A/N: This is an idea that I've been fumbling with since the release of Half-Blood Prince; an AU second war fic. It would've even been considered AU at the time because it deviates from JK Rowling's canon when it comes to some technical details. Excellence is the name of my game here, so I ask you to nitpick the hell out of this. Oh, and I know Grindelwald's given name is Gellert in Deathly Hallows, but this was started before DH.

Disclaimer because of that fraction of a chance of facing a lawsuit: The Harry Potter universe belongs solely to JK Rowling. Other stuff has been influenced by history, mythology, and other things that will be cited as needed. The plot and original characters and locations belong to me.

Book One: Fragments of a Mutilated Soul

Chapter One: Lord Voldemort's Assault

Havenwood Manor was a centuries-old estate hidden far away from the Village of Pilkington, Gloucestershire. Located in a vast forest, it once offered the Squires who had resided there during the Victorian and Edwardian eras the privacy that they sought. Now the manor was merely a relic of a decadent past. The family that once reveled in the wealth that the manor had brought was long dead and the house fell into decay. Rumor spread throughout that small town that the old place was haunted since the days following World War I because of a dissatisfied butler having to deal with his late master's son working him like a slave because all the other servants either resigned or were killed in the war.

One night, his new master held a party and the butler had to endure a serious berating about how the food was overcooked. Towards the end of the night, he grabbed his trusty and secretly well-used Enfield revolver. Then he proceeded to kill his masters and their equally posh and arrogant guests. In an attempt to cover up his crime, he tried to set the house on fire, but was stopped by the police, arrested, and eventually hanged at the Old Bailey.

No one had ever come to buy the estate, so it was allowed to just fall victim to burglars and the decay of time. However, in the two recent years, there have been reports of strange activity in old Havenwood. Idiotic trespassers would call on the place to steal whatever valuables were left, and they would never return from the house. Sometimes, hikers in the woods would notice lights in the distant manor behind the fence and smoke rising from the chimney.

The strangest reports of all were sightings of figures in black cloaks and masks loitering about the property. The description of these cloaked figures matched that of the so-called Death Eaters, the ones responsible for the terrorist attacks that have started out in the United Kingdom two summers ago, then spread throughout Continental Europe in late 1996, and then to America the following winter.

Like any honest-to-God English, the villagers of Pilkington did not even usually concern themselves with the politics of the rest of the country, let alone the world, but these incidences were just too weird to ignore. The patrons of the Dead Boar Inn, who would usually be enjoying a rugby or football game or a lighthearted sitcom on the telly after a hard day's work, were intently watching the BBC. There had been another attack, this time on the Duddeston Station in Birmingham, and Conrad Gordon, the new Prime Minister was giving a speech with empty assurances that the ones responsible would be caught.

"Wos'at tosser sayin' them Deff Eaters are, Willy?" a frequent visitor from London asked. He regularly visited Pilkington, and as soon as he would have enough money, he would move away from the city. London was just too expensive to live in. Willy the elderly landlord paused the cleaning of his mugs and placed his tongue on the inside of his cheek in thought.

"He made them out to be some kind of cross between a Satan-worshipping cult and a Neo-Nazi movement." Politics would usually be the last subject of discussion. The patrons would usually talk about the weather, life's weekly struggles, problems with their spouses, or their day at work. The biggest subject of discussion was sports. They would come to celebrate the victory of their favorite football or rugby teams or wallow in their defeat.

"Load o' bollocks if ye ask me," the Londoner grunted and took a drink of his whiskey. "There's somefink Gordon's hidin'. Jest 'oo's this 'Dark Lord' bloke they keep swearin' loyalty to, eh?" In some of these attacks, the Death Eaters would allegedly cry out something showing their loyalty to their mysterious leader who fancied himself as the Dark Lord.

One of the other patrons, a new biology teacher at the local secondary school, had turned to him. "Whoever he is, mate, he bloody well knows what he's doing. That attack on those three planes leaving Heathrow… government tried passing them off as poor runway conditions. I think that's when they started to openly claim responsibility. Now even the Yanks are at loss of what to do. They bombed the bloody Lincoln Tunnel in heavy traffic! If I didn't know any better, I'd say it was those Muslim nutters, but this cult or whatever it is, is something completely different."

Willy nodded, making an incoherent noise of acknowledgment as he refilled the customers' mugs. "Reminds me of all those mysterious 'accidents' about twenty years ago. People are dying left, right, and center; and Gordon tries to pass these attacks off as accidents?" This was the first time the locals had ever seen Willy lose his temper like that. "Our options here are quite simple: either someone has declared war on us and they don't want to admit we're losing, or Gordon's ordering the attacks himself, and is secretly waiting for the right opportunity to establish some tin-pot dictatorship. Never did trust that self-righteous twat!"

"'He can't be trying to establish a dictatorship, Will," a customer from a billiard table countered. "If Gordon's trying to seize emergency power, then how do you explain the attacks in the other countries? Still wouldn't fancy our chances as long as that idiot's in charge. From what I hear, the entire world's gone to Hell..."

"Now, now, my dear foolish Muggles, he really had no choice in the matter," said a chillingly calm and aristocratic voice. Three strangely dressed people sat together in the corner of the bar watching the whole conversation with amusement. One was a man in his forties with a thickset build, and a sickly thin face. Another was thin man with a high forehead, black hair and a triangular goatee, giving the landlord the impression of a vampire. His swishy black robes and pale face further enhanced the 'vampire' image. The last one was an imposing woman with a gaunt face and heavily lidded eyes. In her prime, she would have been very good-looking, but despite her looks, she had a forbidding air about her, almost like a wicked witch out of a fairy tale.

"Your Prime Minister knows exactly who we are, but you Muggles would never believe him if he told you the truth."

"Who the hell are you?" Willy demanded, and he wanted to ask what a 'Muggle' was. The thickset man sneered as he and his companions drew themselves off their chairs to their full height. "Oh my God, you're…" It was then that Willy recognized the man with the high forehead and the woman as Antonin Dolohov and Bellatrix Lestrange respectively. Both of which were high-ranking Death Eaters responsible for some of the most grisly murders since the attacks began. Bellatrix, in particular, was considered one of the most dangerous. Every law enforcement agency in the country was after them, and here they were in his pub without any fear.

"Travers at your service," the thickset man bowed mockingly and procured what looked like a magic wand from his pocket. The other two copied that motion, and the patrons sat there, all having half a mind to run away. One man actually did make a run towards the door, but the dark-haired woman raised her wand, pointing it at the retreating customer's back.

"Avada Kedavra!"

Once she spoke these strange words, a flash of green light temporarily blinded the patrons. Once everything was clear, screams of horror erupted in the bar. The man lay on the dusty floor unmarked, but certainly dead. Chaos took over the pub as the customers scrambled to get out, but the Death Eaters would not allow it. Dolohov aimed his wand at a rather old, bent man.

"Crucio!"

The old man slumped onto the floor shrieking, and the Londoner noticed to his horror, that his face was contorted in pain. The Londoner was instantly on his feet, running towards the Death Eaters, and grabbing the handle of his knife. "LEAVE 'IM ALONE!" The weapon was drawn in a swift movement of his hand and he slashed the blade across Dolohov's face, nearly puncturing his left eye. The Death Eater winced and inspected the bleeding gash with his hand, gazing at the crimson liquid dripping on it for a moment, as though he had never seen anything more beautiful.

Just as the Londoner was about to resume his assault with a lethal strike, Dolohov raised his wand, muttering something under his breath. Before the Londoner could make heads or tails of what was happening, he felt as though a powerful fist had slammed into his solar plexus, sending him crashing into a table, knocking it and the drinks over. The patrons at that table jumped to their feet to try to fight the Death Eaters off, but then, two of the men sitting at the bar were on their feet as well. The teacher brandished a wand, and a black man in a leather jacket reached in and drew a pistol from inside the jacket.

"Halt where you are!" barked the teacher and the man with the gun ordered the other patrons to retreat. As they scrambled to escape, a knowing smirk spread across Travers' face.

"So you're an undercover Auror, eh, mate? What's your name?"

"McCormick," he responded shortly.

Bellatrix shot him a sneer at the mention of his name. "I've not heard of your surname! Your father would be a Muggle, then?"

McCormick turned his wand on her. "That's beside the point! Once the Ministry gets through with you, I promise you lot will beg to be thrown back in Azkaban!"

"Oh," Dolohov said dismissively. "A Mudblood, then?"

Hearing enough, the man with the gun stepped forward. "Drop your weapons and get on your knees with your hands up, or I'll shoot!" he said, flashing a badge at the Death Eaters. Fifteen years in law enforcement, and this was the first time he was forced to carry that hateful weapon. All the police in the UK were now required to carry guns, even those who had gone their entire careers without even touching one, let alone firing one. "I'm not fucking around here; you have three seconds!" However, Dolohov made a swiping movement with his wand, resulting in a loud crack from above McCormick and the detective. A beam was about to fall on them, and it took the reflexes born out of both men's intense training to avoid being crushed.

The detective slid backward on his rear and squeezed the trigger as McCormick cried, "STUPEFY!" The jet of red light, which was intended for Bellatrix, was easily deflected with a casual wave of her wand. The detective's bullet only hit the back of one of the chairs. Dolohov and Travers both shot off Killing Curses at their foes that were not intended to strike and they certainly did not let them.

McCormick magically launched one long table at the Death Eaters, throwing them off their feet. "RUN!" roared the Auror, evading another spell, which struck the bar, setting it in flames. "I'll hold them off!" Astounded as he was to learn of the paranormal nature of the Death Eaters, he had his codes to follow and they did not include running away while an ally was in danger. He responded by giving McCormick a signal with a jerk of his head. "Reducto!" His wand was aimed at a beam supporting the ceiling above the Death Eaters, causing it to split and plunge down, and nearly crushing them.

Travers' reaction was quick. He levitated the rafters safely away, no longer sneering at them. The detective, who had managed to relocate himself further away from Death Eaters watched as they and McCormick were locked in a fierce duel where blinding spells were thrown at one another. It was then that he had come to the realization that these were – was it possible – wizards!

Cocking his gun, he took aim at Travers and fired. The round had hit him squarely in the neck, and he slumped to the floor in a puddle of his own blood never to rise again. The other two Death Eaters sprang around to the detective. Dolohov made a furious move towards him, looking more deranged than ever with blood streaming down the side of his face. "You filthy Mug-"

The detective fired at the Death Eater's rib before Dolohov could finish, making him clutch the wound and groan in pain. "Let's go, Bellatrix!" barked Dolohov, righting himself. "The Dark Lord's waiting for us!" The woman looked like she was going to refuse, but they both vanished into thin air, making the detective jump in surprise.

Both he and the Auror holstered their weapons and held each other's gazes for several long moments until McCormick finally broke the silence. "Thanks for your help. I don't think I'd be able to hold them off alone." He sighed heavily, muttering mostly to himself, "There's going to be a lot of paperwork to deal with once I report this to Chief Robards." He held out his right hand and the detective shook it. "Brian McCormick. Intelligence Operations Specialist, Her Majesty's Auror Service."

"Detective Sergeant Ben Jenkins," said the detective. "Police."

"Guess your precinct also received reports of Death Eater activity here," said McCormick. "I must report to London immediately. If He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is here, it's only a matter of time before he retaliates! He won't take the loss of one of his lieutenants to a Muggle so lightly. I say it's only a matter of time before the Wizarding world's revealed." He added the last sentence sarcastically, but Ben didn't know what to make of it.

"What are you-"

"No time to explain, go back to your headquarters and tell them what happened!"


While the exterior of Havenwood Manor was falling quickly into decay, the interior was refurbished into a temporary base of operations for the Dark Lord. Lord Voldemort sat there in the drawing room, his gaunt, skull-white face illuminated by the candlelight as he absentmindedly twirled his wand in his hand. An enormous snake lay coiled at his feet while his servant, Wormtail, paced the floor in front of the unlit fireplace. Voldemort would give them one more minute to return, and then he would have to summon them by force.

After a few moments, Voldemort turned to his servant and stated, "It seems that our entourage has arrived, Wormtail. Go welcome them and bring them all here."

"Y-Yes, my lord," Wormtail affirmed and set out of the drawing room. Voldemort could only hope for a certain group of Death Eaters' sakes that they had been successful, otherwise, he would be set back a long way. If they had failed, then he would not be able to carry out the plan he had been devising for the last year.

The dozens of Death Eaters soon started filing into the drawing room, and Voldemort arose from his armchair, scarlet eyes narrowing in disapproval. "You are all very nearly late," he hissed. "Take your places at once." Without word or preamble, each cloaked figure took his or her spot in a semicircle around their leader. "Where are Bellatrix, Travers, and Dolohov?"

Just then, the disheveled figures of two of the aforementioned Death Eaters stumbled into the room. Dolohov, Voldemort noted, was bleeding from his side and Bellatrix seemed out of breath. "Where is Travers?" he asked them coldly, paying no heed to his servant's wound.

"Dead, my lord," replied Dolohov. "We… err… got a bit carried away at the pub. There was an Auror and Muggle policeman there." Voldemort aimed his wand at the bleeding wound.

"Accio!"

Dolohov screamed in agony as the bullet forcefully expelled itself from his body and flew to the Dark Lord's large, pale, long-fingered hand. "A bullet, Dolohov?" He furiously threw the small metal projectile to the floor and turned his wand upon the wounded Death Eater again. "You, a Dark wizard who has powers that the Aurors or Dumbledore's lot could only dream of, was nearly finished by a Muggle weapon?" Nobody laughed. There was no mistaking the disgust in Voldemort's voice. "Crucio!"

At length, he lifted the curse and began to address the others, while Dolohov was recuperating. "Well, you have had five hours, you'd better have results!" He surveyed the Death Eaters: who would go first? "Severus?"

He spoke to a tall, sallow-faced man with a hooked nose, greasy black hair, and dark eyes. "He is dead, my lord," Severus Snape said. Draco Malfoy, the boy next to him, refused to meet the Dark Lord's gaze, and his master knew that he had not done the job. Snape was the one to do it.

He was dead. That was all that Voldemort needed to hear. Albus Dumbledore, the only one that he could truly call an equal, the only one holding him back from achieving his ultimate ambition was nothing more than a rotting piece of meat. It did not matter in the long run who had killed him; all that mattered was that Dumbledore would no longer hinder him. Now that that hindrance was eliminated, there was no time like the present to take the initiative!

"Everyone," Voldemort began, grasping his wand tighter. "Now that that Muggle-loving fool is dead, it is time to act. Even now, our forces are growing all over the world, and we are to redouble our efforts and recruit as many as possible. Several prominent Death Eaters are now in Azkaban, and we will release them from the Ministry's clutches. Not only that… Azkaban currently holds over eight thousand prisoners within its walls, and they will all join me or die! However, there is one in particular that I am determined to have joining me. Somebody whom Dumbledore had spared because he was too weak… this will be a fatal mistake.

"I hope that those of you who attacked Hogwarts realize that this was only a preliminary encounter. The true beginning of our cause lies before us! Once this is done, we are going to take our war to a whole new level! We set out tomorrow night!"

A collective war cry resounded in the enormous drawing room, and once it had died, Voldemort glared at Draco Malfoy, who was no longer afraid. There was nothing but a fierce determination in his gray eyes. "Lord Voldemort will consider the treatment that you and your family will receive based on how you perform in the coming battle. If you prove yourself a worthy servant, you will be rewarded beyond your dreams. However, if you display the same amount of weakness that you have shown earlier on top of the Astronomy tower, you will die. Is this clear?"

"Yes, master," said Draco firmly. "I won't fail you again. What about Potter, my Lord? Are you still going to go after him?" Voldemort's thin, lipless mouth curled at the mention of the name.

"If I know Harry Potter, he will be the one looking for me now. He undoubtedly wants revenge for his dear mentor. However, he will not find me until I wish him to. Then, when the moment is right, the Boy-Who-Lived will just become another passing page in history."

The next evening, Lord Voldemort led his followers, no, his soldiers from the mansion, and forward to war. After this night, everything would change. For the Wizarding world, the Muggle world, and unbeknownst to the Death Eaters, for themselves as well.


Not very far from Britain, on a small island in the North Sea, stood the mighty Fortress of Azkaban. This prison had seen hundreds of years of history. It was built in 1479 under the rule of Chief Warlock Gaius Camillus and the Wizard's Council to house dissenters and their families. This was a perfect way for him to keep the Wizarding community under his control. Thousands of witches and wizards had been executed there, the most famous being Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington and Sir Patrick Delaney-Podmore who had commanded a band of revolutionaries against Camillus' regime from April to October of 1492. Porpington and Podmore were two of many rebels to face the brutal mass beheadings that took place there every day. Some say both men had returned as ghosts in defiance of Camillus.

A few years later, the Dark Wizard Gorhaf overthrew the government, and the executions were abolished. A much more terrible and effective way to keep Wizarding Britain in order was introduced for those not killed in the purges. Under Gorhaf's rule, Dementors had replaced the prison guards. These demonic wraiths would entrap the unfortunate souls imprisoned there within their own misery. Another way that the enemies of the new regime were destroyed was by the Dementor's kiss, a weapon that would send the victim to a fate much worse than death. It was the fate that had awaited Gorhaf after his deposition at the hands of the resistance. With the fall of the Dark Wizard's tyranny, the Wizard's Council was reestablished with major reforms, resulting in Gaius Camillus and his henchmen being arrested, tried, and ordered to receive the kiss for their crimes against the people.

Even with the establishment of the Ministry of Magic in the seventeenth century, Azkaban was the last remnant of a dark past used to punish offenders. In Lord Voldemort's first rise to power, the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Bartemius Crouch tried to emulate Gaius Camillus by sending hundreds to this place. A number of the detainees were sent there without a trial or any proof whatsoever of them being involved with the Death Eaters. The Dementor's kiss was performed there on multiple occasions under Crouch's jurisdiction.

Azkaban retained its terrible reputation under Cornelius Fudge's Ministry, but had seen hardly any new prisoners, aside from petty criminals. Even in his final year in office, when he was swiftly marching down the path to dictatorship, not too many were sent to the Dementors. It was all thanks to Fudge that the Dementors had abandoned the prison to join Lord Voldemort, who was now using them for whatever sick ambitions he had. It was also thanks to Fudge and his desire to cling to power that some of the most dangerous of Voldemort's supporters had escaped.

Now, under Rufus Scrimgeour, there were two guards for every ten inmates, plus the Governor, the tower guards, and emergency defense units. These were wizards highly trained in combat with orders to strike first and ask questions later. The guard in tower three thought over this prison's dark and terrible history. From his post, he could see the spot where Nearly-Headless Nick had met his untimely doom at Wizard Council's hands. It wasn't until starting to work in this hellish place that he had grasped the seriousness of what had happened to the man who'd become the ghost he had befriended during his years at Hogwarts.

The guard wondered how Azkaban and the world would change once He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named would be defeated; or rather if he would be defeated. If Professor Dumbledore, the man who defeated the Butcher of Europe, Reichsmarchall Reinhard Grindelwald, had not been able to stop You-Know-Who, then who could?

Albus Dumbledore had been murdered the day before, so who could stop You-Know-Who now; A mere teenage boy who had survived several attempts on his life by mere luck and unexplainable circumstances? He was just a boy who probably wanted a normal life and would eventually go mad from how much the Daily Prophet – or Daily Pravda as the guard liked to call it since 1995 – was talking about him. Not to mention Harry had the burden of having that psychotic bastard wanting to do him in.

"Bollocks," the guard scoffed. However, the guard knew to be careful not to express his cynical view of Harry Potter. Most of the Wizarding world saw him as the world's only hope for peace.

Shaking his head, the guard absentmindedly puffed on his cigarette. He gazed at the main building of the enormous prison, where the lights in the windows faded. If he could name one good thing about this wretched island, it was the night. Nights here were quiet, which was why he chose to take that shift. However, tonight was eerily quiet. Maybe it was just him, but the guard was starting to get very bad vibes.

No, this was not from inside the walls; his bad feeling was coming from the outside. The guard brandished his wand and hissed, "Lumos!" He pointed it over the wall like a searchlight and his heart froze. Over the horizon, approaching the island at top speed, were dozens of boats. One did not have to be a genius to know what was going on. The guard immediately sent a red flare into the air, and the alarm sounded throughout the fortress.

"Attention all personnel," the governor's magically magnified voice announced. "We are going to red alert! Death Eaters are approaching the south wall by amphibious assault! All defense units report to your emergency stations immediately. All guards prepare to defend the interior. Lethal force is authorized on any escapee who refuses to surrender!"

The prison came to life instantly. The torches were lit, and there was an incoherent cacophony of voices. Within minutes, the green-clad emergency defense squad charged into a courtyard by the gate and on the wall. The guards in towers two and four joined the guards on the wall. The one in tower three aimed his illuminated wand down at the approaching boats, and he spotted the many cloaked figures.

"Dim the torches!" ordered the defense unit commander, Major O'Keefe. The prison was once again pitched black. The guards simply waited for the enemy to arrive within their firing range. The boats were approaching, and the fear the guard in tower three felt was slowly dissipating. He tightened the grip on his wand, stretching out his arm further. The Death Eaters were only a few meters away, so why were the guards not attacking yet? On cue, Major O'Keefe's order came.

"COMMENCE FIRE!"

A myriad of curses and hexes hit home as they drew closer to the shore. The guard made a violent slashing movement with his wand, emitting a sheet of flame. Several boats caught fire, forcing the Death Eaters to abandon their vessels to swim to their target. One of the ones who had made it to the shore cried, "Confringo!" An explosion rocked the island as a huge chunk of the wall crumbled into to dust, sending several guards flying off the wall.

A jet of green light zoomed past the tower guard's head as he made to join his comrades on the main wall. "How about a little of this?" he fired several Killing Curses wildly. Dark Magic or not, there was a theory that he lived by concerning the enemy. In order to defeat them, you eliminate as many of them as possible. "Fluguris!" His wand vibrated as a rod of lightning emitted from his wand in an upward slant rising hundreds of feet in the air and then split into ten separate rods, descending at bullet-speed, encompassing several Death Eaters in a powerful electric wave.

He was going to launch another spell, but to his horror, the tower shuddered violently and crumbled beneath the guard's feet. He fell for what seemed like hours. The last thing he ever saw was tower one meeting a similar fate and the stone shrapnel crushing his skull. The guard was dead before he had even hit the ground.