Harry Potter belongs to J K Rowling, the wonderful lady who has inspired so many people to try their hand at writing too. Warhammer 40k belongs to Games Workshop who have a very scary legal team. Please don't sue me, I'm not very well off and could only pay you in pictures. I only mean to pay homage to the wonderful, funny, baroque, gruesomeness that is WH40k.

I should also say a big thank-you to my very patient Beta Jacobus-Minoris who has read and reread my writing, pointed out my grammatical mistakes, questioned the suitability of some of my wilder ideas as well as putting up with my long winded rants about plot ideas.


Author's Note

A big thank-you for all your wonderful reviews, I always appreciate them and they always give me plenty to think about.

I'll apologise for the scene with the soldiers in, in advance. I used to work in a military surplus store, so I've met a fair few squaddies, and have a good idea of their equipment, and what sort of things they like to make their lives more comfortable (tiny little titanium stoves and sporks always went down well), but I'm not at all clued up about military organisation itself, or how the ranks think and feel about one another (though I can guess). If anyone sees any particularly embarrassing mistakes please feel free to point them out. I really appreciate it

Now on to Keele University. I actually went there for a summer school with the Open University nearly fifteen years ago. It was absolutely brilliant, I got to handle a piece of uranium during a lab session (so cool :-D ), and utterly crazy, I was woken up by drunken fifty something year-olds falling over into the bushes below my window at 2am most nights (so annoying). Anyway, the grounds of Keele University are really wooded and green with lots of open spaces and the various building spread over quite a wide area. My memory may be a little hazy but I remember the refectory building where I went to get breakfast all of that week as being an early 80's sort of thing, built of red brick with large tinted glass windows. I might be wrong, it was a while ago...


Chapter 3

Mrs Faulks tutted as Shaun began to fuss in his pushchair, bored and desperate to explore. Typically, Timothy was late, and the cup of coffee she'd ordered him was cooling on the table, untouched and forlorn.

"Where has he got to?" Sandra snapped, as she pushed Shaun's pushchair back and forth in an attempt to sooth him.

"Well, he said he'd be here," Mrs Faulks said distractedly, as she eyed the passing crowds of shoppers. Even though it was mid-week, harried families swarmed past, laden down with shopping, as they frantically bought last minute supplies for their off-springs' return to school. Any sign of her wayward younger son, not a one; oh, how she wished he would get another job. She had watched him turn from a happy confident boy, into an increasingly bitter man, into this...gaunt, haunted shadow of himself.

Oh dear, there he was, slowly making his way along, fingers trailing along the balustrade, absently gazing down into the densely planted winter garden below, his posture rigid and upright, one of those black and gold cigarettes drooping from his mouth, and- oh, good grief, what did he think he looked like?

She'd seen him before in that ridiculous get-up, the slim trousers with the satin ribbon down the outer leg seam, the little braid encrusted jacket that was so close fitting it was a wonder he could move his arms, and that blasted sash. She couldn't say what particularly annoyed her about the blue and bronze sash, but she could quite cheerfully set it on fire. In some strange fit he'd obviously attempted to "dress down" his outrageous ensemble, and had left the neck open, revealing the white of his shirt and a "v" of pale, wiry, and to her horror, scarred chest...

With his shaggy, roughly slicked back hair and sideburns, it only succeeded in making him look even more disreputable and dodgy; the nearby shoppers parted warily around him like a herd of wildebeest near a pack of lions, Timothy being completely oblivious to them all.

"My god," Sandra muttered, "he looks like a reject from a Napoleonic re-enactment group."

"You mean, because he was trying too hard," Mrs Faulks added with a small smile.

Shaun picked that moment to clamber from his pushchair and charge off, squealing at the top of his voice, "Unca, unca!"

"When did he manage that?" Sandra asked in shock, as she leapt to her feet and made after her wayward offspring. Mrs Faulks shook her head in exasperation, watching as Timothy scooped his nephew up and settled him on his hip. Predictably, the little lad attempted to stick his fingers in his uncle's mouth, having developed an unhealthy obsession with Timothy's gold teeth shortly after he became aware of them. It had certainly enlivened Shaun's first visit to the dentist, where he had demanded, with his severely limited vocabulary, "shiny tooth wiv pic'urs."

Sandra had not been impressed.

"I thought we were having sandwiches for lunch, not fingers," Mrs Faulks distinctly heard Timothy tell a giggling Shaun as he made his way over, Sandra watching him with a scowl.

"I, err...sorry I'm late," Timothy said as he hitched Shaun more comfortably on his hip. "The new archivists arrived this morning, and it took longer than I had anticipated, showing them around, and answering questions."

"Archivists?" Sandra asked, as they settled round the table again, Timothy attempting to keep the wriggling toddler on his lap but failing miserably.

"Yes," he said distractedly as he finally gave in and let Shaun slip to the floor, "to put Mr Carrow's family records in order. I've tried to make some sort of start on it, but there's hundreds of years worth and it's completely beyond my capabilities what with everything..." He trailed off, grimacing slightly at the luke-warm coffee. "So how have you all been?"

The conversation drifted into normal everyday topics, much to Mrs Faulks relief, as Sandra happily launched into a retelling of her little darling's newest achievements, as the small boy in question picked his toys out from the pushchair and hid them under the table.

The day continued more or less as she'd planned, as she and Sandra wandered from shop to shop in search of the perfect dresses to wear to her niece's wedding next summer, Timothy trailing after them. If they didn't start planning their outfits now, it would only turn into a mad dash the week before with no guarantee that something suitable would be available. Sandra had the sense to listen, but Timothy on the other hand...

"Mum, I already have a suit that will do, honestly," he said as he cuddled Shaun standing in the middle of the men's outfitters she finally managed to drag him into. "It's grey, and it's really boring, and I really like it."

And so despite her careful arguments and dire warnings of his tie potentially clashing with the bridesmaids dresses, he stubbornly refused to listen, instead keeping a wary watch, twitching whenever one of the strangely numerous security guards came too close, almost clinging to Shaun as if he were a life-line, particularly after she confiscated his cigarettes since he was chain smoking. What a terrible example for such an impressionable child.

Fortunately, Shaun didn't seem to mind and appeared to be enjoying the excellent view his uncle's extra height afforded him.

Needing watering after their marathon clothes-shop crawl, they stopped at another coffee shop, Shaun now safely ensconced in his pushchair fast asleep.

Timothy, suddenly remembering something, reached into an inside pocket, pulled out a bulging envelope (Mrs Faulks suspected magical involvement), and handed it to a puzzled Sandra.

"Mattie gave this to me, to give to you," he explained and Sandra gleefully tore it open, pulling out her prize, an origami turtle for Shaun falling out on to the table.

Ah, thoughtful, Mrs Faulks smiled at her youngest son happily, as Sandra devoured her unusually long letter. It was so difficult for military wives when they could go months without seeing their other halves, left to run the household and look after the children virtually on their own, with that persistent worry at the back of their minds, would he come back alive this time. And especially now that Mattie was in a war-zone that was proving to be particularly vicious, and- hang on..."Timothy, when did Mattie give you that letter?" she asked, her heart freezing in her chest.

Timothy stared back wide-eyed. "Erm...about three weeks, I think...erm...this was the first opportunity I had to hand it over..."

"Don't be ridiculous, Timothy, Matthew is out in Yugosla..." Mrs Faulks snapped angrily, before a horrible suspicion occurred to her. "Were you out there too? What were you doing? Why would you need to go there?"

Timothy hunched defensively in his chair, arms crossed. "I was just doing Mattie a good turn, because I caused him a bit of bother..."

Mrs Faulks stared angrily at her errant younger son. "This is Mr Carrow, isn't it? He's a bad influence!"

Timothy didn't need to say anything, she just knew, as he slumped down further in his chair that she'd hit the nail on the head.

"Can I have my cigarettes back now?" he asked, trying to change the subject.

"No, you may not!" Mrs Faulks gave him a disapproving glare.

"Muuum!" he whined.

OOOOOO

Sirius whooped with delight; this latest addition to the partially restored and refurbished Grimmauld Place had only been installed in the rejuvenated living room this morning, but already it was proving- he yelled joyfully- everything he'd hoped, and more.

"Oh for Merlin's sake!" Remus exclaimed from the doorway, clearly exasperated, as Sirius finally tumbled to the floor, laughing. "Why did you feel the need to have this...this..bucking bronco of all things installed in the living room? It's utterly ridiculous!"

Sirius sprawled on the floor, his robes spread around him, still laughing. "Ah, don't be like that, Moony, it's just a bit of fun," he whined, "just have a go."

"Absolutely not!" Remus backed away glaring, knowing what would happen next if he wasn't careful.

"Aww, come on, Moony!" Sirius bounced up, stalking towards his best friend in the world, with an evil grin. "You're far too up-tight, you know, you need to lighten up a little, have more fuuunn..."

The soft ding-dong of the front doorbell sounded, followed predictably by awful screeches. "SLUR ON THE NOBLE HOUSE OF BLACK, SCUM..."

Sirius groaned. "Of all the timing..." He threw his hands up, as he stormed out of the room and down the hall. "This had better not be Allesandor, I don't think I can cope with him this early in the morning."

"TRAITOR SON OF MINE, HOW DARE YOU CHANGE THE WALLPAPER..."

"Oh shut up, you old cow!" Sirius screamed back, as he wrenched the heavy curtains back over the hated portrait of his late and unlamented mother. It had been the only solution that they'd managed to come up with so far, thanks to the permanent sticking charm his mother had used, short of removing the entire wall. Personally, he wanted to use fiendfyre on the wretched thing; only Remus' threat to permanently change him into a poodle, a female poodle, had deterred him so far.

"Headmaster! It's good to see you, please come in." Remus' voice drifted over from the front door and Sirius relaxed with a sigh; brilliant, not Allesandor, his psycho god-son then. He could cope with Dumbledore; the old man might even like some of the more...novel additions he'd made to the old family home.

"Sirius, my boy," Dumbledore greeted him warmly as he strolled into the hall, gazing around in appreciation. "I see your efforts with the refurbishments are paying off handsomely. It looks wonderful." He smiled at Sirius, his blue eyes merry.

Sirius beamed happily as he admired his handiwork in the hall. Gone was the dingy wood, shabby dirty wallpaper and dubious collection of dark objects. The walls of the hall were now covered with a violently floral, cream and gold wallpaper, white ceiling and cornice with a little tasteful gilding on the mouldings, the woodwork and floor stripped of their ancient varnish and polished to a warm honey coloured tone. He'd had difficulties deciding on carpet runners, in the end resorting to buying all the designs he like in red; mismatched, yes, but it worked. The little furniture visible was all mahogany, and then he'd finished it all off with the brightest, most sparkly chandeliers he could find. Grimmauld Place was slowly becoming a place he could genuinely call home.

"We've just finished in the living room, just had the last touches installed this morning," Sirius grinned. Now, what were the odds he could get Dumbledore to have a go. He summoned the new house-elf. "Pippy! Tea and nibbles for three, if you would." The eager house-elf popped away with an excited squeak, delighted to be catering for guests.

Sirius's grin only broadened as Dumbledore walked into the living room and came to a halt exclaiming "Oh my," as he gazed around wide-eyed. "How wonderful!"

"Yeah, Timmo...my god-son's secretary gave me some muggle magazines devoted to err...interior design. Gave me loads of brilliant ideas," Sirius said as he examined his efforts with a critical eye. The once dark and oppressive space full of unpleasant memories had been transformed with plain cream walls, more stripped wood, lime-washed furniture upholstered in ox-blood red velvet, pale marble, and the lightest of taffeta drapes at the windows. He'd then added what Timmo insisted on calling a conservatory at the back which led directly into the garden, and in the middle, in pride of place, sat the bucking bronco surrounded by discrete cushioning charms. It was all the things he craved for, light, warmth, fresh air, open space, fun. He'd spent so long locked away in the cold and dark that, now he'd got used to being free, even cupboards were starting to make him feel panicky.

"Did you have help with the plants?" Dumbledore asked, as he gazed through the open doors of the conservatory into the lush greenery of the garden beyond.

"Oh yeah," Sirius smiled ruefully, "bit of a black thumb me. Do you remember Bunty Glossop?"

"Hufflepuff? Friend of Alice's?" Dumbledore asked. "Yes, lovely young lady, very hardworking, highest Herbology NEWT in fifty years, if I remember rightly."

Sirius nodded. "Yeah, I've hired her to look after the garden for me. She's done amazing things, and in only two months as well. The first week poor Bunty had to wear dragon-hide armour, some of the plants were that out of control."

Dumbledore murmured appreciatively, raising an amused eyebrow as he took in the large muggle print in a gilt frame of a group of dogs playing cards that had pride of place above the fireplace.

A horrific monstrosity of a creature, all golden filigree and old yellowed bones covered in runes stalked into the living room, incongruously wearing a frilly pink apron, carrying a loaded tea tray, and herded by a shrill Pippy. The men watched in uncomfortable silence as the...thing put the tray down, stared at them a moment with empty eye sockets lit by a unearthly glow, before stalking away followed by Pippy squeakily barking orders at it.

"Ah, yes," Sirius shifted uncomfortably, "little gift from my god-son when he discovered I was living without at least half-a-dozen servants. Apparently such a thing is beneath someone of my status...scone, anyone?"

"Well, I suppose I should tell you why I'm visiting," Dumbledore sighed as he settled himself more comfortably on the sofa with a cup of tea and a fruit scone. "Have you considered taking up your family seat on the Wizengamot?" he asked.

Sirius coughed as he choked on a crumb of scone. "What?" he wheezed, as he gulped down some tea. "You're serious, aren't you? Why? Wait a moment, don't answer that," Sirius held up a hand as Dumbledore opened his mouth, "this is my bloody god-son, isn't it? You only have to meet him for five minutes to realise he's a manipulative murderous little...great big..." He waved a hand expressively, searching desperately for the right words to adequately express his feelings.

"Quite," Dumbledore interrupted before Sirius could get descriptive, "and now he occupies one of the most powerful positions in the Ministry, and Minister Fudge is so obviously...only still where he is, because dear Allesandor currently finds him useful," Dumbledore sighed heavily, "and I still suspect under-hand means. Madam Umbridge's death was just too...convenient..."

The room descended into silence, the twittering of birds drifting in from the garden outside.

"What does it take," Dumbledore suddenly burst out, "to persuade a fully grown man that assassination isn't a canny political manoeuvre, that actually most people see it as rather anti-social!" He shook his head. "Allesandor is just so...frustrating. He'll be belligerent, aggressive and violent, bull-headed to an extreme...but then he'll do something that reminds me so much of the boy that I knew for that one year that..." He gave the two silent men a sad smile. "Enough of my troubles."

"He's running amok, isn't he?" Sirius asked as he put his tea-cup down with a tiny clatter. "You were wondering if I might be a...good influence on Allesandor..."

"A little more than that," Dumbledore replied, leaning back. "I'm trying to put together a group of people who are independent minded enough to stand up to our dear Senior Under-secretary, not out-right opposition per say. I doubt he'd tolerate that. No, it's more a group who will weed out some of his more outrageous ideas."

Sirius and Remus nodded slowly, their expressions worried. "Like his suggestion...demand," Remus said carefully, "of a mandatory military service for all young magical males. I couldn't believe it when I saw that in the paper."

"But it didn't get through," Sirius said, quickly looking between the two men.

"No, it didn't, I managed to drum up enough support to shoot that one down," Dumbledore said tiredly. "It took a surprising amount of effort."

Sirius considered things a moment, an uncharacteristically serious frown on his face. "So who have you got so far?" he asked.

"Well," Dumbledore said with a small smile beginning to show, "a number of the old crowd you're sure to know, Elphius Dodge of course...Ptolemy Chant and his brother-in-law Cuthbert, Madam Bagshot, Madam Longbottom and err...Madam Malfoy...so far."

"That's a mixed bag," Remus commented with a raised eyebrow, "Dodge, dyed in the wool Liberal, Ptolemy Chant..."

"We went to school together," Dumbledore explained with a small shrug.

"...traditionalist," Remus continued, "on the dark side but stayed neutral in the War, Cuthbert Montague, also stayed out of the war, but more because, as far as I can tell, he regarded Voldemort and his followers as not being dark enough...and then Madam Bagshot, traditionalist, but light leaning..."

"Narcissa Malfoy," Sirius interrupted, "cousin Cissy has sided with you...and Madam Longbottom...the two of them in a room together?" Sirius stared in disbelief. "Things are desperate then... but what about Amelia Bones? I would have thought she would be a..." He trailed off, as Dumbledore shook his head.

"Madam Bones is very firmly on Allesandor's side, I'm afraid. He's done wonders to improve the reputation and credibility of the DMLE internationally, as well as having drastically increased their budget, and forcefully implementing anti-corruption measures Madam Bones devised herself."

Sirius stared. "So what about outside the Wizengamot, the wider Ministry, people like...Arthur Weasley?" he suggested tentatively.

Dumbledore winced slightly. "Allesandor saved the Weasley's youngest and only daughter from a fate worse than death. I can't ask them to stand against him when they feel they owe him a life-debt. Their third son Percy also now works for Carrow as a secretary."

"Mad-eye Moody?" Sirius suggested.

"Alastor..." Dumbledore stroked a hand down his beard in exasperation, "you know how Alastor has always put forward proposals to improve the Auror training program?"

Sirius nodded; some of them had been truly terrifying.

"Allesandor went and...implemented his latest plan with a few additions of his own. The drop-out rate has increased significantly, but I understand the recruits that are coming through are of a very high calibre indeed. And as a result, Alastor won't hear a thing against the man. In fact, he's not really speaking to me at the moment..." he trailed off sadly "...though he did agree to teach Defence, just for this coming school year, so maybe we can reconcile our differences..."

"He's gutted the Wizengamot, hasn't he?" Remus asked, horrified.

"Not that it took much effort on his part, considering the War," Dumbledore said, looking as serious as ever they'd seen him. "From the little Allesandor has told me of his adult life, and some educated reading between the lines of course, he's been trained to infiltrate and subsume governments and the like, but it doesn't appear to be his main area..."

"All right, all right," Sirius held up his hands, "you want help against the unstoppable force of...pig-headedness, I understand, and I will help you...someone has to stand up to him..." His eyes roved around the room until they alighted on something. "If you'll have a go on my new toy," he grinned evilly at Dumbledore.

Dumbledore turned and eyed the object that dominated the centre of the room. "The bucking bronco? It's been years since I've had the opportunity to ride one! May I?" he asked Sirius with a beaming smile.

"Be my guest," Sirius gestured, trying to hide his surprise. Where had his old headmaster come across something like this? His eyes widened as the bronco began to dive and spin and buck, the Headmaster gamely clinging on with one hand, whooping with delight, while waving his pointed hat above his head with the other, for what seemed like an age. Bringing the contraption to a halt, Dumbledore elegantly slipped from its back. "Wonderful, wonderful, do you think Minerva would object if I acquired one for the office?"

"I, erm...well..." Sirius seemed to be at a loss for words.

"I shall consider the matter," Dumbledore smiled brightly at him. "Our next meeting will be a fortnight on Thursday at Hogwarts. We're currently using one of the guest rooms for want of a better place. I'll owl you the details closer to time. Well, I must be off. Thank-you very much for the tea and scones, it's been delightful."

Sirius watched him leave with a look of stunned awe.

"Sticking charm," Dumbledore whispered to Remus with a wink as he walked past. Remus hurriedly hid his laugh with a cough.

OOOOOO

Gulping nervously, Barty Crouch approached the doors to the Great Hall, the sound of the chattering students muffled by their thickness. No, he couldn't afford to show such an emotion, not when so much rested on this desperate, crazy plan he'd concocted to...please...appease the shadow of his once great master.

They'd stayed awhile in a decrepit old house, dusty and barely maintained, on the outskirts of Little Hangleton, the plan being that the Dark Lord would stay there while he infiltrated Hogwarts disguised as- they still had to clarify that part- under cover of the Tri-Wizard tournament that was all over the Daily Prophet (Diplomatic Triumph for Minister Fudge, his leg), to gain a very special and heavily protected victim for the Ritual of Resurrection that the Dark Lord wished to undertake; the Boy-who-lived himself...

But there was a large problem his Master seemed to be blind to; he wouldn't be able to see to his Master's needs on a daily basis, not if he was disguised as a professor, and certainly not as a student. And they still hadn't agreed on a suitable person for him to switch with. Somehow he doubted he'd be able to over-power Dumbledore that easily, no matter the Dark Lord's opinions (and rants) on the subject. There was no way around it, the Dark Lord needed to go with him. How? Well, he'd figure that out when he got to it.

While lurking in Diagon Alley during the school rush, and glamoured to the eyeballs, he had made a fortuitous discovery. Hiding in the Household Charms section of Flourish and Blotts, he had overheard two obvious students...

"...even more boring than last year," the thin mousy-haired lad said.

"Yeah, but that's History for you, can't expect anything more than that. Might as well use it as extra study time," the obvious Ravenclaw said, adjusting his neat rectangular glasses. His friend sighed heavily. "I loved History before Binns," he said mournfully.

"So? Cast a silencing charm, or use ear-plugs, and read round the subject," his friend said, completely unsympathetic, "what do you think about the Defence text? Have you had a look yet?"

"Yeah," the mousey-haired lad said hefting a leather-bound tome, "it looks pretty interesting. I'm quietly optimistic, though a few of the later chapters remind me of Professor Carrow. Dad said something about maybe it was old Mad-Eye Moody. Apparently, he's taking a year off from his consultancy work at the DMLE."

"Hmm, Mad-Eye Moody," the Ravenclaw scowled, "just hope he's not as crazy as..."

Barty moved further away along the aisle and picked a random book from the shelf, flicking idly through it in an attempt to look less suspicious. Mad-Eye Moody, eh...he had a bone to pick with old Mad-Eye...

A meaningful cough sounded beside him, and he turned to find one of the sales staff standing there, looking at him and the book with a raised eyebrow.

He looked down at the page. "...healing properties of your menstrual blood. Save this precious outpouring in a crystal vial, and use throughout the coming month as..."

He flushed scarlet, juggling the book frantically as he stuffed it back on the shelf, the silver lettering of the title "Mystical Moon-time" glinting maliciously at him from its deep blue silk binding. He stalked away, gathering the tattered remains of his dignity about him as best he could...

And so a crazy and desperate plan was hatched. He would take the place of Mad-Eye and go to Hogwarts, where he would be ideally placed to kidnap Harry Potter during the chaos surrounding the Tri-Wizard tournament.

...crouching outside Moody's wards just behind a particularly scratchy hedge, Barty had begun to have second thoughts, but he quickly brushed them aside. What alternative did he have?

He cast a bludgeoning curse into the old man's dustbins; if he could lure the old bastard outside...

The night lit up as a hail of spell fire spewed forth from the house. Barty threw himself to the ground, quietly cursing paranoid old bastards who hexed first and didn't even ask any questions. So much for luring him outside.

The darkness of the night returned, still and thick as Barty peeled himself cautiously off the ground, brushing the odd dry leaf off. Now what was he going to do?

A door creaked opened, followed by a muttering growl and the uneven stomping of Mad-Eye Moody as he approached. "Bloody cats," Barty distinctly heard him growl. Quick as he could, not believing his luck, he jabbed his wand at the old auror, sending a silent stunner his way. The old man crumpled to the ground, leaving a stunned Barty standing there. It was that easy? No, it couldn't be, there had to be some sort of catch. Shaking himself, he leapt into action, stunning Moody again as a safety precaution, and quickly levitating him into the house. Ten minutes later he had polyjuiced himself, stripped the old man of his clothing and physical aids for his personal benefit, and even found a convenient place to store him for easy access; ah, the joys of fancy-dancy multi-compartment trunks. In fact now he came to think about it, he could bring his master with him like this, he grinned to himself, Moody's scarred and craggy visage turning his expression into something truly terrible. This could actually work...

...yet now he was having second thoughts. He pushed the doors open with a dramatic gesture, the resulting boom echoing around the Great Hall. All eyes turned to him, students and teachers alike, a surprising number of them reaching for their wands and pointing them in his direction. What were they expecting, a Death Eater? Barty sniggered internally at his little joke as he stomped his way up the hall, the students watching him cautiously with narrowed eyes. Was it him, or was there something off with their reaction?

And now the hard part. Dumbledore came round the High Table approaching, shaking his hand, murmuring polite enquires as to his health. Heart thumping in his ears Barty wasn't sure what he said in return, something about "bloody cats" but the old man seemed to accept it, and led him to a chair. Cold sweat trickled down his back as Barty glared out at the students, as they gave him a lukewarm round of applause. It was going to be a miracle if he survived this.

He carefully selected a piece of sausage as the feast got underway; there was no way he could face anything more at the moment, not without being sick. Cautiously, he sniffed the thing, surreptitiously casting a few of his repertoire of revealing charms. Best to be on the safe side, particularly since... he glanced down the table, and Snape glared back. He sneered at the traitorous Potions Master. Snape jerked his head back to his plate, poking at his meal viciously.

Barty pulled the hip-flask out, taking a carefully mouthful of the polyjuice potion within, shuddering he went back to his food, the foul aftertaste doing nothing for his appetite. Now where was the Potter brat?

The Gryffindors, rowdy as ever with a "how long can you balance a pastie on your nose" competition going on at the far end, familiar flashes of red hair that must be the multitudinous Weasley offspring, the Longbottom lad, his eye widening in surprise as suddenly a juvenile grizzly bear sat in his place, cries of "Neville!" drifting over, a few other vaguely familiar faces, but no miniature of James bloody Potter. Strange; he frowned, he could have sworn...

He turned his attention to the Hufflepuffs. Maybe loyalty trumped bravery, for surely the Potter brat took after his parents' personalities as well as appearance, and whatever else was said about James and Lily, they were just as loyal as they were brave. Merlin, the Bones chit looked like her dad, and who was that with her...no, he didn't recognise the blonde lass at all, though one day she may very well be a looker. Lots of...well, it was all very Hufflepuff and no familiar Potter mess of black hair at all.

Maybe the boy took more after his mother; she'd been incredibly talented, top of her class, bright, intelligent, inquisitive, creative; such a loss, despite her blood status. He looked over the Ravenclaw table as they gathered in groups for quiet but fierce discussion, or ate absentmindedly while reading books. There were a number of students with dark hair, but no Potter...

Surely not...no, he couldn't have, could he? He dragged his eyes over to the Slytherin table. So many students there looked so achingly familiar- Millicent Bulstrode, looking so like her mother, but with her father's build, poor child. Maybe she would grow into it...Gregory Goyle looking serious and thoughtful-and reading a book!? He definitely didn't take after his father, no matter how much he looked like him. The lack of familiar faces was also startling. Where was the Malfoy heir? Surely Lucius would have sent his son to Hogwarts? But still no Potter, so where was he?

Had Dumbledore and the Ministry hidden him away somewhere for safety? What was going on? He glanced at the Headmaster beside him, deep in discussion with Professor McGonagall, something about a meeting...possibly political. Moody was bound to get invited, after all everyone knew the two were close friends and allies.

So where was Potter? If he couldn't get accesses to him, then all this plotting, planning, and destroying his taste-buds was all for nothing. He growled to himself, carefully eyeing the tiny Charms Professor who sat on his other side. The man was so deep in conversation with Argus Filch of people, talking about...magical theory...and colour change charms. To his eternal surprise, Filch pulled out a wand, and began to attempt the third year level charm under Flitwick's enthusiastic supervision. Wasn't Filch a squib? What in Merlin's name was going on?

"The start of a new year, all these fresh new faces; I always look forward to this time of year," the Charms Professor's squeaky voice said next to him.

Barty nodded, grunting. Best not to say too much or he'd give himself away, but on the other hand... "Missing faces," he grunted to the little man, "no Malfoy," he scowled.

"Ah yes," Flitwick winced a little, "yes, well, the young Malfoy heir was a student here two years ago but Madam Malfoy transferred him to Beauxbatons after the untimely death of his father...at such a young age too, tragic..." he trailed off with a sad smile. "Of course, there are all sorts of rumours doing the rounds that the late Mr Malfoy's demise was, err, assisted..."

The cold sweat froze on his back, as Barty's mind whirled in alarm and confusion. Lucius Malfoy...dead...murdered. Fortunately, Flitwick had been distracted by a question from Filch. What else had he missed during his imprisonment by his father, vital potentiallyplan-changing information...

Time to break out the veritaserum, and question that old bastard Moody properly...

Something small and hard struck him on the head. Barty picked it up and carefully examined it...a little rubber duck, black with glowing red eyes...student prank all ready? He glared out over the tables as more of the odd muggle objects came raining down turning into a veritable downpour, the students casting shielding charms or holding books over their heads or even digging out umbrellas, not seeming at all fazed by this curious event. Was this a regular occurrence? What the hell was going on?

oOo

Snape stared down the table to the grizzled veteran auror. If he was right, that odour was...hmmm...leeches, stewed...and the tang of fluxweed, and boomslang skin...his eyes widened in realisation. Polyjuice potion. He couldn't be completely certain, he'd need to double check, but was the Auror actually who he seemed...and who should he inform of his misgivings?

He eyed the Headmaster a moment, who was busily organising his anti-Carrow party with Minerva. Then a thought struck him, a wonderful idea guaranteed to annoy the maximum number of people. He grinned into his coffee-disguised-as-pumpkin-juice. Yes, Carrow would appreciate knowing about this development at Hogwarts...

oOo

Barty frantically scrabbled through his potions cabinet...where was it...where was it...bruise balm...blood replenishers...hair hirsute...here it was, typically hiding at the back. He dashed over to the trunk as fast as the wooden leg allowed and lowered himself down, the Dark Lord watching him beadily from behind the day's issue of the Daily Prophet, the effect spoilt somewhat by the sturdy pine high-chair, the evil box by its side.

Moody lay comatose on a pile of blankets in the corner, shivering slightly. Barty smirked slightly; it was nice seeing the old bastard suffer for a change, though if he continued like this...Barty crouched down painfully, cursing the stupid wooden limb as it stuck out at an absurd angle...the old man's skin was cold and clammy, blast it. Moody wasn't as young as he was...if his health failed and he suddenly died, well he'd be up in the air without a broom as the saying went. People weren't meant to be made to lie still for weeks at a time, but what else could he do? Maybe he should make him walk around a bit, lend him the leg or something.

But on to more pressing problems.

He carefully placed three drops of the veritaserum on Moody's tongue and commanded him to swallow, watching as his eyes glazed even further.

"What is your name?" he snapped at the old man.

"Alastor Moody," Moody croaked, obviously trying to fight the effects of the potion, his face pale and sweaty, the scars that ravaged it standing out starkly.

Barty gave a small sigh of relief, it was working.

"How did Lucius Malfoy die?" he asked. Behind him there was a rustle as the Dark Lord stopped his pretence of reading the paper, giving the pair his full attention.

Moody grinned horribly, revealing crooked teeth. "He had a stroke in the night...two years ago...couldn't have happened to a...better person," he cackled.

"Was the death suspicious?" Barty asked, desperate to confirm Professor Fliwick's suspicions.

Moody broke into a mad cackle. "Oh yes," he grinned broadly at his captor. Barty sneered back in loathing, a sour feeling settling in his stomach.

"Who do you suspect of causing Lucius Malfoy's...death?" he ground out.

The old man smirked up at him, "Allesandor Darius Carrow...but there's no proof...just circumstance...and what...came...later," he forced out, fighting the veritaserum.

"What?" a furious voice hissed being him, Barty turned to find the Dark Lord furiously leaning over the tray of the high chair. "What?" he screamed, "who is this? Who dared destroy one of my faithful?"

"Your worst nightmare," Moody laughed hoarsely.

Barty hurriedly took control again, before things could get nasty. "The Crabbe boy isn't at Hogwarts. Why?"

"He died in a suicide pact with his mother," Moody stated, his expression flat. "They wanted to avoid the shame Augustus had brought on the family."

Barty swallowed nervously, cold sweat trickling down his spine. He ploughed on with the questions, asking after those he'd know closely, then the names of those he had met only occasionally, his Master sounding more and more like an angry kettle in the background, trying to acquire as much information as he could before the potion wore off, Moody's laughter becoming ever nastier.

With a flick of his wand, he hit the old Auror with a stunning spell, just as the shredded and mangled remains of the Daily Prophet flew past his head, hitting the wall opposite.

"Everyone, everything," the Dark Lord screamed, "all removed, all destroyed," he breathed heavily red eyes blazing evilly. "Everything I've built up over decades," he hissed, "destroyed in less than two years by one man. I will admit I murdered a hell of a lot of people to get to where I did. And I was hounded by the Aurors for it, their most wanted!" he screamed, "this...this man...has also murdered scores of people, we can all read between the lines. And what do they do? Make him Senior Under-Secretary!" He panted with rage. "How? Why? Has Magical Britain lost what little sense it had left?"

Barty swallowed nervously, feeling as if the world had been kicked out from under him. "My Lord...ermm...he is suspected of having something to do with the previous incumbent's untimely demise."

He sat shivering on the floor; this was a disaster of epic proportions. Moody and Dumbledore had had a falling out over politics within the DMLE, and he didn't feel confident enough with his charade to attempt to patch it up. The risk of discovery was too high. Someone had "broken into" Azkaban and executed every single last Death Eater incarcerated within. The Lestranges were all gone...the thought of Bella dead and forgotten in some rancid cell...he wiped a tear away. The rest of the Death Eaters were either very publicly dead, suspected dead, or hadn't been heard from or seen in public for well over a year. Their contacts within the Ministry as well as the criminal under-world were in disarray, and then worst of all, the Boy-who-lived was somewhere so safe even Moody didn't know of its location...and all of this mess pointed back, in one way or another to this shadowy figure...Allesandor Darius Carrow...

He ran a shaking hand over his face wincing at the unfamiliarity of the mangled nose. Where in Merlin's name did they go from here? The nasty pins-and-needles in his fingers wrenched his mind away from its miserable path. Oh drat, the polyjuice potion! Frantically, he grabbed for the hip-flask and took a large swig.

"Idiot," a sibilant mutter came from behind him. Barty turned to find his master hunched down in his robes, hood pulled up around his face, red eyes gleaming malevolently. "If we can't have Harry Potter, then this...Carrow individual will do. He appears to have taken apart my followers and my associates, and their resources. It's only a matter of time before he is declared a Dark Lord himself. I cannot, will not abide a rival." The Dark Lord narrowed his eyes in anger. "If this doesn't qualify him as my mortal enemy, then nothing will. Well, don't just sit there, find him and use him for the plan instead."

Barty nodded quickly; oh hell, more research.

OOOOOO

The morning was grey and dull, the Breakfast Room lit by a watery light that promised nothing but miserable drizzle, glancing off the angular Italian glassware and making the bright and cheerful wall paintings look almost garish in its cold blue light. The brisk wind blew the first few fallen leaves around the courtyard garden with its formal parterre, and really, it fit his mood perfectly.

Timothy eyed the envelope warily; most of Carrow's mail went directly to the Ministry (via owl), or to his office at Aquila Industries (via Royal Mail). Very rarely did he receive personal letters...but this was something very specific. He stared at the logo on the envelope; Keele University...oh dear...

He sighed heavily, and it had all been done with the best of intentions...

...Carrow had been persuaded, eventually, that he couldn't take Artemis with him on the week long residential school of his Open University course. And so they had spent the best part of a week looking after a bewildered and upset tiger. They had worked hard at keeping her distracted and entertained, taking her for twice daily runs, throwing tyres for her to maul, taking her with them wherever they went...the Ministry...Aquila Industries...by the last day of Carrow's summer school they were all exhausted, and Timothy was at the end of his tether. So in an act of utter stupidity, he loaded the pining feline into the back of the Hummer and drove up to the University to meet the giant lump.

Artemis had been as good as gold, strolling at his side as they walked through the lush wooded grounds of the University to their meeting place with Carrow, a modern building, brick and glass, which housed the refectory.

Timothy scowled in annoyance at the giant man, who was clearly visible, being himself. Unfortunately, someone else had also seen him.

The large feline sprinted away, he and Wulfric desperately giving chase...only to come to a skidding halt, watching in horror as she ploughed straight towards the large window, Carrow whirling round in surprise, as two St Bernards worth of cat hit the large pane at roughly forty miles an hour, shards of glass raining down in a tinkling cacophony. Artemis, completely unbothered, threw herself at her daddy, turning into a squirming kittenish pile of fur and paws and teeth, muttering and huffing excitedly, as Carrow murmured softly to her, massaging behind her ears, hugging her in his lap.

Timothy carefully stepped through the gap, slowly approaching the pair, glass crunching under his feet, doing his best to ignore the wide-eyed stares of the numerous spectators, whose breakfasts had been so rudely interrupted.

"She missed you, you know," he said as Carrow tried unsuccessfully to avoid an affectionate lick across the face.

"Oh, that's just typical," a voice came from the crowd of spectators, "trust the giant prat to have a pet tiger..."

...and things really hadn't got any better from there. He was certainly going to be avoiding that part of the Midlands for the near future. All things considered...yes...he carefully propped the letter up in front of Carrow's usual seat.

Felix dashed past, laces flapping, making a bee-line for the toast and the marmite jar, Artemis insinuating her way through the door after him.

"Laces, Felix," Timothy said, almost by reflex, as he opened the day's edition of the Hollow's Herald. Smirking slightly at the grumbling from the other end of the table, he relaxed with the news. Marauding swans camping on lawns...a vandalised bus shelter...a thief managing to steal £26.42 from a corner shop...and the local Scout troupe were doing a sponsored canoe paddle to raise money for the Mary Winkle Hospice. It was all so mundane and normal, refreshingly dull and small.

"Have you thought of any ideas for a birthday present for Tiffany yet?" he asked idly as he gave the local sports a casual glance over.

Felix hummed and hahed a moment. "I don't know what to get her," he said, "she's a girl and we've only met a few times so..."

"I can always ask her mum for suggestion," Timothy said as he turned back to the crossword, "or you could just ask her yourself on Saturday...as long as it's not a Centurion tank..."

Felix giggled. "Okay."

Actually, that was a terrible thought, particularly since Carrow was capable of acquiring one. He could just imagine Trudi's face on finding a tank parked on her front lawn.

"Felix," Wulfric's exasperated voice came from the doorway, "is that even good for her?"

Timothy glared suspiciously over the top of the paper, dreading a repeat of the marmalade incident. Felix was sat there with toast in one hand, marmite spoon in the other, Artemis licking it clean. She turned towards him, eyes half closed, tongue protruding as far as it would go.

Timothy sighed in exasperation. "Felix, I'm not even sure she's enjoying that...and how much have you fed her anyway?" He glared at the wayward cat-boy. Felix's ears twitched back guiltily.

"A few spoons," he mumbled, "maybe three...or four...or erm, six...seven?" He shuffled guiltily on his chair.

"And you put the spoon back in the jar each time, didn't you," Timothy sighed heavily.

"Oh, yuck, Felix," Wulfric exclaimed, "that spoon's got to be covered with tiger slobber...disgusting...no marmite for me this morning."

"Who's been feeding Artemis what?" a deep booing growl sounded from behind them. Carrow strode forward, newly washed and dressed in what he felt was appropriate for the office. The faint odour announced his recent presence in the Chapel and, Timothy eyed the large man's disgruntled expression, an argument with his father's portrait. It was almost amusing how alike in personality the two of them were.

"Marmite," Timothy sighed as Carrow picked up the envelope curiously, "it shouldn't do her any harm...I think." He grimaced as Felix sneakily gave her another spoon.

Carrow grumbled to himself as he carefully opened the envelope, the room descending into the usual morning quiet.

"Plate glass window," he suddenly announced with a scowl. "The University has billed me for their window."

Timothy looked up from his second cup of coffee. "Hmm, I suppose they were waiting for their insurance company, must be difficult trying to explain that a tiger ran through your window."

Carrow gave him a strange look. "They had camera footage, why would there be a problem?"

Timothy opened his mouth to reply, but then thought better of it; it was doubtful the great big lump would understand. "Never mind," he said, and went back to the paper.

"I have the designs for our display at the Weapons Expo next spring finished," Carrow suddenly announced, "I thought it expedient to do it now so the displays could be finished in time."

Timothy eyed him suspiciously. "And of course the Board need to see them and approve them," he said, not trusting Carrow's sense of taste an inch.

"A formality, of course," Carrow nodded, as he picked up the next paper on the pile.

"They need to check the appropriateness of the designs, make sure that we won't get banned from the Expo...permanently, for breaking the rules," Timothy watched the big lump with narrowed eyes as he browsed through the FT.

"Rules?" Carrow asked.

"Yes, rules," Timothy said, sipping his coffee, "nothing that glorifies war or blatantly promotes violence is permitted."

Carrow gave him a funny look over the paper. "That's ridiculous, we're an arms manufactorium, for Throne's sake."

Timothy shrugged. "I don't make the rules."

Carrow shook his head in disgust. "Are you ready, Felix?"

Felix bounced out of his seat, grabbing a rucksack Timothy hadn't noticed. He stared in growing consternation at the white shirt, the royal blue jumper and grey trousers and the striped blue and grey tie.

"That's the local primary school uniform...Geoffrey Sutton Junior School...what are you up to?" Timothy snapped at Carrow. "You know we can't let Felix mix with the mundane world freely, he's just too obviously magical."

Carrow blinked down at him. "How utterly ridiculous," he growled, "Felix is first and foremost a child, as such he needs the company of other children, and as to his being...magical in appearance, utter rubbish."

Timothy snarled in frustration, trying to be as intimidating as he could, getting right into Carrow's personal space. "So you don't think Felix's extra appendages are going to arouse curiosity and even outright hostility? I don't want Felix to suffer any more because of...because of..." He turned to look at the boy in question, who was watching their argument intently, his tail twitching back and forth.

"And how will Felix grow strong?" Carrow countered. "He needs to learn to stand up for himself, to be proud of who he is...he has already made great strides towards this, and since a number of his young friends from karate will also be in his class, I'm sure Felix will be perfectly all right." He smiled smugly.

Timothy blanched in horror; karate classes?! When had Carrow managed that, the sneaky...underhanded...giant...great big...

"The Statute of Secrecy," he ground out, gritting his teeth in frustrated anger, "Felix is blatantly magical, so we will be violating the Statute."

Carrow sneered. "What a fuss over nothing. Felix's physicality falls well within the range of human normalcy. I've seen far more extreme bodily modifications over the years."

Timothy began to object.

"Enough," Carrow snapped, "come along Felix, we mustn't be late for your first day at school." Turning, he exited the Breakfast room in a swirl of embossed leather robes, Felix trotting after him, giving Timothy an apologetic shrug as he went past.

Slumping in the nearest chair, Timothy buried his face in his hands. The fallout from this...he dreaded to think.

"He really doesn't care, does he," Wulfric cheerfully commented from across the table, munching on a slice of toast.

Timothy glared.

OOOOOO

Teaching had been a strange experience so far, not helped by the Castle being far stranger than he remembered. There had been several reoccurrences of the rain of rubber ducks and...it was daft really, but everywhere he went he felt as if he was being watched by something or someone...but no matter.

The first and second years had been much as he had expected, the eager faces, the enthusiasm, and the complete lack of experience. Had he ever been like that, that green and young? It seemed hard to remember himself and all his friends so youthful, so inexperienced...his heart gave an unpleasant jolt, as a particularly nasty part of his mind gleefully pointed out that they were all dead...or gone...or disappeared...except for Snape, he thought sourly. How the hell had he managed to oil his way out of trouble? He jerked his mind away from that train of thought; he needed to keep focused, damn it...

...but the third years had all been rather skittish, while the seventh years had been rather...highly strung. He'd nearly had his head blown off by a Hufflepuff, of all people, for moving too suddenly, too near her...

He glared at the students as they filed in; yes, he definitely needed to keep focused today. This was to be his first class with the fourth year Gryffindors, the once classmates of the elusive Boy-who-lived. He smirked to himself; he'd got a hell of a class planned for them, one that they would never forget.

"Constant vigilance!" he roared as the students settled down at their desks. A few drew their wands, while throwing themselves behind cover, the rest dived under their desks with a scream.

Barty froze, that wasn't the reaction he was expecting; what was going on here? "In your seats now!" he roared, putting his question aside. The students scrambled on to their chairs, watching him with a mixture of expectation and resigned horror.

He scowled to himself. "As a favour to the Headmaster and to provide extra security because of the Triwizard tournament, I'm here to teach you Defence Against the Dark Arts, for one year only! To equip you with the skills and knowledge so that you do not fall afoul of the realities of the world beyond your cozy school-days." He limped back and forth in front of the class. "I understand you had Remus Lupin as professor last year. From his notes he's given you a thorough grounding in the basics, minor dark-creatures, magical household pests and the like. I am here to build on that." He paused in front of the black-board, glaring impressively at the class.

The class stared back at him, their reactions a spectrum ranging from acute boredom to gut-wrenching anxiety. A boy at the back yawned widely. Barty scowled. "Which is why," he glared at the miscreant, "I will be demonstrating the Unforgivables. I think you're ready for it, and so does the Headmaster... yes? You have a question?" he asked.

The student who'd raised their hand nodded. Was it a boy or a girl? Barty huffed in annoyance, he really couldn't tell sometimes nowadays, what with boys with long hair and girls with short; what was the world coming to?

"Are we going to be learning the Imperius curse?" the student asked breathlessly, an excited grin on her face that would have done Bella proud.

Barty blinked in surprise, he could understand a Slytherin asking that question, but a Gryffindor?

"Hermione," the red-head, definitely a boy, next to her hissed.

"Miss?" he asked, scowling at this strange Gryffindor.

"Granger," she replied, "Hermione Granger."

"Miss Granger, we are will be merely studying the Unforgivable curses," he put the jars with the specially caught spiders down on the desk with a series of satisfying thumps. "After all, they are highly illegal for good reason, and the use of any one will gain you a nice long stay in Azkaban...a place I can assure you you do not want to end up." He glared impressively over the class.

The class stared back, cynical and bored. "Not practical then," someone distinctly muttered.

Barty growled, bloody teenagers, no respect. "Constant Vigilance!" he barked causing the brats to jump in their seats, glaring; a few even had the cheek to roll their eyes.

"Who can tell me what the three Unforgivable curses are?" he snarled as he unscrewed the lid of one of the jars efficiently decanting the spider onto his desk-top. A few raised hands greeted his question, but the rest...Barty glowered; the peculiar Gryffindor girl had sneaked a book out of her bag and was reading it under the desk; Krav Maga for the Martial Artist, whatever that was. Her desk partner, expression glazed, was looking at anywhere except where he should..."Miss Granger, instead of reading your book, perhaps you can answer my question!" he roared.

The girl startled and glared. "The Imperius curse, used to subvert another's will to your own, enabling you to control their actions from a distance...like a puppet," she smirked slightly.

"Correct," Barty snapped. This Granger girl was hit-witch material...or worse, he thought darkly; what was Hogwarts coming to? He enlarged the spider with a deft flick of his wand. "As I will now demonstrate..."

oOo

Barty waited until the last student had trailed out of the classroom before venting his feelings, kicking his desk with a snarl, and promptly landing on his bottom as he overbalanced. He dragged himself to his chair, cursing darkly; what was with these children? He'd demonstrated all three of the Unforgivables to the unappreciative brats, who'd all sat there with an air of polite boredom. One had even had the audacity to fall asleep using his text book for a pillow. He'd given the blasted brat detention. The Imperius had only interested Granger the budding little sociopath, the Cruciatus had received cynical laughter, and as for their reactions to the Killing curse itself...to say they had been indifferent was putting it mildly.

And that wasn't the only thing they were indifferent about; the reception the announcement of the Triwizard tournament had received was luke-warm at best, it even seemed to be attracting some resentment due to the cancellation of the usual Quidditch. Children...there was no pleasing them...

And when he'd asked if there were any questions at the end of the class, he'd been bombarded with them all right, just not a single one related to the actual class itself.

Were there going to be any duels?

Would they get any opportunities to kill creatures in class?

Could they use the duelling pit for Defence Club, please?

When was he going to oversee the first official meeting of the Defence Club?

Was he going to join them for their morning exercises?

Could he bring in a live acromantula for the Duelling pit...for them to fight...please?

He'd snarled and growled his way through them, set four feet of essay on the history of the Unforgivables, due next week, and sent the little brats packing. He slumped down in his chair; where had they got the idea for that last one from? Absolutely crazy!

"Alastor, are you all right?" a concerned voice asked. Barty looked up to find the Headmaster himself standing in the doorway of the classroom, exactly the last person he wanted to see at the moment. He swallowed nervously. "Just feeling more my age than I'd like...blasted brats asked me for a live acromantula for the Defence Club, of all things."

The Headmaster chuckled as he strolled in and perched on the edge of a desk. "Ah yes, I'm not entirely surprised," he smiled.

Barty scowled. "Who's been teaching them? I can't imagine young Remus giving them ideas like that, far too sensible, nor that spineless fop Lockhart, whatever happened to him..." he glared at the older man with narrowed eyes.

"I'm afraid Mr Lockhart had to leave us rather suddenly," Dumbledore said, his expression serious, "and the interim professor I was able to acquire was rather...eccentric, though very capable." He smiled merrily.

Interim professor? This was the first time anyone had mentioned anything about such a person. He should ask...but shouldn't it be common knowledge...but not discussed much...and he was expected to already know, and if he asked...

"Nice weather we're having today, unseasonably warm," the Headmaster gazed out of the window at the blue sky beyond.

Barty groaned softly to himself; looked like he was going to have to break out the Veritaserum yet again.

OOOOOO

The sound of grinding teeth broke the soft sound of snoring that had descended on the History of Magic class shortly after it had begun. Ron shot Hermione a concerned glance as he carefully took notes from the textbook. One of the Ravenclaw Defence Club members had recommended this approach to him, along with a little tutorial on silencing charms and the like. History had become bearable, just...

A small snarl followed by a sharp snap distracted him again, and he turned to find Hermione sitting there, hands in fists, her quill snapped in half, glaring furiously at their spectral professor.

"Hermione," he murmured in concern, "wha..."

"Just look around you," Hermione snarled, "just look at how pointless this class is, and History is important."

Ron eyed her warily, but glanced round anyway; as usual the majority of the students were asleep or comatose to some degree, apart from himself and Hermione...and Neville, who was busily being a bear. "Not precisely constructive, I see your point, but it's been like this for years, so..." He shrugged.

"Yes, it's been like this for years," Hermione snarled, making Seamus startle awake. Looking round, the boy caught Hermione's furious gaze and ducked round, attempting to look busy. "We need to do something about it, like permanently fix it!" Casting some extra privacy charms, she turned to look Ron in the eye.

Ron watched her warily, noting the fanatical gleam in her eyes; when Hermione got on her soap-box...

"And I know exactly what we need to do, too," she said, beginning to smile.

Ron suddenly understood what a seal faced with a shark felt like. "We?" he said nervously.

"Yes, we." She narrowed her eyes. "I helped you with your little campaign last year, so now it's my turn."

Well, he couldn't deny that, could he? He sighed. "What do we need to do...and when?" he asked, resigned to his fate.

Hermione tugged on her thread wrapped braid, the gold skull beads glinting in the drab light, the lone survivor of the massacre of her hair, chewing her bottom lip. "Hmm, I just need to clarify a few details as to how, but when...definitely Halloween," she gave a decisive nod, "it's a magically powerful time, so it will aid us in our aim, but also it's when the Tri-Wizard contestants will be selected. Everything will be really busy and hectic, so we'll easily be able to slip away."

"The Tri-Wizard tournament," Ron groaned, he'd forgotten all about it, "they cancelled Quidditch for that," he grumbled.

OOOOOO

Why, oh why, was he doing this? The wooden leg squelched nastily as it sank into a muddy puddle, succeeding in splashing dirty water into his boot. Not that it made much difference, since he was already soaked to the skin, chilly water making its slow and miserable way down his spine.

And yet...

...the Defence Club stampeded past, shouting "one, two, one, two," as they did so...

...they seemed to be actually enjoying themselves, wearing heavy black boots, and weird blotchy green muggle looking clothes (except Granger who was in black), carrying heavy backpacks. Some of them even had funny looking helmets, those without making up for their lack with ugly sludge green knitted hats.

And they did this every morning, regardless of the weather, the mad idiots, and he couldn't say no because he was Moody, and old Mad-eye "Murdering Bastard" Moody would absolutely love this.

Sometimes, he hated his life.

OOOOOO

"Well, this is a complete cluster fuck isn't it?" Fitch commented conversationally to the others. Corporal Faulks gave a sarcastic huff, as some of the others laughed cynically. Fitch glanced at Matthew in concern. Ever since that incident...well, they were in trouble that went without saying, like huge career ending, buried in epic shit sort of trouble, since they'd gone missing and out of communication for close on twelve hours, picked off the end of the patrol. When Patrol leader had realised what had happened and had turned back to rescue them they had already been kidnapped by the Corp's bloody little brother...stupid little sod...so that was a whole other pile of shit they'd landed in.

When they had returned, battered, bloodied and looking the worse for wear, he'd missed the worst of it, thanks to that bloody injury. He'd have preferred to have been conscious and standing alongside the rest of the squad during that initial chewing out, but no, he'd woken up in the hospital a day later, to find some very grim faced gentlemen with red berets wanting to have a little chat, and things had gone downhill from there...

Thank sweet Mary and Jesus they'd got all those photos. Ed had shot nearly ten films worth in the end, despite his moaning, none of which was going to end up in the photo-book he was trying to put together (even his negatives had been confiscated), and they'd kept a careful record of exactly where the giant armoured nut-case was taking them to, plus it had been incredibly helpful that he'd decided to burn that town down. Very difficult thing to miss, a burning town...

...if they hadn't got all that evidence backing them up there would have been no way anyone would have believed them...like, zombie attack, no way...

They'd been completely banned from talking to anyone about their weird adventure on pain of...dishonourable discharge as far as he could tell...or could have been just outright disappearance, considering the scary people in expensive suits who'd turned up with the Military Police the second time they were questioned...

And because they couldn't explain to anyone, they were now virtual lepers with the rest of the platoon. It was depressing in the extreme.

"The worst bit," Mattie growled glaring into the depths of his coffee mug, "the worst bit is the motor-pool's sent me to Coventry because that giant bloody twat left a great big hand-shaped dent in the top of the APC!" He looked up. "As if I...we, deliberately asked him to do it...and I can't even tell them..."

The squad watched sympathetically as the Corporal finally began to rant. He'd been so quiet since this had all began that they'd started to get a bit concerned about him.

"...is going to go on for months. It's only a matter of time before we end up giving a bunch of big-wigs a tour of the countryside, you mark my words."

"Make a change from being confined to barracks," Ed grumbled before rapidly wilting under the Corporal's glare.

Fitch shifted uncomfortably on top of the crate he'd nabbed as a seat. Seriously, they all needed something to cheer them up, something to take their mind off the bloody crazy situation they'd been dumped in by a bunch of civvies...whatever they were. "I know Timmie the Civvie sort of joked about it," he began, attracting a series of frowns from the others, "but what about we actually write that When Zombies Attack manual?" He ducked down, pretending to be more interested in his tea when members of another squad went past, glaring at them suspiciously. Matthew and the others glared back.

Fitch gazed down at his arm, eying the two pale horseshoe scars that now marred his dark skin. "My mum's going to do her nut when she sees this," he muttered. He looked up at the others, the uncomfortable silence almost physically tangible. "So what about it then?" he asked, "cause I really want to avoid a repeat of this," he held up his scarred forearm for all to see, "and at least it's something constructive to do..." He looked around the others.

"Huh, so..." Mattie said slowly, "recognising the uncanny, their strengths and weaknesses, dealing with injuries..."

Fitch nodded, "yeah, exactly...best ways to exploit their weaknesses, all that sort of thing."

Matthew looked thoughtful for a moment. "Alright, let's do it..."

OOOOOO

Barty looked over his shoulder. The corridor was deserted, so he didn't have to be subtle about it, but still he couldn't find who was watching him. It was really getting on his nerves now, even giving him uneasy dreams, disturbing his sleep...he spun round wand raised...nothing, just a very ruffled and crabby looking portrait, who glared at him, harrumphing to themselves, before ducking out of their frame. Barty watched them go, blinking in bewilderment; he must be more tired than he thought. For a moment there, he thought he'd seen a gigantic battle scarred man with a huge grizzled beard with bone totems in it...in strange grey armour...he shook his head. Obviously he should risk a sleep potion tonight if he was starting to hallucinate like that...

He carried on to his office, heart heavy, to give yet another likely to be poorly received report to his Master...

"What do you mean, they're stealing weapons?" the Dark Lord snapped.

Barty cringed slightly, as he made Moody more comfortable after his evening exercise; no point in killing the mad old Auror too soon. "The Defence Club...they're scavenging weapons from all over the Castle, and erm, fighting with them during the evenings."

The Dark Lord gave him a funny look, which only further enhanced his appearance of an angry flayed baby. "Like muggles," he hissed, "how very peculiar...and any more news of my wand?"

This was the moment he'd been dreading. Barty swallowed nervously, as he steeled himself, before relaying the results of his latest Veritserum fuelled interrogation held surreptitiously during his evening walking of the prisoner. It was risky, but paying dividends handsomely.

"Master, your wand was discovered in the procession of Peter Pettigrew shortly after he was arrested," he shifted uncomfortably, "and Mr Carrow was present...and insisted on destroying your wand when it was identified as such. He used a small controlled burst of, ermm, fiend-fyre. According to Moody's memories, the destruction was total; there wasn't even any ash."

He watched worriedly as the Dark Lord froze, hunching down in his robes, his gaze going to the box, the hideous evil box...

"My Lord?" Barty whispered, concerned...

OOOOOO

Sirius sat back in the comfortable over upholstered chair and watched in absolute fascination as Madam Longbottom and cousin Cissy actually managed to converse politely, without wands drawn or anything! He hadn't realised that things were going to be this entertaining when he'd agreed to join in with Dumbledore's little political group...they were actually working together, a little stilted and stiffly to be sure, but...he hid a grin. It was nothing short of a miracle. He gazed over his shoulder towards the window half expecting a troll in a tutu to fly past, but no, just the grey sky promising yet more drizzle and the dark and increasingly leafless trees of the Forbidden Forest. Blinking, he returned to the conversation.

"...ridiculous idea," Ptolemy Chant was saying, "all the fuss and bother of transporting our children to one location just to teach them their letters and numbers and the like...and how are they supposed to learn their family traditions?"

A childhood full of lots of other children. Sirius sighed, until he'd gone to Hogwarts there had just been him and Reggie, with occasional meetings with various cousins and more distant relatives, but all of it in the most stultifying conditions, with his mother breathing down his neck, controlling his every move. No wonder he'd gone as wild as he had. Hogwarts by comparison had been a breath of fresh air...quite literally...and ending up in Gryffindor with James, even further away from the suffocating influence of his family...it had all ensured there weren't exactly many stopping charms on his behaviour as it were. How different would things have been if he'd been able to go to school that much earlier?

"I think it would have been brilliant starting school so early," he said wistfully butting into the circular argument that was currently making its way round the table, "a day spent with lots of other magical children learning together, then...out in the playground running around with thirty...forty, maybe more, children...playing, talking...Lily explained the muggle school system to me once," his smile turned pained, "it's always appealed to me..."

The others looked at him oddly, even Elphias Dodge. Dumbledore leaned back smiling beatifically at the small gathering, apparently content to see where this would lead.

"What about family traditions, Siri? They're such an important part of any child's pre-Hogwarts education." Narcissa pointed out, giving him that long suffering look.

"Well, if it's run like a muggle primary school," Sirius explained, "they have classes Mon..."

"That's beside the point," Ptolemy snapped, "part of the Undersecretary's plan seemed to be the inclusion of muggleborns as early as possible...which I'm not sure I entirely approve of at all, watering down our culture and heritage," he grumbled scowling.

"Ptolemy, it goes both ways you know," Dumbledore gently reminded the other man with an admonishing look, "this could be a golden opportunity to avoid some of the difficulties some of our muggle-born students experience each year. They would understand Wizarding culture better and, most importantly have made friends, before they entered Hogwarts." He adjusted his glasses. "I must admit that on the surface dear Allesandor's proposal does rather appeal to me, but the man is anything but straightforward...there must be some ulterior motive to this...hmm...indoctrination maybe...moving on." He looked round the odd group meaningfully. "Allesandor is of course continuing with his anti-corruption drive within the Ministry...which is highly laudable, if uncomfortable..." He sorted through the sizable pile of parchment in front of him, a list of everything he was aware Carrow currently involved in. "Does the man ever sleep? He's involved in so many things...next item...hmm...not entirely related to Mr Carrow...it is distressing to note just how many of the Wizengamot seats are actually empty, and with Mr Carrow's investigations alongside the DMLE, a number of previously occupied seats have been revealed to have been acquired under...less that desirable conditions, emptying even more of course." He looked around the table his expression grim. "Which means it is increasingly easy for Mr Carrow to acquire his needed majority vote." He sighed heavily. "I've been talking to Aleister Mayhew and apparently Allesandor," he rubbed his forehead in exasperation, "has been making oh-so not-so-subtle overtures towards him and those Wizengamot representatives who still maintain some degree of neutrality..."

"Aleister Mayhew? Oh dear," Dodge exclaimed, "no wonder he looked so hunted, I approached him too."

"As did I," Narcissa added, looking slightly guilty.

Sirius grimaced. "He told me to bugger off, and then he tried hexing me," he scowled, "and I'd done my best to be really polite and proper too."

"Wonder why?" Narcissa commented. Madam Longbottom hastily coughed into her hand.

Sirius glared at the smirking woman. "Anyway..." he said, "what's happening about the empty seats?"

"Well...nothing," Cuthbert looked at him oddly, "the direct family lines have died out. I suppose eventually in the natural course of things they may well be auctioned off or given as rewards to particularly notable up-and-coming families," he sniffed disdainfully, making his opinion of that option particularly clear.

"Wow, my godson would absolutely love that wouldn't he?" Sirius settled back in his chair. "Hmm...generally, the seat has to go to a direct descendent via the male line...maybe...what if...cousins could inherit or...it could descend through the female line as well...the seats would stay in their families, but also it would minimise the potential for my darling little godson to be able to dictate things...make demands..." He looked round the table at the blank stares he was receiving from the others. "What? Was it something I said?"

Dumbledore blinked, a slow smile spreading across his face. "What a marvellous idea, Sirius, yes, that certainly has possibilities..."

OOOOOO

Putting the final finishing touches to his latest attempt at manipulating gravity had taken the better part of a month, checking and double checking that it wasn't in fact going to blow up in his flat like the last one. It had been rather awkward explaining the broken windows, definitely something he wanted to avoid in future, and frankly he didn't think Widow Weber would limit herself to banging on the ceiling if it happened again.

He twisted the device again where it sat on the coffee table. It looked remarkably like a Chinese puzzle-ball, but the fret-work was, he had to admit, eye-smarting...yes, that should do it. He'd succeeded in levitating objects, even used it as a propulsion system. He grinned at the thought of his hover board; he'd actually succeeded in doing a triple loop-the-loop the other day, absolutely brilliant...but this...if this went well, he would have his very own little packet of zero-gravity that he could manipulate and experiment with. The possible industrial applications alone would probably keep him occupied for the next couple of decades...

Pulling his pencil-wand from behind his ear, the God-Emperor of Mankind gave the device a couple of precise jabs, runes flaring into life, blue bale-fyre dancing and shimmering.

A distinct hum rose in the air as the device came to life, its nested spheres spinning with increasing rapidity, a blue haze beginning to coalesce around its frantically vibrating form.

The God-Emperor eyed it warily. Well, it was certainly looking very busy, but as for the effects...he leant towards the bowl of ping-pong balls he'd put aside for this exact purpose...only for his legs to drift out from under him, as he nudged into the coffee-table, which slowly drifted away in the opposite direction, bumping into the sofa before slowly ricocheting off the ceiling. He gaped as the floor drifted away, a spiralling trail of ping-pong balls following him upwards.

Wow...he'd done it... succeeded beyond his wildest dreams. With a grin, he gently pushed away from the ceiling towards the coffee table, the ping-pong balls bouncing off him as he went past...except he missed and, losing momentum, came to a halt roughly in the middle of the room.

"Oh, blast it!" he exclaimed in frustration as he slowly twirled in place, the floor gently rotating above him, the coffee-table drifting idly by, listing drunkenly, the anti-gravity device still firmly planted on its top, whirring more frantically than ever. He watched in concern; was it heating up? He tried to reach for it...

...from below came a surprised shriek, followed by a great deal of swearing, the flat on the left, childish screams of alarm followed by a delighted whoop and giggling...oh no...the pocket of zero-gravity was increasing...he frantically tried to move towards the device, swimming in place and getting absolutely nowhere...though he probably did manage to look absolutely ridiculous.

The whirring of the spheres increased, their runic inscriptions an illegible blur. The God-Emperor increased his frantic attempts to reach his creation before it affected the entire building, produced an even stranger effect...or simply blew up. If he could just turn it off... the childish whoops and giggles had been joined by frightened adult shouting...he tried to push off a passing chair sending it spinning towards the wall and himself slowly in towards the coffee-table. The device made a clicking noise, the spinning spheres coming to a sudden and catastrophic halt, cracks appearing across their surface, the glow of the runes slowly dying...

Oh no...the God-Emperor flailed, trying to get himself into a more upright position, but no joy; the floor rapidly came towards him, making its hard and unyielding presence felt, any unsecured objects raining down around him with a thunderous crash, muffled shrieks and shouts coming through the walls...and then silence. Wincing, he warily opened an eye, only to be struck square on the forehead by the last air-borne ping-pong ball.

Groaning, he untangled himself and pulled himself upright, looking round at the destruction of his living room, the only unscathed item his floating coaster still with a mug of coffee on it...this was going to take hours to fix.

Muffled crying drifted through the walls, as hammering and angry shouting from below told him exactly what the lovely Widow Weber thought of his latest experiment. He groaned, burying his face in his hands. He was going to have to go round to the neighbours too...how was he going to explain this?