighed and sat down next to the floo. Becoming Padfoot, losing all concerns, tempted him. Padfoot didn’t have to think about his life. Didn’t have to question his choices. Didn’t have to wonder if his godson was more mature than himself. But he wasn’t Padfoot. He was a wizard.

“Cherie?”

Valérie had stepped into the entrance hall. The veela looked concerned. Sirius smiled at her. “Sorry, didn’t want to worry you. I’m just a bit… thinking.”

The French witch nodded, and sat down next to him, resting her head on his shoulder. He wrapped an arm around her, the thin fabric of her house robe barely felt.

“Harry and Hermione act like a married couple,” he said after a while. “Which is both tragic and ironic, since they can’t actually marry.” Something he preferred not to think about too much.

“Yes.”

“So, they’re sticking to each other in the Year of Discovery. Even turned down a threesome. With a hot witch,” he clarified for her benefit.

“Ah.”

“Yeah, none of my friends would have done that. The turning down, that is.” That he wouldn’t have done it went without saying. “And yet… I wonder.”

“What do you wonder about?”

“If I should be jealous of Harry or not.” He felt her lift her head from his shoulder. “Sometimes I feel as if I never got out of 6th year.”

“Would that be a bad thing?” Valérie asked, hesitantly.

He sighed, and shifted around, pulling her into his lap. “It depends. Without a care, passionate, free… it’s not a bad way to live your life. But it’s not very… responsible.”

“Mh.”

He buried his face in her hair for a bit, inhaling her smell. “It’s a bachelor lifestyle. Something my prim and proper parents abhorred. Which may be why I found it so attractive. I didn’t want to be proper, didn’t want to be like my parents.” He paused. “But… when all’s said and done, that’s a childish reason.” He snorted. “I’m a grown man, closer to 40 than to 30. I shouldn’t act like a child.”

“Are you ashamed of your life? Of us?”

He shook his head. “Not of you, nor of us, never. But… I’m ashamed that I’m living as if I was still in school, avoiding any hint of responsibility. Doubly so since Harry and Hermione would love to be able to marry, but are not allowed to. It’s as if I’m wasting an opportunity others would give a lot for.”

“You’re thinking of marriage?”

“Yes.”

“To one of us?”

“To you.”

He felt her stiffen, then turn around and wrap her arms around him. He ran his hands over her bare back and kissed her shoulder. “Perhaps after the war?”

“Yes.”

*****​

The Hogwarts Self-defense Club training sessions were one occasion Luna wouldn’t complain about the fashion options 6th years had, Ron Weasley knew. Everyone wore heavy robes there, for protection. Though some wore them a bit… less than others. Lavender, for example, had found or altered a duelling robe that would be more fitting to the cover of a robe-ripper novel, so much cleavage was exposed. He wondered how long her newfound interest in Self-defense would last. She noticed him looking and struck a pose that drew even more attention to her curves, winking at him. He chuckled.

The two of them weren’t quite a couple, and Ron wasn’t certain if they were even mere ‘friends with benefits’, as Hermione had put it, but they were more than just two 6th years ‘exploring their options together’, to quote Seamus. Or so Ron thought - he wasn’t exactly an expert.

He shook his head. He was here to help the members train and learn, not to wonder about his lovelife. Or anyone else’s. Even if some of the club members seemed to have misunderstood that. Ron did not grin or chuckle as he glanced at Greengrass, who was currently putting ointment on where she had been hit with stinging hexes. Some people never seemed to learn that hitting on Harry before a training session wasn’t a good idea - Hermione had almost trampled over Davis to ‘evaluate’ Greengrass after that. A bit away Ginny and Neville were duelling each other. Neither one seemed to be holding back - Neville needed to be more aggressive, in his opinion. As long as it concerned spellcasting and duelling.

He saw Parkinson approach him, and turned to face her.

“Mister Weasley?”

“Miss Parkinson.”

“Would you mind a quick bout? I’ve already duelled my usual sparring partners.” The Slytherin was wearing a sensible duelling robe and had her wand in hand. Her bodyguard, Goyle, was looming behind her, though without the latent sneer and hostility Ron had been used to from him.

“Certainly. Mister Goyle, would you give the command to start?”

The huge wizard blinked, and then nodded. “Uh, yes.” He paused a second, then nodded. “Bow! Wands ready! Start!”

Goyle spoke quite quickly, and Parkinson was obviously used to that, since she was casting before Ron, who had expected a slower introduction. He dodged her spell easily though, and retaliated with a series of hexes and jinxes, all which were stopped by the girl’s shield. Her own spells fared no better, though Ron had to recast his Shield Charm.

His next salvo boxed Parkinson in, and this time he wasn’t using hexes and jinxes, but stunners. Her weakened shield shattered while his resisted her own spells just long enough to stun her, and she was down for the count.

“Enervate.” Goyle was quicker on the draw than expected. Ron was now quite certain the two, and maybe others, had been training over the holidays. Not as hard as Harry, Hermione and himself, though. But it was certainly more than most others had done, judging by the average performance of the students present.

Parkinson groaned when she opened her eyes.

“You did well,” Ron said. He almost held his hand out to her, but she got up before he could act.

“Not well enough,” she answered.

He smiled at the familiar exchange. Parkinson had the right attitude, even if she was a Slytherin and Malfoy’s ex-girlfriend. A quick glance told him Lavender wasn’t staring at him, ready to make a scene either.

So far 6th year had started pretty well, in his opinion.

*****​

The Dark Lord Voldemort frowned, studying the parchment on his desk. Despite some efforts - mostly of his agents in the Ministry - he hadn’t found any trace of Umbridge and Caldwell. That the Ministry had no idea either was a small consolation. He leaned back in his seat and looked out of the window. In a way, the two witches were still working for him, drawing the attention and resources of the Ministry away from his important tasks. And no one really knew they had fled from him, so his reputation wasn’t in danger either.

But they continued defiance vexed him still. No one escaped the Dark Lord. Not the Potters, not the Boy-Who-Lived, not those two whores. Well, as a last resort he would be able to use Wizarding Britain’s resources to track them down, after his inevitable victory.

Glancing at the latest orb he had prepared, he was certain it would be inevitable. This orb would be able to store more power. Not the whole amount released by the ritual, but significantly more than before. Soon he’d have an orb stable enough to store all of the ritual’s power long enough to strike.

Now if only the wands from Steinberg would work out. They were stable enough to be used for more than a few weeks now - ample time to topple Britain’s government before the wands’ lethal flaws would be discovered by their wielders - but he needed a much safer wand if he wanted to confront Dumbledore directly with a good chance of success. Without more victims for his tests though Steinberg couldn’t make much progress.

The Dark Lord checked his ledgers. Thanks to Hathaway’s gold, he had the means again to hire more wands. Though the continent had proven to be rather hostile to his recruiters. At least the southern countries.

Scandinavia though… the latest hunt for werewolves in Britain wouldn’t have been received well in those lands. Between that and gold, recruiting werewolves shouldn’t be too hard. He summoned Greyback. The werewolf leader was a brutal monster, but he’d do well with the berserkers, and the less civilized werewolves there. And if he didn’t… well, Greyback would have to die anyway, before he realized that Voldemort had no intention to let him spread his disease at will after his victory.

Mad beasts could be useful, but only a fool kept them around longer than they were needed. And Voldemort was many things, but no fool.


Chapter 52: Werewolves

 

Chapter 52: Werewolves

Standing on the shore they had apparated to from the ship, Paige Caldwell took a deep breath. Magical Scandinavia. Land of the berserkers. Paige Caldwell had never set foot in it. It was said to be the only country where werewolves were not only tolerated, but valued. Equal, if not more, to wizards and witches. She snorted. There was a reason so few werewolves actually moved there, here. And as the ex-girlfriend of a berserker, one of Scandinavia’s shock troopers, she knew that reason well.

“It’s not as cold as I expected,” Umbridge commented. The witch was eyeing the fjord in front of them as if she thought it was an illusion.

“Did you expect snow and ice all year?” Paige asked, barely keeping the contempt out of her voice. British wizards and witches were so ignorant of Scandinavia!

Umbridge didn’t answer, but her glare told the werewolf that she had hit the mark. She shook her head. “We’re not that much farther north than Scotland, and it’s not yet winter.”

“Have you been here before?” The pureblood narrowed her eyes with suspicion.

“No. But I’ve known a Scandinavian wizard.” Known him very well, in fact. Ejnar had seemed like her dream partner, once. Tall, muscular, handsome, with a blond mane reaching the small of his back, and a charming smile. He had told tales of Magical Scandinavia, and she had listened, in wonder. What a naive girl she had been! Until she had discovered what a berserker truly was.

She shook her head to banish those memories. “We’ll have to travel a bit further, the muggle way.” Even with the ‘skipper’, as he had called himself, obliviated and sent to the Hebrides, they had to be careful to avoid attention on the borders.

“Where are we going?” Umbridge shifted the bag she was carrying and frowned - probably at the prospect of traveling as muggles again.

“Magical Oslo. ” Paige took a look up the fjord, at the muggle village. “There should be a bus.”

“Why don’t we go to one of the smaller villages? Hide in the countryside?” That she was talking about magical villages went without saying.

“Too dangerous. Scandinavia is not like Britain. The government isn’t that strong. The villages are ruled by their gothi or gyðja, their leader. They are usually the leader of the local werewolf pack as well.” Paige saw Umbridge shudder, and grinned. “There are werewolves in all of Magical Scandinavia’s settlements, but the majority of them live in small villages hidden in the wilderness.”

Umbridge looked like she wanted to curse something, or someone. “And Oslo?”

Paige shrugged. Ejnar had scoffed at Oslo, said it was full of weak wizards. “I don’t know that much about it. But I know it’s not likely to be involved in a feud with the werewolf pack in the next village. As a trade center, it’s considered neutral, sort of, in their feuds.”

“It’s like Diagon Alley?” Umbridge sounded hopeful.

“Probably.”

*****​

Magical Oslo was nothing like Diagon Alley, Dolores Umbridge found. There were similarities. Both locations were hidden in the middle of a muggle city, with a few concealed entrances. But where Diagon Alley was the heart of Britain’s commerce, shops lining bustling streets and side alleys, Oslo had stalls and tents arranged around the keep, the old castle housing the local seat of the Scandinavian Ministry, as she understood.

The main difference to Diagon Alley though was the lack of magic, at least in her impression. There were glowing signs, and some of the stalls and shops sported flashy spells to attract customers, but she barely saw anyone in decent robes. Most people’s clothes were lacking the elegant fashions Umbridge was used to. It was all so… so… “Muggle!”

“What?” The werewolf turned towards her.

“This looks like a muggle camp! Look at their clothes!” Dolores nodded at a couple passing them. The only thing that looked magical on them were their cloaks, decorated with embroidered runes Dolores identified as protections woven into the fabric.

“Their robes are enchanted. They just don’t like to ‘show off’ magic.”

“What?” That didn’t make any sense. Why would any wizard or witch want to hide like this, instead of proudly displaying their heritage? They weren’t among muggles!

The bitch was now smirking. For a moment, Dolores hated her,. wanted to curse her, but the feeling was gone at once, the life debt reasserting itself. “It’s because of the werewolves.”

“What?”

“Some of the werewolves were muggles before their change. They can’t cast spells. And since werewolves are held in such high esteem in the country…” The bitch shrugged. “At least that was what I was told by my acquaintance.”

Dolores blinked, shocked. Wizards, lowering themselves, acting like filthy muggles, in order to avoid… did they avoid shaming the filthy beasts out of pity? Or were they afraid of what those beasts would do if angered? “How long do you plan to stay here?” she asked, in a slightly shaky voice.

“Until it’s safe to move on,” the werewolf answered.

“How long will that be?” As if staying in a town where everyone could be a werewolf, worse, a muggle werewolf, and where the decent wizards bowed to the filthy beasts instead of driving them away would be called safe by anyone sane!

“I don’t know. But it’s currently the safest place in Europe for us.”

Dolores doubted that - Scandinavia wouldn’t extradite the bitch, they never did, but Dolores was no werewolf. Scandinavia was far less protective of normal foreigners. She muttered “It’s still not safe enough.”

“Oh, yes,” the beast agreed with her. “You know why they are trying to get more werewolves to immigrate?”

“No?”

“Because there are so many feuds, they always need more bodies.” The bitch flashed her teeth in a cynical smile. “Let’s go and find an inn for the night.” She looked at the keep. “I doubt they offer lodgings for travelers there.”

Dolores looked at the huts and tents outside the keep’s walls. They looked worse than the camp at the World Cup, two years ago. “At least it’ll be cheap,” she muttered. The two of them didn’t have that much money, and Dolores would rather not pick up their old ‘trade’. She was a witch, not a whore!

*****​

“Here are the latest formulas, sir.” Hermione Granger passed the stack of paper to the Headmaster. “I think I have managed to reduce the cost of the ritual further.” The equations looked correct to her, but since she couldn’t really test them, Dumbledore looking them over was the second best way to check for mistakes. He had the experience and knowledge to interpret the results and pick the most promising results for her to optimize further. Experience and knowledge she wasn’t certain she wanted to have, and yet longed to have.

While the old wizard studied the sheets - the white paper looked oddly out of place in his office, she realized - she busied herself with her notebook. Or tried to. Her thoughts were wandering. Thanks to Harry’s visions, they knew that Dark Lord was making progress with his ritual. They still didn’t know what he was planning, but the power of the failed ritual they had observed left no doubt that it would be a catastrophe if Voldemort mastered it.

And her own ritual was ready, as long as one was willing to pay the price the spell demanded. She glanced back to where Harry was reading a book - ‘Wizard Wars of the 20th Century’, a rather pretentious title, seeing as it was written in 1970, or so she thought. Her boyfriend was focused on it. He took the threat seriously, and he was dedicating himself to train, so he could fight if needed. When needed, she added, remembering the prophecy. She looked at his face, the ugly scar hidden by his hair, his bright eyes, the way he licked his lips before whispering a line he had just read to commit it to memory. She loved him, more than anything else. She could save him too, all the materials had been prepared by Dumbledore already, if only she was willing to sacrifice…

“It is not worth it, Miss Granger.”

She whipped her head around, staring at the Headmaster. The old wizard shook his head. “I did not read your mind. Your Occlumency is as superb as ever. But it was not hard to deduce your thoughts from your expression. You are thinking about doing the ritual and paying the price.”

She glanced at Harry. Had he heard? She dreaded his reaction, should he know. He would be hurt, terribly hurt...

Once again the Headmaster shook his head. “He cannot hear us.”

She sighed with relief, then bit her lower lip. “I was just…”

“Miss Granger, it is not worth it.”

“But…” she looked at Harry again.

“Even if it would save his life, would never meeting him again, even after death, be worth it? Would he want you to pay that price?” The Headmaster spoke softly, but intently.

She sighed and slowly shook her head. Harry wouldn’t want this. Not at all.

“You are not the only one faced with such temptation. But as alluring it appears, we have to remind ourselves that some prices are too high.”

“Some are paying them though. Have paid them.”

“Indeed. And I am utterly convinced that they were wrong, and have regretted it ever since.” The Headmaster closed his eyes for a moment, his face showing pain and regrets. She gasped. Had he?

“No, I haven’t. But I knew those who did.”

“The book.” It wasn’t in the room, of course, but she glanced to the shelves anyway.

“Yes.” He sighed. “It is not worth it, Miss Granger. Even if you might consider his life worth the price - and I pray you will never be so foolish - your action would hurt him so badly, so horribly, I would dread what he would become.” His eyes bored into hers. “I trust you understand.”

Shaken, she nodded and wiped some tears off her face with a flick of her wand.

“Besides, your equations so far were fine in my opinion. You’re on the right path - as far as such a ritual can be called ‘right’ - and I’m quite certain you’ll manage to perfect the formula,” he said, smiling encouragingly.

“But will I be done with it before the Dark Lord perfects his ritual?” she asked.

“We can but hope, Miss Granger.”

She had feared that as well. For the next few hours, while Dumbledore checked her formulas, asking questions to clarify a result from time to time and giving advice for the next steps she noted down, she was once again wondering about religion, and life after death.

*****​

Harry Potter watched his lover sleep next to him while the rays of the rising sun crept closer to her face. She was mumbling something he couldn’t make out, but otherwise she looked at peace. Content. Happy. As she should be. As she would be, if not for Voldemort.

He closed his eyes. The next full moon was still weeks away, but he already dreaded it. He was feeling like a werewolf, he thought. He even transformed into a monster, at least in his mind, during the full moon. And no amount of wolfsbane could make it stop. A potion of Dreamless Sleep might prevent the visions, or so Hermione had theorized, but it wasn’t as if they’d ever try that out - they needed to know what the Dark Lord was up to. No matter how painful or disturbing the visions were, no matter how many nightmares he had due to them, Harry wouldn’t try to avoid them. It was the least he could do when Hermione and Dumbledore, Sirius and his girlfriends, or the other Order members were risking their lives in the war.

He brushed a lock of hair that had fallen onto Hermione’s face and caused her to wrinkle her nose in her sleep back behind her ear. She was risking her life, he knew that. He didn’t know how dangerous the ritual she was creating with Dumbledore was, but if it wasn’t dangerous, they’d have finished it by now - or tested it at least. He could ask, but…

He sighed. It was safer not to know too much, even with Occlumency, given his connection to the Dark Lord. Or at least that was a good excuse for not wanting to know what his girlfriend was doing. Because he had a feeling that if he knew, he would try to stop her. And that would hurt her worse than anything else.

“Mhh…” Hermione blinked, still half-asleep.

“Morning,” Harry whispered, bending over to plant a kiss on her brow.

“Morning,” she said. “What time is it?”

He was about to summon his watch when he spotted a big orange furball jumping on the bed. “Time to feed your cat,” he answered instead.

“Crookshanks?”

The half-kneazle meowed loudly, and prodded Hermione’s knee with a paw. The witch groaned and drew her wand. A few spells later the cat was busy emptying his bowl.

“Given his size, he might need a trough instead.”

That earned him a glare from his girlfriend. “He’s on a balanced diet. That’s why I don’t simply have the bowl fill whenever he wants to eat.”

“You end up doing it yourself each time he wants to eat.” Harry snorted when the cat stopped eating and glanced at him. Sometimes he wondered just how much the half-kneazle understood.

“I’m only feeding him in the morning and in the evening, and he knows that well, don’t you, Crookshanks?” Hermione beamed at her cat.

“And at lunch he gets fed table scraps by Ron.”

“What?” Hermione sat up at once, which caused the sheets to slide down, exposing her chest. “I told him to stop that!”

Harry chuckled while he admired the view. “Crookshanks’s pleading eyes are more effective than your angry ones.”

“Hmph.”

He pulled her into his lap and wrapped his arms around her. “Don’t be mad at him. Ron’s not having an easy time.”

She scoffed. “Oh, yes. Handling Lavender must be very stressful.”

“His girlfriend broke up with him without telling him. That hurt him,” Harry defended their friend. Hermione still wasn’t that fond of Lavender, and she rarely spoke of her former roommate without a bit of disdain.

“There’s plenty of other witches he could get to know.” Hermione paused. “They’re not bonding over the Patils’ absence, are they?” She turned to face him, which distracted him for a moment.

Harry wasn’t about to spill his best friend’s secrets, of course. But this wasn’t really a secret. “No. They’re just… not-friends with benefits, I’d say. You know, exploring sex together.”

“Hm.” Hermione pursed her lips. “They might think that, but they could still be falling for each other. As much as people claim it’s all about free love and exploring, I can’t help noticing that there are a lot of couples forming.”

“Short-lived couples,” Harry said. Sometimes very short-lived. Measured in hours rather than days.

Hermione frowned at him, which meant he had made a point. “But Ron’s currently emotionally vulnerable. Lavender could exploit that. You know how she is.”

Harry nodded. He knew how Hermione saw the other girl. Very well even, since she had explained it numerous times. He wouldn’t say that, of course. “Would you prefer it if he was sleeping with Parkinson?”

Hermione chuckled. “Ron Weasley dating Malfoy’s ex…” She grew serious. “I do hope that he doesn’t plan to sleep with her just for that reason.”

“I doubt he plans to sleep with her at all.”

“That’s probably true. Even though she probably would like him to, judging by how eager she is to train and duel with him.” Frowning she added. “Almost as eager as Greengrass is to sleep with you.”

“With us, you mean.”

That earned him another glare. “If she tries to accidentally lose her robes again in training, I’ll accidentally hex her hair off.”

He patted her shoulder, then kissed her. “At least the rest have accepted us.”

Hermione sighed. “They have accepted our relationship. For now. After we graduate, things will change again.”

After Hogwarts they would be no longer children, but adults facing society’s expectations. Harry knew that. “We can deal with that after we have dealt with Voldemort.”

“Yes.”

Both of them were all too aware that they had to survive the Dark Lord first.

*****​

Ron Weasley checked the room’s decorations again. The big floating banner was perfectly placed, slowly turning around itself. Its blinking letters spelled out ‘Happy Birthday, Hermione!’, right over the spot where the cake would be. Colourful ribbons were strung from the ceiling to the walls, and the plates had small name signs next to them… had had small name signs next to them, he realized.

He turned to the main suspect. “Luna!”

“Yes?” The blonde witch looked down from where she seemed to be gluing glitter and cork pieces to the lamps.

“Did you take the name signs?”

“Name signs?” Luna blinked.

“The small signs with the names of the guests on them. They were next to the plates.” Ron almost sighed.

“Oh. I vanished them. I thought those were stand-ins for the guests that you didn’t need anymore.” Luna nodded, then returned back to her task of turning the lamps in the room into… whatever she was planning.

“Why wouldn’t I need them anymore?” Ron kept a lid on his temper.

“Didn’t you just need them to lay out the seating?” Luna blinked again.

“Yes.” Ron wondered where she was going with this.

“Now you know it, so there’s no need anymore for them. They took up space we can use for more dessert instead!” The Ravenclaw beamed at him.

He should have known. “The idea was for the guests to find their own places.”

“Oh. But wouldn’t the name signs confuse them? Since they kind of chose their places already.”

The redhead rubbed his forehead. “That was the idea.”

“You want them to be confused? Why not use a Confundus?” Luna looked at him with apparent surprise.

“No… the idea is that we choose where the guests sit.” By now, Ron wasn’t certain if the whole idea was worth the trouble.

“Oh! If we get to choose then I want to sit next to Hermione!” Luna beamed at him.

Ron gave up. “Alright.” Luna was in rare form today. There was no sense in trying to unravel this; he’d go mad before he succeeded.

“Yay!”

Ron nodded at her, and went to fetch himself a butterbeer. He felt he had earned it. Besides, he had a feeling it was better to open it and donate the cap to Luna, before the witch started to collect the caps from the other bottles.

Next to the buffet, where bottles of all kinds, muggle and magical, were floating in a big tub filled with ice cubes, he spotted Harry. His best friend was checking the selection, or so it seemed.

“So, all set?” he asked, summoning one bottle with his wand.

Harry replaced the bottle. “Everything should be set. Gifts, food and drinks. You have the seating straightened out? Luna was pestering me about it earlier.”

Ron groaned. Outfoxed by Luna. If his brothers knew they’d never stop teasing him. “I’ve compromised,” he said, in a tone that hopefully would keep Harry from asking further questions.

“You’re bringing Lavender as a date?” Harry grabbed a can of Coke himself.

“Sort of. We’re not really dating,” Ron answered. “But she wanted to see the muggle party we’re throwing.” They weren’t - not exclusive, at least.

“Ah.” Harry managed to add a lot of meaning into this sound.

Ron frowned at his friend. “What do you mean?”

“Just wondering… you’ve been with her for almost three weeks now.”

“We’ve not been ‘with each other’. We’re simply having fun together. She’s one of the prettiest witches in our year, after all,” Ron said. And he was a Basilisk Slayer.

“Will you keep claiming that you’re not together in a year as well?” Harry asked, grinning.

Ron rolled his eyes. “We don’t hang out much, apart from, you know. Sleeping together.” Harry nodded. Ron conjured two chairs for them and sat down. “How do I explain it… it’s like this: We have sex, but… I don’t really wonder how we’d fare if we’d marry, nor do I think of having kids with her. I’m not planning anything.” Which was the truth. With Padma, it had been different. Ron wouldn’t call it a serious engagement, but when they had become a couple, he had wondered if they’d marry, how long they’d stay together, how their hypothetical kids would looks like. He hadn’t done anything like that with Lavender.

Harry still looked sceptical, or so Ron thought. He clapped him on the shoulder. “Mate, we’re really just having some fun, nothing more.”

“Are you certain she thinks the same?”

Ron chuckled. “Harry, I’m no expert, but I’ve been in a relationship with the twin sister of her best friend. If she was interested in more than fun, she’d act quite differently.”

“It looked like she acted differently in the last club meeting.”

“Well, I needed a witch-shaped shield to keep some snakes at bay.” Not his proudest moment, Ron knew, but it had been getting a bit much, lately.

Harry chuckled - he understood that plight of Ron, at least. “Parkinson didn’t seem to be impressed though.”

Ron snorted. “Mate, if I ever date her, check me for love potions, polyjuice, and charms.”

Harry laughed, but he also promised. Then the birthday witch arrived, and both went over to greet her, and start the party officially.

*****​

“When you said ‘undercover mission’, I expected something else,” Kenneth Fenbrick muttered to Mathilda Smith while he looked around in the living room of the cottage they were currently living in.

“What did you expect? Another night as courtesans?” The courtesan-turned-spy asked from her seat on the room’s couch, where she was reading a book.

“Well, yes,” the auror admitted. “Instead of playing… bait.” For over a week too!

“We’re not bait. We’re ambushers.” The witch made a swishing motion with her hand, and the book floating in front of her turned a page.

“We’re pretending to be a pair of aurors guarding a valuable informant in a safehouse in order to attract a raiding party of Death Eaters. That makes us bait,” Kenneth said.

“You’re not pretending. You are a pair of aurors guarding a valuable informant - me!” Mathilda said, grinning. “You just wanted to see your partner in a courtesan’s robe, did you?”

He didn’t dignify that with a response.

Unfortunately, according to her grin, she considered his silence answer enough. “Have you told her?”

“What?”

“That you want to see her in a skimpy robe. Or out of a robe.”

He glanced at the door to Bertha’s room. The door was thick, so she shouldn’t have heard their talk so far. He would have preferred a privacy spell, but he’d rather be able to hear screams and warnings, given that they were expecting a Death Eater attack.

Mathilda sighed. “You haven’t, have you? Merlin’s balls! I feel as if I’m back at Hogwarts, dealing with stuttering teenagers!”

“Hey!” He wasn’t a teenager, but a veteran auror. Lots of witches could attest to his experience. And that annoying spy certainly hadn’t been born all experienced and cynical.

“You two are aurors, and we’re in a war. We’re expecting an attack here, even. What are you waiting for?” Mathilda stood up, pushing her floating book to the side with a gesture.

“That’s why. We’re partners, I don’t want to risk that. Certainly not in the middle of a war.” Who else knew her as well as he did? Anyone else would not understand her well enough, and that could get her killed.

“Rubbish. You love her, and she loves you too. Otherwise, she’d have hexed you into a puddle long ago.” Mathilda sniffed.

“Hey!” Kenneth stood up as well. There was a limit to how much abuse he was willing to take.

“I know you pretty well, Ken. You and your type.” She poked him in his chest. “You spent your 6th year chasing any robe you could, and then tried to keep that going in 7th year. Just Hogwarts, nothing serious, right?”

“It wasn’t exactly like that,” he said.

“Close enough for a Blasting Curse. And afterwards, you always had an excuse not to settle down. First auror training, then the irregular schedules, the danger… how am I doing so far?”

She took his silence as acknowledgement, and continued. “And now, suddenly, you realize you’ve been a fool. And you’re afraid your past will be held against you. Too many jokes about witches, hm?”

“No,” he growled. It wasn’t like that.

“Then why don’t you tell her?”

“What’s it to you?” he shot back. “Why do you care so much?”

“I like you two, and I think you shouldn’t waste any more time.”

“Ah.” He swallowed the angry accusation he had been about to utter.

“So, are you going to tell her, or should I talk to her?”

“Ah…”

The door to the bedroom was thrown open and Bertha stormed inside. “The wards are under attack!”

Kenneth had never been so happy about people wanting to kill him.

*****​

Aberforth Dumbledore studied the cottage from his vantage point, on a broom high in the sky and disillusioned. The Death Eaters had taken the bait. Fooling the mole in the Ministry had been easy, but he hadn’t been certain the Dark Lord would be fooled as well. Or consider a “valuable informant” worth the attack - though hinting at her being a werewolf apparently had done the trick. Half a dozen Death Eaters, attacking the wards.

He raised his omnioculars to his eyes and checked again. Even with the nightvision granted by the enchanted device, he couldn’t see anyone else. But six wasn’t enough for such an attack - the Dark Lord’s wands liked overwhelming odds, usually. He’d have to lay down anti-disillusion charms over the area. Those had a rather close range, so he would have to expose himself as well. Better him though, than Iva and her family, or Mathilda. And the two aurors, maybe. They had grown on him like fungus.

He touched the pin on his robe and whispered: “Attack once you see me cast.” Then he put the broom in a dive and descended on the Death Eaters, wand out. He aimed at the Death Eaters attacking the wards first - curse-breakers were a priority target.

“Confringo.”

The earth under the three Death Eaters in the front erupted, throwing them around like ragdolls. While the backlash from the wards ripped into them, he was already casting anti-disillusionment charms over the area near the house. Iva and her band of broom riders were on the move as well, cutting off the escape of the Death Eaters with anti-apparition and anti-portkey jinxes while closing with them.

When he felt his disillusionment fade, he pulled up at once, corkscrewing to provide a more difficult target. Green curses cut through the night, but none came close to hitting him. Someone who could cast that many Killing Curses should be able to aim better, Aberforth thought. He shouldn’t be complaining about his good luck, but something was not right here.

He sent another blasting curse towards the unknown dark wizard, followed by another anti-disillusion charm, then banked and dove down again. His spell revealed another half dozen Death Eaters, all shielded and casting madly - and faster than he had expected.

Spells flew from the cottage, ripping into the curse-breakers still twitching from the ward backlash. More flashes to the sides of the cottage told him that Iva and her wands were engaging the remains of the first Death Eater group. One of the Greek mercenaries flew a bit too low and became visible. He didn’t evade quickly enough, and of the half a dozen curses shot at him, one clipped his broom, blowing it up. The man - Deion - crashed into the ground, and before he could get up or cast anything, he was hit by a Killing Curse and dropped dead.

Aberforth flew towards that second group again, sending more spells at them. One Blasting Curse exploded in their midst, but to his surprise, their shields held, and more curses flew at him. He pulled to the left, and dove behind the cottage, touching the pin again. “Be careful! They seem to be more skilled than we expected.”

“I noticed,” came the terse answer from Iva. “We’ll get them though.”

The girl was bent on avenging her cousin, Aberforth realized, and cursed under his breath. He wouldn’t be able to face Lea again, if her granddaughter died under his command. But with all those killing curses thrown around, the air was rapidly becoming too dangerous.

He landed and shrunk his broom while making haste to the front of the cottage, towards the dark wizards holding out. His blasting curse had at least destroyed their cover and thrown their formation off - and they hadn’t reformed yet. Again, a weird lapse for wizards able to cast so many dark curses in so little time… the Dark Lord must have improved his cursed wands again, he concluded. He addressed his allies once again: “They can cast very well, but they are not too experienced.”

Then he turned around the cottages corner, left the wards, and attacked again. Three piercing curses ripped into the first wizard’s shield, shattering it. The fourth was stopped by the man’s robe. He was already recasting his Shield Charm, but Aberforth had managed to hit him with a curse before the shimmering blue field surrounded the Death Eater again, and the dark wizard started to boil alive inside his shield while his blood heated up. Apparently, the wands didn’t bestow the knowledge of counter-curses.

His attack had given his position away though, and the remaining five Death Eaters did their best to avenge their ally. He barely managed to raise a wall made of earth to block several Killing Curses and a variety of other dark spells, and his own shield was battered by fragments from the exploding wall. He transfigured the debris into another wall, which was rapidly crumbling under the assault from dozens of spells as well. How fast could they cast?

Aberforth conjured five metal disks, each large enough to hide behind, and fell further back. If he could reach the cottage and its wards… It was a long dash behind him though, and he wasn’t young anymore. He could die here, easily, he realized. Killed by a bunch of fools wielding cursed wands.

He snarled, and banished the remains of his latest wall towards the Death Eaters, peppering their shields, but more importantly, distracting them long enough to transfigure the debris around them into a dense cloud of dust. Another flick of his wand added a green gas to the mix. He wasn’t the alchemist Albus was, but he knew enough to get by.

He didn’t have to ignite the dust cloud - one of the Death Eaters did that himself, setting off the dust explosion. The Death Eaters vanished in a giant fireball, and the shockwave almost knocked him down. Above him, Iva’s broom riders were blown back by the force of the explosion, but didn’t look seriously hurt.

“Oipho! What was that?” Iva asked through their link.

“Just a bit of applied alchemy,” he answered.

The fireball dissipated, revealing the remains of the Death Eaters. None of them were moving, though only one of them looked crushed and burned. Aberforth and Iva’s wands lost no time ensuring that even if the dark wizards were still alive, they’d not be able to fight on. Behind them, the two aurors and Mathilda emerged from the cottage.

“Two of them are still alive, and we captured two more trying to flee,” Iva reported.

Aberforth nodded. They had the prisoners Albus had wanted. He dug around for a vial of veritaserum in his robe’s pocket. The scum needed to be interrogated, and fast, before their knowledge about the Dark Lord’s plans and orders became obsolete.

*****​

“So, Voldemort has made even better cursed wands than he had, and Greyback has left Britain for an unknown destination, on the Dark Lord’s order,” Albus Dumbledore summed up Aberforth’s report of the information he had gathered from their prisoners.

“Yes. He’s become better at keeping his secrets - or all of his wands who knew more are hiding, or dead,” his brother said. “I’m betting on the last. We hit him hard, and crippled his recruiting attempts.”

Albus nodded. He wouldn’t state it with such pride or certainty, but the Dark Lord had lost many of his followers. “But to send Greyback away… leaving his most dedicated followers, the werewolves, without their leader. That indicates a rather important task.”

“He was pretty quick to launch an attack on the supposed location of an informant when we hinted that it was Caldwell or Umbridge. Maybe he sent Greyback to hunt the two down.” Aberforth shrugged. “That monster will surface sooner rather than later. He’s too violent to keep a low profile.”

“Indeed. So… where would Voldemort send him? Where would Greyback fit in, and not draw our attention and subsequent attempts to neutralize him?” Albus smiled.

Aberforth scowled. “Always the teacher, are you? Even if talking to people who haven’t been students in decades.”

Albus would have liked to remark that wise wizards and witches never stopped learning, but his brother was already rather angry, and wouldn’t appreciate such advice. Instead he spread his hands in apology. “I am sorry. Old habits die hard.”

Aberforth scoffed. “Don’t bother. I don’t expect you to change, or care. So… you think Greyback is in Scandinavia?”

The Headmaster nodded. “Since the Dark Lord has extensively recruited werewolves, helped by the general attitude towards them in Britain, it would make sense for him to recruit more of them - especially since Scandinavia has no lack of experienced fighters among its werewolf population. Further, with them actively encouraging immigration by werewolves, a number of them have British roots, and might wish to return to fight against a country that all but threw them out.”

Aberforth scoffed. “It’s not as if werewolves have a monopoly of being mistreated and scorned. That’s no excuse for joining the Dark Lord.”

Albus didn’t take the bait. His brother was a bit too protective of his shady friends, but reminding him of it would only cause a row. “It was not meant as an excuse, but as an explanation,” he said instead.

“Of course,” Aberforth said, his tone belying his words. “So… do you want me to hunt him down for you?”

“Have you been in Magical Scandinavia before?”

Aberforth shrugged. “Once, a few decades ago.”

Albus would prefer to have Aberforth in Britain, considering the most distressing news about those new wands Voldemort was using. To think they were so powerful as to give his brother trouble… But on the other hand, letting the Dark Lord swell his ranks with werewolves, experienced werewolves even, would be far worse. Especially, if those new recruits received those new wands as well. He nodded. “Yes, please.”

“Alright. Time to bag a bounty.”

*****​

Paige Caldwell scowled when she returned to the tent she and Umbridge were renting. Ejnar had never mentioned just how expensive Oslo was. It was certainly far removed from the rural, simple life portrayed in all the stories werewolves heard. If not for buying muggle food and stretching it with charms, they’d have gone broke already. And they could only afford that thanks to the money they had taken from the muggle owner of the boat that had brought them here. They could keep stealing from muggles, if things became desperate, but they wouldn’t be able to keep doing so forever.

She passed a werewolf on the way - the fur on his outer robe identified him as such, just as the heavy gold chain he was wearing made it very likely that he was a gothi, a village leader. Paige was wearing fur on her robes as well - it felt very nice to see others defer to her, even if they were just wizards.

“Are you looking for a place to belong?”

The question from the gothi surprised her. “Pardon?”

“You look and smell like a foreigner. Are you looking for a place to belong, a pack to join?”

When she had first met Ejnar, she had thought his direct, blunt manner was attractive. No beating around the bush, no veiled insults. She knew better now. The manners were different, but people were people.

“I’m still trying to get acclimated,” she answered, in a hopefully respectful and polite tone without appearing weak. “I haven’t decided yet if this is the country for me.”

“You’re a werewolf. We are the progeny of Odin’s wolves. Where else would you be at home than here?” The man mustered her. “Our kind is persecuted in every country but this one. It’s a safe haven for you, and for your children.”

“I don’t have children.”

“You will, sooner or later. It’s your nature.”

Paige didn’t agree, but contradicting the pompous wolf would serve no purpose. “I haven’t decided yet where I want to live,” she said again.

“Once you do, send me a message,” the man said, “I’m Snorre Bloodclaw.”

Paige acted as if the name meant anything to her. Apparently satisfied, he nodded, and walked away. Bloodclaw… she had no idea if that was a small village with delusions of grandeur, or a powerful pack. There were just too many small villages and communities in this country.

“I’m back,” she said, when she entered their tent.

Umbridge looked up from the table in the middle, where she had been reading a newspaper, nodding at her. It was almost a civil greeting, considering the circumstances.

Paige saw the witch was reading the Daily Prophet though, and she growled. “Didn’t we agree that buying the Prophet is too dangerous?”

“I didn’t buy this issue. I found it,” Umbridge claimed.

Paige wasn’t certain if she believed that, but there was no way to disprove it, so she growled once more, and then started to place the food she had bought in the pantry. “We’re running out of money,” she said when she had finished.

Umbridge shrugged. “We will have to find work then. As primitive as the people here are, it shouldn’t be too hard to find well-paid employment.”

“They’re not primitive. They’re just different,” Paige said. “They claim their customs - forn sidr - are ancient, dating back thousands of years.”

Umbridge scoffed. “Everyone knows the norsemen came centuries after Merlin.”

“To Britain, maybe. They did not exactly appear out of thin air,” Paige argued.

“They might as well have,” the witch shot back.

Paige didn’t feel like arguing. “We still need money. We can’t keep stealing from muggles, sooner or later the local government will catch up.”

Umbridge, to Paige’s surprise, nodded simply. “And what kind of work do you have in mind?”

The werewolf shrugged. Most of the work offered was menial, and badly paid - like waitressing. The better paid work was usually offered to friends and family, not foreigners. Probably, she thought with a touch of paranoia, to make more werewolf immigrants join a village. “There isn’t much of a selection for us, and half of it we can’t or won’t do.”

Umbridge nodded. The British Ministry was looking for two courtesans, after all.

“So, that leaves one kind of work, always in demand.”

*****​

“Stupefy!” Pansy Parkinson shouted while dodging under Weasley’s Disarming Charm. While the red spell flew towards her opponent - and would miss, she could tell - she sent a few more spells at him as well, each time shouting the incantation. She promptly followed them with a whispered Disarming Curse.

Unfortunately, her opponent had either expected such a ploy, or was lucky - Weasley’s shield collapsed under the jinxes and hexes that hit it, but he was running, and the Disarming Charm went wide. Snarling, she sent another stunner at him, not bothering to shout now, but he had recast his Shield Charm already, and the stunner was absorbed.

Trusting her own shield, she suddenly charged ahead, directly at the redhead, and kept casting. The closer they were, the less they’d be able to dodge. It wasn’t a valid dueling move - but in a real fight, anything went.

If that surprised Weasley, then he didn’t show it. He kept casting at her, and started to circle her - or tried to. Her shield flared with the impact of another stunner, and was about to break when she jumped at him.

Both Shield Charms crashed into each other, and shattered, and then Pansy was smashing into him, just like Greg had taught her. Her left hand sought his wand while she drew her own back, to point-cast. He caught her wand hand, at the wrist, and managed to pull his own out of her reach. He couldn’t cast that way though, and she kneed him in the groin - only to find out that his robe had special enchantments to protect that area. The pain flaring up in her knee made her yelp, and distracted her enough so Weasley could make her drop her own wand, and point his own at her head. He didn’t cast though, just grinned.

“I win.”

“You win,” she answered, panting from exertion, and baring her own teeth in a grin.

For a second, the two stared at each other, still caught up in their duel. Pansy licked her lips, suddenly uncertain what to say.

“Are you going to make out here on the floor?” Greengrass’s dumb question broke the spell, and Pansy rolled off Weasley.

“Good fight.”

“Indeed. You surprised me and almost had me.”

Pansy snorted. “I’m certain you had a few more tricks up your sleeve.” She knew just how sneaky the twins were.

“Maybe.” He stood up and offered her his hand. She was tempted to stand up without his help, but that would have been rude, no matter how much she wanted to.

She would duel Greengrass though, right after she had recovered from this bout.

*****​

“It’s quite cold here,” Dolores Umbridge commented. She wasn’t freezing - her robes protected against colder temperatures - but the contrast to Oslo was surprising. Or maybe not that surprising, seeing as they were deep in the central forests of Scandinavia.

“Still no snow though,” the werewolf said.

They had taken a portkey to a small village, where someone was said to be recruiting wands for a small campaign. The sums bandied around in Oslo had been enough of an incentive to visit despite the distance - someone had deep pockets. And it would allow them to see just how life was in those magical villages.

So far Dolores was not impressed. Small, wooden houses, clustered around a big one - a longhouse, Paige called it - with wooden statues depicting the norse gods in front of or at least near each entrance. Carved wooden statues, without any magical enhancement. Primitive.

“The meeting is in the longhouse. The gothi, the village leader and packleader, will be there.” The werewolf said.

Dolores snorted. “And the recruiter?”

“Will be there as well. Though I suspect they are one and the same.”

Dolores scoffed. “I doubt anyone living in such a hovel could afford such rates.

The bitch frowned at her. “You’ve been here for weeks, and you still can’t see past appearances?”

Dolores glared back, then looked away. “If they have so much gold, why don’t they improve their homes before conquering another?”

“Habit. Tradition. They could have improved their homes too, just not as ostentatious as you’re used to.”

“Hardly.” She wasn’t ostentatious at all, Dolores thought.

The bitch shook her head, but dropped the argument. “Let’s go inside”.

The longhouse looked as primitive inside as it looked from the outside. They were even cooking a deer or something over an open fire - Dolores thought she could count herself lucky they didn’t expect their guests to eat raw meat.

“We won’t starve at least,” the witch said. Of course the beast would be hungry, especially with the full moon approaching.

Dolores scoffed again. The longhouse was filling up, and as far as she could tell, most of those inside were not from here. “I wonder why they didn’t hold the meeting in Oslo.”

The werewolf shrugged. “There are many possible reasons. Too public, maybe, or too close to the muggles.”

“That’s two, not many.” Dolores said.

The bitch growled briefly, then managed to control herself and utter: “Let’s sit down. It should start soon.”

They sat down at the next free spot at the long table. Dolores was stared at by several wizards and witches, and stared back until they looked away. “Primitives”, she muttered once again.

“Rustic and traditional,” the other witch corrected her. “We’re growing closer to the full moon, and we’ll be quite aggressive.

“I know.” Dolores was about to comment on the time when she noticed that the werewolf was sniffing the air and growing tense. “What’s wrong?”

“I know this… damn! We need to get out. Now!” She got up and pulled on Dolores’ hand.

“Why?”

“I know that werewolf there. He was with Greyback.” The werewolf said.

Before they reached the door, it was opened from the outside, and a huge figure dressed all in black filled it out. “Greyback….” the werewolf whispered.

“Paige! And Umbridge! The Dark Lord will be so pleased!” The infamous werewolf leader crowed. “Take them!”

With mercenaries behind them, and a monster in front of them, blocking the way out of this trap, Dolores didn’t hesitate. Her wand whipped up and she sent a piercing spell right at Greyback.

The old werewolf was not so easily hit though. He dropped to the floor, the spell going wide, then jumped at Paige as if both were already transformed. Dolores was about to move into a better position to hex the beast in the back, when more werewolves entered.

“Avada Kedavra!” Her Killing Curse hit the first, and he fell down, dead.

That didn’t stop the next one, who cast at her. “Diffindo!”

Dolores felt the spell hit her, but her robe stopped it, before she blasted the werewolf and half the door to pieces. “Bombarda”.

The door and werewolf were blown away in the explosion, but the walls and roof held. Another werewolf was on the ground, dazed. The way was free to escape!

She turned to Caldwell, who was grappling like a muggle with her foe. The two werewolves were rolling over the floor, biting and clawing at each other. And the locals, as well as other visitors were standing up and moving towards them.

They had to flee, now, or they’d be killed!

She aimed her wand at Greyback, but she couldn’t cast without risking to hit Caldwell by accident - and that would have been unacceptable. Greyback had no such troubles though, and one of his blows hit Caldwell’s head, driving it into the stone floor and dazing her. Then he charged at Dolores.

“Diffindo! Confringo!” The witch fought desperately, but the Cutting Curse was absorbed by the beast’s robe, and he ducked under the Blasting Curse, cast at an angle so it would not threaten Caldwell.

Then he was on her, driving one fist into her stomach. Dolores was thrown back several yards and fell to the ground. Pain filled her abdomen. She saw him raise his blood-covered claws, and realized it was her blood. She was bleeding. Heavily. She couldn’t die though. She had to save Caldwell!

She didn’t try to get up, she simply pointed her wand at Greyback.

“Imperio! Stand still!”

The monster froze, claw still raised.

“Avada Kedavra!”

The green spell hit the werewolf, and he collapsed. Dolores smiled, blood running down her lips. She was hurt worse than she thought. But Caldwell still needed her, even though she was getting up, because the mob that had been formed was still there, and might not remain passive much longer.

“Umbridge! You’re bleeding!”

“I know,” she managed to say, struggling to stand up. Caldwell pulled her to her feet just as the crowd started shouting.

“She used two Unforgivables!”

“She killed Greyback!”

“She violated Hospitality!”

Dolores blinked, feeling light-headed. Caldwell had to get away, had to reach the edge of the anti-apparition wards on the house. But she’d never make it with Dolores dragging her down and a mob behind her.

There was a way to solve both problems at once though. “Run!” she gasped. “Run and apparate!”

The stupid werewolf tried to grab her instead of fleeing. She had a simple solution for that as well.

“Imperio! Apparate away!”

Caldwell turned and started to run. That seemed to galvanize the mob to rush forward.

Dolores smiled while she pointed her wand at the ground next to her feet. Her debt would be paid.

“Bombarda Maxima!”


Chapter 53: Blood and Ashes

 

Chapter 53: Blood and Ashes

The Dark Lord Voldemort was enraged. Fenrir Greyback dead! Killed by a traitor even! He threw the Daily Prophet down on his desk and took a deep breath. He couldn’t let his rage rule him. He was a wizard, a genius! Not some animal ruled by emotions, like werewolves. Closing his eyes, he forced himself to calm down.

It was no catastrophe. Greyback had become far too impulsive, far too demanding lately. Far too arrogant as well. He would have had to be disposed of soon anyway. And his death at the wand of a British witch would be laid at the feet of his enemies. Especially with the way the Daily Prophet celebrated it. The werewolves would blame the Ministry, not a dead witch.

But that didn’t solve his need for more people. Or Monsters. Curse fodder. The mercenaries on the continent were too cowardly, or too greedy. They thought he was losing the war, and demanded outrageous rates, and would desert him at the first opportunity. Even Hathaway’s gold won’t go far in those circumstances.

He could create more Inferi, but that was not just time-consuming, but required corpses. Fresh corpses. Unlike Grindelwald, he couldn’t use muggle corpses either - without a muggle war in Europe to hide his actions, the ICW would become involved if he gathered enough muggles for an army of inferi. Or tried to smuggle Inferi created in Africa to Britain.

He could send the Dementors out, but that would mean they’d have less impact when he needed them to scare his enemies into hiding behind their wards. And after they disobeyed, he had lost his trust in them.

No, the Scandinavian werewolves were still his best bet. Numerous, aggressive, quick to fight, and disposable. He would have to send out one of the more reasonable werewolves in his ranks to take up Greyback’s mission, but… something more might be needed to drive up recruitment. The Scandinavians were outraged at the treatment werewolves received in Britain, but so far their responses had not been much worse than in the years before the war. Harsher laws alone didn’t seem enough to prod them into action, and the death of a foreigner might not be enough either. They might, in private, even welcome such measures, since it tended to drive up immigration.

Voldemort would have to create a reason to not only outrage, but enrage the beasts, if he wanted them to flock to his banner. He paced in his office, thinking. Animals were ruled by their instincts. And there was one instinct dominating them.

Smiling, the Dark Lord sat down at his desk again. He had plans to make.

*****​

The longhouse exploded behind her. Stone fragments and wooden splinters hit her, knocking her down. She tried to get up, to flee, to reach the edge of the anti-apparition wards, but her legs would not respond. Then the pain and blood came. Her left leg was crushed beneath a severed beam, pinning her in place. She was bleeding from several wounds and her right eye wouldn’t open… or was gone. Her wand… she needed her wand!. It was lying on the ground just beyond her reach, no matter how much she stretched. Just when she touched it with the tip of her fingers, a boot came down on it, breaking it and crushing her hand. She was still screaming in pain when the boot smashed into her chest, breaking her ribs. Again and again, until she was coughing blood and struggling to breathe.

Then she heard the howls. Werewolves. It wasn’t the full moon… But why hadn’t she transformed? The howls grew louder, the wolves were coming closer. All that blood must be driving them into a frenzy. They would… they would…

Paige Caldwell woke up with a scream. Another nightmare. She was shaking, and told herself that she hadn’t been caught. Hadn’t been killed. The longhouse had exploded, and that had kept the others from pursuing her. She had managed to leave the village, and apparate away.

She closed her eyes, sitting up on the bed of the muggle vacation home she had broken into a few days ago until she didn’t feel as if she had been running for hours anymore. She was safe, the werewolf told herself. No one knew where she was. No one would find her.

But she was hurt. The wounds she had suffered in her fight with Greyback hadn’t healed yet. Despite the potions she had used. The bandages were bloody again, though less than the day before. A cleaning spell fixed them up.

She stood up and padded on bare feet to the kitchen. There was still some food left in the muggle ice box. But that was it - the house had no pantry. Sooner or later she would have to go out and find some food. But more importantly, she would have to prepare for the full moon. She had no Wolfsbane left, and if she ran free while transformed, she’d be caught.

Sitting down and munching on canned meat, she shivered. If not for Umbridge, she’d be dead. The witch had sacrificed herself for Paige. And now she was all alone.

*****​

“Good day, Mister Perriwinkle and Miss Grey.” Albus Dumbledore nodded at the two Hit-Wizards standing guard outside the office of the Minister for Magic while he entered for his meeting with Cornelius and Amelia. “Hello, Cornelius.”

“Albus! Have a seat. Some tea?” the Minister stood up to shake his hand, then summoned a tea service from the table in the corner of his office. He had lost some weight, Albus noted, but looked healthy otherwise. And confident.

“With pleasure.” Albus pointed at one cup, and it filled and floated towards him, hovering at his side. Before he could take a sip, Amelia entered as well. The Head of the DMLE looked determined, but stressed. Unsurprising, with so much of the war effort weighing on her shoulders.

“Cornelius, Albus.” The witch nodded at them both and sat down. “So, what did you want to discuss?” she asked the Headmaster, obviously unwilling to partake in idle chat.

He could oblige her. “I have concerns about the policy towards werewolves in Britain,” Albus said. “The growing hostility against them, born from the rather paranoid fear of those unfortunate individuals affected by the curse, keeps driving many of them into the arms of Voldemort. The laws that were recently passed do make the situation even worse.” ‘Protective custody’ was the term used in the proposals, but it effectively meant that any werewolf could be locked up if they represented a danger to the public - which just about everyone did, according to the law.

Cornelius lost his smile. “Albus… the public demands action. They are afraid of those dark creatures, and would lose faith in the Ministry if we ignored their concerns. The scandal in the Wizengamot shocked many people - if not even our parliament is safe, no one is safe.” The Minister spread his hands. “If the Ministry does nothing, the people would hunt them down themselves. You know how ugly that would turn, especially in the middle of a war.”

Albus knew that, very well, but he shook his head. “And yet those laws and policies create and perpetuate the very problem they are supposed to address. They help the Dark Lord far more than they protect the public since they facilitate his recruiting efforts.”

Amelia was frowning. “Werewolves are among the most numerous followers of the Dark Lord, and responsible for many crimes and atrocities. Even before those new laws were passed, they flocked to him.” She looked straight at him. “I do not deny that those new laws make the situation worse, with regards to that, but at the same time, they allow us to prevent werewolves from joining Voldemort.”

“By locking them up as if they already were criminals,” Albus said.

Amelia had the grace to flinch slightly, but she didn’t budge. Albus hadn’t expected her to. She wouldn’t break or ignore the law. Not for werewolves. Cornelius was generally more flexible, but he also craved the approval of the public. The Headmaster sighed. “There’s also the international situation to consider.”

That made Cornelius’s eyes widen. “The Scandinavians? What have you heard from your man there?”

Albus didn’t bother correcting the Minister’s assumption that his envoy - Aberforth would curse him, should he hear that - was responsible for the demise of Greyback. And his brother was currently in Scandinavia. “Not surprisingly, the Scandinavians are very concerned, even outraged, about the recent changes. This despite the fact that more British werewolves have started to emigrate.”

“Cursed werewolf pets,” Cornelius muttered under his breath. Louder, he said: “They have been ‘outraged’ about our treatment of werewolves for decades. Is there any chance they’ll actually attack us?”

Albus shook his head. “Unless things grow even worse, I doubt it. For all their bluster and eagerness to do battle, the Scandinavians haven’t been involved in a war since Grindelwald, and their forces lack the experience our aurors and Hit-Wizards have. Although individuals will be moved to join the Dark Lord in an attempt to strike back at what they see as us oppressing their kin.”

“We can handle a few more werewolves fighting for the Dark Lord,” Amelia stated. “More than a few, even.”

Albus knew she was correct, but Britain would also lose more witches and wizards. And in battles that could be avoided. “While I do not doubt the skill and courage of our wands, I also think that it would be better if they didn’t fight battles that could be avoided with a more gentle touch towards werewolves.”

Amelia frowned. “Too many Werewolves swelled the Dark Lord’s numbers even before the latest laws restricting them were passed. They’d still join him even if we repealed those laws right now.”

“We’d be seen as weak, and animals attack the weak,” Cornelius added, shaking his head. “Once the Dark Lord and his followers have been dealt with, we can take another look at those laws. With that threat to Britain gone, the people will be more receptive to such changes.”

“Though we’ll not let any supporter of Voldemort escape justice.” Amelia’s expression clearly told Albus that this time, unlike after the end of the first war, there wouldn’t be much if any leniency. He couldn’t help but wonder whether things would be different if the Dark Lord’s followers were still mostly composed of pureblood wizards and witches. No, Amelia was not the most gentle or merciful witch, but she was no bigot. She would uphold the law, no matter what.

Sighing, he stood up. He wouldn’t succeed with his proposal. “Well, I still think this is a mistake, but Cornelius is correct, we cannot afford to show division right now.” The Minister had said something else, but Albus didn’t think he’d correct him.

But once Voldemort was beaten, those laws would be repealed. Albus would see to it.

*****​

The Dark Lord Voldemort, using polyjuice to disguise himself, wandered through Diagon Alley. If those sheep knew that the Dark Lord himself walked among them, able to snuff out their pathetic lives without effort… He passed two red-robed Aurors on patrol, giving them no more care than the two children staring at the Quidditch Supplies’ display. They mattered about as much to him. Even if he should be revealed, the odds of the Ministry’s forces being able to stop him, much less kill him, before he could leave were slim. Only one wizard was close to his equal, after all. And the old man would not rush into action, the incident at Hathaway’s had shown that. Voldemort would have ample time to leave.

But he wasn’t here for a mere demonstration of his power. He was here to implement his latest plan. He couldn’t trust anyone else with this, of course. Not even his Bella. As devoted as she was, she was a bit too impulsive for this kind of task. Too passionate where a cool head was required. He smiled, knowing she would be waiting anxiously for his return.

Then he drew his wand. To someone looking at him, it would appear as if he was using it to levitate a snack next to his head, and playing around with it a bit. In reality, the cauldron cake was charmed to react to his wand’s movement, masking his casting. Another charm would carry his whispers to a target’s ear.

Smiling broadly, he started to cast.

“Imperio!”

*****​

Kenneth Fenbrick watched the clock on the wall on their office. Still another 30 minutes until their shift ended. He felt a bit nervous. This evening, he’d confess - talk to - his partner, Bertha Limmington during dinner. About his feelings for her. The two had started to take their meals together more often. He didn’t remember how it had begun, but lately, they ate dinner together more often than not. And they didn’t talk about business nearly as often. A good sign, the Auror thought. Even or especially if Bertha made fun of him.

Ten more minutes. He wasn’t quite biting his nails, but he was using his wand to banish crumpled paper aeroplanes at flying paper aeroplanes.

“Are you bored?”

He glanced over at Bertha, who was dutifully writing their report of today’s investigation - nothing suspicious found in the shop they had searched and buried the slightly guilty feeling. “Just target practise,” he said, with a cheeky smile. It had once impressed an instructor enough to let him get away with having slacked off, but more often, it had caused him additional trouble.

Bertha shook her head and sighed. “I’m certain that if we’re attacked by paper aeroplanes, you’ll rise to the occasion without trouble.”

He wasn’t certain if she was angry with him or not, but that had been a joke. Grinning, he answered: “Oh, some of those aeroplanes are dangerous… they carry orders, or worse, summons to a meeting!”

“You’re not really using official memos for this, are you?” She asked, lifting an eyebrow.

“Well…” He wasn’t, of course, but it was fun to fake it.

The alert interrupted him. Bones’s voice rang through the entire floor. “All Wands, report to the floo central. A mob is attacking the Werewolf Holding Center!”

“Merlin’s balls!” Kenneth cursed as he jumped to his feet and ordered his robe closed with a flick of his wand. Just five more minutes… He glanced at his partner, whose earlier mirth - well-hidden of course - had been replaced by the cool professionalism everyone else thought was her real self. She briefly nodded to him while opening the door. Duty called.

*****​

The Dark Lord Voldemort smiled when he saw the Werewolf Holding Center getting pelted with spells from several dozen wizards and witches. He hadn’t imperiused even half of them; the rest had followed them on their own. That would make the whole incident look even more convincing.

Though a mob just attacking the building wasn’t enough for his goals. He needed more. And he would provide it. Disillusioned, he started on the wards. The building was new, and the wards were still weak. Barely above an average home’s. He broke through them in a minute, then turned his attention to the main entrance. The doors were spelled to resist damage, but once again, not strong enough. His Blasting Curse blew them away and showered the guards and employees behind them with splinters.

A roar went through the mob, and the first rank started to advance. A Hit-Wizard stepped into the breach, wand flashing. One of the first attackers fell, bleeding. Voldemort smiled widely - he couldn’t have planned this any better. He killed the guard with a piercing curse, then shouted: “Get the werewolves and the werewolf lovers!”

The mob took the cry up, and surged forward. Voldemort dropped his disillusion spell and led a dozen of them to the holding cells. He had a fire to start.

*****​

When Kenneth Fenbrick stepped out of the floo in the Werewolf Holding Center, he heard screams and explosions, and smelled smoke. It looked like part of the building was burning. The Auror cursed. “How could a mob have broken through the wards so quickly? Was everyone asleep on their post?” He moved to the door, after a squad of Hit-Wizards who had, in their typical fashion, charged ahead.

“Unlikely,” Bertha Limmington said, stepping to his side. Both ignored the shaking clerk at the wall. He didn’t look like he could remember his own name right now, much less provide useful information.

“Which means, there’s bound to be a couple of wands in this mess who know how to fight.” Kenneth ground his teeth. They could either hit everyone who pointed a wand at them as hard as possible, possibly killing a few idiots who just followed the rest, or they’d risk getting killed themselves after underestimating a dark wizard or witch. Great.

They left the floo room, and entered a madhouse. He couldn’t see where the Hit-Wizards in front of him had gone. Several bodies lay on the ground, Both Ministry employees and civilians. The stench of smoke grew stronger, and Kenneth realized that it smelled like burning flesh. “Merlin…”

“They have reached the holding cells then. We have to hurry.” Bertha looked grim - for her.

Kenneth nodded, and turned to the aurors and Hit-Wizards behind him. “Let’s go!” As expected, the Hit-Wizards behind him charged ahead. Probably trying to show up the aurors. Kenneth didn’t mind. Better them than him when it came to soaking up curses.

Their ad-hoc group descended the main stairs, where another body lay. That had been a werewolf, or had been mistaken for one - at least Kenneth hoped the mob wouldn’t have treated a Ministry guard like this.

The entrance to the cell block was partially covered by smoke now, and the screaming had grown louder - and more desperate. Kenneth cast a Bubblehead Charm. He didn’t check if Bertha followed his example; she would have done it already. From ahead, spells flew at them, one striking the shield of a Hit-Wizard.

“Death to the werewolves and the werewolf lovers!” Someone screamed so loud, he must have used an Amplifying Charm. A dozen voices took up the scream though. Jenkins, a new auror, muttered. “Hecate have mercy! There are children in there!”

One of the Hit-Wizards fired a curse at the entrance, and muttered. “Cubs you mean.” Kenneth didn’t think it was funny, but half the group laughed. Then a dozen screaming civilians charged them, and no one was laughing anymore.

Kenneth cast a Piercing Curse at one wizard wildly sending curses at them, and his spell went straight through the man’s shield, hitting him in the shoulder. His follow-up stunner hit as well, but so did a Cutting Curse from Jenkins.

The other charging idiots didn’t fare any better. The Hit-Wizards didn’t even bother with stunners, and the aurors in their group were obviously not taking any chances. “Bloody mess,” Kenneth muttered. “Jenkins, try to save the ones still alive. The rest of you - charge!”

They entered the cell block, and Kenneth felt as if his blood froze in his veins. That was no ordinary fire, that was Fiendfyre! Someone had cast Fiendfyre on the cells closest to the entrance, and it was making its way through the cells. The cells holding werewolves! Children among them! They were screaming, begging for help, but Kenneth knew they couldn’t stop the cursed fire in time to save them. Just then, the fire entered another cell. The two men inside pressed themselves against the bars of the door in a futile attempt to escape. The flames reached out to them, set them ablaze, and they screamed as they burned to death.

“We need to get through the wall from the other side!” Bertha yelled, shaking Kenneth out of his daze.

“Yes!” Kenneth grabbed two Hit-Wizards. They’d not be able to do anything against the fire anyway, but they’d be able to blast a wall just fine.

The small group ran up the stairs again, then towards the main entrance. It had been blasted apart from the outside and the two guards there - grey-robed Hit-Wizards - had been killed. That hadn’t been the work of those idiots they had just taken down.

Kenneth was panting when they stopped at the other side of the building. Bertha glanced from one corner to the other, then pointed her wand at the wall in the middle. “Aim for this point.”

Kenneth nodded. He trusted his partner to pick the right spot. She was a Ravenclaw through and through.

“Confringo!”

“Reducto!”

The two Hit-Wizards had hesitated, but followed their example.

“Reducto!”

“Bombarda!”

The wall was solid, and not all the wards strengthening it had been dissolved. It took three salvoes until it was breached. At once smoke started to rise from the hole, and they heard screams. Kenneth charged ahead this time, jumping down to the cell block’s floor. The fire had claimed two more cells on each side. Eight more people dead. He didn’t want to think of how many had already burned to death. He had to save the living. “Reducto!” His spell blew the door off the cell closest to the fire. The two witches there, ran out, shaking and in panic. “Levitate them up!” he yelled at the Hit-Wizards while aiming at the next door.

Bertha opened the cell on the other side. “Alohomora!”

So the cells hadn’t been spelled against the Unlocking Charm. Kenneth would have complained about the lax standards, if he hadn’t been busy opening the remaining cells. Soon two dozen werewolves, five children among them, were crowding the end of the cell block’s hallway, trying to climb up while the Hit-Wizards pulled them up with Levitation Charms on their clothes.

And the Fiendfyre was getting closer. Kenneth could feel the heat now. “Why’s it advancing through stone and metal?” he asked while casting Aguamenti. Bertha joined him. The water didn’t do much, but it slowed the fire down somewhat.

“It must have been cast by an exceptionally strong wizard,” Bertha explained, and Kenneth thought he detect more than a hint of fear in her voice. He took out his broom and was about to unshrink it. She stopped him though. “It’ll create a stampede towards us.”

“We’re running out of time,” he said as the fire filled another two cells. Behind them, the werewolves had grabbed the children and thrown them up. Another was pressed against the wall, giving the rest a leg up. Half a dozen remained, and the fire was closing. The hole was too small, he realized. And the wards on the wall prevented them from transfiguring it to create stairs.

Two more werewolves were pulled up, one was levitated. Three left, and Kenneth and his partner. The fire reached the last cells, and started towards them. Kenneth unshrunk his broom, grabbed Bertha, and mounted it. As he started to fly up, he saw that the werewolf at the wall was just pushing up the last one to safety. Kenneth didn’t look when he raced up, to the hole, barely evading the tendrils of flame reaching for him and Bertha.

“Wingardium Leviosa!”

He glanced back and saw Bertha had managed to lift the last one, the one who had pushed so many others up, right before the flames would have reached him.

For a moment, Kenneth was elated. They had done it! Then he saw the threadbare robe of the werewolf rip. The tattered remains flew towards Bertha, still pulled by her spell, while the man started to fall. He was swallowed by the blaze that was now filling the entire cell block before he could scream.

*****​

Kenneth landed on the grass, near the rescued werewolves. It was far enough from the wall that he didn’t feel the heat anymore. He felt devastated. To fail at saving that man, who had saved so many others, hit harder than failing to save all those poor bastards who had burned to death, trapped in their cells. They had been so close… he was certain he’d not forget the expression on the man’s face as he fell to his death for a long time.

Bertha was feeling worse though, he could tell. She was a perfectionist, she would be berating herself for not repairing the man’s robes before levitating them. Even though that would have cost so much time, the Fiendfyre would have reached him before she could have cast the Levitation Charm. And yet she would still blame herself for failing to save the man.

Kenneth didn’t think, didn’t say anything, he simply reached out, wrapped his arm around her shoulder, and pulled her into his arms. His partner made a surprised sound, but didn’t push him away, or protest. She leaned into him, and shuddered.

The moment didn’t last though. A shout cut through the crying from the children and the mumbled attempts of the older werewolves to console them. “Stop!”

Kenneth looked up saw one of the Hit-Wizards was pointing his wand at a werewolf who had started to walk away.

The man snarled. “What? You’re going to lock me up again so I can be burned to death? Wasn’t that enough for you?” He gestured at the burning building.

The Hit-Wizard blinked. “We saved you!”

“Saved us so you can lock us up again?” Another werewolf shouted. The children cried louder.

Bertha pushed away from Kenneth, her face expressionless again. This was turning ugly. Uglier.

“You can’t just leave!” The other Hit-Wizard was covering the other werewolves, but they started to spread out.

“Why not? Haven’t you killed enough of us?”

“We saved you, we didn’t kill you!” The wizard moved towards his partner. Doctrine when faced with a wandless opponent was to gain distance. But there were a lot of wandless werewolves. And they were moving.

“Calm down! This was the work of criminals, not of the Ministry. They broke in and killed you and the guards,” Kenneth said, hoping to defuse the situation.

“It was you who locked us up! We never did anything to you!” A woman spoke up, holding a girl. “And now half my family is dead!” She shouted, tears running down her cheek.

A girl started to run, away from the building. Kenneth tensed, but he couldn’t cast at the girl. He glanced at Bertha. His by-the-book partner was hesitating as well. That more than anything else told him that his gut was right.

The girl didn’t get far, a red spell - a stunner - from a Hit-Wizard struck her down. And set off the werewolves. Half of them started to run away as well, scattering. The other half roared and charged the Hit-Wizards - and the Aurors.

“Confringo!” Kenneth sent a blasting curse at the ground between the werewolves and him and his partner. It drove them back, but not for long.

Bertha was casting as well, stunning a young werewolf trying to flank them. There were too many though. Two more were running at them, and another was coming at Kenneth. A Stunner took that one down, and Bertha conjured a quick wall to block the two on her side.

The majority of the werewolves though rushed the Hit-Wizards who had cast at the girl. Before Kenneth’s eyes the two disappeared under the mass of the attackers. He couldn’t help them though - enough of the crazed werewolves were attacking him and Bertha.

The two Aurors fell back, using transfiguration, Stunners and conjured obstacles to keep the werewolves at bay. He tried to apparate, but someone must have cast Anti-Apparition Jinxes over the area. Kenneth pulled his broom out. If they could fly up, they’d be safe.

“Bombarda Maxima!”

The earth under the werewolves pursuing him and Bertha exploded. The Shielding Charms of the two Aurors protected them, but their wandless attackers were shredded. Kenneth looked up and saw two Hit-Wizards on brooms, just as another Blasting Curse hit the next cluster of werewolves. He was about to shout at them to stop, then he saw the remains of the two Hit-Wizards who had been with them and knew it would be futile. Hit-Wizards were not Aurors. They weren’t trained to take risks to stun instead of kill. And after seeing two of their own dead on the ground, they wouldn’t even try.

Instead he stunned the closest werewolf, and then the next. It was all he and Bertha could do.

He didn’t see the reporter and the photographer covering the whole massacre until it was over.

*****​

At breakfast in the Great Hall, Remus Lupin stared at the Daily Prophet’s front page. ‘Werewolf Holding Center Attacked!’. The pictures in the article beneath the headline showed bodies. Lots of bodies. Hit-Wizards, Ministry employees, wizards and witches. They didn’t show the dead werewolves though. He was certain they would have been shown, had they been transformed. But outside a full moon, werewolves looked like normal wizards and witches. Were normal wizards and witches. And the British public wasn’t supposed to see that.

He read the article, and felt bile rise from his stomach. A mob stormed the building and set the cell block afire. Dozens had burned to death, trapped in their cells. Helpless without their wands, they would have been forced to watch their doom approach. The lucky ones would have suffocated from the smoke before the fire reached them. The others… he closed his eyes for a moment, fighting to control himself. It was still a few days to the full moon, but he felt his temper changing already. And this… there had been children in that prison too. Children whose only ‘crime’ had been to be bitten by a werewolf. Like he had been.

He looked at the House tables. The students were clustered around those who had subscriptions for the Daily Prophet, as usual when there was big news. He saw Harry look at him, concerned, and nodded, trying to reassure the boy that he was holding up.

It was difficult though. If his secret had been revealed, if his curse had been exposed, then he could have been in one of those cells, burning to death. Killed by a mob who saw him as a beast. He felt both anger at that, and shame that he was hiding in his own, privileged position while others with his affliction suffered.

He returned his attention to the article. ‘Werewolves used the opportunity to escape from custody’, ‘measures taken to capture them before they endanger others’. And speculation that the ‘mob’ was actually made up of imperiused victims of the Dark Lord, used in an attempt to break out the werewolves so they could fight for him. Bloody fools! He was almost growling with frustration and anger before he checked himself. He couldn’t lose control. Not now, not here.

The professor glanced at the editorial and ground his teeth. It was a thinly-veiled call on the Ministry to hunt the werewolves down with lethal means. He threw the newspaper down and stood up. He had to get out. Calm down. Vent his rage. Whatever. He couldn’t stay there.

On the way out, he overheard one fourth year Gryffindor say: “I’m certain the Professor will hunt those werewolves down!”, and he almost ran from the Great Hall to his quarters.

Sirius was already waiting there, in his favorite armchair. “Morning, Moony.” His friend wasn’t smiling.

Remus closed the door and cast a privacy charm on it. “You’ve read the Prophet.”

“I did. Nasty business.”

“Yes.”

There was no offer to ‘talk about it’. Nor did Sirius try to calm him down. His best, his only real friend, simply was there while Remus raged, vented, and hit the walls of his room with his fists until his hands bled and he was exhausted his rage spent, for now.

Just like his friend had been there for him, as Padfoot, in the Shrieking Shack.

*****​

Hermione Granger worried that her boyfriend would not be able to keep his temper under control as so many of their fellow Gryffindors ranted about ‘dangerous werewolves’. She understood, of course - the bias against werewolves was a stain on Wizarding Britain. One of many, sadly. She would have called the caste system the worst stain, but with children being killed just for suffering from a curse, and the public applauding, she was hard-pressed to uphold that.

Katie Bell made a remark about being afraid with so many beasts free, and the full moon so close, and she felt Harry tense up. Maybe she should cast a privacy spell that kept outside noises out next time.

The witch leaned over, brushing her lips against his ear, and whispered: “If only they knew that one of their most popular teachers actually was a werewolf.”

He turned his head, brushed his lips over hers and whispered back: “They probably would try to drive him out, or kill him.”

She hated to agree with him, but did it anyway, nodding while she pursed her lips. “They’d try.” They’d succeed, of course - if they formed a mob. Which was rather likely. She understood the fear of werewolves. Without Wolfsbane, they were murderous beasts under the full moon, craving human flesh and blood. And if a victim survived, they’d be cursed themselves. A truly insidious cycle. And no one could forget that werewolves were the Dark Lord’s most numerous supporters, proving to be murderers even without transforming, as the Hogwarts Express Massacre had shown all too clearly.

And yet they were victims. Of a dark curse, and of society. Hermione could understand that some of them would want to lash out against a people who shunned and reviled them. But she would never excuse or forgive anyone who joined a monster who wanted to murder people just for being born to the wrong parents.

She summoned a scone from a floating basket and took another sip from her orange juice, charmed to look like pumpkin juice. At the end of the day, it was simple: Anyone who helped Voldemort was her and Harry’s enemy. And she would deal with those enemies.

*****​

Harry Potter exchanged a glance with Ron. There were far more people waiting for the Hogwarts Self-Defense Club to start than usual. A product of the werewolf scare, no doubt. He didn’t quite feel the urge to curse half his house as strongly as during breakfast, but he still resented them. So much ignorance! So much bigotry! As if every werewolf wanted to join Voldemort and murder people. He knew he was being unfair, somewhat at least. There had been a lot of werewolves among those who had massacred students on the Hogwarts Express, but that didn’t mean every werewolf was like that. He took a deep breath. He wouldn’t get angry again. If Remus could control himself, only a few days from the full moon, then he could do the same.

“Blimey! Remus will hate this.” Ron shook his head. Harry shot him a glare. His friend coughed. “So many new students. He’ll be swamped with work.” It wasn’t the best recovery, but it’d do.

“We’ll be swamped too;” Harry commented. To change the mood, he added: “You’ll not be able to flirt with Parkinson as much as you usually do.”

“What?” Ron gaped at him.

“Did I say ‘flirt’? I meant ‘duel’, of course.” Harry grinned.

“She’s one of the few witches who actually takes training seriously, and doesn’t try to flirt with me,” Ron said, narrowing his eyes.

Harry scoffed. “Please. You act completely different when you’re duelling her than when you’re duelling me. Or anyone else.” If Ron were to act like that with Hermione...

“Of course! Different targets need different tactics.”

“That’s what you’re calling it in 6th year, I see.” Harry felt his mood lift a bit. Teasing his friend was helping. “And Brown has been seen with Katie lately.” Who was quite scared of werewolves, he knew.

Ron rolled his eyes. “It’s not as we’re a couple. We’ve just had some fun. She didn’t move in with me.”

Harry coughed. “Anyway, more teaching, less ‘duelling’ today. At least during the session.”

His improved mood was ruined again as soon as he saw Remus and Sirius arrive though - his godfather looked much too serious to be alright. Which meant, seeing as Harry himself had no real trouble, Remus was not doing well.

And Harry had no idea how he could help the man.

*****​

Ron Weasley kept glancing at Pansy, at Parkinson, while Remus explained about the best ways to deal with werewolves. He could understand why Harry thought he was flirting. Somewhat. The Slytherin witch was cute, kind of. When she wasn’t sneering. And she had been brave during the attack on the Express, everyone said that. But she also had been Malfoy’s girlfriend for years. Which meant she had either terrible taste, or no brains, or both. And she was a Slytherin. On the other hand, she had dumped the idiot. Eventually.

Duelling her was fun though. She wasn’t quite as good as Hermione, but she knew how to fight. And she didn’t try to flirt with him - she took training seriously. It still was fun though.

The witch started to look around, and their eyes met. She seemed surprised for a moment. Then she grinned, before looking away and paying rapt attention to Remus, as if she was one of the idiot girls who thought he was so romantic because they believed he was hunting the werewolves who killed his family each full moon.

Ron wondered, while Remus went over things he already knew, if he should ask the witch out. Just to mess with Harry. He wouldn’t have to feel guilty about using the girl either - they were in sixth year, after all, and such things were expected. Hermione would not approve, of course. She would lecture him. Maybe - the girl was awfully busy with Dumbledore, when she wasn’t studying, training, or sleeping with Harry.

And yet he hesitated. It was one thing to sleep with Lavender. Both of them knew it wasn’t serious, and they were not just both Gryffindors, but also close friends to the Patils. Or had been. But to do the same with Parkinson? He couldn’t say why, but he knew that was different.

And he’d duel her again, Harry’s comments be damned. It was fun.

*****​

While the students started to filter out of the room, the lesson ending, Pansy Parkinson thought Ron Weasley was acting weird. First he glanced at her, then he ignored her. If he wasn’t sleeping with Brown and they were not in sixth year, and a Gryffindor, she’d thought he had a crush on her and was simply shy.

In any case, the lesson - or session - had been quite informative. They learned several ways to battle werewolves. Professor Lupin was an expert in that area, and it showed. Though Pansy was not really certain if she truly believed that the mild-mannered man hunted werewolves each month. Though he had been a Gryffindor as well, and such actions would fit the mould.

But with all the werewolf drills, she hadn’t managed to duel Weasley, and to her surprise, realized she had been looking forward to it more than to learning how to deal with werewolves. She frowned. She wasn’t about to let some werewolves keep her from what she wanted. Instead of following the rest of her house out of the room, she made a beeline towards Weasley.

“We haven’t duelled yet today,” she told him right away. Not the best display of manners, but acceptable given their surroundings.

His eyes lit up, and whatever puzzlement she had seen in his eyes before vanished. “Indeed, we haven’t, have we?” he answered while he drew his wand and waved to the dueling platform in the middle of the room.

Pansy smiled at him, and nodded, taking the lead. Potter mumbled “Not again!”, and his retainer gave her a look that probably should have been intimidating, but Pansy didn’t care. Life was too short to worry about everyone and their opinion, and she had a duel to win.

They waited until all of the students but Potter’s friends, and of course Greg, had filed out. Or would have, if Greengrass and Tracey hadn’t decided to stay as well. Pansy licked her lips in anticipation. She had been thinking about a few ways to pull one over on the Gryffindor.

Potter and his mistress were whispering, until Weasley and Pansy had taken up their positions. Then they quieted down. Lovegood, unsurprisingly, had to be elbowed by Antar to stop commenting on ‘Nargles’, and Greengrass… was sulking after her latest proposal for a threesome had been refused. Potter had become rather skilled at that, even though his lover still looked like she wanted to transfigure Greengrass into a toad each time the blonde twit made a pass at them.

Then Potter stepped forward. “Bow!”

Pansy smiled - a formal duel! Even better! They bowed.

“Wands ready!”

Her wand rose into the ‘guard’ position. She grinned at her opponent, and was once again matched.

“Start!”

At once Pansy conjured a wall in front of her, not to protect her, but to shield her from view. She moved to the side and managed to cast a Shield Charm and a Disillusionment Charm before the wall was reduced to cinders and dust by two Reductor Curses from Weasley. Still, she should have enough time to…

“Homenum Revelio!”

She felt more than saw herself become visible again, but she was already casting. If Weasley had taken the time to reduce her wall, he couldn’t have… he could! Her stunner splashed harmlessly against his shield. In response, she was hit with a Disarming Charm that almost pushed her off her feet despite her own Shielding Charm.

Pansy shrieked as if she was scared, and mumbled “Serpensortia”, conjuring a snake behind Weasley. If she could fool him… he banished the rubble of her own wall at her, and he shield shattered under the impact.

She retaliated with another stunner, but he dodged it - and he spotted her snake before it had reached him! A Cutting Curse split it in twain, but left him open for another spell. Finally, his shield went down, and she dodged his own stunner… only to suddenly slip on a patch of ice that hadn’t been there before and fall off the dueling platform, on the stone floor. Hard. Then his next stunner hit.

When she was woken, she hurt much less than expected. Someone - Granger probably - had treated her bruises. Weasley offered her his hand to help get up, and she took it.

“Technically, Parkinson won, since Ron cast at her when she was already outside the ring, which in a formal duel is an immediate disqualification, if done so unprovoked,” Granger said. Potter agreed with his future concubine, but Pansy simply shook her head while she looked at Weasley. She knew that their duels wouldn’t be decided by technicalities.

*****​

The Dark Lord Voldemort rose from his bed, taking care not to wake up his lover, when the Snowy Owl arrived at his window, carrying the latest newspapers from Scandinavia. He dropped a few sickles in the pouch of the owl, then let her fly off again and took a look at the headlines.

They were perfect. ‘British mob massacres children!’ ‘Werewolves burned alive in prison!’ ‘Britain starting to exterminate werewolves!’ The pictures were beautiful pictures too. Dead children on the ground, fleeing werewolves cut down from above and behind, ragged prisoners blown up by Blasting Curses, and horribly burned corpses. All of them werewolves. He read the articles, and chuckled. Where the Daily Prophet of the day before had focused on the dead guards and a possible plot by the Dark Lord, the Nordic newspapers focused on dead werewolves, and speculated about the government letting the mob enter the prison to kill the werewolves.

“Milord?” Bella had woken up. His lover rose from their shared bed and walked over to him, not bothering to put on any clothes.

“Good news, Bella.” He handed her the newspapers. “All is going according to plan.”

She glanced at them, then smiled, before her face fell. “I wish I could have helped you.”

He shook his head as he lifted her chin so she’d face him. “You are the only one I can trust, my love. With my secrets, and my life.” She was the last of his inner circle. The last of his old comrades. Brave, powerful, and utterly devoted. She was irreplaceable.

She would stand at his side once he ruled Britain. His Bella.

He wiped the tears from her eyes and kissed her while he guided her back to his bed.

*****​

Aberforth Dumbledore felt like cursing his brother when he glanced at the headlines of the newspapers sold in Oslo. Couldn’t he keep his Ministry under control? How could a mob from Diagon Alley’s flotsam storm a prison? Had the Ministry workers forgotten to guard and ward the place?

If Greyback was still alive and the news of his demise not true, then his mission just became far more difficult. Judging by the comments he overheard from passersby reading the newspapers, they were ready to form a lynch mob. At least he wasn’t known as a British wizard - he was traveling incognito due to the results of his first visit, decades ago. With his beard and hair dyed, he looked younger, or so he thought. He could only hope there were no other British around; the locals’ blood was up.

At the next corner, a wizard who was literally frothing at the mouth, gesturing wildly and shouting about the need to ‘save our brethren in Britain from certain death’ - and many seemed to agree with the sentiment. Hopefully, most of that was mere bluster, and not an actual willingness to travel and fight in Britain’s civil war.

Though Aberforth knew from personal experience just how prone to violence Scandinavian werewolves were. And everyone knew how much they hated the rest of Magical Europe for considering werewolves dark creatures. And so did their part to keep the stereotype alive.

And since the idiots back home had decided to let a bunch of ‘respected citizens’ burn werewolves alive, the Dark Lord would have an easy time recruiting them for his ranks. He shook his head and made his way to the public floos. He needed to know if Greyback was actually dead. And if there were more agents of the Dark Lord left. Greyback hadn’t been known for traveling without a pack, after all.

An hour and a few galleons later, he was standing in a small, old village surrounded by forests. The central longhouse, meeting spot for the community, was in ruins - a result of the fight between Greyback and ‘British agents’, or so he had heard in Oslo. The wooden statues depicting the gods supposedly watching over the communities were still or again standing, not that the gods had done a good job.

A group of locals was watching him, openly and with suspicion in their eyes. Understandable, given that apparently two foreign witches had broken hospitality and attacked Greyback. Though of course, that was simply what he had heard.

He started towards the ruins, which caused the group of ‘observers’ to to cut him off and stop him. He let them - for now.

“Hey! What do you want here?” the apparent leader, clad in traditional Scandinavian clothes, said.

“I’ve heard two witches caused this,” Aberforth said, waving at the ruins. “I believe they are fugitives with a bounty on their head.”

“You’re a bounty hunter?” The man asked, sneering.

For a moment, Aberforth was back in 1962, when he had visited the country for the first and until this visit last time. For all their claims of worshipping some nebulous ‘hunt’, they hadn’t taken well to him chasing one of Grindelwald’s old Lieutenants through the Nordic country. And he hadn’t been patient enough to avoid needless fights. It had been a rather bloody affair.

That had been decades ago though. Aberforth had changed since then, even if the culture in Scandinavia hadn’t. He nodded. “I’m under contract.”

The men - probably all werewolves, they looked rather uncouth, although all Scandinavians looked like that in his opinion - tensed up. The leader said, sneering: “One of them is already dead. The other’s fled. We won’t tolerate anyone causing trouble, do you understand?”

The old wizard nodded. “I’m not looking for trouble. Just looking to see if that article told the truth. I don’t suppose the bodies are still around?”

“No.”

Aberforth hadn’t expected anything else. They would have been burned on a pyre too. “Did anyone see the witch who fled?”

The leader nodded. “Many did.”

The British wizard pulled out a picture of Caldwell and Umbridge. “Did they look like this?”

All three peered at it, then discussed something in their native language, before one of them spoke up in English. “Yes, they did.”

“And the younger witch escaped?”

“She bled, but the other witch sacrificed herself to stop us, after killing Greyback.”

Aberforth’s opinion of the village sunk even lower. Umbridge and Caldwell were not exactly powerful witches. “I see.”

“She apparated away,” the leader added, as if to excuse their failure.

The third, who had been silent so far, suddenly spoke. “You’re not British, are you?”

“No.” Aberforth said and glared at the man. “I’m from Greece.”

“But you’re working for the British. Who else would have put a bounty on the two witches?”

He didn’t like the turn this talk had taken. “Would that be a problem?”

“Hell, yes! We hate the murdering British bastards!”

“Child killer!”

“Hang him from the sacred tree!”

As Wands were drawn and Aberforth was about to teach the three a lasting lesson, he still blamed his brother for this predicament.


Chapter 54: Samhain

 

Chapter 54: Samhain

One of the three wizards charged at Aberforth Dumbledore with a yell. Definitely a werewolf, the old wizard thought, so close to the Full Moon he would have trouble thinking like a wizard instead of a beast. The other two tried to flank him, one on each side. They were used to fighting together, he realised, while he conjured a wall in front of him that blocked both the werewolf’s charge and the spells from the other two.

He used the time that had won him to disillusion himself and move to his right. Not many wands expected an outnumbered opponent to move towards them, in his experience. He was just at the edge of the wall when the closest of his opponents went over it.

That was a surprise, but a welcome one. While the werewolf seemed to sniff the air, Aberforth cast a Piercing Curse to shatter his shield, and a Disarming Charm to take away the man’s wand. The werewolf was screaming with rage when Aberforth vanished the ground under him, sending him falling into a pit, then closed the hole with with a conjured rock.

Right then a number of curses flew at him though - his own casting had given away his position, and the one wizard on his right had not hesitated. The other would clear the corner of the wall soon as well.

He dodged two spells, but a third hit him, causing the protections on his robe to flare up, spoiling his attempt to move out of the man’s line of fire while remaining invisible. And the other was starting to cast as well now. Still, not particularly well-aimed, even considering his disillusion spells. He threw a Blasting Curse at the ground in front of the closer enemy and banished the debris at the man with a flick of his wrist, shattering the man’s now weakened shield and sending him reeling.

Sadly, that had allowed the other one to hit him, and his robe’s enchantments were weakened further. With the other villagers getting alerted by the sound of combat, Aberforth was rapidly running out of time - Nordic villages were almost always ready to repel raiders, given their frequent feuds. No doubt the result of letting werewolves run them.

The old wizard started to run, causing the next spells to miss widely, and cast a pair of Cutting Curses at the wizard still staggering from the debris that had battered him. One was stopped by the robe, the other cut him across the chest. He collapsed while blood splattered on the ground.

That distracted the last opponent enough so Aberforth could dispatch him with a series of Bludgeoning Curses while he was trying to reach his friend. The man was thrown into the still standing wall, then slid down in a broken heap.

The fight hadn’t taken long, but it had caught the attention of the rest of the villagers, who were rushing out of their homes with wands ready and shields up. They had a better response time than some Hit-Wizards back home, Aberforth thought. And there were too many for him to deal with. Not that he needed to deal with them in the first place. After this, he couldn’t expect the locals to talk to him anymore, and fighting more wouldn’t serve any point. Still invisible, he started to run towards the edge of the village.

He heard barking dogs and shouts he didn’t understand, but which probably meant they were trying to find him. They didn’t spot or stop him though, not before he reached the edge of their wards and apparated away.

*****​

He smiled at the beast chained to the altar. She had been easy prey, a werewolf on the run, close to the full moon. No one would miss her. Not his own werewolves, in any case. The Ministry was searching for her, but they’d find her… later.

Unlike other sacrifices, she wasn’t struggling, but sobbing into the gag. Tears were running down her cheeks, and he saw his lover bend down and wipe them off with a smile before caressing her hair mockingly. He smiled indulgently. His Bella had earned this, she had been so eager and grateful to help him with this part.

The moon was rising, and the animal was trembling. Bellatrix ran her wand over the beast’s robe, leaving small cuts. It wouldn’t do to destroy all hints to her origin, after all. Then the moon rose above the hill, and the bound beast started to transform.

He placed the orb he had prepared, then drew the knife and waited. It wouldn’t be long, now, until the sacrifice was ready.

Harry Potter was panting, feeling nauseous. Despite all the rituals he had now experienced, it still sickened him to see through Voldemort’s eyes, feel as if he was that monster, as if he was murdering a helpless girl. Hermione handed him a wet towel, which he rubbed over his face. Cleaning Charms only went so far in such a situation.

“Bad one?”

He winced. “It was a girl.” The death of a girl shouldn’t hit him harder than the death of a man, but it did. “And he had a brighter globe this time.”

He regretted his words when he saw his girlfriend flinch. She hadn’t finished her own ritual yet, and would feel as if she was failing him. Even though she and Dumbledore were working as hard as they could, and no one could have done it any better. But that was Hermione.

He got up from his bed, where he had waited for the ritual to start. “I’d better get the memory to Dumbledore.”

“And get seen by the other students,” the witch added.

He nodded. The students hadn’t missed his angry reaction to the werewolf scare, and some rumors had started, that he was angry because he was a werewolf himself. Being seen under the full moon, out and about, would counter that. He looked at his girlfriend. “Shouldn’t you mess up your hair some? So they think we’ve been shagging right now?”

Chuckling, she shook her head. “No. On the contrary, by appearing perfectly styled, we’ll make them think we were shagging, but took the time to clean up again.”

“That sounds very Slytherin to me.”

Hermione shrugged. “It’s how things work.” She pointed her wand at him, and he could feel his own hair style itself. She cocked her head to the side, then nodded. “Perfect!” she declared, bending forward to kiss him.

It had been meant as a chaste kiss, Harry knew, but he grabbed her instead, and pulled her close for a passionate kiss. He needed to, after his vision he still was all riled up. By the time they separated, Hermione needed a new Hairstyling Charm.

*****​

“Are we werewolf experts now?” Kenneth Fenbrick complained while he walked on a rather narrow path through a forest. “Meet a werewolf hunter in the woods, and try to save a bunch of prisoners from a fire, and suddenly you’re an expert on lycanthropy?”

“We had a rather prominent role in the Werwolf Holding Centre Massacre,” Bertha Limmington pointed out. She wasn’t breathing hard, but her face had a bit more color than usual.

“A far too prominent role,” Kenneth grumbled. He was a veteran Auror, he had seen a lot of gruesome scenes, but the aftermath of that massacre… children had died, both in the cells, and on the ground outside. As horrible as the thought of kids burning to death was, there hadn’t been anything left in the cells. But those struck by stray curses - Kenneth hoped they had been stray curses, at least - had been a terrible sight. Some had been cut, bleeding to death, others though… if Kenneth ever found out who had used the Entrail-Expelling Curse on a little girl… He clenched his jaws. Loyalty to your comrades only went so far. It had probably been a Hit-Wizard anyway.

His partner patted his shoulder, and he relaxed some, smiling at her. She hadn’t taken that incident well either, though she could hide her emotions better. Not from him though.

“So, what do we have?” he asked.

“According to the Obliviator Squad that dealt with the muggle who discovered it, it’s a dead werewolf, eviscerated and strung up in the forest,” Bertha said.

Kenneth winced at the description. That sounded nasty.

They passed a mild muggle-repelling ward, and entered a clearing, and Kenneth knew he had been right. The dead werewolf had been hung from an Oak tree, and its guts had been strung over the branches in a sick display of gore and brutality. The scavengers had already started on the corpse. He shook his head “Merlin’s balls!”

Bertha was already working, her wand waving. “No sign of a ritual here - this wasn’t a sacrifice. Or it wasn’t sacrificed here.”

“She,” Kenneth said, pointing up. He spotted a brown patch, and walked over to it. A flick of his wand, and the patch was floating in front of him. “I’ve found the remains of a robe. Looks like it was cut off her.”

“That would mean she was captured before she transformed,” Bertha deduced.

“Yes. No self-defense gone too far here.” Kenneth wasn’t quite certain the Wizengamot would agree with him - people had a lot of leeway in dealing with dangerous creatures, after all. “Vigilantes?”

“That cannot be excluded as a possibility,” Bertha said. She was casting spell after spell at the corpse and the tree.

“Though why would they transport her to Wales to kill her? To throw us off their trail?” Kenneth asked out loud.

“There could be a religious motive too. Scandinavians were said to sacrifice people by hanging them from sacred trees,“ his partner explained.

“Do they still do that?” Kenneth didn’t want to know what kind of sick country allowed such dark magic.

“The government denies such practices, but I think there are enough independent sources to assume the practice either never died, or was revived after the Statute of Secrecy, when the Old Norse gods were revered again.”

“Well, seeing how they adore werewolves in Scandinavia, I doubt they’d sacrifice one of their own,” Kenneth said. “It would kind of run counter to their ideology of offering sanctuary to all werewolves…” he trailed off. “Do you think…?”

“Yes. It’s quite possible that this was done by unscrupulous werewolves to rile up more support for them. Or by the Dark Lord.”

“Well, I think it’s time to call in an expert. Or a suspect,” Kenneth said. After all, they had met that wizard in similar woods a month ago, hunting werewolves. And according to Sarah Macmillan, who had a son at Hogwarts, the man had been so angry at the news of werewolves escaping from the Holding Centre after the attack, he had stormed out of the Great Hall.

*****​

Remus Lupin stared at the letter. The DMLE required his help with a case? He wasn’t an Auror, he was a teacher! There was… Merlin’s balls! It had to be a werewolf case, and due to the Headmaster’s cover story, they thought he was an expert. They weren’t wrong, of course, he was an expert on werewolves - though not for the reason the Ministry believed.

“Trouble?” Sirius’s asked in a carefully neutral tone. His friend had been visiting so often, he might as well have stayed the night.

“The DMLE wants me to consult with them for a case.” Remus handed him the letter.

Sirius read it, and frowned. “That’s not about the Holding Centre Massacre, is it?”

He shook his head. “I don’t think so. They don’t really need an expert on werewolves to solve that case.” He scoffed with familiar bitterness. “Anyone experienced in butchering children would do.”

“That’s the British judicial system for you,” Sirius said. “Locking up innocents without trial and exposing them to monsters is how things are done here.”

“I’m sorry.” Remus hadn’t forgotten, not really, that his friend had spent more than a decade in Azkaban, but it hadn’t been on his mind when he had been enraged about the massacre.

“Don’t be. It’s not your fault.”

Remus knew Sirius didn’t mean just his own incarceration, but he nodded anyway. “I just feel guilty for…”

“Not suffering like them? Not being hunted or dead for no fault of your own?”

“Yes.” Remus snarled.

“I’d tell you you shouldn’t, but I’d be a hypocrite,” Sirius said.

Remus blinked. “What are you feeling guilty for?”

“Being able to marry the woman I love.”

“Oh.” Remus didn’t know what to say to that. He hadn’t known what to say to James either.

“It’s funny in a sad way, you know?” Sirius sighed. “We’re fighting against a Dark Lord who sends his thugs to kill children and wipe out families, who sacrifices people in rituals and to Dementors, and faced with that kind of evil, we easily forget our own sins and faults. Harry’s the Boy-Who-Lived, Hermione’s doing everything she can to fight Voldemort - and no, I don’t know exactly what they and Dumbledore are up to, but it’s very important - and yet everyone expects him to keep her as a mistress and marry some pureblood witch because she’s a muggleborn.” He sneered. “And if Umbridge had managed to push her laws through, I’d not be able to marry Valérie either because she’s a veela. Sometimes I wish the whole Ministry, the whole country would burn down. At least the ashes could be used as fertiliser by the muggles.”

Remus swallowed. “You sound even more radical than when we were in school.” Back then, Sirius had told James to forget about Britain, and marry Lily in the muggle world, and Remus had been scandalized. This though…

“Azkaban tends to do that to you.”

“And yet, the alternative is worse. If the Dark Lord wins, he’ll kill Harry, Hermione, and all our friends,” Remus said. Then he did a double-take. Was he defending the British Ministry now?

“We’re choosing the lesser evil then,” Sirius summed it up.

“Yes,” Remus said.

“But once the war’s over…” Sirius bared his teeth, and for a moment, Remus was staring at Padfoot in human form.

“We’ll have to win first.”

“We will.” Sirius snorted flippantly.

Remus could agree with that. They had to win, or all the sacrifices, all the compromises, all the things they did and tolerated, would have been for nothing.

*****​

Remus Lupin stared at the corpse hanging from the tree. It wasn’t the worst he had seen - that would forever be his family, slaughtered by Greyback - but it came close.

“The victim has been preliminarily identified as Emily Cropton, a fugitive from the Holding Centre.” The female Auror, Limmington was her name, stated in a clinical voice as if she was talking about a dead animal. She probably believed she was talking about an animal, Remus thought.

“We haven’t done an autopsy yet,” her partner, Fenbrick. He looked queasy, at least.

“An autopsy of a corpse still hanging in the air would have been quite impressive, Auror. Worth at least 10 points to Gryffindor,” Remus couldn’t help but commenting, before he looked the corpse over. The Auror chuckled, but didn’t say anything. He had a sense of humour then, unlike his partner.

Remus pulled his broom out of his expanded pocket and flew up to take a closer look. After a few minutes, his suspicions were confirmed, and he landed again.

“She wasn’t killed here. She was dead already when she was placed.” He kept his temper in check. She had been killed because she was a werewolf, he was certain of that. And he was still hiding his own curse.

“How do you know that?” Limmington asked. She didn’t sound as if she was doubting him - but then, it was hard to tell with her.

“There are distinctive scars on her wrists and ankles. She was bound with enchanted silver chains. The cuts that opened her belly were different from the cuts that exposed her heart. And there’s not enough blood.” Remus shook his head.

“The heart was exposed while she was still alive, and she was drained of her blood? That sounds like a ritual,” Fenbrick said.

“Do you know any rituals that need a werewolf sacrifice?” Limmington asked. This time she sounded actually interested. She had to be a Ravenclaw.

Remus shook his head. “No. I teach Defense against the Dark Arts, not rituals using them.”

“So… we have a vigilante, or a group of them, using rituals.” Fenbrick winced. “I guess even dark wizards don’t like werewolves.”

Remus could have pointed out that the Dark Lord seemed fond of them, but he held his tongue, even though it would have helped his cover.

“So… did you catch any werewolves during the full moon?” Fenbrick asked, a bit too eagerly.

“No.” Remus glared at him. “With everyone hunting the fugitives, those werewolves working for the Dark Lord have gone to ground. Or left the country.”

“A night wasted in the woods?” the Auror asked, as if he was sympathetic.

“Yes.”

“Do you know any other hunters?”

“No. And certainly not those who’d use the Dark Arts.” Remus didn’t know what was worse - being thought to be a werewolf, or a dark wizard. “Is that all? I’ve got a school to return to.”

“Yes. We’ll contact you again should we need more information, Mister Lupin,” Limmington said. “Thank you for your help.”

Remus simply nodded, not trusting his manners.

*****​

Kenneth Fenbrick waited until Lupin had apparated away before sighing. “That’s one angry wizard.”

“We already knew that,” Bertha answered.

“We didn’t know about the ritual, though,” Kenneth said. “Though an autopsy would have found it.”

“Once the Unspeakables did it.” Bertha looked up. “We can take the corpse down now.”

Kenneth waved one of the other Aurors, one junior to him, over. “Pack the corpse up and transport it back for an autopsy.” Walking away with Bertha, he asked: “Do you think he was hiding something?”

“He was rather curt. More so than when we met him for the first time.” His partner pulled out her notes.

“Yes. That was before the whole Holding Centre, but still.” Kenneth had a feeling that he was missing something, but no idea what. “Do you think he knows whoever did that?”

“He might suspect, and not tell us.”

“Dumbledore trusts him,” Kenneth added. He didn’t think the Headmaster would tolerate a dark wizard at Hogwarts. But someone who knew dark wizards? Aberforth Dumbledore certainly had some rather shady acquaintances.

“Are you planning to question the Chief Warlock about his staff?”

“No,” Kenneth said. He wasn’t stupid. “But I’ll tell the boss about this. She can feel him out.” Political problems were the kind of stuff Bones took care of.

Bertha nodded.

“Let’s get back. I’ve seen enough gore for today.”

Kenneth felt both relieved and annoyed. It had been days again, now, that he had been waiting for a good opportunity to talk to Bertha about them. But he certainly wouldn’t do it right after watching corpses.

*****​

Hermione Granger watched as the Headmaster went over the latest equations her computer had produced. Harry’s latest vision, a week ago, had shown that Voldemort had made more progress with his ritual - as far as they could tell, at least. It still wasn’t finished, Dumbledore was certain of that, but the young witch couldn’t help thinking that it might soon be good enough, even if still unfinished. The Dark Lord might be willing to forego perfecting his ritual, since it involved a sacrifice to pay much of its price already.

And she wasn’t making much progress. Or not as much as she wanted. Her improvements had grown smaller and smaller with each cycle. If she implemented a sacrifice in the formula though… she clamped down on that thought. That would demand, ultimately, an even worse price from her. And the most fitting sacrifice for her ritual, a Dementor, couldn’t be killed anyway - at least according to their lore.

She glanced over to Harry. He was writing his Transfiguration essay. She had finished hers already. And her Potions essay. A year ago, she would have been going over both a few times, altering tiny parts, rewriting single sentences. Not this year. She had far more important things to worry about, and she’d get an ‘O’ for them anyway as they were. And even if she didn’t… it wasn’t that important.

But it meant she hadn’t much to do while waiting for the Headmaster to go over her notes but worry and speculate. And watch Harry work. She reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. He stiffened, then relaxed again, turning his head to flash her a brief smile. She knew he was still torn up over the werewolves. The massacre, the sacrifice by Voldemort, the anguish Remus must be feeling - Sirius hadn’t said anything, but they knew him so well, they could tell he was worried about his best friend - and the reaction of the students… none of all that was his fault, but he still felt guilty for not being able to do much about it.

That, and it was just a few weeks to Samhain. The anniversary of his parents’ deaths. He hated the day.

She sighed, then pushed her chair next to Harry’s, and leaned into his side, letting her head rest on his shoulder. It made writing more difficult for him, but she was certain he would not mind.

For a while, she idly watched what he wrote, Gamp’s Law, nothing new. She wanted to correct him in one point, but restrained herself. He didn’t like it when she tried to write his essay for him by being too detailed with her help. To distract herself, he let her thoughts wander again, and ended up back at her work. Her most important work. A sacrifice would be perfect for it, but Dementors couldn’t be killed. A pity, since parts of them would be the next best thing to improve her formula. Nothing came as close to symbolising the goal of the ritual, the destruction of a soul, as a Dementor. Too bad that… she blinked. Even if they couldn’t be killed…

She stood up so abruptly, Harry and Dumbledore stared at her. The young witch didn’t even notice as she marched straight over to the shelves, already summoning the books she needed. It was a crazy thought, but it might just work.

*****​

Paige Caldwell stared at the door to her new hideout’s cellar. It looked far too flimsy to withstand a werewolf’s rage during the full moon. Even magically reinforced, it might not be enough. And if she got out of the cellar, the large windows of the muggle vacation home overlooking a fjord would not stop her either. Nor would the walls, she realised. Her last hideout had been built far sturdier, and she had almost broken out in her rage. In fact, she had damaged the house so extensively, she had had to leave since muggles had noticed before she had managed to repair it.

She rubbed her arm, and winced. She hadn’t been fully healed from the wounds Greyback had inflicted on her when she had transformed without wolfsbane, and not only had they got worse again, but she had acquired a fair share of new ones. She couldn’t keep doing this. She needed wolfsbane.

But she couldn’t just buy some. She was a wanted witch, after Greyback’s death. Paige paced in the living room of the house. She could disguise herself, but buying that potion would mark her as a werewolf, and she knew too many would ask who she was, even if only in an attempt to recruit her. She needed someone to buy wolfsbane for her. Another werewolf, so it wouldn’t look suspicious. Rich enough to buy a decent supply for her - at least a dozen vials. And weak enough to be easily controlled by an Imperius.

Not an easy order, not not impossible either. But first, she needed to heal up - bleeding wounds would attract far too much attention.

*****​

Albus Dumbledore was smiling politely at the wizards and witches he met on the way to Amelia’s office, even though he didn’t feel like smiling at all. It wasn’t the fault of those Ministry workers though. It was his own, for failing to convince Cornelius and Amelia. So many were dead, burned alive, slaughtered with spells, hunted like animals.

And so many werewolves were now ready to join the Dark Lord, to avenge those who had been killed. Both in Britain, and abroad. Tom’s plan had worked out perfectly. Scandinavia was even petitioning the ICW to take action. A hopeless but still powerful gesture, given the ICW’s standing policy towards intervention in internal affairs of its members.

He entered the office of the Head of the DMLE. “Good morning, Amelia.”

“Good morning Albus. Are you here to tell me you told me so?” Amelia narrowed her eyes at him, then waved at a chair. “Have a seat.”

He had more or less expected that. Amelia was always more comfortable taking the initiative. He sat down. “I do not think that would help matters.”

“No it wouldn’t,” she pressed out. “So, why are you here?”

“To discuss our current situation. We have a rather urgent problem.” A problem he had warned her about.

“Nordic werewolves?”

“Yes. Scandinavia is up in wands about the tragedy at the Holding Centre. The Dark Lord will have an easy time recruiting werewolves, both British and foreign, to his banner.”

“Can your friends do something about the recruiters working there?” Amelia asked. “Those who did something about the Lestranges.”

“I have informed them, but even if the Dark Lord’s envoys are dealt with, we can expect Scandinavians to attack Britain. Individuals, of course,” he added, before Amelia could say anything, “acting without knowledge or approval from their government.”

Amelia scoffed. “As if anyone would believe that, with half their government made up of werewolves.”

“It will be enough for the ICW. Especially after Scandinavia already denounced us there.” Albus knew that institution very well.

“Merlin’s arse!” Amelia cursed, but she sounded resigned more than angry. “Dealing with them will bind a lot of personnel.”

“Which the Dark Lord will do his best to exploit,” the Headmaster said. “And there’s still the issue with domestic werewolves.”

“There shouldn’t be too many of them left.” When she saw his expression, she added: “I’m just stating a fact. As tragic as the events were, they did reduce the number of werewolves in Britain.”

“And drove the survivors into the ranks of the Dark Lord.” Albus stared at Amelia. “And given the widely publicised hunt for them, I fear we have to expect that at least some of the Scandinavians entering Britain will be targeting the civilian population for revenge.”

Amelia closed her eyes for a moment, muttering another curse under her breath. “Most of them are living in heavily warded homes now, and we’re already guarding Hogsmeade and Diagon Alley. The problem is those joining or coordinating with the Dark Lord.”

“There will be a number of them, and they will be able to recruit more from their homes. I will be trying to influence the ICW to pressure Scandinavia, and Cornelius will feel out the other European Countries to see if they might be willing to take a stance against werewolves invading us - they could be next, after all - but I am not that optimistic of our chances of success.” Albus spread his hands. “Isolationism is very common, after all.”

“I know.”

“And a change of policy would also hamper the efforts of our own ‘individual wands’ acting without knowledge or approval of the Ministry in foreign countries,” Albus pointed out.

“That’s a small price to pay for more international support,” Amelia stated. Albus knew she wouldn’t mind if vigilante actions were curbed. She was a bit too inflexible in that area.

“The real problem will be the nights of the full moon. Many werewolves running free will force us to deploy, which will make us both vulnerable and spread out.”

Amelia rubbed her forehead. “I’ll have Scrimgeour go over the contingency plans.”

“That is a good idea.” Albus looked at his watch. “I don’t want to keep you from your work any longer.”

“Speaking of work, Albus. How well do you know Remus Lupin?”

“He’s the best Defense teacher Hogwarts has had in decades,” Albus stated. He was wary though - what did Amelia want? Had the cover story he had arranged been disproven?

“He’s hunting werewolves during the full moon, isn’t he?”

“He’s known for that, yes,” Albus said carefully.

“Do you think he could be involved in the latest werewolf killing? My Aurors say it was done in a dark ritual.” Amelia stared at him intently.

Albus almost smiled. “I can assure you that he was not involved in that. He abhors dark rituals.” Before Amelia could ask another question, or voice her doubt, he added: “While it is not proof that would hold up in court, I can assure you that I am absolutely certain he was not responsible for this crime.”

“Ah.” Amelia nodded. She’d think Remus had been working for, or even with Albus during the full moon.

“If that is all…?”

“Do you think he might know or suspect those who did it?”

Albus shook his head. “He was, with the exception of his closest friends, always a loner, even when he was a student of mine. He wouldn’t know other hunters.”

Amelia nodded. “That is all then. I hope you’ll have a better day than I’m having.”

“Thank you, Amelia. I wish you a good day as well.”

Albus smiled, rose, and left the office. He’d have to talk to Remus, and find out what had happened.

*****​

Aberforth Dumbledore studied the building in Magical Oslo. It was the biggest Potions shop in the city, and in a real building too, not just in a tent or a stall. Though that was to be expected; brewing needed a sturdy environment, as did selling potions that could react badly should they mix. One mistake in a tent could lead to losing the tent and everything inside. Including the brewer.

He couldn’t spot specialised wards though - just the standard ones to keep the shop safe. Disguised as a Bulgarian wizard and with his beard dyed, he hadn’t drawn much attention from the passersby. If he had been recognised as a British wizard though… there was a crowd on the plaza in front of the seat of the government, and the wizards and witches were shouting threats and slurs against Britain. The mood was so aggressive - no wonder, of course, with so many werewolves around - Aberforth was certain any British visitor would have been killed by the mob. Someone with an Amplifying Charm was shouting about ‘avenging our brothers and sisters in Britain, visiting tenfold upon those murderers what sorrow they had brought upon families’, and similar lines. Those listening to him were repeating the lines, their shouts drowning out his own.

Aberforth shook his head. That was an Erumpent Horn in a building with a poltergeist, and Albus was at fault. He turned around and entered the potions shop. The clerk, a young witch, smiled at him politely, though without any warmth. “Welcome to Snorre’s Potions, the best potions in Oslo. How may I help you?”

Aberforth looked around, spotting the Wolfsbane vials easily. Of course, being a werewolf was not a stigma here, so the potion would not be sold under the counter, but openly. “I need a potion of Dreamless Sleep.”

While the girl turned around to fetch the potion, he drew his wand and put tracking charms on the Wolfsbane vials.

“Here, sir.” The girl put a stoppered vial on the counter.

Aberforth nodded, and pulled out his purse while the girl recorded the sale with her wand on a roll of parchment. Given the threat of getting addicted to that potion, no one should suspect him if he returned each day to buy another one, instead of buying in bulk. He’d have to check daily if anyone unexpected had bought wolfsbane in bulk.

Then the tracking charms would lead him to Caldwell.

*****​

Ron Weasley watched Parkinson at her table in the Library. The room’s enchantments prevented him from hearing what she was saying, but she seemed annoyed with Greengrass. Not as annoyed as Hermione and Harry had been, of course, after the girl had knocked on their room late at night, dressed in what Hermione had described as ‘a little bit of illusionary silk’.

At least, judging by the blonde’s expression, she might have finally understood that Harry and Hermione were not shy or wanting her to make a bigger effort, but not interested. Then the Slytherin turned her head to stare at Harry, again - and at Hermione, if he had observed correctly, and Ron just knew the girl hadn’t given up yet. Greengrass was really abusing the ‘can’t hex people for politely asking to have sex with you’ rule, at least in his opinion. But as Hermione had explained to him - reluctantly, he was certain - if you allowed people to answer propositions with hexes just because you disliked someone, then you ran counter to the very purpose of the Year of Discovery, which was ‘the free exploration of your sexuality in a safe and consensual environment’, as she had put it.

He saw the girl suddenly jump up and rub her rear, and pout at Pansy, Parkinson, who was putting her wand down again. That wasn’t against the rules, of course. Well, it was, but it wasn’t a serious infraction. Most students wouldn’t bother with reporting a stinging hex, to avoid getting shamed for wearing robes that couldn’t even stop such a weak spell.

Oh. Parkinson was standing now as well, and from her expression, she was reading Greengrass the riot act. The last time Ron had seen a witch as furious in the library had been when the Ravenclaws had checked out all the books Hermione had wanted to read. Harry had managed to calm her down, fortunately.

Still, he wondered what Pansy was so angry about. She couldn’t be jealous, Greengrass had no chance with Harry or Hermione, and everyone but the blonde knew it. He hoped Parkinson wasn’t jealous. It wouldn’t fit her, he told himself.

*****​

“Greengrass!”

“Daphne,” the twit corrected Pansy Parkinson. “I told you, call me Daphne.”

“Daphne! Why the hell did I hit you with a stinging hex?”

“I don’t know! I was just looking around, and you hexed me!”

“You were staring at Potter and mumbling something distracting. But that is not the point. The point is, why did my hex reach you, and wasn’t stopped by your robe’s protection?” Skimpy as it was, the Greengrass family wasn’t poor, and should have bought top of the line protections for their eldest daughter.

“Oh, I’m not wearing my normal robes. I’m wearing conjured ones.” Greengrass smiled as if that was anything to be proud of.

“And why would you… Merlin, is this your next scheme? You plan to have the robe vanish when you’re next to Potter?” Pansy stared at her fellow Slytherin witch.

“You make it sound as if it was a bad plan!”

“It is a bad plan! And a security risk! Our country is at war, Daphne, at war with monsters who want to kill us! That means you need to be ready to defend yourself. Not wearing your robe… Merlin! Why don’t you leave your wand in your room as well?” Pansy couldn’t understand the other witch.

Daphne was hunching her shoulders now. “I just wanted… it’s not fair! I just want to have one night with Potter! I’ve tried everything but polyjuice!”

Pansy rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Daphne, Potter’s not sleeping with anyone but Granger. Everyone knows that now. He isn’t playing hard to get, or being very discerning, he’s not looking for an orgy, he’s in love with Granger.”

Daphne pushed her chin forward, but… were those tears in her eyes? Pansy sighed, feeling guilty for busting the blonde’s illusions. Slightly only, though. “I’m sorry, but it had to be said.”

Davis nodded. “If you don’t move on, you’ll miss out on the entire year.”

The witch sat down again, and stared at the floor. “It’s not fair.” She wiped her eyes. “All the best wizards are taken. Potter. Weasley. Longbottom...”

Pansy interrupted her before she could continue. “What about Weasley?”

Why were the others now staring at her, like they had been staring at Greengrass?

*****​

It had taken him a week, the purchase of seven unused potions of Dreamless Sleep he was billing Albus for, half a dozen compulsion charms and dozens of tracking charms, but Aberforth had finally found a trace of Caldwell. A local had bought a dozen wolfsbane potions, without being a werewolf himself. That alone wouldn’t have been too suspicious; twice Aberforth had tracked ten or more wolfsbane vials, only to find out it had been a villager buying for all the werewolf neighbours.

This time though… he wasn’t looking at a magical village, but a muggle vacation home. No wards, no big garden, no walls around it, no forest nearby to run around in… no werewolf in Scandinavia would live voluntarily in such a home. Unless they had no choice, or were in hiding. Like Caldwell.

Aberforth studied the house. Wooden walls, thin and with large windows. It was more a hut, or maybe a cottage, in his opinion. It was no real obstacle for him. Shaking his head, he disillusioned himself and mounted his broom. As soon as he was done here he could go and hunt down Voldemort’s agents. He pointed his wand at the hut and cast an anti-apparition jinx, followed by an anti-portkey jinx.

Caldwell would not escape now.

*****​

Paige Caldwell was feeling better than she had ever since she had set foot on Scandinavia. Her plan had worked perfectly. She had imperiused a local idiot, who had bought a dozen vials of Wolfsbane for her. She was set for a year now. She had even managed to acquire a newspaper as well - though she wished she hadn’t. The British were hunting her kind down mercilessly, burning their prisoners alive as if they were witch-hunters. Even children were not spared. She shuddered. Even if the Dark Lord wanted her dead, she hoped he’d win against the Ministry, if only for the sake of those werewolves still alive in Britain. No matter what the Dark Lord did, it couldn’t be as bad as what was happening right now.

At least she was safe now. If she stuck to muggle vacation homes, and left no traces, no one would find her. The muggles would be looking for a muggle thief - but not really hard, if she didn’t do anything worse than stealing food and some money. Things were, finally, looking up, after Umbridge’s death.

She snorted. She still couldn’t believe that that witch had sacrificed herself for her. Life debts were scary. If she ever owed one…

The front door exploding into a small cloud of wooden splinters, narrowingly missing her and wrecking the kitchen door, interrupted her thoughts. That had been a Blasting Curse! She tried to apparate away, but failed. She was trapped!

Growling, she rushed to the back door, then stopped and headed to the next window. She didn’t know how she had been found, but she knew that she had to escape or she’d be killed. There was no time to gather the vials, or anything else. Her life was on the line.

“Reducto!”

A Blasting Curse of her own blew the window apart, and she jumped out, landing in a crouch and diving to the side at once. The spot she had landed on erupted right when she left, showering her with clumps of Earth and small rocks. They were in the air!

“Protego!”

She rolled on her back, then her front again. She hadn’t seen anyone in the sky. But they were there, she knew that. Jumping up, she started to sprint for the street, where the anti-apparition jinxes couldn’t cover everything!

She didn’t make it. She hadn’t even cleared half the distance to the street when the area around her blew up. Her shield was shattered at once, and the spells on her robes flared when stone and earth hit her while she was still in the air. She crashed to the ground, her breath knocked out of her for a second.

Her attackers didn’t need any longer. Before she could react, she was bound by magic and her wand was flying away, upwards.

Several spells were cast on her, half of them she didn’t know at all, the rest she could only guess. She couldn’t do anything, couldn’t even talk, much less move her body. Her assailant was invisible, she realised, and flying.

Next to her, she saw an invisibility cloak being thrown back. An old Bulgarian or Romanian wizard revealed himself. At least his robes looked like they came from that region. His accent though… pure Britain. A shiver ran down her spine. If that was a minion of the Dark Lord…

The man stepped up to her, and pointed a wand at her.

“Legilimens!”

*****​

Aberforth Dumbledore frowned as he sifted through the mind and memories of the werewolf. Caldwell didn’t know any secrets Albus hadn’t already told him, or suspected. She wasn’t on the run from the Dark Lord because she knew too much, but because she had failed him. She knew about the plan to curse Wizengamot members with lycanthropy, but nothing more. Even her knowledge about safe houses was outdated now.

In short, she was useless. All that time, wasted on a simple thug. Umbridge would have known more secrets, at least, but she was dead. Had sacrificed herself for this… Death Eater. Not a marked one, though. But - he dug a bit deeper - she had been willing enough, even eager, to do the Dark Lord’s bidding. Eager to kill. Eager to spread her curse. She deserved death.

He stepped back and pointed his wand at her. A Cutting Curse would do it. Her eyes were wide, the only parts of her body she could use, and stared at him. Like her victims had, he imagined, when she had been about to bite them.

And yet he hesitated to end her life. As much as he hated to admit it, she wasn’t that different from some of his friends. Scorned by society, an outcast in her own country, her former life destroyed by circumstances out of her control or responsibility… if he killed her, what would that say about himself? And about his friends? She wasn’t about to rejoin the Dark Lord. She couldn’t - Voldemort wanted her dead.

With a muttered curse, he lowered his wands and stepped closer. “I know you can hear me just fine, girl.” Her eyes started to dart around. “I’m Aberforth Dumbledore. She stared at him, and he chuckled. “You’ve heard of me, then. Some older mercenary, maybe? It doesn’t matter I guess. I should kill you for what you’ve done. I won’t, though. Not unless you hurt or kill anyone else. In that case, I’ll come for you, I will find you, and I will kill you. Slowly, painfully. This is your one and only chance to save yourself.”

He looked around. “It won’t be long until the local Obliviators arrive to check on the disturbance. I wasn’t exactly subtle.” He threw her wand towards the house, far enough so she couldn’t grab it and attack him, then ended the curse holding her. He didn’t wait for her to speak and apparated away as soon as he was ready.

*****​

The Dark Lord Voldemort looked at the globe in his palm. It shone with a light of its own, but it was rather dim compared to the others he had created during the last rituals, especially the one in September. It lasted far longer though, but that was of no consequence to him. He needed power, and a muggle werewolf obviously couldn’t deliver as today had proven.

He wouldn’t waste the globe though. Even relatively weak as it was, compared to the full potential of the ritual, it was still valuable. Steinberg might be able to finally finish his project with that. It was past time already - Voldemort needed those wands for his plan.

Frowning, he reminded himself that he also needed the Werewolves. Under his command, to be exact, not doing whatever they want in Britain. So far he had not managed to recruit too many of the werewolves heading to Britain from Scandinavia. Too many of the beasts simply sneaked on the island and looked for trouble. Well, as soon as his agents sorted their troubles out, this should change.

And until then those werewolves and their friends were doing their part to keep London unstable, feeding the wish of the people of a strong leader. It would facilitate his takeover after he had dealt with the last of his enemies.

*****​

Harry Potter didn’t like Samhain. He had never liked it. His parents had been killed on that day. But he’d not miss the ceremony honouring Dis Pater, the God of the Underworld, and those who had died this year.

As every Samhain, all of the Ghosts in Hogwarts had gathered in the Great Hall, on the special table for them, where food would rot in seconds so they could partake of the meal. Once the meal started, at least. It wasn’t time yet,

Dumbledore rose from his seat, clapping his hands together. The Great Hall fell silent as the students and teachers stood up as well. The lights dimmed, until the Hall was shrouded in Darkness. Then the Headmaster spoke, in a sombre, grave tone.

“Dis Pater. Guardian of the Afterlife. Ruler of the Underworld. We implore you: Guide those souls who left us this year. Show them the way on their last journey. Judge them with mercy.”

Dumbledore raised his wand and cut the palm of his left hand. Blood started drip from the wound but vanished in shadows before it hit the ground. Harry followed the old wizard’s example, cutting his own palm with his wand, hissing at the brief pain. His blood too, disappeared before it touched the stone floor, and he felt suddenly cold.

The Headmaster started to list the names of the students and staff who had died the past year. The were far too many, several dozens, and each name prompted a sob or muttering from among the students. Harry didn’t know how long he stood there, bleeding, but he didn’t feel tired, or weak, but numb when Dumbledore read the last name. They said Dis Pater punished murderers. Harry hoped that was true. There were a lot of murderers in Britain that needed to be punished.

When the light went on again, he sat down, his hand - fully healed without a spell - seeking Hermione’s. He needed to touch her, to reassure himself that she was fine. She squeezed his hand, and smiled at him. He started to feel better again. Warmer. Ron was craning his neck, oh so subtly sneaking glances at Parkinson.

Their friend noticed their scrutiny, and pursed his lips. “I’m just checking how she’s doing. She lost a friend too.”

Harry exchanged a glance with Hermione. She shook her head slightly. Ron wasn’t fooling anyone but himself, and Harry doubted even that. But it was better to watch his antics than to dwell too much on the dead.

Looking at the numerous empty spots at each table, each a missing or dead student, he felt almost ill. So many students had been killed on the orders of a monster. A monster he was fated to kill. If he had managed that, all those students wouldn’t be dead.

Harry vowed that next year’s Samhain would be different.


Chapter 55: Berserkers