Author's Note: Well, I'm trying something a bit different with this. A take on how terrible the first war could have been with Voldemort even more influent than he was, from the POV of someone who's neither a Death Eater nor from the OotP. Does not end quite as bad as the premise might make you think. Commentary and critique much appreciated, as I don't usually write OC's in novel-length works like that.

Thanks for reading !

Chapter 1

The War Isn't Over

A masked, cloaked figure strode through busy streets, hiding itself in dark corners, tall shadows, and mindless gazes of pedestrians in the evening. It stood watching at intersections, as if from the nearest car would emerge someone it had been expecting - its look, behind the mask, was almost disappointed whenever it stopped observing and changed position. Reaching a particularly difficult crossing, it sat down, watched cars pass by for a while, noticeably twitching when one hooted. On the other side of the road, another strange shadow moved and stretched, and stayed still. It was almost eight o'clock; it would be soon.

"You getting back from a party ?"

The figure tensed, and turned to face the intruder. He was so very young, a lanky teenager wearing a bright-coloured shirt, his hair falling loose over his face. Is he alone ? wondered the cloaked stranger. Go away, go away, it chanted in its head. Go away, stupid young boy, and never come back...

"I'd swear I've seen you just across the street," continued the teenager. "Mask and all. You two part of the same lot ?"

Remaining silent, the black figure touched its wand on the inside of its cloak. Two minutes left.

"You all right ?"

"Maybe he's too drunk to answer, mate," said another teenager, who looked younger with his large eyes and pale blond curls. "Pretty early for that, but you know, with them," and he jerked his head towards the hunched stranger.

One minute. The teenagers departed, commenting this odd encounter.

They crossed the street just as a blue car emerged in the horizon.

And sped faster. Zero. And faster.

The figure had already left its post, and it slithered along a nearby alley: it would not see the frenzied blue vehicle hitting two others, nor hear the screams of the two boys and the sounds of broken glass. Six Muggles down, it thought. Too many to go.

"Stupefy !"

At once Cal's world went red, then ceased to exist.

When he was wakened only minutes after he fell in what he imagined to be a very inelegant heap of robes at Bella's feet, looked around him and identified the green glow of Slytherin's common room under the lake, Bella and Rodolphus were sitting and laughing next to him.

"And then I aimed," said Bella, "and he looked so very confused like a baby !"

Was that what he had looked like to them ?

"And then, then ?"enquired Rodolphus, his tone higher, more eager.

"Then the big duffer fell to the ground and I said 'Ooh, Weasley, I hadn't seen you !' and this silly girl ran at me... you had to see her face... I'm duelling her next Saturday."

The next Saturday, Cal would be taking a path he knew well along the old corridors of the castle, past the portrait of Magdalene Malkin, past the silent watching suits of armour, past a winding staircase that seemed never to bring him quite at the same place, until he arrived in front of an unornated door; and there he would wait for it to open on its own and meet his father to discuss his Defence Against the Dark Arts performance, or rather lack thereof. And unlike Bella, Cal had no innate ability (or, once he admitted it to himself, only within his most private thoughts, affinity) for duelling.

Phineas Nigellus Black, his illustrious ancestor, had also taught his own children, Cal remembered; and while Phineas did not hold his father in the highest esteem, he had been no fonder of the young or the ignorant in his time. The thought that his ordeal was almost a family tradition, a legacy of sorts, was comforting.

But for the moment Cal was in the safety of his common room, lying down near Bella and Rodolphus, who carried on without a thought for him, as if he might as well have been dead. He supposed it had been kind of them to bring his body back after the duel. Likely an idea of Andromeda's.

"Where's Andie ?" he asked, sitting up, in a lazy tone. As if he'd merely been napping, and not defeated at all.

"Patrol," answered Rodolphus. There was something in the way he wrinkled his nose that suggested he did not like breaching the subject. "First of the year. With Malfoy."

"I'd forgotten they were prefects. Really, Malfoy ? Surely there was a better choice."

"Of course there was," said Bellatrix. "It should've been us."

"Well, maybe they thought Andromeda's marks were better." It was untrue, of course: Bellatrix wasn't the best pupil in the class, but she was better than Andromeda and him combined, and she certainly took pride in it. "Maybe Malfoy's father has to buy his pride as he does everything else," he snickered.

"Maybe Dumbledore is a Muggle-loving corrupted old coot who thinks his agenda is more important than our merit - wait, that much is true... the Professor said so... that he imposed Andie and Malfoy, that he thought they'd be more cooperative..." Cal frowned.

Bella always called his father 'the Professor', even as his mother had always been 'Aunt Electra' - doubtless because his knowledge and competence had made a lasting impression on her. Cal only wished she could keep her admiration to herself. Wasn't Rodolphus ever tired ?

Rodolphus did look bothered these days. Ordinarily he confided in Cal - he had told about watching Carina Peters practice Quidditch even though she was a half-blood, and about how he did Bellatrix's Transfiguration essays (Cal had not been surprised), and his parents fighting, and even that one time in third year when he had bought himself a pet rat and brought it to Hogwarts in secret. Now he seemed to be perpetually keeping worries close to him like a cloak, fastened against his throat, growing tighter as he grew up.

Bella was never bothered. If they were born to rule the world, it was Bellatrix alone who was made for it; Bellatrix who claimed her dues and settled her disputes as her very own one-woman army.

After breakfast on Saturday, Cal left his copy of the Daily Prophet lying in his common room and took off for his appointment. He was never late, but it wouldn't do to be early, either, and so Cal carefully timed his steps. He hadn't seen Bellatrix or Andromeda, and Rodolphus had seemed much happier at breakfast, chattering on about the upcoming Quidditch season: Cal hoped it meant that whatever trouble had clouded his mood before had now passed.

Before knocking on the door, he straightened his robes and back, tucked back his hair and his smile; but he was not nearly done when a soft voice beckoned him in.

"I am disappointed in your understanding of wizarding duels," he started. Cal did not sit, speak, or move at all. "You seem to believe duels to be neat arrangements between wizards, conversations, as it were, where the wizard who speaks last wins. This could not be further from the truth. Duelling - duelling with the Dark Arts - is more of an argument: what matters is not the strength or variety of your attacks, but the timing and emotion behind them, and the adversary you have. Sit down, Callidus."

Cal took a seat on a plain, but old chair, and a long look at the room - devoid of ornaments or photographs, but lined with bookcases containing volumes and scrolls of all shapes and sizes, oozing their strange scent into the air, and lastly at his father himself, whose face always seemed too young for the ambient austerity.

"How many official duels have you taken part in this term ?"

"Five, sir."

"I take it you lost."

"I won once, against Adalbert Merryweather."

"Tell me," said his teacher, and he started caressing the side of a nearby book whose title Cal could not make out. "What do you think of when you cast a spell ?"

"Well, how to do it, mostly. The movement, and the words, the way we are taught. I try to focus on my goal and the way to get there."

"I see." There was a gleam in his eyes; for a moment Cal thought his expression almost amused. "In a real situation, you should think about your opponent - observe when they feel, what they fear, why they fail. Do not feel or fear for them." His tone grew even softer. "You must first see weakness or rashness, then protect yourself, then attack. Take comfort in the other's weakness more than in your strength."

"I will try, sir."

"This is O.W.L. year. What Professor Slughorn might have told you about your options is irrelevant: you will continue with the Dark Arts class until seventh year. Now, I have many better ways to fill my time, yet you need more experience to even pass the practical. However much... enthusiasm Miss Black may have, she cannot be expected to teach you." Much as Cal would have liked to say it didn't matter, being compared to Bellatrix again stung.

At once he composed himself: he had almost stopped paying attention.

"- first of them Sunday next, then once every two Sundays," continued his father. "More often, if you do not do better in class. I am certain I can find a way to - motivate you." There was a moment's silence as an intent gaze met Cal's; he offered no resistance, and felt strangely examined.

"You may leave."

"Father ?" His tone grew hesitant, and he forced himself to smile, to look more pleasant.

"Professor," corrected the teacher. "Yes ?"

"Did you ever lose a duel ?"

"No," he answered. "But you have no need to do as well. The standards have always been low, and you come from a powerfully magical background: it should not be difficult."

Hogwarts' corridors rang with the laughter of his schoolmates, but as he turned around the second floor to take another flight of stairs, Cal heard the sounds morph into shouts and stern voices. There were altercations every day, some more serious than others, but this time, he had recognised Bellatrix's voice.

Please tell me she hasn't turned anyone into a pig, he thought. Or worse, a dead pig.

A statue of a hag looked on the scene disapprovingly. Farther down the corridor, Professor McGonagall stood, arms crossed, listening to the confused cacophony of girls' explanations. Bella was copiously insulting a short redhead, who waved her wand in large circles in the air; near them, a scrawny boy stared at the redheaded girl's back from a distance, and fourth-year Evan Rosier, Bella's cousin, tried to keep up with the pace of her verbal abuse.

"Miss Prewett, calm down," said McGonagall. She looked like a bothered cat with her eyes narrowed behind her glasses. "Miss Black, detention Wednesday. Did you call one of my students a 'fat squealing cow' and suggest that she 'spawn another brood' of the 'tainted traitors in rags' that are Mr Weasley's family ?"

At these words Cal realised that the scrawny boy did indeed sport the Weasley mop of bright red hair, that his face complemented so well in this instant.

"They were sneaking out together, Professor," said Rosier. "Don't tell me that wasn't for an inappropriate purpose. She ambushed Bellatrix when we passed them -"

"She said she wanted a duel, you stinking liar ! She'd attacked Arthur twice this week !" shrieked Prewett, sparks flying out of her wand.

"You wish I'd lower myself to duel you or the filthy company you keep, Prewett," replied Bella. "Do you need to wash his smell out of you when you get back to Gryffindor Tower ?"

"Two detentions, Miss Black. Miss Prewett, put your wand down immediately."

Grumbling, Prewett obeyed, not taking her burning look off Bella's face.

"Well, well," said Rosier as they retired from the scene. "Wussy Weasley lets his girlfriend defend his honour. Who'd have thought."

Down the corridor, Cal could still hear the girl's high-pitched voice fuss over Weasley's wounds, delivering on occasion a tirade on the Slytherin shrewdness. Bellatrix was holding her head high, letting her cousin's remarks wash over her, obviously well-pleased with herself.

"Bella ?" he said. She uncrossed her arms. "Nice retort." This time she gratified him with a half-smile. Putting himself in Bellatrix's good graces was something Cal had had ample time to learn in childhood.

"You should've seen her when Prof Kitty arrived," said Rosier. McGonagall was thankfully safely out of hearing: she did not find the nickname particularly amusing. "One minute she was pinning Ginger to the wall, the next she was acting offended over being attacked. I was her second, you know ? Not that she needs one."

"Stop grovelling, Evan," said Bellatrix, who had condescended to address them now that they were nearing the dungeons. "And you," she told Cal, "don't try to change the subject. I know where you were going today. And if you think you deserve better marks just because you're his son -" Cal fought back a smile at the idea of his father treating him any better than other students. Try worse, he thought. Other students can drop the class.

"Bella, he knows you're better than I am." Unfortunately.

"Don't call me Bella."

"He was offering me remedial Defence tutoring."

"I'm always good in his class ! Why don't I get private lessons ?" All her pretense of being above tantrums had now dropped, her small eyes flashing, her cheeks red.

Though Cal was taller than her, he recoiled. "Remedial lessons are, sort of, for people who get failing marks. Can you imagine failing your father's subject ?"

"Cygnus wouldn't know how to teach anything," she said bitterly. "I bet the Professor will be teaching you more than just Defence. Far greater things. Far above NEWT-level - nothing we'd ever learn here in that school."

Cal knew exactly what she meant, and indeed he supposed his father would be setting some... additional goals. But that he couldn't tell Bella, and he didn't like telling lies, so he changed subjects.

"Now, now, let's see what's new in the world," he said cheerily, looking around the common room for his Daily Prophet."Where's -"

"Right here," drawled Lucius Malfoy from a sofa he was spread on, beside his best friend and chief executioner, Henry Crabbe. "You might want to watch yourself, Bellatrix." He paused. "Not even Blacks are above the law. What with current events..." Malfoy's thin lips were stretched in a lazy smile. Crabbe gave a deep chuckle.

"What with them, Malfoy ?" asked Rosier. His tone was more curious than offended, and Malfoy, enjoying his position, allowed the silence to last some more.

"Oh, I don't know," he said at last. "The usual. Page one, Crouch newly promoted Head of the Auror Office aged twenty-eight, the Chudley Cannons lost to Puddlemere United... and three attacks on Muggles in three weeks attributed to Grindelwald."

Cal snatched the newspaper from Malfoy's grasp, scanning the text. Grindelwald... Why would he have waited so long to come to Britain, when he announced during his reign that he had 'no ill intentions' towards them and desired an alliance, when he had called for Albus Dumbledore, when he, finally, ran away and hid ? Or had he waited ? Cal figured that, in Grindelwald's place, he would have run exactly where the enemy would expect him least - on his home turf - as soon as possible. Yet he remembered what he'd heard in his childhood: that Grindelwald was in the USSR, that for this reason he couldn't go to Durmstrang, Durmstrang was his. How far did the Dark Lord's hand reach ? At once Cal felt fear, something he didn't think he could know at Hogwarts. It was as though the shadow of the erstwhile Dark Lord lurked within the castle, a monster lying in wait.

Still something was unclear about the announcement. The deaths had been reported in the Daily Prophet. Admittedly, on page six, but it was nevertheless very unusual fare for the official newspaper of irrelevant Ministry happenings.

"It must have just killed Cygnus," said Bella distractedly. "Having to publish that in his newspaper. Think he read the article, or was he sick just on skimming ?"

Cal's explanation arrived by owl post on Monday, along with a fat pack of sweets in which a short note from Auntie Druella was tucked ("That's for all four of you until Halloween, Andromeda and Bellatrix oughtn't overindulge"). It was a very official letter bearing the Black family's crest, and Cal had to read it over Bella's shoulder. "Should Albus Dumbledore answer their summons this time," said the letter in Cygnus' characteristic cursive, "perhaps we may be rid of the Dark Lord." Later he commented, "Surely there are other sorcerers of Grindelwald's caliber ? Aurors to send, protective charms to cast – after very nearly three decades, must we still stand silent and wait ?"

Another scene was then painted on the back of Cal's mind in wide, bright brushstrokes. A younger, rounder-faced Cal was seated on a crimson chair in Cygnus' drawing-room, facing his father in a similar position, their dark hair and robes contrasting against the red cloth. It was very old cloth, and not at all soft to the touch.

"In 1945," then-Cal said, "the Dark Lord Grindelwald retreated in his fortress in Nurmengard."

"Where was Nurmengard ?"

"In South Germany. There, the Aurors went to clean the place but found that he had already escaped -"

"No. What happened before that ?"

Then-Cal's round eyes looked to his left while he thought deeply, his lips pursed. "I don't know, Father." His little hands tensed and twitched.

"Grindelwald sent one last message to the Wizengamot's Albus Dumbledore, revealing his location and offering a duel. Dumbledore never came. What next, Callidus ?"

"The Dark Lord left. He'd lost. People celebrated, and then you married Mother and started teaching." Cal wasn't sure whether his father's short laugh at this point was real or added to his memory by the weight of many years of wishful thinking.

"And the war ended, did it not ?"

"I don't know."

Eleven witches and warlocks were seated, in various states of comfort, in a little alpine clearing chilled by a slight breeze. On this morning of late September, the sun was pale and low in the sky, and few birds were heard. Within the circle murmurs filled the silence, and a few people passed coffee and treats; all gazes and voices neatly avoided a spot left empty, between a bearded warlock wearing fur-lined robes and a middle-aged witch with a large nose.

The whispers slowed and stopped. In the centre of the circle stood a tall, grey-haired wizard clad in blue.

"Friends," said the newcomer, "you have called, and I have come. May I have some of these delightful Bulgarian sweets you brought, Sara ?"

The stranger sat, and closed the circle. Armed with Sara's sweets and a cup of coffee, Albus Dumbledore, for that was his name, adjusted his glasses waiting for the Supreme Mugwump to start the reunion.

"We are gathered to unearth a matter that had been declared dead long ago," announced a tall, bald wizard with a French accent. "The Dark Lord is once more among us. Albus Dumbledore, coming to us from the United Kingdom, please speak."

"Thank you, Armand. In the last three weeks, in Manchester and Bristol, in England, and in Inverness, in Scotland, a total of fifteen Muggles and two wizards have been killed or injured, leaving traces of magic. In all these cases the Muggle police found accidents. But these attacks occured precisely at a seven-day interval, and in each case, one of the targeted Muggles was an exception to the Statute of Secrecy. I must say, I do not believe the Dark Lord is involved, for he had no reason to uphold the Statute he wished to abolish -"

"Hold your Abraxans, Albus !" rang the deep voice of the Supreme Mugwump. "Are you trying to evade judgment for your role in the Dark Lord's escape ? Truly, you have been making excuses far too long." A murmur of approbation echoed Armand's words. Behind the glasses, Albus' blue eyes dimmed, the corners of his mouth dropped imperceptibly, and he looked at once wearier.