Author's Notes: thanks for the reviews, folks. I figured I might as well post the next chapter - suffice it to say, I think I might surprise some people with elements here, which is always a plus. So, as always, read, review, bitch, criticize, and enjoy!

Chapter 3: Desdame & Vuneren

"You know, I'm so happy we're finally getting a chance to talk."

Daphne could hardly prevent herself from rolling her eyes. You're doing this for Dad, you're doing this for Dad… "Okay, sure."

It wasn't sarcastic, but it did sound dubious, and Pansy Parkinson's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "I'm sorry, are you not happy? I would have thought that you would be thrilled for your father –"

"I'm happy about that," Daphne interrupted, dropping into the plush leather chair, not meeting Pansy's eyes. Pansy had requested – nay, demanded – that she and Daphne have a private conversation in a side room, which despite the more subdued colours was just as ornate as the larger reception hall. Fine leather furniture, polished marble floors, silver and bronze-lined mirrors on every wall, all sealed with a silence that Daphne was sure was magical.

And I bet that's not the only thing magic's enhancing here, Daphne thought to herself as she casually raked Pansy with her stare. Her sleeveless velvet dress robes were the colour of freshly picked olives, with a high collar and subtle beading emphasizing every curve. Curves defined tightly by fabric clinging tightly from her throat to her knees, where it fanned into a fountain of ripples – and by the beauty spells Daphne knew the other girl had to have used to squeeze herself into the dress. The beauty spells that kept her hair piled high on her head without pins and reshaped her face from plain-at-best to absolutely striking, de-emphasizing the pug-like nose that usually marred her features. If I didn't know her, I'd probably fuck her given the chance, Daphne thought fairly. But then again, I've seen her without the charms.

Daphne knew better than to say anything – after all, she could feel the supple embrace of magic in her own dress robes, gently emphasizing the right parts of her figure – but unlike Pansy, she never needed them. She suspected that Pansy loathed her for it – and in this case, she relished every second of that hatred.

But Pansy looked good tonight, and the smug directness in her stare said that she knew it.

"You don't sound happy."

"No, really, I am," Daphne said, finally meeting Pansy's dark eyes. "I'm sure he's going to enjoy it."

It was a lie, but not a complete one. In truth, Daphne hadn't quite decided how she felt about her father's new position. It sounded appealing, but she had been in Slytherin long enough to know that those sorts of perks were never completely what they seemed. And though she knew her father was smart enough to avoid trouble, she also knew that his odd flights of fancy could prove distracting – or become a place where he could be manipulated. If he's just there to provide some sanity and balance, an outside perspective, maybe they'll just leave him alone…

"I'm not talking about your father."

"Excuse me?"

"I said," Pansy repeated, annoyance creeping into her voice, "I'm talking about you. Being the daughter of a board member on one of the most powerful institutions in wizarding England –"

"It's not even close to that yet –"

"– And if your father manages to solidify the wizarding car industry outside of sanctioned Ministry enchantment," Pansy continued, completely ignoring Daphne, "well, it could be something huge, something revolutionary. With the ban on flying carpets, there's a real need for a multi-person magical vehicle."

"If I remember correctly, the last time someone outside the Ministry had an enchanted car, they crashed it into the Whomping Willow. Now, to be fair, Potter and Weasley were both twits, but there are still –"

"So you're saying you don't think your father can do it?" Pansy said quickly, her eyes lighting up.

"No, what I was saying is that there will be hurdles to get over," Daphne replied evenly, leaning back in her chair and pushing a lock of hair out of her face. "The wizarding car industry isn't going to start itself overnight."

For a second, there seemed to be disappointment, but that flicker passed quickly as Pansy smoothed her dress and smiled broadly. "But still, the daughter of a mogul, of a board member of the most powerful bank in the world –"

"Once again, the IWBC isn't anywhere close yet," Daphne said harshly, "because it's not like the goblins are going to roll over –"

"–It's a rush, I don't what else I can say," Pansy said with a contented sigh.

This time, Daphne did roll her eyes. Of course Pansy was going to bring the conversation back to herself. But it was no issue – Daphne knew how to play this game.

"I mean, a car mogul is one thing," Pansy continued, her gaze carefully on Daphne, who was now pointedly studying the ceiling, "but the daughter of the Minister himself –"

"He's not Minister yet."

"He will be," Pansy replied with a dismissive wave of her hand. "My father's been planning for this for a long, long time, and with his plans… no, Scrimgeour doesn't stand a chance against my father, and he knows it. Mark my words, my father will be Minister by the end of this, you can count on it."

And you'll be more insufferable than ever, Daphne thought spitefully, although I'm not quite sure how it's possible. So unless you're going to keep rubbing this in my face despite my lack of giving a shit, I'm not sure what you –

"But I'm not here to talk about my father's campaign," Pansy continued, tapping her fingers on the arm of the sofa lazily. "That's top-secret, you know, he doesn't want to run into any problems." She leaned forward and stared intently at Daphne, her eyes glittering. "No, I want to talk about us."

"I'm sorry, I wasn't aware 'we' were a thing," Daphne said, unable to keep the mocking edge out of her voice.

Pansy wrinkled her nose. "Are you – no, I'm talking about burying the hatchet, Greengrass. Starting fresh. We're both heiresses to huge fortunes and power if everything goes our way –"

"Big if."

"– And I'd like to have somebody close to my level to rely on. I mean, don't get me wrong, Millicent is competent, but she's a lot like Crabbe and Goyle were for Draco." She lowered her voice conspiratorially. "And of all the girls who became carpet-munchers, she would have been my first pick."

Daphne fought back her urge to smack Pansy in the face, but she kept a deceptively sweet grin on her face. "Pansy, if you're looking for someone close to your level…"

"And frankly, I'd like to get back to the way things were," Pansy continued, blithely ignoring the snide insult in Daphne's tone. "You know, back in fourth year, when we had our group and things were easy. Those were great times, don't you miss them?"

It would have been easy for Daphne to snap off something sarcastic to that question, but she caught herself – because even despite the generally insufferable company, fourth year hadn't been bad. Sneaking behind the Quidditch bleachers, the group of us, with the most expensive bottles of Firewhiskey we could get, listening to the latest junk on the wireless and laughing at Potter and the rest of the Gryffindor twits… catch me at the right moment, and I might even call it fun and call them friends…

"I miss it," Pansy said longingly, leaning back on the sofa and snagging her wine glass from the nearby table. "But then something happened."

"Yeah, Blaise and Draco did something that caused them to leave the school, and Nott got himself killed," Daphne replied curtly. "And are you still angry about Draco dumping –"

"He did not –" Pansy stopped herself in mid-outburst, but it was enough for Daphne. But the other girl collected herself quickly. "Draco and I… we were just in different places in the relationship."

Yeah, you were in denial that the 'relationship' was hardly worth two shits, and he never had the balls to admit he fucked you, Daphne thought, relishing the irony, but sure, your explanation works too.

"And besides, have you seen his face?" Pansy affected a shudder. "I mean, he's barely recognizable, and certainly not the kind of face I'd want showing up in wedding pictures. And considering what I heard about his family's misfortunes, between the goblins and the acid escapade and his rumoured connections to the Dark Lord…"

"And here I thought that last part was a good thing."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Pansy said stiffly with indignation. "I would never – my father would hardly deign to support the mad whims of an infamous terrorist –"

No, he'll just defend them in court, Daphne thought snidely, but go ahead, keep lying – it amuses me.

"Regardless, with my father's campaign taking shape, such rumoured connections could prove disastrous if taken in the improper context," Pansy said with a grave nod. "And given that wretched whore Skeeter has taken over the Daily Prophet, I wouldn't dare risk it."She shook her head sadly. "Not so much a good match anymore."

"Oh, I dunno," Daphne said with a hint of a smirk. "His head's deflated a bit, that's certainly a step in the right direction." Now there'll only be half as much hot air in the room if you two are there…

"Regardless, when my father wins the election, I will have plenty of suitors to choose from," Pansy continued, her eager anticipation plain. "I'll have to be careful, mind you – I can't make a daft decision like that brainless bint who calls herself my sister –"

"Wait, Miranda's your sister?" Daphne interrupted. That couldn't be true – according to old stories, she had originally been promised to Antonin Dolohov in 1969! "But she's been married for years – hell, she almost looks as old as your father!"

"My father has aged with perfect grace," Pansy replied with a haughty smile. "In his seventies and he hardly looks a day over fifty. But my point is that I'll have plenty of men at my feet to choose from." She gave Daphne a very knowing look. "And if you play your pieces right, so will you."

And now we've finally gotten there. "I don't know what you're talking about," Daphne replied, "considering I'm taken."

Pansy sniffed. "Ah, right – look, Daphne, trifling with the half-blood –"

"Her name," Daphne growled, "is Tracey."

"Whatever – my point is that it's not constructive for your future in high pureblood society –"

"I don't see why not," Daphne said bluntly, "considering off the top of my head I can quote a dozen or more cases of accepted witch couples that were historically prestigious and powerful."

Pansy gave Daphne a patient smile. "I can understand your obstinate nature here, but you have to realize what it looks like."

"In what way?" Daphne demanded. "That Tracey's a half-blood, or that I'm a lesbian? Because I don't think you can exactly change either of them –"

"Tracey's blood status has nothing to do with this," Pansy said emphatically. "She's proven herself time and time again that she'd be a good match for any decent wizard –"

"Ah, so it is the lesbian thing then," Daphne said icily. "Way to beat around the bush – metaphorically, obviously, because I doubt your sloppy experiences with Draco would give you anything close to acquainting you with what a good bush looks like."

Pansy went scarlet. "That's – that's –"

"Oh, come on, of all the guys in Hogwarts, he has to be the one who shaves down there," Daphne said with a snort. "No, you want to know what I think, Pansy? 'Cause as ass-backwards as your views are, particularly in magical society – I mean, come on, I thought your father's campaign was about being more progressive than the Muggles – I don't think that's the problem. No, maybe it's that I managed to hold onto my blonde bombshell while yours dumped you like dragon dung after a week in the sun."

Pansy's eyes bulged for a moment, her hands clenched into white-knuckled fists. She took several deep breaths before she spoke again. "This has nothing to do with your sexual preferences, Greengrass, it's good politics. You and I could do great things together –"

"Well, with you, it'd probably only be mediocre," Daphne said, examining her fingernails, "but given your track record, it'd probably be the best you've ever had."

"– but failing that, I don't want us to be enemies," Pansy finished, her cheeks still flushed with anger. "We're both smart, rich, and well-connected, and I know how dangerous you can be."

"Thank you," Daphne replied, cocking an eyebrow at the unexpected compliment.

"You're welcome. My point is that big things will be happening this year, and I want to make sure those of us who have potential are spared the storm."

"I don't need your protection."

"Oh, but you do," Pansy said softly. "I know enough about what's coming to know that if you choose to be my enemy, you will regret it. You forget that your sister and I get along – I can easily work with her."

"Then do it." Daphne's eyes hardened. "But I think you know as well as I do that Astoria's worthless. You don't want a crony."

"I'll take her if she gets me what I want." Pansy smirked. "In fact, I'll take anything and anyone. Want to reconsider?"

"No." Daphne slowly rose to her feet, fighting the fury that was surging in her gut. "In fact, it's about time I leave."

"You're making a big mistake, you stupid dyke –"

"You need to get fucked," Daphne said, as she tossed her empty wineglass on the floor at Pansy's feet, raw hatred dripping from every word as she stared straight into Pansy's beady black eyes. "I don't care by what and I really don't care by whom. Regardless of that, if you choose to fuck with me, or fuck with the woman I care about, I will manually plant a Venomous Tentacula in your cunt, and every month, it'll get plenty of nourishment. That's the fucking you need and the one you deserve."

"That's a worthless threat."

"Oh, I don't know about that," Daphne said, a twisted smile on her face. "I'm really good at Herbology."

Greyback bowed low as the heavy double doors closed behind him.

"My lord, we have the containers."

Lord Voldemort did not look at the werewolf – his attention was focused on something much more extraordinary. Hovering above the ground, whirling about a central point like moons around a planet, were shards of marble. But while normal marble was hard and glassy, this stone seemed to be amorphous, almost liquid, glowing only faintly from sporadic sparking connections to each other.

Stone made liquid, but no heat was required. Many would deem it impossible – a word that with regards to magic, the Dark Lord held in contempt.

"The cargo is as expected." It wasn't a question.

Greyback flinched, and Voldemort gave a thin-lipped smile at the werewolf's discomfort. After all, most would balk from hearing another's voice both in the open air and inside his head.

"It is, my lord. Thousands of units."

"Not nearly enough," Voldemort said quietly, "but adequate to begin construction. Have the containers themselves been disassembled?"

"Yes, my lord, and already sent to the main construction site."

"Good," Voldemort said, giving his wand an experimental flick. The blobs of liquid marble fused seamlessly into a ring of fluid stone, and he nodded with satisfaction. "We will need additional units – speak to Nott on the way out, he'll supply you with Gunther's next payment –"

"My Lord… there, ah, may be…"

This time his eyes met Greyback's, and he saw the rage and fear in the werewolf's eyes as he peered deeper to the surface memory when Greyback had learned that –

"Giles Gunther is dead."

"My lord, I swear, I did not –"

"How?" His tone brooked no argument, and he saw Greyback look sideways, like a trapped dog desperately seeking the closest exit.

"From what my source says… it was a Muggle bolt to the head, my Lord –"

Voldemort looked away – it hadn't taken much to glean the answers from the surface of the werewolf's mind. His mind raced with new possibilities as his eyes returning to the liquid torus of stone. The sparking light now came from within the solid piece.

"Excellent," he murmured, lowering his wand. The glowing liquid ring immediately fell – and landed with a heavy thud on the carpet beneath it, completely solid.

"My lord, should I –"

"Yes," Voldemort said calmly, turning to face the werewolf again. "You should work to recruit other smugglers at the agreed-upon rate. It would also be in both of our best interests that we locate the ship that Gunther used, so we might continue his noble work."

Greyback's eyes widened. "A good plan, my lord, but the ship is invisible. It may be lost to us."

"Is it, now?" Immediately, the possibilities came to mind – an invisible, mobile fortress, likely retrofitted for speed and stealth and to handle intruders…

"Yes, my lord –"

"Bellatrix!"

It was an added benefit of the 'accident' – his words that spoke to minds had a much further range than his physical voice. A second later, the witch appeared in the room with a pop, her eyes wide and fanatical, her wand in her hand.

Voldemort didn't speak a word. His hand seized her outstretched arm, and his wand sent the vivid red tattoo on it jet black. To her credit, Bellatrix did not scream.

"Greyback, take these words back to your pack," Voldemort said softly. "Gunther's loss is unfortunate, but his death may have provided us a greater boon. Gather your wolves swiftly – Gunther left behind a powerful vessel with his passing, and I intend to make it mine."

It had taken Scrimgeour at least ten minutes of pacing and hard thinking in an adjacent hallway to wrench his temper in line. Ten minutes of muffled curses and whirling possibilities, scrambled plans and hasty revisions.

For a few minutes, he had considered taking a swig of something with kick – something he hadn't done for almost fourteen years – but his better instincts prevailed. It's not worth getting into that again… there was a reason I stopped, and this is not a good enough reason to start again.

But now he was calm – at least as calm as he could be. He was still angry – upset at himself for breaking the glass in front of Skeeter, furious with Parkinson for the sheer gall of his campaign, angry at the crowd of imbeciles that had immediately thronged Parkinson's table, their pockets jingling with more gold than he could ever hope to win…

And downright livid with the man who had delayed the process long enough to allow this campaign to begin. The man who had vanished for months, before returning with a dragon in tow. The man who had managed to broker a peace with the goblins and reclaim the positions that were stripped from him – delaying Scrimgeour's barely-contested rise to Minister.

And now there was a new candidate who could beat him.

He found his target alone at the bar furthest from Parkinson's table.

The affable smile and twinkle in his bright blue eyes hadn't faded throughout the course of the night, and despite Scrimgeour's suspicions that the old man was well over a hundred years old, he was still going strong.

Time to put a damper on that.

"You are angry," Albus Dumbledore said calmly, before Scrimgeour could even open his mouth. "Justifiably so – I can understand why."

Scrimgeour took a steadying breath as he took the glistening glass of water from the bartender. "Anger doesn't quite… it doesn't quite cover it, Dumbledore."

Dumbledore closed his eyes, his smile fading. "I know, Rufus."

"I mean, I don't what else could have gone wrong tonight," Scrimgeour continued, his eyes blazing as he let some of his rage come to the surface. "I show up to this reception full of stuffed shirts and worthless cronies, fully aware that there are other things sitting on my desk that are of far, far greater importance than this waste, only to see the man who was responsible for defending Death Eaters before the Wizengamot announce with all the fanfare in the world that he's going to run for Minister For Magic."

His eyes narrowed. "You know who was first in line for that position, Dumbledore."

"Rufus –"

"I have waited for years," Scrimgeour snarled, slamming his open palm on the table. "Years, Albus! All throughout last year, I watched as Fudge mismanaged disaster after disaster, keeping my mouth shut as I tried to remain civil. The Ministry attacked twice, Gringotts robbed, Azkaban destroyed, the Daily Prophet offices incinerated by Fiendfyre, attacks from goblins and Death Eaters and I don't know what the hell else hitting us over and over and over again! Aurors and Hit Wizards dying by the dozen thanks to terrible policy and mismanagement that should have gotten Fudge sacked a dozen times over by any rational government." Scrimgeour's golden eyes blazed with rage as he leaned closer. "And to top it all off, the Supreme Mugwump himself turns out to have cut a deal with Lord Voldemort himself, and then he dies before he can be held accountable.

"And after all that, it finally looks as if I have a shot for the position I have earned – and then under your advice, we choose to settle things with the goblins and the International Confederation of Wizards first, and that process drags on for months until finally – finally – everything is in the clear. And then…"

Dumbledore gave Scrimgeour a penetrating look. "Rufus, I am not precognitive – I could not have foreseen this. If I had –"

"You wouldn't have told me anyway," Scrimgeour said bluntly, taking a single swallow from his glass before setting it down silently. "Because that's the way you do things. And you wonder why I don't trust you."

"I truly wish you did," Dumbledore said, a strange note of sadness in his voice. "After all, we are both on the same side in this war."

"I'm glad you said that," Scrimgeour said curtly, "because now I have an election race to win, and I'm going to need your support. You and I both know what will happen if Parkinson wins this."

"Once again, I cannot see the future, Rufus –"

"Oh for the love of – you're not dense, Dumbledore!" Scrimgeour fought to keep his voice low "Willard Parkinson and his bloody law firm have been defending Death Eaters for years, he's damn near one himself –"

"But as far as we know," Dumbledore said calmly, "he is not one. And despite the limited sources of information within the Death Eaters that I possess, I can speculate that nothing has changed there."

"Fine, so there's a difference between bad people and Death Eaters," Scrimgeour said acidly, "but that still doesn't make him a good candidate for the Minister's office, nor does it change the fact that if he does get in, we might as well hand over the Ministry to Voldemort on a silver platter!"

He lowered his voice. "You know that we can't allow that to happen."

Dumbledore took a long sip from his sniffer of Firewhiskey. "Be careful, Rufus."

"You have resources outside the control of the Ministry – resources that are powerful enough to –"

"Be careful, Rufus," Dumbledore repeated, his tone hardening.

"You know as well as I do that I would never ask unless the circumstances were dire – and I'm not asking here, let's keep that in mind – but you do have those resources –"

"And if said resources are used to ensure the disappearance of your opponent and your subsequent victory" Dumbledore replied blandly, "what does that say about the legitimacy of your candidacy?"

"Oh for the love of – what about the legitimacy of his candidacy?" Scrimgeour said hotly. "He's –"

"Declared his candidacy to the public," Dumbledore replied evenly, setting his glass on the bar. "I did not spend decades supporting a democratic government to be the one who dismantles it." His tone went abruptly icy with disappointment. "I expected better of you, Rufus."

Scrimgeour could hardly contain his rage. "Are you – are you kidding me? You of all people do not have the goddamned right to be self-righteous when you have your merry band of vigilantes killing those who get in your way –"

"The Order has never condoned murder," Dumbledore said, his voice suddenly very soft, "even when the Ministry did."

"And you're just going to keep lying to my face, aren't you?" Scrimgeour said, keeping his voice as low as he could as he felt his hand shaking with rage. "You have one of your men kill just last night and you tell me –"

"Excuse me?" Dumbledore's eyes widened with surprise. "What was that?"

"Oh, don't pretend you don't know –"

"I don't know," Dumbledore replied in a low voice, and to Scrimgeour's amazement, there was some real shock in the old Headmaster's voice. "Who was killed?"

"Giles Gunther," Scrimgeour replied curtly, folding his arms over his chest. "Smuggler, old member of Raskul Dolohov's operation, I know you're probably familiar with his backstory. In any case, he was murdered by a Muggle bullet in the head by a big bald black man – now, which member of your Order of the Phoenix does that sound like?"

"That's impossible." Dumbledore shook his head adamantly. "Kingsley was with Order members – all of whom can testify to you – all night last night. And if Kingsley was looking to commit murder, he would certainly know better than to use a firearm and leave evidence behind."

Scrimgeour didn't entirely believe Dumbledore, but he was perplexed by the surprised intensity of his statement. He seems just as shocked as I was – but if Shacklebolt wasn't responsible –

"Are you willing to have Shacklebolt sit for questioning?"

"In a heartbeat," Dumbledore replied immediately. "Rufus, once again, we are on the same side. If there is a leak, it needs to be found immediately. But there is a difference between that and –"

"I know, forget about it," Scrimgeour replied, some of the rage seeping away as he picked up his water glass and took another drink. He took a deep breath, trying to cool his frayed nerves. "I'm just worried."

"Believe me, I share your concern."

"It doesn't help matters that Parkinson will be able to outclass and outspend me at every turn, particularly with the backing of this blasted place behind him – despite the fact the man has never run for any office –"

"He knows the rules of the Wizengamot and the Ministry," Dumbledore finished, understanding immediately. "That does not make up for experience, Rufus –"

"My experience," Scrimgeour said in a low voice, "was under Fudge, and I don't need to be tarred with his brush, and you can bet that'll be most of Parkinson's strategy against me. Plus with the whole lie of 'wizard progressivism' or whatever the hell that's supposed to be –"

"It is not a lie."

"Excuse me?" Disbelief and incredulity filled his voice. "The Parkinsons are an old family of purebloods that are nearly as bigoted as the Blacks! All the populist garbage he spewed –"

"– Was not an act," Dumbledore replied, a pensive expression on his face. "It was difficult to tell, but the more I think on it, the more I am sure of it. Willard Parkinson is a man who can speak lies with absolute conviction, but both his choice of Greengrass and his announcement speech are more revealing – he believes in what he is saying. He wants to combat stagnation in wizarding society, and he sold it to this crowd in the only way he knew they could accept it." The old man sighed. "I cannot deny that it is an appealing message that rings very true."

Scrimgeour could hardly believe what he was hearing. "Are you saying – no, don't tell me that you're planning…"

Dumbledore was silent for a long few seconds. "Even the worst of men can come up with good ideas, and such men are often the few who dare to follow through. Whether it is ruthlessness, greed, or arrogance, they are willing to do terrible things to achieve great things, to take risks in the name of their goals because they possess neither the conscience nor morals to stop them. They may not be the ones to force the stakes to rise, but they are the ones who will not balk at their rising."

He looked up at the Head Auror. "Would you have dared, Rufus Scrimgeour? Would you have dared to bring such ideas to light, show the wizarding world an idea of change and evolution, pull them from the lull of regressive stagnation and drag them by their collars into a new dawn?"

"Whatever dawn Parkinson promises will be false," Scrimgeour said furiously, "and you know it –"

"Would you dare?" Dumbledore's voice was quiet and steady, his bright blue eyes staring straight into Scrimgeour's – straight through him. "Would you try?"

"There's a reason why Parkinson can make those promises," Scrimgeour spat, "and sure, maybe it's idealism – unfortunately, I'm more acquainted with reality. And I'm not going to lie and sugar-coat the truth. And you know, maybe it's just me, but I'm not sure the best time to try and shift the cultural paradigm is in the middle of a war."

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times," Dumbledore replied, spreading his hands. "You are one of the few who can frame the debate, Rufus – which do want to choose?"

"Do I have a choice, if I want to win?" Scrimgeour asked bitingly.

"Of course you do."

"The question was rhetorical." Scrimgeour said, draining his glass and turning away.

"My answer was not."

Scrimgeour heard Dumbledore's words, and the warning implicit in them.

He didn't turn back.

The first thing he noticed was the lack of colour.

He blinked quickly as he looked down the winding corridor, a meandering hallway of closely fitted stones, with row after row of stone doors set into the grey stone. Even the muted candlelight was hidden behind dusty filters, casting everything in the same dim, dour shade. Where Gringotts had been untamed caverns hollowed out of the stone, the vaults of the International Wizard Banking Consortium were refined and polished – and very, very grey.

"No landmarks," Tonks muttered as she stepped out of the shaft, "and I bet everything moves around a lot – it's going to be a devil of a time tracking Lucius' vault. You'd think that there'd be a spell or something that would be tied to the quill –"

"There probably is," Harry replied with some concern as he drew his wand, and laid it flat on his palm. "Problem is, we don't know it. Hmm… point me."

The wand spun quickly and pointed straight at a stone wall, and Harry took a deep breath. "Okay, that's north."

"Doesn't exactly help us when we don't know which vault is which."

"Maybe," Harry conceded, "but it'll help us track down the closest underground point to Gringotts, which is where the goblins will be – and that means we need to be angled outwards from the bank, which is… east. Assuming that these corridors aren't outside of regular space or do something seriously twisted, it's as good enough as anything."

"Hang on." Tonks drew her wand and pointed at the ground. "Flagrate."

A second later, a flaming 'X' was blazing on the stone floor – and then a second later, the 'X' evaporated into thin air, not even leaving scorched stone in its wake.

Tonks snorted. "Should have expected it. Worth a try, though."

They started walking down the corridor, their footsteps echoing ominously on the polished stone. They reached an intersection, and Harry turned right, but immediately the corridor doubled back and descended deeper.

"This is creepy," Tonks muttered, glancing over her shoulder as her hair went pink. "I'm not claustrophobic, but if I was, a tunnel like this would probably kill me…"

They took another turn towards the east, but Harry couldn't help but feel unnerved as they proceeded down the identical corridor, and then another. None of the vaults were marked, none of the candle brackets were different, even the subtle stone discolourations seemed identical as they walked, the silence only broken by the clicking of heels and his simulacrum's shallow breathing…

"If we're not careful, we're going to get turned around," Harry said tersely, tapping his wand on a stone vault door. "Left here, Tonks."

"It looks like that tunnel doubles back." She swallowed hard. "Then again, this all really looks the same –"

Harry heard it first – a low rumble, like the sound of a distant Muggle machine. In a nearly silent tunnel, any sound was apparent.

"Did you hear that?"

"That's either the goblins or something the board of directors decided would be good for keeping us quiet," Tonks said, taking a deep breath. "Which direction do you think…"

"Left," Harry said firmly, setting out down the identical corridor. "Even if it doubles back, it might go deeper like the last one."

And sure enough, it did – although one could hardly tell with the corridors all looking the same, the same bland grey, the same stifling silence that seemed to even make their footfalls quieter.

"The whole thing had to be Lucius Malfoy's idea," Tonks muttered. "This sort of faux-austerity, the fact it feels like we're rats in a goddamned maze –"

The explosion cut her off in mid-sentence, and Harry felt himself stagger backwards as the corridor shook violently, peppering them with dust and fragments of stone, the acrid smell of burnt rock filling their nostrils…

And out of the dust cloud came a creature the size of an elephant. As tall as the ceiling and nearly as wide, it looked like an overgrown mole, it had big bright eyes and an elongated snout, both peeking out from the thick bristly black fur that covered every inch of the creature. But Harry's astonished eyes landed on the strange, translucent sacs beneath the snout – inside them jingled hundreds of coins, with plenty of room for more.

Tonks coughed and looked bemusedly at the shadow behind the creature. "Nice entry, Hagrid."

"I reckon them bankers above probably dint hear that," Hagrid said, pulling off his goggles as he stepped out of the hole in the wall and eyed the massive creature with affection. "That yer partner?"

Harry fought back his urges to pull Hagrid into a thankful embrace, and instead gave him a nod and a smile. "Clarissa Desdame, Mr. Hagrid. And this is…"

"A Grandmother Niffler."

The second voice came from a goblin, stepping out of the hole and brushing soot off his charcoal-coloured waistcoat. Unlike most goblins, this one had skin that was leathery and tanned, and a jagged scar split across one of his eyes. He eyed Harry and Tonks with extreme distrust.

"Miss Desdame, Miss Tonks, this is Ragnok," Hagrid explained quickly. "He's a friend 'o Dumbledore's –"

"Less of a friend," Ragnok interrupted, "and more that we have shared mutual enemies. Even despite the decimation of the Malfoys, the score has yet to be settled."

"So now that you're here, you'll be able to help us find the gold?" Tonks asked cautiously.

"Yes, or more accurately, the Grandmother Niffler will," Ragnok replied curtly, gesturing at the overgrown creature. It let out a happy burbling noise and began trundling down the hall, the stone shuddering slightly at its bulk. "If my sources are correct, the walls and vault doors are enchanted to mask the trace of gold within. If the correction to the ledger was completed correctly, the enchantment will fade temporarily and the Niffler will be able to find the right vault door."

"Clever enough," Harry said, glancing with askance at Tonks. The hard look and edge in the goblin's voice didn't inspire complete confidence in their ally.

The Niffler let out a strange sound – something between a snort and burble, and began galumphing faster, and they hurried behind it to keep up, the goblin closest to the front to keep the great creature under control. From the longing smile on Hagrid's face, Harry guessed his friend wanted one of his own.

"So what's Ragnok's deal?" Tonks asked softly, glancing at the goblin.

Hagrid's smile faded. "When Malfoy formed this here bank, he needed a goblin on the inside. He put Ragnok under Imperius, and used him to funnel yer gold outta Gringotts." He winced. "And when the other goblins found out… well, Ragnok was the one that survived the purge."

"So when he's talking about settling a score the Malfoys –"

"Even gettin' Harry's money back won' be enough fer him," Hagrid said, unable to keep the note of concern from his voice. "If Draco Malfoy's still alive, I bet yeh there's a reckonin' coming."

The meeting had been short and efficient. The orders were simple, their objective very clear – the ship was to be found, taken, and removed to a safe location. And she was in command – a fact that sent tingles of pride and anticipation surging down her spine.

"Bellatrix."

The voice snapped her out of her reverie, and she glared daggers at Yaxley, who for his credit did not back down. "What? Make this brief –"

"In private."

Bellatrix rolled her eyes – nobody would dare eavesdrop on her if they valued their ears – but she cast the privacy charms anyway. "There. Now what do you want?"

"There were Death Eaters missing in the circle."

"Not unusual," Bellatrix said caustically, "and if you're speaking of the newest absences, Dolohov has a special mission from the Dark Lord that has taken him elsewhere." Her eyes narrowed as she strolled closer to the stately, blond-haired wizard. He wasn't as rich or smooth as Lucius had been, but he had a certain dangerous dignity about him that she grudgingly respected. And any man willing to deal with Dementors…

"I'm not speaking of Dolohov," Yaxley replied in a low voice. "There was another missing from the circle."

Bellatrix cast her mind back to the memory, recalling hooded figures of various heights and statures – being the closest to her master, she knew nearly all of them…

And there it was. A gap in the circle – a missing Death Eater, one that she normally glanced over anyway due to his inconsequentiality.

"You speak," she hissed, "of Wormtail."

"Of course I do," Yaxley said harshly. "The rat's gone, and I'm sure the Dark Lord knows it, but he did not mention it. Not looking to draw attention to the fact that the perpetual traitor is gone again."

"Wormtail would have to be absolutely mad to betray the Dark Lord –"

"Or he feels he has a chance to seek the highest level of protection," Yaxley replied, "and with our spies indicating your traitorous cousin and his pet wolf are out of the country, he may seek sanctuary with another."

Hot rage surged through her, and she let the emotion twist her face into a snarl. "Well, Yaxley, we have two choices. If he's on a mission for the Dark Lord, we can aid him in his double-cross. If he has chosen to betray us again…" Her lips curled into a hungry smile. "Well, I'm in need of another project."

"You give me leave?"

"Send some of your Dementors first," Bellatrix said after an instant of thought. "Just to observe, not to engage. But the second we find evidence of his betrayal…"

She let her sentence trail off purposefully, savouring every bloody possibility.

The reception had grown loud and boisterous. The alcohol had flowed freely, and the music was now drowned out by drunken yells and shouting. The maids hurried from table to table with fresh platters of drinks, their faces placid under the Calming Charm, not reacting to the growing chaos around them.

Nobody noticed two women slipping back into the room. They had once been dressed as maids, but a few deft transfigurations had changed their maid outfits into serviceable – if indecently tight – dress robes. Between the subtle changes and the triumphant smiles on their faces, nobody could tell the difference.

That is, except for their lone contact.

Dumbledore smiled as Harry and Tonks approached. "Ah, you made it. How went your business?"

"Without a hitch," Harry replied, toying a bit with his wand as he glanced around the room at the party – nobody seemed to recognize him. Perfect. "Everything was moved, Hagrid says hello, and everything was left the way we found it."

"Excellent work," Dumbledore replied, his smile broadening. "And like all excellent work, it deserves a fine reward. Would you deign to accompany an old man?"

Tonks could barely repress a giggle as Dumbledore gave her a courtly bow, but she accepted Dumbledore's hand, and they headed towards the door.

"Anything new that we should know about?" Harry asked, just audible enough that Dumbledore could hear above the din

"Draco is indeed alive," Dumbledore replied, "which proves Lord Voldemort did not completely eradicate that family line. He will also be returning to Hogwarts."

"Is that wise?" Tonks asked warily.

"Even despite what Draco has done and endured, Miss Vuneren," Dumbledore said, "I cannot deny the young man a proper education – particularly if it could mean saving him. He is not irredeemable –"

"Ah, Dumbledore!"

Harry and Tonks both nearly froze at the same time – they knew that voice. Uh oh…

Dumbledore nodded graciously as Willard Parkinson approached, a winning smile on his face – a smile that didn't extend to his eyes, which immediately landed on Tonks and Harry. And he knows these identities…

"Congratulations on your very successful evening, Willard," Dumbledore said, before gesturing at Tonks and Harry. "I see you've met my friends Clarissa Desdame and Nymphadora Vuneren –"

"I'm familiar," Parkinson said, his eyes staying on Harry, "and I thought your little partnership was shut down. Awfully coincidental that you're here, I can't seem to recall your names being on the invite list –"

"Guests of mine, Willard," Dumbledore said with a smile, "and quite engaging conversation, I must say. Unfortunately, I must take them away from you – we do have important business to discuss."

"I won't delay you much longer then," Parkinson said, handing Dumbledore a thick envelope. "Please examine it at your leisure – I would greatly appreciate your support for my campaign. I want to give wizards a change they can believe in."

"Powerful words."

"Not just words," Parkinson said firmly, "a mission statement. This is very important to me, Dumbledore – I want my name to be associated with an evolutionary movement, driving our civilization into a new age."

He glanced at Tonks and Harry, and his lip curled. "Free of past… baggage. Have a pleasant evening."

They didn't speak again until they were out in Diagon Alley, in the cool London night.

"What campaign?"

"Willard Parkinson is running for Minister for Magic," Dumbledore said thoughtfully, "and on a very interesting platform, one that Scrimgeour will have difficulty attacking."

"But it's an obvious set-up," Tonks protested as they continued down the narrow alley. "I mean, the second Parkinson gets in, he turns the Ministry over to You-Know-Who."

"Likely," Dumbledore agreed, "which means either Scrimgeour must win, or Parkinson's true motivations be determined. A very interesting project."

"Uh, Professor…"

"Yes, Clarissa?" Dumbledore asked kindly.

"I think you can call him his true name, there's nobody in ear shot," Tonks whispered.

"When we get to our destination, I will," Dumbledore replied as they resumed their walk. "Which, as I'm sure Clarissa has noticed, is not the Leaky Cauldron. Ah, we're here."

On the near-deserted streets of Diagon Alley, it had only taken them a few minutes to reach a new building, the stonework still unfinished. Harry frowned – he distinctly remembered a very different building being there…

"Wasn't this the location of the Daily Prophet?"

"It was, before Sirius Black visited," Dumbledore replied, his eyes twinkling as they approached the double doors. "But the Fiendfyre razed the building to the ground, leaving nothing behind. So when Rita Skeeter took the reins of the paper, she decided on a different location in Diagon Alley, leaving this land open for development."

"But the Daily Prophet offices were really big," Tonks said with a frown, "and it looks to me like Twilfit & Tattings has expanded a bit…"

"They purchased two-thirds of the land," Dumbledore explained, "at a bargain rate. And that left just enough space for what I would like to show you."

He withdrew a heavy bronze key from his robes and fitted it carefully into the lock. With a single twist the doors slid silently open, and Harry and Tonks saw a reception desk, and behind it a spiral staircase winding up to a second floor of offices. On the side walls were massive bookshelves filled with thick volumes, the shelves towering to the ceiling, with ladders resting on polished rails, able to slide and access new volumes. The entire place had an air of regal dignity, of class and polish, of sharpened excellence and tempered wisdom.

"It was an interesting idea that you had," Dumbledore said, giving an astounded Harry and Tonks an approving smile, "and one certainly worthy of expansion. So I took whatever time I could find, between Hogwarts and negotiating goblin treaties, and expanded your idea. I took the liberty of circumspectly hiring the right people, calling in the right favours, and keeping everything within very quiet. It cost a fair amount of Galleons to build it all and even more to keep the right people from leaking it, but I think it was worth it."

"You took what we said," Tonks began with amazement, "you took our story –"

"And turned it into a reality," Dumbledore finished. "Harry, Miss Tonks, welcome to your offices. Welcome to Desdame & Vuneren."