Albus Potter and the War Within

by Vekin87

Sequel to Albus Potter and the Fortress of the Dead. The seventh and final entry in my Albus Potter series. Notice: this installment contains scenes of graphic violence. I advise parents to read first before reading to their children. Enjoy, everyone!

10. The Dark Defectors

Chapter 10: The Dark Defectors

An odd stillness seemed to have washed over the room as the Foulest Book had been closed, and yet, Albus saw everything as though it were spinning. The ruined establishment in which he now stood suddenly seemed uncannily small, and cramped, and the silence thick, making it difficult for him to breathe. It was all that he could do to concentrate on the thickly bound text directly in front of him, words and images flowing freely within his head.

I'm going insane, he told himself, summarizing all of Ares' warnings into a single, complete statement. Another one followed. But I need to stop Darvy first.

How many times he said these things over again in his head he wasn't sure, but it was often enough that nearly everything else was pushed from his mind. Indeed, it was not until Fango Wilde turned to him that Albus even registered that he was still there.

Wilde was looking grim. His mouth was sagging somewhat, as though frozen on the first word that he meant to utter, but moreover, there was a glimmer of pity in his eyes that Albus wanted nothing to do with. Nevertheless, he listened when Wilde spoke.

"I- I knew," he admitted. "I knew that you were...I mean, I- I saw you. On the Island. I saw what you could do, saw what you did to the prison. Reginald had told me before about that kind of power...but I didn't- I didn't know- I didn't know that-"

"It doesn't matter," Albus said blandly, unwilling to hear Wilde further add to his misery, by repeating what Albus was already telling himself. "None of that matters."

It was true; there was so little that mattered now, truly. His world seemed to have shrunk a thousand times since his exchange with Ares, and though he knew that it still hadn't fully sunk in, knew that at some point he was going to need to scream out loud, or to cry, or to just stare off for a bit longer, he also knew that there were still things to be done here. He dug into his robes accordingly.

"What are you going to do now?" Wilde asked.

"Never you mind," Albus replied, and he saw Wilde recoil as he withdrew one of the three small vials from his robes.

"What is that!?" Wilde gasped. "Is that a potion-?"

"It's not for you," Albus said bluntly. "It's not for anyone. It's for this," he added, gesturing towards the Foulest Book. He made to uncork the vial, but strangely, Wilde had made a sudden movement, as though to block the Book from sight.

"Wait!" he cried.

Albus stared at him.

"You- you can't," Wilde went on, sounding as desperate as he had previously.

Albus uncorked the vial, and then held it up, examining the clear, water-like solution closely. "Yes, I can."

"I can't let you destroy it!" Wilde shouted, and Albus was actually mildly impressed at how quickly he'd caught on. Still, he didn't have time for this. He didn't have much time for anything, he realized.

"Get out of my way," he shot, teeth gritted.

"Please, I just want to use it- just once- and then-"

But he fell silent at the look on Albus' face. "I'm destroying the Book," he said, slowly. "I'm doing it now. You said you saw what I did to Azkaban? If you don't move in two seconds, I'm going to do that to you."

Wilde swallowed. He stepped aside, but a pleading look remained on his battered face. "Please," he said. "You wanted to use the Book, you did. I helped you use it! All I'm asking for is-"

"I already told you," Albus said crisply, "and you've already seen-you need a spirit object to speak to someone. If you don't have that, I'm not going to wait around for you to find one. You need to let this go," he finished, and for some reason, he now felt as though he was speaking to someone that he was much more friendly with.

Wilde seemed to catch on to that last sentence, and yet still, a tortured expression played on his face. "I- I just wanted to apologize-"

"You just told me," Albus continued, "that all you've done is made bad decisions. Keeping this Book around is one of those. Let go of whatever happened," Albus told him. "Stop trying to fix things. Now is your chance to do the right thing. All you have to do is step aside."

He didn't know why he was negotiating; perhaps he was simply unwilling to use the energy required to eliminate Wilde's presence by force. And yet, he could not help but feel as though the words he was saying now were almost cathartic; it was a very strange thing, but he found himself comforted by his own words.

It seemed to comfort Wilde too. Slowly, he backed away, nodding. Albus stepped forward at once, gripping the vial of Mortem Necavero tightly and holding it over the Book. He still had no way of knowing if this would work-if his concoction would have the efficacy that he needed it to have-but there was nothing that he could do now to bolster his chances. He spared a single glance at Fango Wilde, who was looking stoic, and tipped the vial over, spilling its clear contents directly on to the Book's cover.

The effect was instantaneous. There was a glow, but unlike the cool blue that signified the Book's activation, this light was a searing orange, a reddish shade that brought with it a spine-tingling sound of sizzling and snapping, as though the Book were being cooked. Albus half expected steam to rise from it, but instead, the Book began to twist itself violently, and he jumped back in surprise, as did Wilde, both of them watching as the Foulest Book danced in agony.

It flung itself off of the table, still glowing, apparently weightless as it bounced around on the dirt floor, convulsing irritably. Albus noticed that it was starting to get smaller though, and a moment later he realized why; it was disintegrating.

For another full minute he watched the Book reduce itself to ashes, crumbling and caving inward, manifesting itself into ghastly flakes, the intense reduction accelerating as it shrunk. The orange glow transitioned to one of blinding light, and yet, Albus felt no heat emanate from it. Then, the Foulest Book was gone, replaced by particles of dust, which drifted off throughout the darkened, musty room as though they'd belonged there all along.

The eerie spectacle finished, Albus permitted himself a grin of satisfaction. Whatever happened next, however much or little was accomplished, he'd destroyed the Foulest Book; had done as Fairhart had instructed.

The mere thought of his friend and mentor made him glance up at Wilde once more, who was standing aback, considerably further away from where the smoldering Book had been than Albus was. His face bore a strange mixture of emotions; Albus saw dismay etched into his dull eyes, and yet, his lips had curled themselves into the soft shape of relief. When he noticed that he was being observed, he hardened his appearance.

"Well," he said, "that- that's done, then."

Albus nodded, though he fidgeted around inside of his robes as he did so, needlessly ensuring that the other vials were all intact. He made to speak-he wasn't quite what he was going to say-but Wilde had already spoken again.

"So what happens next?"

Albus heaved a sigh. "Well," he said, "I stop Darvy, same plan really-"

"What happens with me?" Wilde stressed, looking fearful. It appeared as though he'd realized, upon witnessing the Book's destruction, just how truly obsolete he was.

And yet, Albus didn't quite know how to answer him. His plans, always loose and subject to change, had never settled themselves on a resolution for this particular matter. All day, since recovering Fango Wilde, the thought of what to do with him after his venture with the Foulest Book was slinking around the corners of his deteriorating mind. And even the deed now done, he was finding it hard to consider. He was just contemplating what his father would do in such a situation, when the thought struck him; it wasn't even his choice.

"Whatever you want," Albus told him. "Just go."

Wilde raised his eyebrows, suddenly wary. "Just like that?" he asked. "Just- just go-"

Albus tossed his arms up into a quizzical shape. "What else?" he said. "You took me to the Book, you helped me use it, now it's gone. I've got other things to do," he added lamely, though his heart sank slightly at the thought of completing these tasks.

Wilde stared off into one of the shadowy corners of the room, his face barely visible; it was completely dark outside now; they were well into the night. "I could go with you," he suggested. "Help you, in stopping-"

"Could you take me to this 'Toxic Quarry' place?" Albus asked, weighing his options; he'd already determined the town of Kakos to be his next destination, as it was the only lead on Darvy he'd managed to procure.

But Wilde shook his head. "I've never been there," he said. "But still, I could stay with you for a while-"

"You really have nowhere else to go, do you?" Albus interrupted, the thought occurring to him in an instant, and Wilde frowned.

"Nowhere that wants me," he admitted.

Albus scratched at the back of his neck, not willing to spend any more time on making this decision than he needed to. On one end, there was no denying that Wilde had been invaluable today. In many ways, he'd directly made up for many of the occurrences in the last few years...but not all of them.

"No," Albus said firmly. "No...I'm fine on my own."

"But-"

"Go," Albus told him. "I'm not trying to be rude; really. But I don't want you. Too much...there's too much associated with you. Just go somewhere, anywhere but here. Leave the country. Don't come back. Start a new life," he went on, not even sure why he felt obligated to add such encouragement, "leave here with a blank slate. I'm giving you an opportunity here," he added darkly.

"Why?" asked Wilde, sounding suspicious.

"Why not?" Albus answered him. "What else is there to do? I don't want you around."

Wilde said nothing, instead tilting his head to the side, as though weighing his next words carefully. "I thought you would just kill me," he finally revealed.

Albus looked away from him, unwilling to provide an immediate response. He had toyed with the thought, truly, but then again, he wasn't even sure if it had actually been him thinking it. The voices in his head were becoming increasingly similar...

"Why would you think that?" he asked, trying to side-step the conflict that had been brewing within him.

"Because that's what San would have done," Wilde answered him simply.

Albus exhaled. "Well I'm not San," he admitted, though whether this was to Wilde or to himself, even he wasn't sure. Whatever the case, Wilde nodded as though this in itself was an adequate answer.

"Very well, then," he said. "I- I will go."

The words spilled out of his mouth with a strange amusement to them, as though he'd forgotten what it was like to leave of his own accord. Albus did not let him leave just yet though; instead he strode over to him, extending Ares' wand as he did so.

"Here," he said. "Ares wanted you to have this; take it."

Wilde looked down at it, a look of contemplation on his face. "No," he said after a moment. "You keep it. With what you aim to do, a second wand never goes amiss-"

"It doesn't matter," Albus insisted, "it was given to you, and you need to Apparate out of here-"

"I can Apparate without a wand; I got us here without one, didn't I?" Wilde said. "Apparition is one of the few things I excel at. And I know that it was given to me," he continued, "and now I am giving it to you."

Albus stared at him for a moment, his green eyes meeting the dull brown circles that were Fango Wilde's, and the look of assuredness in them made him pocket Ares' wand with confidence. And then, a thought came to him.

"Wait- here," he said quickly, rifling through his own pockets. Wilde made a face of amusement, though it quickly turned to one of utter surprise.

"Where did you get this?" he asked, taking the old photograph that Albus had offered him.

"Fairhart's old place," Albus told him bluntly. "Recognize it?"

Wilde continued to peer at it up close, a shadowy gin of nostalgia curling on his face, and yet, he still shook his head. "No," he said. "I don't even remember when this was taken-where this was..."

"Well I figured you might want it," Albus told him, knowing that he wouldn't be needing it, as he'd once thought. "Maybe as a reminder or something. Of a time when no one wanted you dead."

"Don't be so sure," Wilde retorted, grinning, and Albus-somehow-managed a harsh laugh.

"Thank you," Wilde then said, tucking it away and out of sight. Albus said nothing, only nodding, and only a moment later, Wilde went for the empty doorway, though he stopped briefly before crossing through it.

"I'm rooting for you," he said, and Albus gave another nod, this one in gratitude. And then, he exited through the open frame, out of sight completely a second later.

Albus did not watch him go, instead standing motionless as Wilde's soft footsteps lessened in volume every moment. When they were gone completely, he flung himself up against the wall, allowing the day's events to crash down on him privately.

How he managed to contain himself in Wilde's presence he wasn't sure, but with only charred wood around him, he now allowed himself a soft whimper. Thoughts and memories were colliding in his head, creating residual rifts of loose and illogical ideas. His life, he now knew, was coming to an end.

But it was not the end that he'd anticipated; he was not staring a wand in the face, as he had so many times before. He was not amidst a sea of Killing Curses, as he'd been just earlier in the day, was not inches from slipping off of a broom in mid-air. This was an end somehow even more frightening, because he knew that it was not truly the end, not for all of him. Soon he would be gone, but what's more, he would be replaced.

Soon...it will become impossible to separate your dreams from reality.

Of all that Ares had said, these words here were the most profound, the most horrifying. It was his worst fear being realized, a fear that had even briefly materialized itself months ago, on the Island of Azkaban, when he'd faced down a stray Boggart. The golden-eyed fiend of his nightmares was slowly obliterating his sense of self, destroying him from the inside, only to crawl into the shell that was his body and assume his identity, to wear the mask of what Albus had been.

Tears were falling freely again, and though he knew that they served no purpose-knew that crying couldn't help him, wouldn't accomplish anything, and was actually postponing what had to be done next-he couldn't help it. The only satisfaction that he clung to, aside from his recent success at destroying the Book, was the knowledge that his instincts had proven correct. He'd left his friends and family behind, all of them, fearful that there would be a time when he couldn't control himself around them. He had no memories of what he'd done to the massive structure that had once been Azkaban, knew nothing of how he'd done it, and yet, he could remember the feeling of it, the sense of incredible power, of disregard for life, the complete and utter lack of control that had accompanied it. He had wanted to pry that possibility away from his family, from his father and sister and brother, from Morrison and Scorpius, from Mirra, from so many people...and he had done it. With little time to spare it seemed, too.

How long would it be now before the Albus that sat here, in this ruin of a room, was gone? Ares had said that hallucinations would start next. What was he to do, when that happened?

The thoughts of the inevitable plagued him, but the second portion of Ares' words were now etched into his memory. There was a lead on Darvy. Nothing definite, but something-something that no one else had, not even his father most likely. He needed to get to this 'Toxic Quarry' place, to the apparent capital of corruption in the wizarding world, to the place where Darvy might be waiting for him. If he could only find that maniac, he could kill him, stop him dead in his tracks, and prevent the reconstruction of his army and the second wave of discord that he meant to spread over the world.

He could do more than that, too. He ran his fingers across the remaining two vials in his cloak; the dollops of potion that he now knew were effective. Fairhart had wanted all three of Darvy's items destroyed. Darvy definitely had the Wand, and the Veil was likely near him as well. Albus wasn't sure if the mixture in these vials would be as effective against such objects, but he could not forego trying. Frantically, he found himself clinging to the idea that destroying the Wand in particular could somehow improve his condition. Ares had said that merely eliminating the Wand physically would be insufficient for negating the effect that it had on him, but there was always the chance, however slim, that in this single regard his former headmaster was ignorant...

Whatever the case, he knew that he could not give up here. He could not-would not-spend the little amount of sanity he had left groveling at his misfortune. Perhaps if he was an earlier Albus, one who, much like the man he'd just spared, was too obsessed with correcting mistakes to seek practical solutions. But that was not as he was here, his resilience and skill sharpened by his time with Fairhart. Perhaps it turned out that his mind had next to no time left; perhaps by this time tomorrow, he would be a sadistic monster, eyes glowing gold and a savage grin glued to his face. But what he did between now and then was his choice, and he'd be damned if he was not going to capitalize on the fact that he could still, at present, make choices in what he did.

This mere thought ushered in a different memory, a different voice, one much different from Ares' cold tone, and further away in time as well. The choices that we make Albus, during these moments, which tell us who we are, and who we want to be.

It was his father's words. He'd said them years ago, during that time when they'd all thought Fairhart to be dead. Albus had batted them away then, but now, they were the only crutch that he had left. He smiled at the thought of his father, who somehow, from miles away-from years away, truly-was still managing to inspire him. He permitted himself a lone, errant thought of Mirra, whom he realized he would most certainly never get to see again, and then rose to his feet, tears dried and hands no longer shaking.

He could not revel in his victory over the Foulest Book, not when such a victory now seemed so meager in comparison to what was still left to be done. He had places to go, and things to do, and first and foremost among them was leaving this despoiled heap of wood and metal, the ransacked, lifeless area once known as Struckton. Wilde had Apparated him in here, but he was gone now; Albus would thus have to retrace those steps, find the Apparition point on his own, and then make his way to a place that would ease his search for Kakos.

No sooner had he stood up to saunter his way through the doorless entrance did he press himself against the same wall he'd just sat slumped, an eerily loud noise having sent him into a frenzy. Albus perked his ears up, pocketing Ares' wand and gripping his own, trying to register what he'd heard. Something was moving, and it seemed to be moving just outside of the abandoned building in which he stood.

"-telling you, two of them," came a lewd, crispy voice, muffled slightly.

"Not doubting that you saw something move," came another, more calm voice. "Just saying it likely wasn't people. Tons of rats around here-"

"It wasn't rats!"

"Keep it down then!"

Albus swallowed, beads of sweat now trickling down from his eyebrows, his hands already shaking once more. This was not from fear, however, but from anticipation. There was a very good chance that whoever was outside was going to creep in at any moment-

But they didn't. Albus heard a pair of footsteps mosey by him, the scuttling at first deafening due to the acuity of his ears, but petering out slightly seconds later, until it was gone completely. It wasn't until the silence returned that Albus allowed what he'd heard to register.

We were seen. One of those men had mentioned stumbling upon two people; it seemed as though he and Wilde, at some point earlier in the night, had been spotted. Albus wasn't sure by whom exactly, but Wilde had insisted that this was a popular spot for Dark Defectors, and Albus thus was not going to take the chance of making himself known. Randomly, he wondered if Wilde had already managed to leave the town, but he found himself unable to be overly concerned with the man's safety; Albus had offered him a chance at a new life-what happened now was entirely up to him.

Still, the knowledge that he was not alone in Struckton changed the outline of his plans immediately. Already he had ascertained that whoever had spotted him previously had gone to fetch reinforcements; there was probably a skeptical search party abound as he stood here. He seriously contemplated waiting it out; he was not, he realized, equipped for a contest with any more than one wizard or witch. Confident though he was in his abilities, he had seen and participated in a great deal today, all the way from rescuing Wilde to letting him go. He was tired, and there were pangs in his stomach as well. This proved to be in itself an obstacle however; if he slept, he felt as though he would only be weaker in the morning.

We need to get out of here, he thought, but then a crippling thought overtook him. Wilde was gone. Why was he still thinking in the plural?

The answer fell upon him swiftly, and, sickened at the truth of it, he began to walk forward, almost as if to distance himself from the thought that had just crossed him. He exited the building, poking his head out first into the piercing darkness, turning it both ways before emerging entirely.

Struckton looked, somehow, radically different in the moonlight. The orange glow was gone completely, and despite the warm season, there was a biting chill to the outside now that he was not prepared for. Albus found himself shivering slightly as he adjusted to it, but all the same he kept quiet as he tiptoed along the first path that he saw, trying to remember which direction he'd heard the voices move. Deciding it was best to follow after them, he strayed his body to the left, ambling down the tattered dirt path marred with debris.

He crept along as silently as possible, keeping to corners and dense patches of shadow, hiding himself from view just as he had hours and hours ago, when leading Wilde through Mottley. Though he'd already resigned himself to not stop and rest, he was now met with a much more immediate dilemma; was his best bet to find these Defectors, and possibly size them up, or to flee the town as a whole?

He pondered this for a few minutes as he walked, though as he turned a corner he found himself leaning towards the former. Already, he'd spotted a gaggle of them.

He had no idea if it was the same two that he'd overheard earlier, but if it was, they'd met with a third. The three of them were walking away from him with their wands out, beams of light bouncing off of the worn down buildings, apparently no speaking between them. Realizing that he was outnumbered, Albus practically flew to the next corner over, though just as he did so, another man emerged from the corner as well, colliding with him.

Albus opened his eyes in shock, locking vision with him; he was a scrawny thing, shorter by a few inches and with an angular face. His face was incredibly dirty, made all the more apparent by the fact that he was opening his mouth, preparing to yell-

Albus slashed his wand through the air, silencing him without speaking. Using what little physical advantage he had, he then grabbed the boy that he now realized was someone James' age by the throat, pushing him up forcefully against the wall and holding him in place while he scavenged his pockets.

His victim made to struggle, foolishly prying at Albus' fingers when he should have been reaching for his wand-a wand that Albus now possessed. He slashed his own through the air next, sending the boy to the ground in a flash of red, then turned around, checking make sure that no one had been alerted.

Struckton remained as quiet as ever, and Albus took this time to gaze down at the young man and survey him properly. He was wearing the same dark robes that Albus had also seen the Dark Alliance adorned in, though he didn't bear a red mask-consistent with the idea that he was a defector from the group. He crouched and rummaged through the boy's pockets further, though found nothing. He was just about to rise and pocket his newly acquired wand when he felt something poke into the back of his head.

"Don't move," came a low, sinister voice.

Albus froze, suddenly aware of the movement around him. He felt as the boy's wand was gently taken from his fingers, then his own by much rougher hands; there were multiple assailants.

"Check him," came a different voice, and now it was Albus who was being spun around.

Judging by their varied sizes, it was the same three that he'd just seen walking; evidently they'd been making rounds, rather than pressing on through the town. He now saw that one of them-the smallest-was a witch, with dark eyes and short hair cropped to her ears. The other two were both men, and that included the tall, leering figure that had his wand aimed, the one who had spoken. None of them were wearing masks.

The third, a more stout, wheezing one, immediately set himself to his own furious rummaging, as did the witch. At once the latter had ripped Ares' wand from within his robes.

"He's got another one on him!" she hissed.

"Collecting wands, are we?" said the apparent leader.

"And something else," said the shorter one, and Albus felt his heart sink as the vials of clear potion were pulled away from him.

The tallest among them lowered his wand only slightly, to receive the vials. His hand large enough to hold both, he held them up closely to his eyes.

"And what's this we have here?" he inquired.

"J-just water," Albus lied, though he detected the error in his fib only seconds after saying it. The tall man had given a shrug of unconcern, then thrown the bottles a few feet away with unnecessary force.

"No!" Albus bellowed into the night, but it was for naught; the two remaining vials shattered there on the spot. Albus watched, torn between hatred and sadness, as the clear liquid settled on the dusty ground; he half expected it to do something spectacular, like lunge at his foes or reassemble their containers, but it seemed as though Mortem Necavero was just a regular liquid when not in the presence of its intended targets. Albus could only watch in frustration as it dissolved out of sight.

He went to throw an angry glare at the man who'd done it, but found himself somewhat preoccupied; the witch among them had brandished her own wand, and at once Albus' hands were bound together with thick ropes. He struggled foolishly, not sure what else to do, but then there was a flash of light, and the next thing that he knew, the world had reversed on him.

He was dangling upside down, he realized, and from only one leg. Flailing about, he meant to launch into a tirade, but the next thing he knew his mouth had been magicked shut. They had not silenced him, but instead cursed his lips to merge together.

They all laughed at what was surely a pitiful sight, though it was hard for Albus to determine such a thing with accuracy; observing things at night while upside down, he realized, was quite debilitating. Randomly, he wondered how bats did it.

The very uncomfortable position, coupled with their laughter, made him quite nauseous. Albus jammed his eyes shut in response to this, mentally kicking himself for having ended up in such an absurd position, but nearly opened them up when the deepest voice among his captors started to speak.

"Wait a minute...this is Harry Potter's son!"

Albus gave a groan of agitation, though he realized that this was a mistake; it seemed to have confirmed his identity.

"Blimey, that he is!" wheezed the other masculine voice.

"What's he doing in Struckton?" came the witch's voice. "Awful far from his daddy, isn't he?"

"I'm not interested in finding out, to be honest" came the deepest voice again.

"Ooohh...what are we're going to with him, Grayson?" piped up the smallest, his tone clearly sycophantic.

"Nothing right now," he was responded to. "Let's take him back, have a vote on things. This is definitely interesting."

There was a whining noise, but regardless, Albus felt his floating body begin to move. He opened his eyes again, breathing heavily, and saw that he was now actually swinging along in the air like a pendulum, his three captors taking their time in leading him through the darkness.

He felt his head bump against something blunt-possibly a blown off portion of a house-and realized that he was quite fortunate indeed that they'd sewn his mouth shut. The curses that he'd be uttering if he could would certainly only worsen his predicament, though interestingly, the vitriol running through his head was less for those making a fool of him and more for the fool that was himself.

He'd somehow gotten himself captured again, and this time, he knew, things were markedly worse. As evidenced by his current position ten feet in the air, what were undoubtedly Dark Defectors were considerably more dangerous than the Protectors of a week or so ago. Those men and women had been irate citizens, a ragtag band of artisans that were so unfamiliar with how to take a hostage that they'd been blasting one another with spells within an hour of taking him. These people here, however, were on a different level of danger. They were taking no chances, and Albus knew that all three of them were killers, had killed possibly multiple times, and were now taking him to even more killers.

This thought unnerved him greatly, and yet, it was the shattered vials of a few moments ago that pained him most. Hadn't he just considered that potion to be his last hope, only a few minutes before he'd bumped into that scrawny wizard?

With yet another jolt, he realized that his kidnappers had left their accomplice behind, unconscious and without a wand. This disregard for the well-being of someone that they were friendly with suddenly refocused Albus on the danger he was in. He couldn't pine for a way to destroy the Wand and Veil now; not when it was looking very much like he'd never get the chance anyway.

It was in silence that he swung back and forth behind them, his captors apparently still vigilant for more signs of trouble. Despite a feeling of surging faintness, no doubt from blood rushing to his head, Albus tried to capitalize on the lack of activity, scouring his short term memory for ideas on who was armed with what.

All three of the Defectors leading him, he knew, had wands of their own, but the shortest, obnoxious little fellow had been the one to take his wand from him. The witch had snatched the boy's wand from his fingers, which he didn't care for, but had taken his spare as well; she now had Ares' wand as well as her own.

Despite his sincere concentration on the matter at hand, Albus couldn't help but have his attention caught by an unusual burst of movement in his peripherals. For less than a second, he thought that a shape had moved alongside him, albeit behind a house and concealed in darkness. It had been very rapid-as though twice as fast as usual movement-and excitement exploded inside of him at the thought of help. Fango Wilde, he realized, must have stayed behind after all, and with any luck, he'd be making his move soon-

But it never happened. For five more minutes Albus kept his eyes peeled at the same angle, though all that this did was dig into valuable time that could have been spent planning the escape that he would have to orchestrate himself. Probably a hallucination, he thought bitterly.

He had no time to sulk, though, for the escape plan that was in its infancy would need to become more developed soon. Already he could feel the swaying start to slow. And then, there was speaking.

"What do we got here?" came a voice more elderly than those who'd captured him. Albus looked ahead-though still upside down-and realized that they'd come to a halt, having reached their destination. He looked around sourly and saw that the Defectors ran much deeper than he'd assumed; there were at least thirty of them.

"Oh, nothing special," said the witch who'd brought him along. "Just Harry Potter's son."

"Bollocks!" someone shouted, and there was additional murmuring all around him.

"See for yourself," said the wheezing wizard, and Albus felt as though he was an article of clothing being ripped from a hanger. The jerking motion sent him straight to the ground in a heap, his body barely having time to position itself in a way that lessened the blow.

Now only on his side, he was able to better register his surroundings. The thirty something Defectors around him were all identical in the robes that they wore, and again, all of them maskless. They varied greatly in personal appearance however, especially age, and interestingly enough, in poise too. They were in a clearing of sorts, a circle that may have once been a public area where children would play; the destroyed homes around them not connected but rather forming a trapezoid to condense them. Some of the Defectors were standing upright, looking flustered. Others had a more composed look, sitting or leaning, and Albus noticed that it was these among them who were more likely to be elderly, as though they'd been through it all before.

He couldn't see much else after this, however, for a hulking shape had moved in front of him.

"Hmpf, well look at that," he said. "It is Potter's boy."

"Which one?" asked another witch. "He's got two, doesn't he?"

"The younger," the large figure obscuring his view said. "I recognize him from the prison."

Albus tried to figure out when this might have been, then realized with an inkling of satisfaction that the man in front of him had probably been bloodied by Fairhart as they'd fought through the interior of Azkaban-or possibly even by himself. Already, though, there were more whispers in the night.

"Well what's he doing here, then?" came a thick accent that Albus couldn't quite pinpoint, though it was definitely masculine.

"We've got no idea," came the leering voice of Grayson, the only Defector that Albus was now able to identify by name. "But whatever it is, I doubt his father knows about it."

"I doubt anyone knows about it!" came another voice, this one a squeal from behind him. "And best we keep it that way isn't it? Just kill him."

Albus felt his heartbeat quicken, though surprisingly, there were noises of dissent at this suggestion.

"Absolutely not!" cried a witch who Albus could see was bouncing on the balls of her feet. She had a young face, but a seasoned look to her nonetheless. Albus felt something akin to gratitude at her vehemence, though the logical reason for her reluctance which followed dampened that somewhat. "The boy is much too valuable! This is the bargaining chip that we've been waiting for!"

There were murmurs of agreement at this, and Albus, still unable to speak and now inhaling dirt at an alarming rate, tried to move over a few inches, to lessen the pain on his shoulder. A man whom he hadn't even realized was near him noticed, however, and gave him a swift kick in the face.

"Don't you move!" he spat, and Albus felt blood flood his mouth. Unable to spit it out, he was forced to swallow it, a sickening act that made him stare up at the man hatefully. He had bushy eyes and a large, hooked nose.

"I'll take out your eyes, boy," he threatened lowly, and Albus stared back defiantly, suddenly wishing that the moment that Ares had prophesied would come to fruition now. He knew that it was a stupid, immature thought, but if the Albus of his nightmares was going to take over permanently, he realized, there were few better times than this one here. He knew that he wouldn't be able to comprehend the carnage that would be unleashed, knew that he wouldn't even technically exist for it, but he could imagine the scene occurring here and now, in a variety of grisly scenarios, and in each of them, the malicious man in front baring down on him was the first to combust into millions of pieces.

"Let's not be too hasty," came another voice from the corner. "I agree with Sarah, we need to work out a buyer and a proper price, before we do anything else."

"I say we give him over to the Hand," said the girl known as Sarah, who'd first suggested keeping him alive.

Albus allowed this statement to tear his eyes away from the man looking down at him, mulling over it. That was not, he realized, the worst possible scenario. He was looking for Darvy after all, though he'd have to do some maneuvering to make the meeting more on his terms...

"Agreed," said a dark man on Albus' left. "We need to clear things with the Hand; save grace after leaving. Make it clear we're not against him, just not trying to serve, he'll understand-"

The man next to him laughed; a sentiment that Albus himself shared. "The Hand is insane, twice as crazy as any two men I've met combined. We'd better be real sure that the boy is on the top of his priority list, before we go trying to make peace with him-"

"Aye, that would be the best bet, wouldn't it?" said a man behind this one. "We know the Hand wants the boy. Wants him dead too, don't he? We could arrange that..."

"And how would we send him over?" asked Grayson. "Nobody knows where the Hand is. And I don't fancy having negotiations through the Dark Alliance..."

There was more smatter of agreement at this, and Albus realized just how truly unique of a position he was in here. The Dark Defectors, it seemed, had needed to form a democracy to survive; perhaps the only group he'd encountered so far operating under such circumstances. There was no one powerful wizard among them, nor a charismatic manipulator or even a band of handsome justice-driven brothers. His fate, it seemed, would end up the result of a vote; given the reputation of the constituents, though, he wasn't overly encouraged by this prospect.

"Give him over to his father," said another voice, and this easily garnered the most communication so far. Albus found himself practically nodding along, however, he realized that this was actually a more polarizing option than he'd first thought. Going back to his father would spare him in the short run, but it would not save him from his eventual fate, and more importantly, raised the likelihood of him endangering his loved ones...

He had little time to mull over it, though, as it seemed as though this suggestion was going to be shot down quite quickly.

"Absolutely not," said a scrawny, elderly man in the corner, with a sagging face and a black mustache. "I spent twenty-five years in Azkaban because of Potter, I'll kill his son before I do him a favor-"

"Oh save it, Walden," snapped the man next to him, "you'll do nothing on your own-"

"Harry Potter is by far the best choice that we have," piped up the woman with the short hair, the one who had Ares' wand. "If we're going to give him up, that has the most benefits to it. Potter is all that remains of the Ministry. He can grant us immunities that no one else can-"

"Ministry!?" shot out the man who'd kicked Albus; the blow which still had blood sliding down his throat, though thankfully, less than before. "The Ministry is done! Waddlesworth went and ran it into the ground-"

"Waddlesworth!" someone practically shouted. "We could hand him over to WAR!"

There seemed to be mostly negative noises made in regards to this, though Albus felt himself again fighting a nod. He had made deals with Waddlesworth before, could make new ones...

"No point," said Grayson. "Waddlesworth is finished, a shadow of what he was. Couldn't give us anything even if he wanted the boy. No gold, no status. Nothing worth bargaining for."

"Aye, a Sickle saying right there, I reckon it's mostly true," added someone who Albus couldn't see. "Flimsy fool just lost the will after that 'United Ministry' fiasco. And didn't ya hear? Hammer got killed too, picked off by some random Renegade gang. Waddlesworth's been a ghost since then, I heard."

Albus actually widened his eyes at shock at this statement; it was not just surprising to learn that the Hammer had been killed, but also that Waddlesworht was in such dire straits. He knew that there had been financial difficulties, and that devotion to WAR had dropped, but he'd never thought of Waddlesworth as being capable of not wanting attention.

"Pfft, serves the big bloke right," muttered the short man who was in possession of Albus' wand. "Broke my nose once..."

"Who hasn't?" chirped up someone next to him, and he sneered.

"I say we put the matter to rest for a moment," came another, crispy voice, and Albus' ears actually perked at this one especially, as he could've sworn he'd heard it before. A moment later, he realized from where. "There's another one out there, after all. This proves I'd seen right!"

"And what happened to the other one, then?" came the calm voice that debated the topic before, when Albus had first realized that Defectors were in the area. "How did you find him?" the same person asked, apparently aiming their question at Grayson.

"We sent Peterson off back to you lot, saw a flash of light minutes later," he answered. "Caught him from behind, there was no one else there that could have seen us coming-"

"Enough of this!" bellowed a voice that Albus had already heard, and he managed to identify it as the person behind him, the one who had initially suggested his murder. "Talking about what's best for who and how to work it out. Ain't no going back for us, boy is a dead end. Let's just kill him and have it done with."

Albus felt his breathing quicken at this declaration, but more so at the noises of consent that followed. It seemed that despite the different options at their disposal, the safest and surest bet for many of them was to stick to their violent nature. Sensing that this vote wasn't going to be overridden, Albus started to squirm, not caring that the visceral man who'd kicked him was likely to take notice. If only his mouth hadn't been sealed shut; if he could state his case, use some of that cunning that Slytherins were known for...

There was already movement towards him, and it was quick and decisive. Albus gave a yell that came out as muffle, still tasting droplets of blood on his tongue, though at the same time he moved his head about strategically, to spot where the blow would come from. If he could not use reason, he would have to fight back physically; after all that he'd resigned to do just an hour or so ago, it could not end like this, not in this way, to these people, though he knew that he had no protectors left-

There was a loud, yet distant banging noise. It came so suddenly and with such force that many around him jumped; even Albus felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Immediately the Defectors looked up, and Albus, pleased for the distraction but curious as to its origins as well, stretched his neck at an angle in the same direction.

Even sideways, he managed to identify the source of the noise. Somewhere off in the distance-Albus judged it as perhaps a half of a mile away-light had pierced the sky. Streaks of green were erupting into the stars, dancing gracefully yet carrying a sense of power and purpose to them as they reached their acmes and arched, then disappeared. More, similar noises followed, as well as more jets of light, all of which Albus realized now were exploding into smaller pieces. The only logical conclusion that Albus could make was that it was a fireworks display; and yet, given the time and place, he had an inkling that this wasn't the case.

The encroaching Defectors were all ogling it as well, though as the lights continued without any sign of impending cessation, they began conversing quickly. Albus again found himself straining his ears, mystified by the showing in the night's sky but very aware of his grim situation as well. The Defectors were speaking all at once, and with such rapidity that it was unintelligible. It wasn't until the one known as Grayson started to roar his words that that the conversing came to a close.

"ENOUGH!" he barked, looking livid, his choppy silver hair hanging over a seething face. "Nobody panic; we just divide up. You lot, come with me to find out what's going on. You here, stay with the boy-"

There were noises of protest before he could even finish, many apparently uncomfortable with their assignments.

"No, I'll go with you-"

"No way am I going over there-"

Grayson ignored them however, turning on his heel and hurrying off towards the emerald display, which was still active and somehow even louder and more vibrant than before. A sizeable group-looking very little like the one that had actually been selected-hurried off after him, scattering about through the dusty roadways and disappearing into the darkness.

Albus allowed himself only a handful of seconds to count and see who was remaining. The group had definitely diminished; there were only ten or so remaining, and the only one that he recognized now was the witch who had taken part in his capture. Interestingly, though, many of them were still looking up at the intriguing sparks, or trading worried glances-

Knowing that he was not going to get another chance, Albus leapt into action. The witch with the short hair happened to be closest to him-he rammed into her with his shoulder, catching her completely off guard and sending her crashing to the ground. Not hesitating to see what kind of attention his act had garnered, he threw himself down after her at once, using his bound hands to search her for a means of invaluable assistance-

He found Ares' wand only a second into his searching, and gave a whimper of relief as he whirled it upwards to defend himself. The others who'd stayed behind were shouting and firing hexes, but Albus, even with his hands bound together, managed to perform the circular defensive movements he'd learned under Fairhart's tutelage. Concentrating fiercely on the intricate pattern that he'd memorized, he reflected all but their green curses, cognizant to side step these; it was difficult coordination, but all of his practice from Azkaban and, indeed, earlier today, was proving to have sharpened his abilities.

He watched as an orange hex deflected itself at a downward angle, hitting a man in the knee and forcing him to twist into the curse of whoever was next to him. Albus then managed to send a stunner to his left, where it connected with the woman who had just risen, placing her back on the ground.

His deflections were not intentionally accurate, but there was enough of them that these occurrences were coming as a consequence; just as he noticed that his opposition was dwindling, though, he decided that it was no longer in his interest to risk fighting. Stopping in the movements abruptly and charging ahead, he raced past two Defectors and elbowed a third in the face sharply, then tore into the darkness after those that had made for the green lights.

Albus could hear the party behind him begin to take chase; he found himself consciously counting their steps, trying to determine how many ahead of them he was. He was sure that they were running with maximum effort, but also quite sure that he was too, and with a much greater determination. His legs were quaking with each long stride, his face burning with heat. The toll that the day was having on his body was never more noticeable to him, and yet, he knew that he could not give in, not even consider it-

Finite, he thought to himself, staring at Ares' wand, and to his immense pleasure, the ropes around his hands disappeared, and his mouth opened. He gasped for air at once, clearing his throat of the taste of blood and rewarding his nostrils for their endurance; he'd inhaled quite a bit of dirt and dust through them. Even with his mind primarily on his legs, Albus managed to roll Ares' wand over in his hands, pleased with its performance thus far. It did not feel as comfortable to him as his own did, but it would have to suffice. He made a note to retrieve his at some point however, hoping that the annoying, small one who'd taken it decided to keep it rather than break it.

He took sharp turns whenever he could, finding himself lost but pleased with this result. The sound of his assailants had lessened and ultimately subsided within a minute or two, leaving him now to slow and catch his breath, as well as to determine just in which direction he'd been going. With little options he'd forced himself in the direction of the other Defectors, towards the green flashes in the sky, but as he looked up now, he saw that the sparks had vanished completely, along with their accompanying noises. Whoever had fired them, he realized, was surely paying for their mistake now; whatever the case though, he found himself fortunate for their interference.

Just where he was now, however, was the next question that he needed to answer. He'd made many quick decisions in his fleeing, taking as many confusing turns and squeezing through as many crevices of shattered wood that he could to successfully lose his pursuers. He felt confident that he'd left them behind, but just how close was he to the Defectors that had gone towards the fireworks?

Albus backed up slowly, staring up and trying to shift his position so that he could get a better view of the surrounding area. Again he was in a clearing of sorts, though this one was much more adorned with wreckage; the houses surrounding him had been reduced to a third of what he imagined their previous sizes to be. He continued to walk backward and increase his vision of the disarray, clutching an aching lung with his free hand as he did so, though he jolted when he felt himself bump into something; something that also appeared to be moving.

He jumped, giving a yelp and spinning on the spot, where he saw that another figure had backed into him as well. Albus brandished Ares' wand in a fluid motion, determined to jinx first and ask questions later, but the face that met him made this nearly impossible.

"Morrison!?"