A/N: So, Chapter Two. Big thanks to everyone who's reviewed/favorited/followed this so far. Enjoy.

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Lucius

"I didn't see Rita Skeeter at the Ceremony of Foretelling," commented Fudge, idly scanning the front page of the Daily Prophet, feet resting on his desk. He seemed remarkably relaxed for a man whose career was collapsing.

"Nor did I, but it hasn't seemed to slow her down at all." Lucius sipped the tea he had been offered by Fudge's assistant. "I did attempt to divert her, but she's very singleminded."

"No matter," Fudge said, closing the paper. "It would have gotten out anyway. Although more preparation time would have been nice."

"Indeed," Lucius said. "Have you considered what we discussed?"

Fudge sighed, and dropped his feet from his desk. "Dumbledore has old friends in the Wizengamot," he said. "And as far as the general public is concerned, he practically stopped You-Know-Who singlehandedly last time. Moving against him would be political suicide."

"If we're going to use that metaphor, I think it's safe to say you're breathing your last, politically speaking." Lucius leaned forward. "You have nothing to lose, Minister."

"Nothing to lose. Perhaps. But what will this gain me? A few more months?" Fudge shook his head. "I almost wonder if it would be better to simply resign."

"Attack the seer," Lucius said. When Fudge's eyes cut abruptly to him, he clarified, "verbally."

"You think she's the weak link? Almost all experts agree - it was a true prophecy."

"Only the Unspeakables know that." And maybe not even them for much longer. "The public will believe what they want to believe, and nobody is hoping for a return of the Dark Lord."

"And if he is returning, then? We can't afford to bury our heads in the sand, Lucius!" Fudge cried. "What good will a few more months in this office do anyone if You-Know-Who comes back?"

Lucius sighed, and drew his wand, flicking it slightly, protections falling into place all around the two of them.

"We shall need at least a few weeks to tidy things before you go, Minister," he said, speaking softly and quickly. "You are in the midst of many a plot, none of which can be halted in a moment. Further, preparation for the war will be far easier if you are in a position of power, for at least a while."

Fudge rubbed his eyes. "Yes. Yes, of course. But the question remains: how will I remain in office long enough?"

"The seer," Lucius said. "She is the easiest point to attack. Draco tells me she's something of a joke at Hogwarts, even among the other professors."

"The public might be convinced. But as you say, Dumbledore would need to be dealt with. I wonder..." Fudge trailed off thoughtfully.

"I can secure his cooperation, I believe," Lucius said. "But if I do, he will be removed from the Wizengamot."

Fudge shook his head. "You'll never convince Dumbledore to step down."

"You underestimate me." Lucius might have chuckled if he'd been anything less than entirely serious.

"It could work," Fudge admitted, and Lucius felt a momentary surge of triumph. "If you can take care of Dumbledore, then there is a possibility - but the Longbottom bint will likely protest, and I wouldn't be surprised if Potter did."

"Potter's going to be too busy to engage the Wizengamot," Lucius said. "There've already been two riots where the Aurors were called in; if you announce that the Ministry does not endorse the prophecy, more will ensue."

Fudge nodded. "You may not have heard," he said, "but the Death Eaters are already returning. Many are proclaiming their renewed loyalty to the Dark Lord."

You may not have heard. A generous statement, Lucius thought, or a foolish one. And Cornelius Fudge was not a fool.

"That will add to the confusion." Lucius tapped his cane against the floor. "I trust Potter is capable of dealing with the threat?"

"He's competent, as always," Fudge said. "Impossible to deal with, but skilled at his work."

"He's an honorable man," Lucius disagreed. "And those are the easiest sort to deal with, once you understand that not all plans require their subject's agreement."

"He's too perceptive," Fudge said. "But he never seems to show it. It's like he's two people, Lucius, like one James Potter works in the shadows with a dagger and a cloak, and another James Potter works in the sun with some bloody sword of justice!"

Lucius studied Fudge's features. The subject of James Potter had reignited the Minister's temper. Interesting. "He concerns you so much?"

"Yes, by Merlin's blood!"

Lucius tapped his cane against the floor. Once. Twice. Three times. "It has been a while since I dealt with him," he allowed. "I... cannot say your concerns are unfounded."

"They aren't." Fudge was calming – the red was receding from his face. "Just – I do not think it would be wise to discount Potter, Lucius. Not wise at all."

Lucius nodded. "I shall give the matter consideration," he said. "When we next meet, we will discuss it again. Will that satisfy you?"

Fudge nodded. "Good. Very good.

Lucius flicked his wand, lowering the extra protections he had erected minutes earlier. "Does that conclude our business today, Minister?"

Fudge nodded. "That covers everything, I believe."

Lucius rose from his seat and strode to the door, pausing to look at the chess board set up near the window.

"Pawn to E-four," he said. The small marble figure slid silently across the board. Lucius glanced up at Fudge.

"Do not forget our deal, Cornelius," he said. "Time is running out."

Lucius then turned and walked from the room, not sparing another look for the Minister of Magic.

He navigated the crowded halls of the Ministry without difficulty, weaving between shouting aides, flying memos, weary Ministry workers, and the odd owl. It seemed that wherever he walked, a path would form before him, with others stepping out of the way reflexively. Lucius' lip curled; the world was full of people willing to stand aside at the slightest imperative.

One-and-a-half stairwells, three elevators, and one disappearing door later, Lucius stood before a Floo exit in the Atrium. He took the powder in his hand, threw it in, intoned, "Malfoy Manor," and strode into the fireplace.

He landed in his home, his pace perfectly timed to hit the floor when he reappeared. Lucius stepped out of the fireplace, shaking soot from his clothes onto the rug.

"Disgusting method of travel," he muttered. "Dobby!"

With a crack the Malfoy family elf appeared before him, cowering as always. A pathetic, foolish creature, but one who had its uses. Lucius pointed at the rug.

"Clean it," he ordered. "And after, fetch me some tea. I will be in the study, with Narcissa."

The elf nodded frantically. It hadn't spoken since Lucius had removed its tongue after it attempted to tell an enemy of his plans several years ago.

The study was an oak-paneled room with filled with many bookcases, a large desk, and several large, comfortable chairs. Lucius found Narcissa sitting at the desk, poring over a tome whose pages were yellowed and cracked.

"The cover-up is in progress," he informed her. She looked up, peering at him over rectangular reading glasses.

"The Dark Lord will no doubt be pleased."

"I don't intend to find out." Lucius sat in one of the large chairs. He tapped his cane against the floor. "I hope to never stand in his presence again."

Narcissa bit her lower lip. "Lucius..."

"We've discussed this," Lucius said. "Do you recall the last war at all?" His cane, held tight in his right hand, trembled with the force of his anger. "Do you remember my father? Your mother? Do you remember what happened to Draco?"

"Lucius!" Narcissa snapped. "Lower your voice. He'll hear."

"He should know," Lucius said, but he spoke more quietly anyway. "We should have told him."

"He's too young."

"Yes." Lucius rubbed his face with one hand. "Much too young. But old debts are coming due, and he doesn't even know."

"There are still books. Possibilities. This one looks promising. He never has to know."

Lucius sighed and stood. "Show me."

Daphne

"...true... could be that he's in the middle of it all. Potter..."

"No! ...starting already. Signs... storms over... rising!"

Daphne twirled her wand ever so slightly, making minute adjustments to the silver wibblers within her Wizarding Wireless. She was getting bad reception, which made her wonder if perhaps her father had found the tiny embroidered design inside the left shoulder of his robes. She didn't think he'd be mad, if he had. Irritated that he found them, maybe, or amused.

She wasn't even sure who he was meeting with today, or where, just that it was important, and that it was about the prophecy. Although the longer she listened, the more it seemed to be about a particular Potter. James, Lily or Harry – that was the question.

James Potter seemed a likely choice to Daphne. He was popular, skilled – and most importantly, he'd been there when the Dark Lord had fallen fifteen years ago. Lily Potter she knew little about; the woman ran an apothecary in Diagon Alley and seemed fairly unremarkable.

Daphne was pulled from her thoughts as a moment of clarity pierced the static, and she was given a single sentence, clear as day:

"We can't afford to ignore Trelawney – the last time she made a prophecy, the Dark Lord fell."

Oh. Oh, that was unexpected.

Last time... there had been a prophecy. A true prophecy, told by Trelawney. And that pretty much blew the biggest argument against the validity of this prophecy right out of the water, because everyone was assuming Trelawney was incompetent –

Which sent her mind spiralling down the path of wait who actually knows about this and what does that mean?

Her father knew, and the person he was meeting with. And it was said easily, like it was nothing new, nothing horridly secret among their circles. This meeting had been high security, yes, but how high? Wizengamot-high? Unspeakable-high?

Minister-high?

The size of the conspiracy depended entirely on the answer, but Daphne couldn't guess. It didn't seem either secret or obvious enough for a meeting with the Minister, but who knew? Her father was wealthy and well-respected, as well as a very generous supporter of Fudge; a meeting between the two of them wasn't out of the question.

A chill ran through her body as Daphne realized that if it hadn't been so public, this prophecy would be spoken of only in the same whispers, and nobody would know.

She couldn't decide if that would be better or worse.

The Wireless set had cut out entirely by now, and was only offering white noise, but Daphne was more than satisfied. The question now was how this information would best be used.

At the very least, it would be an excellent bargaining chip in her dealings with Harry Potter.

James

The medallion on the bedside table rattled slightly, jolting James Potter awake. He clapped a hand over it, stifling its vibration. Beside him, his wife mumbled in her sleep and rolled over, but didn't wake.

Carefully standing from the bed, James donned his nightshirt, grabbed his wand, and slipped out of the room. The medallion still vibrated in his hand as he padded down the stairs, to the sitting room.

"Incendio," he murmured, flicking his wand at the empty fireplace, and instantly the ashes were replaced with a warm, crackling fire. He reached inside a small bag on the mantle and grabbed a pinch of Floo powder, tossing it into the fire.

"Incoming," James said, and Kingsley Shacklebolt's face appeared in the flames.

"Sorry to wake you, sir," he said. "But we have a situation in Little Hangleton. Some reports of a Dark Mark and strange rituals."

James cursed. "Again."

"Again," Kingsley confirmed, though it hadn't really been a question.

"I'll be there in five."

Kingsley's head disappeared, and James hurried to dress.

Ten minutes later, James strode through Little Hangleton. The Dark Mark hung over a manor house on a hill, and he could see spellfire lighting its windows.

"Fuck," James breathed. He stopped, twisted to the side, and disappeared into the crushing tunnel of apparition, only to be flung back forcefully, landing flat on his back. Something warm was trickling down his face, and he wiped it off, hand coming away red. His head throbbed and the world looked blurry.

Merlin's blood, he hated anti-apparition wards.

Groaning, James pushed himself to his feet and limped in the direction of the manor.

The house had probably been handsome once. At the beginning of the night, it had probably been the perfect haunted house. Now, though, the lawn was scorched black from spellfire. The house was burning. James could see at least three people lying still outside.

Over the entire spectacle, the Dark Mark hovered, casting a sick green light.

James crossed the lawn, forcing himself to ignore the bodies. Gotta help the living, Jimmy. He didn't bother to try and open the door to the manor; a flick of his wand blasted it open. Inside, the walls were covered in sigils drawn in blood. Not a good sign, never a good sign.

Torn between destroying the symbols and searching for their creators, the decision was made for him when the spellfire from the second floor stopped and was replaced with screaming.

James limped as quickly as he could as the screaming intensified. He climbed a large and once-impressive staircase, and followed the screaming to a room with a closed door. James reached for the handle, but released it immediately, hand scorched.

"Bombarda!" he cried, blasting the door inward – but as he crossed its threshold, he froze in place, paralyzed. Paralysis wards of some sort.

Fuck.

Before him, Kingsley lay on the floor in the middle of a complex design, something James had never seen before but really, really didn't like the look of.

"Hello there." James' attention was drawn to the speaker, a man he only vaguely knew as Augustus Rookwood. He had a harsh, cruel face, and eyes that looked perpetually merry, and the combination had always made James uneasy. Should've listened to those instincts, Jimmy.

"Rookwood. What are you doing?"

"Throwing a welcome-back party, James," Rookwood said pleasantly. "Haven't you heard? The Dark Lord is due back any day now."

"Oh, I heard all about it," James said. "It sounds like a load of shit to me. Voldemort's dead, you crazed bastard."

"Crucio," Rookwood said softly, gently, flicking his wand slightly, and James screamed. Knives slashing every inch of his body, needles in each pore, fire in his veins, and he couldn't even thrash and writhe – then it was over.

"Please refer to my Lord by his proper title, James," Rookwood said. He approached Kingsley, producing a silver knife from his robes. "Your friend, James, he should be proud. He's contributing to something greater than any of us."

"What are you doing?"

"This knife was hard to prepare," Rookwood said, ignoring the question. "Imbued with the blood of a male unicorn, a werewolf, and a virgin, all under the same full moon. And it can only be used once."

"What are you doing?" James shouted.

Rookwood smiled. "Don't worry, James. I'll make certain he doesn't wake while I'm cutting his heart out." He chuckled. "I'm not... heartless, after all."